> He shakes his cloak again, and it jingles with millions of shiny, small
> charms, a silver sea of symbols. Turning toward the bar of polished
> obsidian, a long smooth stride brings him to a tall armchair. A simple
> shrug divests him of his covering, revealing a thin stature. He eases
> his long form into a comfortable posture of interest. One long, delicate
> finger floats upwards, and a light baritone seeps from his lips,
> "Bartender, when you have moment."


The door blew open again from the wind. As I passed the tapestry to shut
the door it wavered between the Knight of Pentacles and Death, never
settling
on either.

The latch needed replacing, perhaps at trip to the village locksmith would
be in order.
I made sure it was shut as tight as could be and made my way over to the new
guest.

"Welcome to 88 Arcadia Street. What would ye like?"




W.