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The Hearth

Soon as Tallich ushered him through the heavy stone door Angrond found himself overcome by the torrent of movement and chatter that waited within. “Shut the pitting door before you cost me the heat you old waistrel, and go fetch more fodder for he fire”. Her voice was sharp as her seax, and while she on one hand kept busy chopping and stirring, she had Angrond’s cape and packs up on a peg and his shoes dragged off his feet, rubbing them pink until feeling returned to them on the other. “Don’t want no cold-rot none, not for one of you thin-skins” she scolded while she threw his shoes in a corner “might as well have gone barefoot for all the good of’em”.

Before he knew it the little woman had him cornered and out of the way, propped on a stool that creaked alarmingly under his weight, and a small bowl of thick warm stew was pressed into his hand. All the while the little woman never stilled for a moment.