The elves dismounted their horses.
For many days they had been journeying and now all of them longed just to relax and rest.
Lithônion handed the reigns of Dúath to one of the stable boys and shook his head, making the rain drops that had soaked his hair, fly through the air. Another crack of heavy thunder rocked the building and probably the whole village.
Spooked by the sudden noise Dúath reared and jerked the young elf from the solid ground.
Lithônion jumped to the side of the youngling to calm down the horse.
Instantly the black stallion calmed when he heard his masters soft voice calling him to order. Then the ellon patted him on the neck one more time, ran his fingers through the long mane and turned on his heels.
Dúath had been a gift from the elf Lithônion had spent most of his life with.
When he and his friend had turned to adults, Maeglin’s father had gotten them two horses, brothers.
Nobody had wanted them, the horses had been considered mad and only good for the meat market.
Dúath has been Lithônion’s companion for many ages. He left the horse in the stables and he pulled the hood of his greyish-greenish cloak over his head and pushed the door to the outside open again.
The hot moist air, loaded with electricity seemed to punch him in his face and he decided to sprint over the muddy grounds to the entrance of the inn. The women had wanted to travel way further that day, but the heavy thunderstorm changed their plans.
Flashes of lightening lit up the early evening skies and deafening thunder seemed to crush every living being, rain that was soaked up from the thirsty soil though turned every way, every street into a swamp, made it impossible to travel any further. When they ran from the carriage to the inn, some of the women fell and dropped face first into the mud.
Ithilwen managed to get into the building.
She was soaked from head to toe and held her light shoes under her arm.
They were not recognizable as shoes any longer.
She had gotten stuck out there in the dirt and had been forced to walk in her white stockings to the house, after pulling the shoes out of the mud. As the women entered some of the guests turned their heads, some did not.
There was a fancy mix of peoples that sought shelter from the bad weather.
On a table, dwarves were playing a card game.
They obviously had feasted on pork and ale since the floor beneath their chairs was littered with bones and broken steins. Several of the other tables were men, probably rangers from the North as Ithilwen suspected.
They were clad in shaggy jerkins and rather dark breeches, heavily armed.
Scared faces with poor or little teeth looked longingly at the women.
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