Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn From: djb6@ellis.uchicago.edu (Dennis Brennan) Subject: Karl [inn] returns to the inn Message-ID: <1992May30.200756.20472@midway.uchicago.edu> Date: Sat, 30 May 1992 20:07:56 GMT CM: Teondir, Kron, Dougl, Lyra shuffle..Klunk..shuffle..Klunk... There is a feeble but persistent knock at the door. The inn patron closest to the portal opens it, admitting Karl into the Inn once again. He supports himself with a crutch under his right shoulder, and bandages and wrapping are visible around his midsection. Despite his condition, Karl beams at his friends in the Inn. At once he notes his friend Kron and the guard Teondir: Kron sitting in a chair and Teondir sprawled on a table receiving medical attention. Karl shuffles over to Kron's table and seats himself, requesting a mug of Calishite herbal tea from Serene: "Heals the flesh, it does." "Feeling a little better?" Kron asks. "The last I saw you, you were unconscious aboard the _Broadmarch_." "I know, I've been told I did some damn fool thing with a rope. I don't even know how I got back home." "I think Barnacle Bill dragged you and your quarry back aboard his ship." "Mmmh." Karl mutters about broken ribs and portholes. "I was worried that I was going to fail and lose someone close to me...again. Thank you, dear Kron, for helping me. Dougl? His mother has come and taken him away. She's in our line of business as well, mind you. That Lyra can throw a dagger probably better than any of our comrades here," he indicates the Inn with a sweeping motion of his arm. "But she was right opposed to letting her boy near a weapon of any kind." Karl sips his tea. "Though I reckon after yesterday's events she's reconsidered. Self-defense, you see." Kron smiles, remembering how Dougl used to run around the streets with a short stick in his hand, pretending swordplay against invisible enemies. ...From the Gaps underneath the inn, a sound is amplified by the shape of a wine cask and is audible in the Inn: a shriek, a voice: "He's dead," and the sound of running feet, scampering and splashing in the undercity... -- Dennis Brennan djb6@midway.uchicago.edu