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The Green Woods

The minstrel sat in the corner of the inn, letting his fingers play absently with the strings of his harp while he listened with full attention, and a blank expression, to the murmured conversation at the bar. His pale-gold hair, the color of leaves fallen in the autumn seasons, caught the light of the slowly fading sun, streaming through the window at his side. It cast the golden light into his well-shaped face, highlighting the fine features. His expression was still and thoughtful, a short beard emphasizing, rather than hiding, it. Only the minstrel's eyes gave away just how deeply interested in the conversation at the bar he was. His eyes were leaf-green and intense, staring off into space.

The harp he played was made of fine, dark wood, shaped and tuned by a skilled hand. The harp's sound was light and rich, like the laughter of water streaming through a brook while the birds high above added their voices to its melody. The song he played invoked memories of children playing among the trees, with the wind in their fair hair. It was an old Rhiathon song, one that he had been playing for many long years. He plucked it out slowly, without thinking, now. The minstrel played on, his nimble fingers attending what his mind was not.
The minstrel was newly from the woods, and the language the men at the bar spoke was strange to his ears. It would have seemed pointless to many for him to pay such attention to the words they were speaking, but the minstrel had caught the sound of a name that was familiar to him. It was a name that meant much to him, and so he listened.
Lionesse, they had said. She was that fearless queen among thieves, that daring highway-robber whose adventures rang through every hall and town. Even the minstrel had heard that name, deep in the Rhiathon woods of his birth. He had heard it and had answered to its call.
The Inn-keeper came into the room from the kitchen at the back. It was a warm day and sweat beaded his bald pate. He put a bowl of something in front of one of the men, his eyes on the minstrel in the corner. The Inn-keeper frowned and said something low to the men at the bar, nodding in the minstrel's direction, as if emphasizing something he was saying. He wiped the sweat from his face with a rag, still staring in the minstrel's direction.
The minstrel noticed the pointed glance and he, carefully and quickly, turned his attention back to the old tune he was playing. Men from outside of the woods were strange about things

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