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“A couple of cozy corners on separate floors, I’m afraid,” the innkeeper answered, still chuckling. “But they’re warm and dry. Best we can offer, given the circumstances.”
Accepting the inevitable, I gave a nod of assent. “We’ll take them. Just promise me your house brew is as good as it smells.”
“Now, that I can guarantee!” he bellowed, slapping the counter jovially.
The sound echoed through the room, blending with the crackling of the fire and the murmur of hushed conversations.
When he asked for my name and title, I paused for a moment. “The name’s Lorik,” I replied, giving the fake one we had come up with. “Lorik, a humble merchant.”
“A pleasure, Lorik. I’ll leave you to your evening. And remember, last call for the brew is at moon’s peak!”
As he disappeared into the bustle of the inn, I couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief.
My real name, Rurdrax, would have drawn too much attention — not ideal when one was trying to keep a low profile.
And the less said about potential thieves, the better.
The inn had a certain charm to it, a warm comfort that eased my anxiety.
The soft glow of the fire danced off the wooden surfaces,and the chatter of the patrons, hushed though they were, added to the cozy ambience.
Yet beneath it all, a certain tension hummed — a shared understanding of the dangers that lay beyond the inn’s walls, hidden within the ever-present fog.
With a final glancetowards the innkeeper, I ascended the wooden staircase leading to my room.
Each step creaked under my weight, the wood seasoned and worn from countless other patrons who had passed through this humble inn.
The bittersweet scent of old timber mingled with faint traces of smoke from the hearth below, a comforting reminder of the warm fire I had left behind.
The hallway, much like the rest of the inn, was a simple affair.
The planked wooden floors had an age-worn, grayish hue to them and, much like the staircase, they too protested with each step I took.
Low hanging lanterns cast a warm, subdued light, giving the hallway a quaint, inviting feel.
The walls bore the tale of the inn’s age and patronage in a pattern of scuff marks and scratches.
Faded squares marked the spots where portraits or mirrors once hung, while numerous dents hinted at the countless elbows, backs, and items of luggage that had brushed against the walls.
Each mark was a testament to the inn’s history, a timeline etched into wood and plaster.
My fingers traced the deepest of these marks, feeling the unevenness of the wood.
The tactile history hummed under my fingertips, reminding me of the countless people who had sought shelter within these walls.
It was humbling, the simplicity of it all, a stark reminder of the opulence I was accustomed to.
My room, much like the rest of the inn, was modest.
A sturdy wooden bed stood against one wall, its mattress plumped with what felt like a generous helping of hay.
A small, square window let in a soft stream of moonlight, the window pane speckled with the dust of ages.
Across from the bed was a simple writing desk, its surface worn smooth with use.
An unlit oil lamp stood patiently in the corner, its wick blackened and ready.
The only other piece of furniture in the room was a tall wooden wardrobe, its doors slightly ajar, revealing a collection of clean but simple linens.
