Traveling Stranger

Few things chill the body as a determined nightly wind. Few things warm the soul like the comfort of a large fire. So, naturally i headed out of the cold into the the vast, open space of the Gathering Room. The heads and furs of many animals covered the stone and wood walls, hung as decorations by various woodsmen, the fire blazed contentedly, a pungent scent of heavy pine wafted about the room, all of it complemented itself. The atmosphere, however strange and foreign, chased away the chill as it smiled and let me in.
Ah! thank God for the fire! , I slumped down in a cushioned couch opposite a young gentleman, who left as I sat, making his way elsewhere. No matter, for I ponder in the flames' warmth. Only was i interrupted by the shudder of wind bursting through as the door opened, then the soothing returned amid the smells, the noise-talk of others in the background. I felt what only traveling strangers seeking rest can feel: out of place.
And yet, reassuring smiles, their kind invitation lessens austerity and sweetens the night, sweetens my lips, even after such small friends leave into the night's dark chill. Others come and go, some laughing as drunkards, others speaking softly amongst themselves.
Only the calling of time realizes my fantasy, trampling my sanctuary with memories of loved ones, and the harsh words spoken.
Oh! begone vain thoughts!
Wiping the bitter salt of regret from my lips, I awaken my senses, and take leave of the place, to continue on my way.
Yet, I comfort myself with the thought: I will not forever wander.

BR, 1-8-11