The White Horse

A considerable tip was placed in the stable boy's hand, bringing an instant smile to his face. He would make sure that the man's horse was cared for as best as he could. Pocketing his newly gained reward, the stable boy's diminutive frame was overshadowed by two passing figures.

The first figure was a dark horse, carrying straps and bags appearing as if they had seen ages upon ages of travel and harsh weather. The animal itself seemed powerful and healthy, lean and well muscled at the same time.

Leading the horse by it's reins was the second figure. All that the boy could see when he looked up was a square chin with a flourishing beard. The rest of the stranger's face was hidden in the shadows of a hood. A great cloak covered his entire body, forest green in color. It had also seen it's fair share of wear and tear. Sligh tearing had begun to erode the bottom of the cloak, and dried mud made interesting brown and gray patterns on the green fabric.

The stable boy meant to speak up, but could only gulp. The cloaked stranger went past him, horse following loyally -- to a stall, where the numerous pieces of riding gear was taken from the steed's body and set aside. Watching carefully, the stable boy noted the silent appreciation that the horse and stranger had for one another.

Faster than he could react, the cloaked stranger was standing before him. The stable boy stumbled back slightly, startled.

"Here you go," a soft voice sounded from underneath the hood of the cloak. Another tip was given to the stable boy.

"Thank you.."

The stranger was already making his way to the entrance of the inn, his worn cloak sweeping behind him like a banner in the wind.