"The stone of the hearth is carved from the heart of a mountain deep and sheer. From the depths of lakes and the lairs of drakes, it was drawn and cut and carted up by horsemen strong and fierce."
The man drinking rye had a twinkle in his eye and his voice was smooth and soft. He had a stubbly beard and his hair hid his ears and his trousers were tight and the color of night, and his arms were strong and his fingers long as he pointed round the place.
"The drapes bright green are awfully keen, stitched by an elf who kept to herself. In the ancient woods she'd crochet hoods, and every lord with a golden horde would seek the magic sung into her fabric to keep them warm amid every storm on guard against stab and slash and jab and gash and…"
A hobbit maid with a reddish braid cleared her throat as she tightened her coat and nodded towards the door.
"A warrior wise with light in his eyes fought a dragon lean with fire green, but the dragon choked and was thusly yoked for the goat it ate was with poison caked, set outside, for the monster it was tied, by a halfling friend for the creature's end. Its cave was stocked with barrels locked, filled to the brim with beverages of vim. It made him grin, so he built this inn..."
The halfling lass took away his glass when he raised it to clink for another drink. "His tales are tall but their truth is small," said the red-haired girl, her smile a curl, "He brews good mead, sells better pipeweed, but the stories he'll wring from my da's building couldn't be more of a lie if they tried."
"Maybe that's so, but I'll have you know," said the man in black as he shouldered his pack, "I've never met truth that couldn't be improved with a turn of phrase or a seasoned gaze and a quest or two taking foreign queue, so enjoy your ale and think for a spell about stories unsaid and gods long dead and I think that you'll find it does more for your head and with that I take my leave"