throwing out.
Enveloped in big brown cloak from crown to instep, the youth leaned his staff
against the wall; a shade under an inch and a half in diameter, the inflexible
rod was six feet long, five inches longer than its owner.
“‘Lo, Ahdio. Hey, Sweetboy.”
He unclasped and twisted out of the hairy cloak that looked nigh big enough for
Ahdio, except in length. As usual, Throde’s brown hair came out of the cloak’s
hood mussed in six or nine directions. He carried the garment over to hook it on
one of the pegs just inside the door, on (he wall opposite the eight or so
untapped tuns of beer. He turned back to Ahdio, left hand pushing his hair up
off his forehead above the left eye in a gesture Ahdio had seen a thousand times
or more. His smooth face was long and bony, and his lean body gave that
appearance. Ahdio knew that was a bit deceptive; wiry and rangy, Throde had good
musculature. Even his bad leg looked strong, though Ahdio had seen his helper
only once without leggings, even back in high summer. He introduced Throde as
his cousin’s son, from Twand. Ahdiovizun was not from Twand. Neither was Throde.
“Ah. New tunic?”
Throde blinked and little twitches in his face hinted at a smile. He looked down
at the garment, which was medium green with a wave-imitating border at neck and
hem, in dark brown. Ahdio recognized that gesture, too; Throde wasn’t studying
the tunic, he was ducking his head. The lad was shy, and just a shade more
gregarious than his walking stick.
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Good for you. Good-looking tunic, too. Going to have to think about a new belt