"Mary Kirchoff. Kendermore ("Dragonlance Preludes I" #2) (angl)" - читать интересную книгу автора

magical potion at the Spring Faire in Kendermore. They both drank
half, closed their eyes, and thought about the moon, just like the
salesman told them to. But when Uncle Trapspringer opened his eyes, he
was still at the faire and his bride was gone! Her wedding dress was
in a heap next to him on the ground." Tas's eyes misted over. "Golly,
that story always makes me sad. Do you suppose he just didn't think
about the moon hard enough?"

"He didn't think hard enough all right, but not about the moon,"
snorted Flint as he shook a handful of wood shavings from his beard.
"She probably knew what she was getting into and ran off while his
eyes were closed, before it was too late. Surprising insight, for a
kender." "Uncle Trapspringer says she must be dead," Tas said,
"because if she weren't she would have found a way back to him by now.
But I think she's on Lunitari right this minute. I bet she's awfully
lonely. I wonder what we look like from up there?"

"At least she won't be going hungry," said Flint. "Everyone
knows that the moon is made of red cheese!" He forced the smile from
his twitching face.

"I'm not so sure," Tas said soberly. "I don't know what Lunitari
is made of, but red cheese is most unlikely. Red something, I'll
wager, but nothing so mundane or squishy as' cheese -"

Flint burst into a loud guffaw.

Tas's monologue was cut short when the heavy, oak door at the
entrance to the inn blew open and slammed against the wall with a
bang, sending early autumn leaves swirling through the taproom.
Through the doorway stepped the most unusually vivid creature any of
the three companions had ever seen. The woman, a dwarf judging by the
squatty proportions of her body, was incredibly voluptuous by that
same standard. A silky, raspberry-colored blouse that gathered at the
wrists was stretched tight across her sizable bosom, straining the
criss-crossed front laces. Below it, a canary yellow braided leather
belt cinched in her waspish waist. Her pants, made of skin-tight
purple leather, were tucked into leather boots that matched perfectly
the color of her blouse. Her lips and cheeks glowed with the same
impossibly brilliant, unnatural shade of pomegranate as her long, wavy
hair. Perched upon it at a jaunty angle was a small, plumed purple and
yellow hat.

"At last, we're here," she sighed contentedly, looking around
the inn. Hands on her hips, she struck an imperi ous pose that made
her appear taller than she was. The inn fell silent. Even the pans in
the kitchen stopped rattling. "Woodrow, come in here!" she called as
an afterthought over her shoulder.

"Yes, ma'am," croaked a nervous voice. A young man stepped from