Chapter 45: Inn
The large, hand-painted sign hung over the entrance, read as ‘The Silver Vein,’ clanked against the wooden walls as Valens and the others made for the inn. Dangling from either side of it were lamps burning with mana, casting warm pools of light onto the rough-hewn porch.
Valens scowled slightly when they entered through the heavy doors. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of pipe smoke, spilled ale, and the faint metallic tang of the mines that never quite left the miners’ clothes. The wooden floor was worn from countless boots, patched here and there with different colored planks that were yet to be beaten down. A long bar made of dark-stained oak dominated the side of the hall, behind which hummed a happy-looking lady with rather plump cheeks. She worked the patch of cloth around the glasses while keeping an eye over the few men crowding the tables.
A great stone hearth crackled with warmth by the other side, set inside the wall and fixed into a chimney, topped with metal parts for handling the wood burning inside. Most of the walls around it were paneled in dark wood, adorned occasionally with yellowing newspaper clippings or a faded landscape painting. Small windows acted as little filters to stave off the lingering smoke, though they did a rather bad job as it was still thick through the hall.
Armored in golden plates, the moment Garran took a thumping step toward the bar all eyes turned to them. Valens felt through the Resonance their wary tunes, mixed with fear and respect in a way that made him surprised. They were looking at Garran as though he was a hero, a man of tales who decided to pay a visit to their pitiful inn and demanded, not-so-gently, their muted obedience.
“Templar,” the woman behind the bar said with a strained smile on her lips. She looked perhaps forty, or forty-five at most, with shoulder-length hair kept under a headscarf, and brown eyes gentle and yet had a sharp quality to them. A woman who was used to dealing with unruly men and keeping the inn somewhat clean at the same time.
She’s a [Innkeeper]. What are the odds?
Valens and his sorry-looking group didn’t attract much attention when there was a plated man before them, which gave Valens the chance to pry over the hushed whispers of the crowd through his sound vision.
“Reckon we're gonna be saved 'fore shadows take us all,” one of them was saying, a gruff man with a rough stubble, face riddled with scratch marks over the soot-painted skin. “Ain’t that good news?”
“Don’t go starin’, you fools!" another hushed a young pair gaping at Garran’s gleaming figure. "Ain’t no good comes from eyeballin’ a Templar like that. You oughta know men like that deal in trouble, and you sure as hell don’t wanna be the poor soul givin’ ‘em a reason to look your way."
"Lost my Pa to that bastard of a tunnel, Chief. Ain't no Templar gonna scare me," one of the young ones said, lifting his chin defiantly. "And what’s a man to do, sittin’ round the mines alone, eh? Reckon we’ll be headin’ for the capital at this rate. Best find another gig ‘fore it’s too late."
"You sit that half-fed arse of yours down and wait for God's men to do their work. We'll be hearin’ from ‘em soon enough. They’ll cleanse that thing like light through shadow."
“Shit on the shadows,” said the young one. “Shit on this cursed town.”