It was like the spear points of God raining down on the hard slate shields of the roof. The clamor of battle drones on all around them and yet the space of warmth in the room and the crackling fire brought about a muffled comfort. 

AND in that room and in that muffled comfort those within talk. They sit by the warm fire and among the carved tables and the hanging clay cups above the bar, under the artwork and the crests of a thousand age heraldry, and the smoke and the drink. Within and among, All things are spoken of and the world set right. The drive that makes it turn and the pleasentries of facing challanges.

And the night goes on. The brambled speech and the endless drink and the endless smoke and the endless food churns about them, feeding their ideas.

And when the fire is low they laugh and cry their goodbyes and wear their wisdom like armor. And still the chill of the air makes them shiver. And the rain pierces them through. 

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