Balaron sat in contemplative silence near the inn's hearth, the warmth of the fire casting a soft glow around him. His pottery tankard, only half-filled with dark ale, rested on a circular oak table that bore the marks of countless spills over the years, creating a mottled tapestry of stains that told stories of laughter and revelry. His fingers curled around the handle, the tip of his index finger rhythmically tapping against the rim as he delved into the labyrinth of his thoughts. A stern expression settled on his face, his gaze seemingly penetrating through the table and floor, reaching into the very recesses of his mind where unvoiced worries and unresolved dilemmas lay stagnating.
The fire crackled and popped, its flames dancing eagerly over the slightly damp logs, casting flickering shadows that swirled and twisted in a chaotic jig across the walls. The interplay of light and dark created an almost otherworldly atmosphere, reminiscent of a forbidden ritual where witches and devils might cavort in secret. Balaron remained oblivious to the enchanting display, lost in his own world, where the flickering flames mirrored the turmoil within him. Each crackle of the fire seemed to echo his thoughts, amplifying the weight of his contemplation as he wrestled with the decisions that lay ahead, the shadows around him a fitting backdrop to the gravity of his internal struggle.
The fire crackled and popped, its flames dancing eagerly over the slightly damp logs, casting flickering shadows that swirled and twisted in a chaotic jig across the walls. The interplay of light and dark created an almost otherworldly atmosphere, reminiscent of a forbidden ritual where witches and devils might cavort in secret. Balaron remained oblivious to the enchanting display, lost in his own world, where the flickering flames mirrored the turmoil within him. Each crackle of the fire seemed to echo his thoughts, amplifying the weight of his contemplation as he wrestled with the decisions that lay ahead, the shadows around him a fitting backdrop to the gravity of his internal struggle.
Soliah Wright pushed open the solid oak door of the inn. She had just finished cleaning up after helping to deliver the baby and washed up herself at the small nearby cottage, having seen that both the mother and the baby were resting well. She then expected the wise woman who had assisted her to come and fetch her if she was needed again.
Her backpack rested on her weary shoulders, with her armor tied to it. She entered the inn, her bright gaze scanning the common area with the lit hearth for the innkeeper or someone else she could inquire about food, drink, and perhaps a bed for the night, if there were still beds available. Otherwise, she would need to resaddle the horse the Ostain Monastery had lent, who was now munching on oats in the inn’s small, four-stall stable. At the moment, her brother, Mattias, rode her mount on a longer journey of pilgrimage he had undertaken in his training as a possible future Revered Father of their order, after she had voluntarily stepped down.
Her mind was finally her own now, and she had no desire to join permanently with another spirit, nor did she still completely trust that she was free of any malignancy. It was still odd to her not having the whisperings of the entity she had come to know as Brisia Cox in her mind. Ironically, the silence almost made her feel lonely at times. However, she never wished to have another spirit’s thoughts supersed her own, even if it was that of her benevolent god Cyresis, hence why she had declined the honour of being its next host.
Aside from herself, there was only an older man with a full beard, who occupied a chair at a circular oak table, partially illuminated by the warm glow of the hearth. If the dark-haired, bearded man looked in her direction, she gave him a polite bow and “Good afternoon,” though the evening was approaching. Light would linger late in the partially cloudy sky of this early summer day.
Soliah heard slow footsteps coming from further back, likely the kitchen. She moved further into the common room with deliberate steps and went towards the long, oak wooden counter of the bar, stained with the marks of various beverages over the years, even though they had been mopped up.
Her backpack rested on her weary shoulders, with her armor tied to it. She entered the inn, her bright gaze scanning the common area with the lit hearth for the innkeeper or someone else she could inquire about food, drink, and perhaps a bed for the night, if there were still beds available. Otherwise, she would need to resaddle the horse the Ostain Monastery had lent, who was now munching on oats in the inn’s small, four-stall stable. At the moment, her brother, Mattias, rode her mount on a longer journey of pilgrimage he had undertaken in his training as a possible future Revered Father of their order, after she had voluntarily stepped down.
