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From: schimmel@blue.seas.upenn.edu (Scott D Schimmel)
Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn
Subject: An Awakening
Date: 11 Nov 1994 07:31:26 GMT
Organization: University of Pennsylvania
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	He was a traveler born, who had wandered the world for over half
of his twenty-four years.  Yet now he was weary; his legs ached almost
as much as they had when he had been forced to begin his travels... but
those were not memories he cared to dwell on.  Certainly, there had been
joy in that life, thanks to Arik Peridon.  The aging minstrel had 
adopted him, teaching him the art of storytelling and the secrets of the
harp...
	The harp!  Groaning, he rose from the ground, frantically trying
to undo the clasp on the harp's case.  If it had been damaged, his
livelihood... his life... was likewise damaged.
	He breathed more easily when he saw that the instrument was safe.
The case might be necessary when traveling, but he preferred to hold his
harp.  Often, he would remove the instrument to compose a fragment of
song, or to play one of the old marching songs.  Or to feel the music,
and the magic, and to know that all was well.
	He frowned, finally becoming fully aware of his surroundings.
A rather pleasant area, he thought, regardless of its unfortunate lack of
trees.  A pool of water caught his eye, and he stared, studying his
reflection.  Studying himself.  Studying Alaric Morgannan.
	Staring back at him was a rather tall, slender man, wearing a
silky black shirt and black trousers.  His cloak was an astonishing
display of colors, designed to catch the eye and advertise the presence
of a performer.  A gentle breeze rippled his sandy-blond hair.  His
face was dominated by his emerald eyes, glinting with what could be 
either a knowing or a mischievious light.  Even he had to admit that his
other features, though they were well-defined, were unremarkable.
	He fingered his cloak idly, remembering.  The cloak had been a
gift from his mentor.  It was woven of a metallic fiber that was both
very light and fairly strong.  It felt and acted much like normal cloth,
but more than once it had saved him from brigands.  It, and the half-
dozen daggers he hid within it.
	He had, he realized, precious little other than what he wore. 
His cloak, his daggers, his harp... there was his flute, tucked inside
another hidden pocket... and a handful of coins.  Little, indeed, but
he had lived with less.  He shrugged and forced his aching body into
motion, exploring this new place.

***

	His searching had finally brought him here, to this city.  What
had that smith in the last village called it?  Generica?  No matter, a
city was a city.  He hadn't visited a city for a long time.  Surely this
one would hold many diversions for him.  And here, he could rest.
	Smiling, he quickened his step, ignoring the stares his cloak
attracted.  A city such as this certainly contained inns, but he knew
what he was looking for.  Threading his way along various sidestreets,
he finally stopped outside of one.  This one would do; he was too weary
to go any further.
	As he walked into the inn, his eyes rested on the sign... a
dragon.  Just like the old legends, he thought.
	He was too exhausted to laugh.


+---------------------------------+----------------------------------+
|* Alaric Morgannan, Gleeman     *| "Oh, god, can it be the weather? |
|* "Ex ignorantia ad sapientium; *|  Oh, god, why am I here, if Love |
|*  Ex luce ad tenebras."        *|  isn't forever..." -T. Amos      |
+---------------------------------+----------------------------------+