image [https://i.imgur.com/Rsp0bXs.png]

The door creaked open but was not heard. The drowning sounds of shouting and clamoring for "More ale!" and "Harder cider!" covered completely the sounds of the quick footsteps of the rushing waiters, the door that opened, every odd moment and the banging of mugs and board games. Large stairs crawled down to the basement, where most the commotion came from. To the sides were cramped walkways leading to the back of the main floor. Crossing them to get to the ground floor bar at the back felt like shuffling along the edge of a cliff. Instead of looking down to find a forest a thousand feet down, she saw near forty patrons eagerly downing glass after glass and mug after mug.

Halfway through the room the walkways connected to the rest of the floor where more patrons sat, though it was notably quieter here. The yelling faded but the atmosphere held as she made her way to the bar. The fine stool she sat on didn't creak or groan, as far as she could tell. She saw no one waiting to serve her but was drawn to the bell nailed to the high table. If the barkeep was busy downstairs, there would be no chance for them to hear the ring. Nevertheless, she fiddled with it, ringing a time or two before getting up to head down the stairs. Not even she heard its faint ring, but while she was rising up to go down the stairs hidden just behind the bars display wall, she noticed a well-dressed but stained older lord making his way quickly up them.

The Arid rounded the corner and slid behind the bar in just a short moment. The man was dark skinned but his hair was turning white, at the least what was left of it. His head was bare, his face was covered in graying sideburns that made his whole head round. He grabbed a tray and started putting an assortment of bottles on them with haste, moving the glass faster than she could track. Without looking back to her, he grabbed more from the shelf and greeted her.

"Sun shines for you Miss. What can I do for?"

She replied, still watching his quick and weightless movements. She had a tired smile but responded with as much cheer as she could. It wasn't much.

"A room, please."

"How long."

She felt below her heart to the most grievous of her wounds.

"A few days. Make it a full tenday."

He seamlessly moved to grab a ledger and set it on the table, finally coming to a stop. He almost spoke something, but he looked Tannen over in an instant and changed his phrasing.

"You need a cleric, not an inn."

"Kicking out customers sounds like a poor business strategy."

"The dead don't pay."

She sighed and looked away for a moment. She queried the man.

"What temples are around?"

"A temple to the Lion is just up the road-"

"Oh, no, they'll bleed me more than my wounds."

"The Wolf's temple is on the other side of the river. Otherwise you'll have to start going upstream to find the Owl or the Whale."

The Wolf would surely take her, but the temple was far. She wasn't falling over now, but another hour on foot might lead to a crash. The others were similarly far, there was no guarantee she'd make the admittedly short journey. She'd only walked a few hundred feet from the cart, and already she was feeling weak. She countered the innkeeper.

"I'm a paladin myself, I can tend to myself as well as I can tend to others, I just need a place to do it. I'll pay my fee upfront if you're worried about losing to those tax collectors. I've got my own supplies and if I run out I saw the chemist a stone’s throw away from here, but I won't make it to a temple right now."

He didn't hesitate, as he'd made his decision as she was speaking. He was all too efficient for the sake of holding a normal conversation, or acting like a normal person.

"How many beds."

"Just the one."

"Anything else."

"One of whatever you just put on that tray."

She responded more quickly then even she had expected.

"21 gilds."

She rummaged for 2 small gold coins and a larger dull one. She dropped them on the table with a clinking of fanfare that still could not be heard. The drink and the key were already sitting on the bar and the barkeep was well on his way down the stairs, the ledger had been neatly tucked away without her notice. She touched the cold drink and brought it to her lips, then she looked around.

There was no one to share the drink with. She left it.

The key was engraved with the rooms number and its floor. She got up and made her way around the back of the bar to the stairs at the very end wall of the building, the ones next to the stairs the barkeep had just disappeared down. Up 2 flights of stairs and she was winded, 2 more doors down to the left and she blasted open the door in a clumsy rush to fall asleep.

She awoke much later to the groaning of her wounds. She removed the bandages, relief filled her as she did, the wounds had not festered and already they had began to scab. She took care to clean and re-bandage them.

Away from the sheets and without her cloak or jacket the bitter cold nipped at her. She started a fire to chase it away, and to rid herself of the sullied bandages. In front of the fire she sat down on her knees and prayed. Almost.

She could not decide as to what to pray for. The act was meant to be thoughtful and intentional, but she could not properly parse for what she would pray. The strength to continue? A prayer of thanks? She was torn between the two and decided on neither. She emptied her mind and kept it vacant for a moment. More a meditation than a prayer, but it was something. She let the small flame flicker away, the room wasn't full of the cold anymore. She still shivered.

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

The embers faded, light squeezing through the windows was the last light in the room. She got up and made her way through the corridor that lead back down to the ruckus and roaring. No point in being alone for now.

There was of course commotion as she descended the finely crafted stairs, though it was a different kind, more focused and cohesive. In unison a cheer would rise, as the whole of the inn was witness. Between the cheers, she began to hear the lecturing and musings of a single commanding voice.

"-there are no tricks of the light nor deceptions of the hand here. The feather flies of its own volition and skips upon the air! Watch it as it steals away this fine sir's flagon!"

The voice was no swindler, it was devoid of the pitch most common in jesters and bards. The voice was clinical, but passionate. The Man, or Elf, was a teacher or similar. She passed the bar of which she'd first arrived and walked down the final flight to the bottom floor, where the cries came from.

Her final step was interrupted by overbearing yelling, and the flagon of ale in question whizzing just inches before her face. The startling object threw her back and forced a harsh cough. A massive whoa erupted as the flagon passed back the way it came and shot into the speaker’s hands, an Elf.

