[hider=The Moonwell]

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Rain fell heavily that night or that morning. It was hard to tell; any light had been eclipsed into a thickened cloud-wrack above and rain fell and fell in front of the dour man’s face. He had been riding long and hard through the brush, the trees a simple canopy from the madness of the storm and he had ridden toward the only light he could distinguish. A spot of umber in the middle distance, small and flickering. As he had grown nearer and closer, the light multiplied and it came into view as a building of stone and the man surmised that the orange glow was that of a warm hearth and he pushed his steed further for the last sprint. 

Once inside, the warmth enveloped him and the stark contrast had his thinning cloak steam off its wetness with an unalarming hiss from having been pelted and pelted and soaked through. Whatever spell had been in the threshold of the doorway dried him down and time existed again. As he turned back and peered through the window, he saw a fresh day before his eyes. How strange. Even his heartbeat had ceased racing and there was a calmness that had slipped under his skin, the pain that had been wracking his hands from gripping firm to the reins of his horse had drawn free. Even the wounds of his knuckles from something that seemed so distant of a memory now had faded down and all that remained was skin, just skin. His skin, storm ashen and his; and he felt no evil eye turn upon him from within the walls for having it.

It was a tavern, and he was becoming more adjusted to its gravity – soft music playing in the corner at the hands of a bard who sang lyrics he knew but did not understand where from, not yet. He folded away the cloak, which, he had been sure was threadbare – now felt full in his arms. Quilted, all of the holes patched and it was not a garment of finery but it was much different than the one that had held him, only just, against the storm. 

“Welcome Ser,” a voice said to him at the right, and the picture began to fill in. Patrons sat about, minding their happy own. “A honey mead?” she asked. He nodded. He did not quite know what that was, but he trusted that he did want it. Moments later he was sat at a table, nearest to the hearth - the only creature that could have been closer to it in the building was the ginger cat who had stretched and fussed and preened at the carpet set by it before curling into a content ball by the flames.

The barmaid set down a glass of the honey mead and it appeared to him as liquid gold, all gleaming and he could smell it. Not only did it smell of honey, but like the journey of the bee that had collected it; of lavender buds and the pollen of daisies that had been baked under a fine spring sun and watered by a wash of gentle rain. He was unsure of where he was, or why, or how he had gotten here. He was not sure of who he was and he assumed there had been something in the spell of the doorway. He took a sip of the mead and the sweetness and taste awakened something. Thoughts and memories of the storm began to fall around him like snow, and with it, fleeting images of himself and among all of them his name came to him spelled out; “Maralor,” he said quietly. Rubbing his chin with curiosity.

The barmaid reappeared at his side and smiled. “Welcome to The Moonwell, Maralor.”

“What is this place?” he asked.
“A rest before the journey's end,” she answered. Her eyes were kind, and she walked off again.

He did not know what that meant.
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[sup][u]Author's Notes[/u]
Another little slice of Maralor I wrote up just to dust it off a bit.[/sup]