Grohn had a gift for losing money. He had lost cartloads to gambling
over the years, had things stolen countless times, and saw investment after
investment go sour.
It was such an investment that left him without a single coin in his
pocket. Let us not bother with the details, but suffice it to say that Grohn
had accumulated a very large sum of gold and had blown it all in a matter of
months, mostly due to his own lack of buisness sense.
Now he was in his room at the Dragonmyst Inn. Not enough money to pay
for the next night's stay. No money for food or drink. Nothing except for
the clothes on his back and an empty sheath on his belt.
He began to pace around the room, wild with panic. Clenching his fists
he stormed up to the mirror, looking in at himself as if he were a stranger.
He was getting old. No longer did he have the "boyish elf" look that had
followed him for nearly fifty years. Now, at seventy, he looked like a
50-year-old human. A streak of gray flecked his curly blonde hair, and bags
had developed under his eyes. His shoulders slumped and he had developed a
second chin.
This wouldn't be the first time he needed to start over from stratch. He
had been imprisoned back in Arangoth four times during his life, totalling
for nearly 35 years--half his life. He had spent many days begging, wading
in the gutter, and blood-puking drunk. In fact, he could not clearly
remember enough days to count on his two hands, come to think of it.
He shook his head and buried his face in his hands. Soon tears began to
streak through his fingers.
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