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He wasn't-he was an outsider and would be one forever.
"Welcome once again to our Tower, Caramon Ma-jere," said a
voice.
Caramon bowed, saying nothing. He couldn't-for the life of
him-remember the man's name.
"Justarius," the man said, smiling pleasantly. "Yes, the years
have been long since we last met, and our last meeting was during
a desperate hour. It is small wonder you have forgotten me. Please,
be seated." A heavy, carved, oaken chair materialized beside
Caramon. "You have journeyed long and are weary, perhaps."
Caramon started to state that he was just fine, a journey like
this was nothing to a man who had been over most of the continent
of Ansalon in his younger days. But at the sight of the chair with
its soft, inviting cushions, Caramon realized that the journey HAD
BEEN rather a long one-longer than he remembered it. His back
ached, his armor appeared to have grown heavier, and it seemed
that his legs just weren't holding up their end of things anymore.
Well, what do you expect, Caramon asked himself with a
shrug. I'm the proprietor of an inn now. I've got responsibilities.
Someone's got to sample the cooking. . . . Heaving a rueful sigh,
he sat down, shifting his bulk about until he was settled
comfortably.
"Getting old, I guess," he said with a grin.
"It comes to all of us," Justarius answered, nodding his head.
"Well, most of us," he amended, with a glance at the figure who
sat beside him
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