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I felt their eyes on us, their curiosity no doubt piqued by the sight of two foreign males and a human female.
The alien to my left leaned in closer, his breath a fetid mix of spices and rot that made my stomach turn.
His vibrant yellow eyes roved over me, and his green, slithery skin seemed to glisten under the overhead lights.
“Feisty. I like that,” he said, his voice a sibilant hiss that crawled under my skin.
His hand, cold and slick, brushed against my arm, sending a shiver of revulsion down my spine.
I pulled back, but with the wall at my back and his burly form left me with no room to escape.
Suddenly, my bowl of stew seemed as strange as the landscape of Enchor’s Heart.
The meat, so rich and comforting before, turned to ash in my mouth.
I set my spoon down, my appetite gone, replaced by a heavy ball of fear in my stomach.
Desperate, I cast a look around the inn.
The locals were pointedly avoiding our table now, their eyes fixed on their meals or their companions.
Even the innkeeper seemed to have conveniently found a spot in his tavern that needed immediate cleaning.
I focused on something over their shoulders, squinting as if in interest.
As expected, they took their eyes from me and followed my line of sight.
It was my chance.
I hastily got up and rushed away.
But I only got a yard of distance before the Katar’s thick hand snapped around my forearm.
My skin tingled where the aliens had touched me, its scent of spice and rot clinging to me like a second skin. “See you soon, darling.”
I wrenched my arm from his grip and ran.
7
RURDRAX
The inn’s parlour, a creaky establishment cast in an array of browns and grays, was bustling with activity when I descended the wooden staircase.
The smell of cooked meat, the earthy aroma of herbs, and the undernote of burning wood wafted toward me, making my stomach rumble in response.
The air was laced with a cacophony of conversations, laughter, the clinking of utensils against ceramic plates, and occasional hushed whispers that whispered stories of forgotten tales and future endeavours.
Pulling out a chair at an empty table, I settled down, keeping an observant eye on the beings lounging around.
Meanwhile, my eyes were drawn to the kitchen’s entrance, where the innkeeper, a stout Chi with an amiable face and a jovial demeanor, bustled about, delivering platters of food to his patrons.
Waving him over, I ordered the night’s special, a hearty meal comprising of roasted Therokan meat, a local delicacy, accompanied by a side of fibrous Xalatan roots and a glass of their house-made ale.
The food was served on a simple wooden platter, rustic and traditional, adding to the overall ambiance of the inn.
The first bite I took was an assault on my senses.
The Therokan meat was a little too dry for my liking, the prolonged exposure to heat having sucked out its natural juices, leaving it stringy and tough.
