There was a crash. Grohn's hand bled. There were pieces of mirror on
the floor.
With a deep sigh, Grohn began to pace around the room. Without thinking,
he began to pace the dimensions of his old cell--six feet by eight feet.
"Enough of this self-pity," he growled to himself as he ran his bloody
hand through his hair, unconcerned with its condition, "I have to think, have
to think..."
He was silent for a few moments, and his pacing grew increasingly rapid,
his fists clenched as his left hand dripped a trail of blood along the outer
of the room.
"I could probobly stay here one more day if I exited through the window,"
he paused to look out the window. The tree outside was beginning to turn
colors. Golden, crimson, and green faces looked back at him and laughed.
He paused, watching a young adventurer dismount and walk toward the inn,
pouch bulging.
A smile came to Grohn's lips.
--
To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to:
[EMAIL PROTECTED] with "unsubscribe dragontales" in the body of the message.
