Better than gold is the tale well told Is fhearr na’n t-òr sgeul air inns’ air chòir. GAELIC.

armidale may 07 023

Elizabeth Reeves

    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 colour 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.



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