It is only just turning dark, the stars coming out overhead like tiny diamonds scattered across an ultramarine blue sky and a gust of chill wind blows across the cobblestones of the courtyard. Standing in the courtyard, Dierra regards the rearing white horse signboard that signalizes her arrival at the Prancing Pony Inn. With her backpack slung loosely over her shoulder, she holds one strap, her horses reins held in her other hand, a mixed expression of of tiredness, relief and expectation on her face. A hobbit approaches, smiling broadly and smelling of horse manure.
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Dierra
