Chapter 8The Great Hall of the rulers of the Mountain Marches stood sturdy and homespun atop its low hill, not much taller than its surrounding village and proud to be a part of the town. Cloud-puffs drifted from chimneys, the scents of baking bread and imminent rain and woodsmoke drenched the air, and the winding steps to the Hall’s carved doors sprawled out well-worn with company and openness. The kings and queens of the Marches were working monarchs, and did not stand on ceremony much, and generally welcomed any visitors who made the chilly arduous trek into the North.
Generally. In stone and wood and slanting roof-beams, the hall eyed Lorre and reserved judgement. He didn’t blame it; he would too.
The central village of the Crags—called, in the best literal-minded Marches tradition,