Her mind was finally her own now, and she had no desire to join permanently with another spirit, nor did she still completely trust that she was free of any malignancy. It was still odd to her not having the whisperings of the entity she had come to know as Brisia Cox in her mind. Ironically, the silence almost made her feel lonely at times. However, she never wished to have another spirit’s thoughts supersed her own, even if it was that of her benevolent god Cyresis, hence why she had declined the honour of being its next host.
Aside from herself, there was only an older man with a full beard, who occupied a chair at a circular oak table, partially illuminated by the warm glow of the hearth. If the dark-haired, bearded man looked in her direction, she gave him a polite bow and “Good afternoon,” though the evening was approaching. Light would linger late in the partially cloudy sky of this early summer day.
Soliah heard slow footsteps coming from further back, likely the kitchen. She moved further into the common room with deliberate steps and went towards the long, oak wooden counter of the bar, stained with the marks of various beverages over the years, even though they had been mopped up.
Rast took a moment to breathe in the lingering warm and sweet aroma of sandalwood and green pepper that clung to his skin, remnants of the soap he had chosen for his bath. Though he had purchased it some time ago and rarely indulged in its use due to its high price, the fragrance evoked thoughtful memories, transporting him back to the comforts of home. It reminded him of the golden jasmine that flourished in his mother’s apothecary garden, its sweet scent intertwining with the sharpness of the crushed peppercorns she often harvested and used in her cooking, creating a comforting blend that felt like a warm embrace from his past. A past that he cherished.
I really needed that. His inner voice sighed as he ascended from the cellar, It's better than a plunge in a ditch he mused. Rast felt the air brush against his damp skin, a reminder of the refreshing bath he had just enjoyed. He was dressed in simple grey linen pants held up by a plain slender leather belt, and his well-worn brown boots, which reached up to his knees, bore the marks of many journeys. A cotton towel hung casually over one shoulder, still slightly moist from his recent wash. The tattoos on his skin appeared even more pronounced, the colours vibrant and the lines sharp, accentuating the curves and contours of his muscles.
The long trek to the inn had left him weary, and he was particularly grateful for the opportunity to cleanse himself, especially after navigating the muddy paths of the graveyard, which had been a challenging detour on his way there.
Reaching the bar he noticed the presence of a red-haired woman but decide not to engage, respecting her space and opting not to intrude upon her with conversation or eye contact. Instead, his attention drifted for a moment to the older man who remained comfortably settled near the crackling fireplace, the warm glow casting a soft light on his weathered features. Rast turned and offered a warm smile to the innkeeper, a gesture of his appreciation for the hospitality he had received. "That was good." He said with gratitude, especially knowing that the innkeeper's wife had prepared the bath that had rejuvenated him after his arduous journey. To express his thanks, he placed a shiny silver coin on the counter, a small token of his appreciation for their kindness. "Here, take this. Thanks again for the use of the bath. You don't usually get this kindness in the city taverns."
I really needed that. His inner voice sighed as he ascended from the cellar, It's better than a plunge in a ditch he mused. Rast felt the air brush against his damp skin, a reminder of the refreshing bath he had just enjoyed. He was dressed in simple grey linen pants held up by a plain slender leather belt, and his well-worn brown boots, which reached up to his knees, bore the marks of many journeys. A cotton towel hung casually over one shoulder, still slightly moist from his recent wash. The tattoos on his skin appeared even more pronounced, the colours vibrant and the lines sharp, accentuating the curves and contours of his muscles.
The long trek to the inn had left him weary, and he was particularly grateful for the opportunity to cleanse himself, especially after navigating the muddy paths of the graveyard, which had been a challenging detour on his way there.
Reaching the bar he noticed the presence of a red-haired woman but decide not to engage, respecting her space and opting not to intrude upon her with conversation or eye contact. Instead, his attention drifted for a moment to the older man who remained comfortably settled near the crackling fireplace, the warm glow casting a soft light on his weathered features. Rast turned and offered a warm smile to the innkeeper, a gesture of his appreciation for the hospitality he had received. "That was good." He said with gratitude, especially knowing that the innkeeper's wife had prepared the bath that had rejuvenated him after his arduous journey. To express his thanks, he placed a shiny silver coin on the counter, a small token of his appreciation for their kindness. "Here, take this. Thanks again for the use of the bath. You don't usually get this kindness in the city taverns."
