Posted by Reynkiin Daalmarch on August 21, 2006, 04:26am PST
The Man reclines on his bench and, with a smile, pushes a flagon of spiced ale to you. Outside the Inn of the Red Iris, the evening breeze blew with merry enthusiasm. It is apparent that he had been out in it, for his black hair is tousled still, and he has made no move to straighten it. Continue...