internetotaku

The wind sharp drew across the plains and night assumed its throne kingly seat.  Shortly, snow began to descend in thick ringlets toward the ground. One weary traveler stopped inside the inn at the edge of town to take shelter from the storm. Upon noting the traveler’s entry, the bartender intoned: “Come cloaked stranger, come.  If ye be traveling on this eve, come and rest.  If ye be knight espoused on some errantry this eve, till the storm slowed your footsteps, come and tell us of your journey to date; or if tales earlier or tales more glorious tempt you this eve then those tell kindly.  If you have grand adventures of heroism to recall...

The sun, at its peak part of the day, reached its fire-needles through the wooden slats, dashing the bar with scattered light. The patrons sucked at their beers, murmurs of quiet conversations gathered, sticking like beads of sweat. “D’ya sah y’re goin’ tah dah ‘Temple of Kings’?” He said, fanning his face with his dirt brown hat. He was kind of man to whom the phrase ‘gentleman’ was rarely applied, even ironically. Of all the sweaty bar patrons that day, he looked the dirtiest – in more ways than one. As he spoke, he pulled the air around him with ceaseless and uselessly elaborate gestures as his face contorted into some kind of villainou...