Matau looked up at the building before him, scanning the sign proclaiming the inn's name: The White Horse. A decent enough place, it seemed. And it would be a relief to spend a night with a roof over his head, for a change. He strode inside.
He let the noise of the inn wash over him, not really heeding it; he was inspecting the patrons. The usual sort of crowd, hardly different from those he'd seen in other inns. Some sat in groups, others alone; he caught a glimpse of an elf and a man back in the kitchen, helping a group of hobbits wash dishes. A tall, heavily shrouded man sat in a corner, one covered hand holding his scarf around his head, the other resting on the table. Matau raised an eyebrow. How unusual.
He ordered an ale at the bar, then located a vacant table and sat down, flicking back his dark green cloak. Glancing around again, out of habitual watchfulness rather than suspicion, he took a long pull at his drink. A fine brew, he noted. He filled and lit his pipe, and proceded to watch the company through a haze of smoke.
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The Hitchhiking Ghost
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