[mark12_30]

"Oh, yes, my Lady. At least, I think they are. There have been all manner of guests; why, a whole troop of performers and artists from The Silver Swan is here. Over there, is a man-- Morien named him Red-- he doesn't know who he is or where. And that great, burly man with the shining curls, is from the north Anduin. And most of them are here to see the elf-- that elf over there, the one with three children; and one asked if she was going to kill him. Baran, I mean, the one with the curly brown hair. And she-- that elf with the children-- she drew her knife. Imagine, my lady! Right here in the Inn!"

Supressing rising giggles, Estelyn exchanged several glances with Bethberry. Young Mellonin had a great deal to learn about how to tell a story-- and how not to. Facts, impressions, events, opinions and wild conjectures tumbled out of her. When Estelyn herself could no longer keep it all straight she burst out into peals of laughter, and Bethberry joined her.

"All right, Mellonin. I see that there are some people I should raise a glass with. If you can, come and join me when I do, and listen. We'll see if we can't organise some of these stories into genuine tales."

Mellonin looked at her fearfully, unsure whether that was a rebuke or not. Estelyn smiled. "Your skills are young. We'll work on them." And Estelyn turned back to Bethberry.

**********

Sniffing, he poked his nose just outside of his cozy hole. A faint whiff... ever so faint. It brought back memories of a year before, when the common room had been crowded and a lady had brought... oranges. He sniffed. There it was again.