Balaron was too deeply immersed in his own reflections that the world around him faded into the background, becoming little more than a grey blur. Yet, voices nearby momentarily disrupted his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. He lifted his tankard, savoring a hearty gulp of the malty, dry ale, its rich flavour and hint of horehound grounding him even as his grey eyes remained fixed in a distant gaze, as if he were peering through the veil of time itself.
Thoughts of the old cottage in Faeth filled his mind, a place that was once familiar and gave comfort, but now had been abandoned, left to slowly decay like a corpse. He felt a slight surge of determination, perhaps fueled by the effects of the alcohol coursing through his veins, despite the decades that had slipped by since he last set eyes on the place. He promised himself he would return there, unburdened by shame, ready to reclaim his painful need of belonging that had eluded him for so long.
The repairs would undoubtedly be costly, requiring not just financial investment but also emotional labour to confront the memories that lingered in every corner. Yet, the idea of breathing new life into the space, of transforming it from a symbol of abandonment into a haven of warmth and acceptance, was tantalizing.
However, as quickly as the motivation surged, it began to wane, leaving him in a familiar state of inertia. Doubts crept in, whispering that perhaps it was better to leave the cottage as it was, dooming it to a past he could not change. Why bother with the effort and expense of restoration when the memories it held were depressing? The thought of reopening old wounds made him hesitate, and he found himself retreating into the comfort of his stagnation, questioning whether the pursuit of belonging was worth the pain it might unearth.
Thoughts of the old cottage in Faeth filled his mind, a place that was once familiar and gave comfort, but now had been abandoned, left to slowly decay like a corpse. He felt a slight surge of determination, perhaps fueled by the effects of the alcohol coursing through his veins, despite the decades that had slipped by since he last set eyes on the place. He promised himself he would return there, unburdened by shame, ready to reclaim his painful need of belonging that had eluded him for so long.
The repairs would undoubtedly be costly, requiring not just financial investment but also emotional labour to confront the memories that lingered in every corner. Yet, the idea of breathing new life into the space, of transforming it from a symbol of abandonment into a haven of warmth and acceptance, was tantalizing.
However, as quickly as the motivation surged, it began to wane, leaving him in a familiar state of inertia. Doubts crept in, whispering that perhaps it was better to leave the cottage as it was, dooming it to a past he could not change. Why bother with the effort and expense of restoration when the memories it held were depressing? The thought of reopening old wounds made him hesitate, and he found himself retreating into the comfort of his stagnation, questioning whether the pursuit of belonging was worth the pain it might unearth.
The innkeeper ambled back into the common room, his eyes catching sight of a new patron who had just entered. He couldn’t help but nod slowly toward the woman with the vibrant red hair that seemed to glow like a beacon in the dimly lit space. Missus would be jealous. He chuckled inwardly, imagining the lengths she might go to replicate that fiery colour, Probably got that colour with some dubious concoction from an apothcary...apothary...apothecry... The name eluded him, twisting his tongue into knots. Oh, bugger it! You know what I mean.
As one of his guests trotted up from the cellar and was polite to offer extra payment for the bath, the innkeeper’s grin widened, revealing a set of teeth that had seen better days—yellowed and stained like an old parchment. “Nice to 'ave folk appreciate our services!” he exclaimed, his voice booming with delight. It was moments like these that made the long hours worthwhile.
He leaned forward with a twinkle in his eye. "So, what can I do for you fine lass?" he asked, his gaze focusing on the young woman, whose adventurous hair seemed to strain his eyes.
He scratched his chin thoughtfully, as if pondering whether the young woman were in need of a hearty meal, a warm bed, or perhaps just a good laugh at the expense of the local bard, who had a tendency to sing off-key.
As one of his guests trotted up from the cellar and was polite to offer extra payment for the bath, the innkeeper’s grin widened, revealing a set of teeth that had seen better days—yellowed and stained like an old parchment. “Nice to 'ave folk appreciate our services!” he exclaimed, his voice booming with delight. It was moments like these that made the long hours worthwhile.
He leaned forward with a twinkle in his eye. "So, what can I do for you fine lass?" he asked, his gaze focusing on the young woman, whose adventurous hair seemed to strain his eyes.