He was slender, no more than a head higher than most Men and of matured yellowing skin. His pointed ears protruded above his long auburn hair that brushed straight back from his forehead. There was no bridge to his tipped nose, instead plainly connecting with the forehead carving a flat contour to his face. His dressing was simple with an occasional adornment, most obvious of which were a red jeweled necklace and a pouch resting on his waist-cape.

What seemed a small quill floated beside him, dexterously and enthusiastically flapping up and down, imitating a bow as much as it could. The Elf had an almost gullible smile as he nodded to the cheers.

"Now if already you are not driven to go out and explore, then I have one last curiosity to sway you. What I've shown you so far are useful, intriguing, valuable and blessed tools. But I am no stranger to the last lure of Man and Elf alike. Power."

The quill took its final prideful bow and looped around with energy, escaping into the small pouch at his side. He waved his hands openly to the crowd with fluid motions.

"The power I speak of is not so literal as to make you stronger, though you may indeed encounter such a thing. The power I will show you is much more subtle, but maybe, more effective."

He emphasized his words with a pointed finger, then held his hands together. One slid down the other, the right reached down the left past the wrist to the inner elbow. A dark wisp rose from his gliding hand, wriggling in the air like rising snakes, swiping back up with sudden force. The darkness coiled to a pointed silhouette, solidifying itself in a shadowed steel. He seized the shadow, its dark metal refusing to shine or refract the taverns many flames and lights. The handle adorned a serpent at the base, consuming the coiling and twisting blade.

"Hidden from all sight, this weapon was not forged for an honorable fighter. As you may be able to tell, even those so far back, the Snake was the proprietor of this piece. And so all its aspects reflect their virtues, including a strange and mystic ability more marvelous than the ability to conceal itself. If one would be so brave as to help me in a demonstration?"

He inquired to the crowd with a sense of spectacle and an ambition to share. His appetite for teaching was evident, it was not something that Tannen shared. She was still curious nonetheless. There were a dozen or more of all creeds and clans, clamoring and climbing over each other to volunteer, but the Elf chose one who patiently stood some distance away, attentive and invested, but not so eager, lounging on a nearby beam. He pointed to the young Man who she recognized. It was young Gyile, he stepped forward with some excitement and encouragement from Browyn, who stood beside him. Another small boy, no older than 9 pushed him toward the stage. She wondered how the young boy got into the bar, but her attention was brought back to the source of the commotion very soon after the thought crossed her mind.

The Elf stood ready, displaying the weapon as best as its nature would allow. He began his demonstration with a short series of questions for the volunteer.

"Thank you so much for volunteering, might I have your name boy?"

"Gyile."

"Gyile...?"

He probed for the boy’s last name.

"Yup, Gyile!"

The crowd laughed. The Elf knew when to take a hint.

"Well then, Gyile, I am Auryen. A pleasure to meet you young Man. Now tell me, before today, have you ever seen one of the gods’ artifacts?"

Gyile chuckled to himself and looked back to Browyn. He was nervous, but showed little of it.

"Actually-uh, yes. Yesterday."

Murmurs and oohs, a greater sense of excitement rose from the crowd. He spoke of the very weapon resting at Tannen's hip. It wasn't exactly a secret, but the thought of the whole of the taverns attention turned to her was... unfavorable. She hoped he didn't point her out.

The Elf on the other hand, grew ecstatic. He drooped the weapon in his hand to his side, his mind swept away by his own curiosity, forgetting the task at hand for a moment.

"Really? Tell me, what was it you saw!"

Gyile looked out to the crowd and met eyes with Tannen. She gave back a struggled smile. Undeniably a smile of distress. Gyile reconsidered for a moment before speaking.

"Uh, it was a sword. It couldn't hurt what the wielder didn't want hurt."

He could not stop himself from indulging at the moment, but withheld the identifying details at least. She was grateful for that. But Auryen was well-read, he murmured to himself for a moment.

"The Feathered Edge! Extraordinary! But, I mustn't get swept away! Back to the demonstration! Have you ever seen *this* artifact before?"

"No."

"Good! Now, boys like you carry knives don't they?"

"They might."

"Then maybe they'll draw it and strike."

Gyile didn't hesitate. From inside his breast pocket he produced a pointed blade of his own.

"Are you sure lord, I'm quite quick!"

The young Man had taken to calling the Elf old, referring to him as 'lord', something the aging Elf took in stride. There was yet more murmuring and cheering, goading the two to fight.

"Then perhaps you'll slow yourself, for this lord's benefit."

Auryen straightened his back and held the blade firmly, pointed straight to the boys heart and held close to his own. The other hand was cupped open and held behind, giving the illusion of bolstering his posture at the base of his spine.

Gyile slid the right foot forward and bent at the knees, pulling his muscles to tension, ready to pounce. The right hand complemented the leg and held the blade out in front with a lax but ready form. The yelling reached an apex.

Gyile lunged forward and brought the knife swinging downward. Auryen swirled his blade and touched the approaching blade for the shortest of moments. In that moment he was enveloped in a pitch black smoke. Like the blade, it consumed all light. A dark cloud with no silver lining. It burst from nothing and evaporated.

Within that moment of smoke, Auryen had reappeared behind Gyile. The coiled blade brushed against the young Man's neck but did not draw blood. Gyile was frozen.

The cheering burst with further furiosity as Auryen retreated the blade. He dropped it from his hand. Before it struck the ground it disappeared to the same black and tangling smoke. He turned the boy around to face him. He inspected the neck to make sure he had not hurt him, then he grabbed the boys opposite shoulder. He was unsure what to do, still frozen from his near-death experience. It was also an uncommon gesture, one the unventured would not recognize. After a short time for adjustment, and a slight nod from Auryen, Gyile returned the gesture and held the Elf's shoulder. The cheering didn't stop for a long, long while.