The White Horse

[The Barrow-Wight]

The Barrow-Wight looked out from the storage room at the interesting group of travelers that filled the Horse this day. He had not seen so many female adventurers since the Helm’s Deep Invitational Volleyball Tournament last Spring, and though he would like to think they were gathered here because of his manly presence, he knew it was more likely the bitter cold that had brought them hither. Still, it was pleasant to hear the soothing voices of women in the Inn. Since Bethberry had gone the place had too often rang with only the raucous laughter of the warriors of the Rohirrim.

He looked to where her bird sat now nibbling on a crumb some gullible visitor had given it. That creature is going to be too fat to fly soon. Wyrd had served as a reliable messenger over the years, and an insatiable eater of snacks. Eats like a bird obviously doesn’t apply to you, old friend.

Everything seemed under control for the moment, so the Wight slipped between the stacked crates and out the back door. The icy wind coming off of the White Mountains reminded him so much of the cold of his barrow, and he stood for a while simply enjoying the numbing paralysis it brought on.