He scratched his chin thoughtfully, as if pondering whether the young woman were in need of a hearty meal, a warm bed, or perhaps just a good laugh at the expense of the local bard, who had a tendency to sing off-key.
The Bard, comfortably ensconced in the cosy kitchen and savouring a hearty bowl of herb and vegetable pottage, abruptly froze, spoon poised mid-air, teetering towards those moist, full tender lips. It was as if a sudden ghostly chill brushed over his youthful, unblemished, porcelain skin, and he couldn't shake the eerie sensation that the innkeeper was harbouring some rather unflattering opinions about his recent singing endeavours.
Perhaps it was the way the innkeeper's brow furrowed or the way he averted his gaze, but Andris couldn't help but feel that his melodious seraphim soaring notes of a passionate balladeer lamenting lost love and celebrating heroic feats had not quite struck the right excruciating chord with the audience of one tone deaf twit! After all, who wouldn’t appreciate the dulcet tones of a passionate man belting out golden honey worded ballads? Clearly, the innkeeper had a refined taste of an fungal infected undead weevil that was far beyond the Bard's 'humble' offerings!
Perhaps it was the way the innkeeper's brow furrowed or the way he averted his gaze, but Andris couldn't help but feel that his melodious seraphim soaring notes of a passionate balladeer lamenting lost love and celebrating heroic feats had not quite struck the right excruciating chord with the audience of one tone deaf twit! After all, who wouldn’t appreciate the dulcet tones of a passionate man belting out golden honey worded ballads? Clearly, the innkeeper had a refined taste of an fungal infected undead weevil that was far beyond the Bard's 'humble' offerings!
Her sensitive nose detected a pleasing scent before she even heard anyone, and then she noticed the young man with closely cropped hair. She also gave him a polite, “Good afternoon,” and waited until he had concluded his business with the innkeeper.
She made a mental note that neither the younger man nor the older, dark-bearded man took any notice of her, and she decided to leave them to their business.
When the innkeeper addressed her, she gave him a pleasant smile, but tried her best to avoid looking at his teeth. “I’d like a simple meal of a hearty meat stew and vegetables with a slice or two of bread and some amber ale if possible, please. I would also like to rent a room if you have one available and pay for my horse’s stay in your stable for the night.” She inquired politely in a low voice, so as not to disturb anyone, since the place was so quiet aside from the innkeeper’s booming voice.
She hesitated a moment as she cast a quick sideways look at the young man with upper body tattoos and a towel casually draped over one shoulder before her vivid blue eyes returned to the innkeepers. “And a warm bath as well, if possible. I carry my soap and herbs, including lavender and bergamot orange, from my monastery. I would be more than willing to trade some for a fair exchange for a slightly lower sum of coin for the services asked of you and your family, who runs this lovely inn.” She wasn’t lying; it seemed a good establishment, and adding a few drops of honey to one’s words never hurt. All the man could do was deny and ask for full payment in coins only, and not trade for the herbs and ten cakes of soap she carried with her, which she was willing to trade on behalf of her monastery in exchange for goods or services.
She made a mental note that neither the younger man nor the older, dark-bearded man took any notice of her, and she decided to leave them to their business.
When the innkeeper addressed her, she gave him a pleasant smile, but tried her best to avoid looking at his teeth. “I’d like a simple meal of a hearty meat stew and vegetables with a slice or two of bread and some amber ale if possible, please. I would also like to rent a room if you have one available and pay for my horse’s stay in your stable for the night.” She inquired politely in a low voice, so as not to disturb anyone, since the place was so quiet aside from the innkeeper’s booming voice.
She hesitated a moment as she cast a quick sideways look at the young man with upper body tattoos and a towel casually draped over one shoulder before her vivid blue eyes returned to the innkeepers. “And a warm bath as well, if possible. I carry my soap and herbs, including lavender and bergamot orange, from my monastery. I would be more than willing to trade some for a fair exchange for a slightly lower sum of coin for the services asked of you and your family, who runs this lovely inn.” She wasn’t lying; it seemed a good establishment, and adding a few drops of honey to one’s words never hurt. All the man could do was deny and ask for full payment in coins only, and not trade for the herbs and ten cakes of soap she carried with her, which she was willing to trade on behalf of her monastery in exchange for goods or services.
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