Night stormed on, the wind hammering at the inn like the hammer of Thor.
As the customers slept contentedly in their fluffy, feather beds, a fat middle aged man waddled along the weatherworn road. Thick pellets of rain crashed to the muddy mire and the wind lashed at his broad back like an overseer of slaves.
Not a mile behind, he left a smoking pile of timber, formerly an elegant black, gold trimmed carraige, two black stallions shire horses and a strong youthful man all within the flaming wreckage.
Forcing himself along the track, the fat man clung to his black jacket and top hat desperately, whilst trying to figure out the earlier events.
Along the bumpy road they'd gone. On the top of the hill they'd seen it, the Cliffside Inn, wrapped in a warm honey-coloured lighting.
Then the shadow in the woods bordering the dusty road, the portly old man had told the driver his concerns who merely discarded them as silly and fanciful, and all was well.
then another shadow, but this began to envelop the carraige. He could see it through the window, shoulders hanging broadly from the sides of the carraige, then the sides of the body, then legs, until they were confronted with some towering beast. Then a crash.
That's the last thing he remembered, being right on top of the carraige and a small flame and the flames licking the gilded wood hungrily. He felt a great egg-like lump on his forehead, his face and arms scratched.
And now here he was, unhappily wading through the boggy road, oblivious to all but his own concerns. Not even aware of the great hulking shadow making it's way through the woods. Not even noticing the gargantuan footfall, barely even noticing the muscly hand come crashing down on his head.
the last thing the heavy, rich, aged man saw was the mistakes of his life time and the golden prize nestling so close at the top of the cliff.