[Lasbelinion]

Against the brightness of the sun Lithmîrë drew his travel stained cloak about him, and pulling the dark, ragged hood forward, let his face fall into shadow. The path from the main road to the Inn lay straight beneath the unimpeded light. No overarching trees to cast their welcome shadows on his approach.

His thoughts he cloaked as well, knowing those of his kind were near. He needed not their pity nor their questions nor their offers of aid. They had not come for him and the others in the long years of service and hardship beneath the cruel hand of the Deceiver. Now many he had known were dead at the hands of Gorthaur’s fouler servants and those few like himself who remained were left to find their own way.

He would not have stopped here, had he not run low on provisions. He was unfamiliar with this region; unfamiliar with the folk who lived here. The Inn he knew of by word of mouth from other travelers. His would be a brief stay. Rest, food, drink, and if he were able, the replenishing of the herbs that kept his pain at bay. Then, to the Havens, and the healing that lay beyond the poor remedies of this world.

Haven. Place of refuge. Of safety. Port against the storm.

A bitter laugh welled up inside as he fought back the long held fear that he would find no refuge. And how could he? The storm of despair which threatened at times to destroy what was left of him lay deep inside. He’d pushed it down, fettered it beneath the outward shell of his indifference. Kept the world at bay with his caustic tongue. And if he allowed himself any hope it was with a studied dispassion.

Lithmîrë stood for a moment at the Dragon’s entryway. Readjusting the worn leather pack slung over his right shoulder, he pushed against the heavy door and entered the dimmer interior within. Only a few heads turned to mark his passage, and those he ignored until he reached a table set in a darker corner of the room. From his vantage point he could survey the comings and goings to the common room.

He called a passing server to his table, asking for a mug of hot water. When it had come, he sent the server away, saying he would see to some food a little later. From his pack, he fetched a thin leather pouch, and took a small pinch of the dried herbs in it. Not wasting any, he scattered them on the hot water, licking from his fingers what few particles there were left on them. The heat from the mug warmed his thin, cold hands, driving the unrelenting chill away for a little while. And as he sipped on the pleasant smelling brew, its small powers drove back the pains that wracked his left arm from shoulder to hand and the left side of his face.

Lithmîrë drew back his hood as the warmth of the brew brought the welcome relief. His left hand, covered with the thick scars of a burn reached up to cradle those same red, ropy scars that twisted his face. Anger flared for a moment as he noted the stares of those sitting near him. Who were they to pity or judge him, he growled to himself. He turned an icy stare on them, forcing them to look away.

‘More water, girl!’ he called, holding his mug out to the server once again. From the pouch at his belt he drew forth a silver penny and pushed it to the edge of the table.