Arc 7: Chapter 4: The Devils We Know
The last time I’d been at the Backroad Inn, it had transformed into a bustling, seedy den of debauchery and noise. Now it was back to its previous persona; a large, dimly lit taproom with two levels, tables spaced throughout and a set of stairs near the back that led up to the balcony section. A long bar stood on the other side of a centrally located fire pit, which blazed hot against the cold season.
There were others inside, but fewer than I was used to. Less than a score, not counting a number of attractive men and women who I knew worked for the Keeper. Most of the patrons would be people like me, ones who knew the nature of this place.
Some would be Saska’s “paupers,” who weren’t any more safe in here than they’d be outside at the mercy of the wilderness.
Part of me still felt bothered at that truth. This was a den of wolves, and shouldn’t I take issue with it? And yet, the beings who called this place home weren’t all soulless monsters. I knew some of them, even liked a few. Yet I also knew that Saska and her fellows were predators, this inn their honey-coated trap to lure in prey.
People with invitations were protected, able to use the inn as a resource. Anyone else…
The paladin I’d once been warned me this place should be cleansed, but that inner voice had become quieter lately.
Conversation quieted as the door closed behind me, cutting off the gust of cold I’d brought in. My red cloak settled along the wooden floorboards, and my armor clinked softly. I scanned the current stock of patrons, and most watched me back with demeanors ranging between furtive and hostile. Most would know who I was.
It seemed like the usual fair. Mostly innocuous looking travelers, all dressed for the cold weather with concealing garments. Some looked more eccentric. I could hear a strange rattling sound somewhere, but couldn’t place it.
I moved to the bar, refusing to acknowledge all the eyes I could feel following me, pausing only briefly to let my burn-scarred fingers linger near the fire pit so the creature inside could take my scent. A man stood behind the bar, dressed innocuously in a clean shirt and apron. He was thin, looked perhaps fifty, and had his long and severely receded hair tied into a ponytail.
He spoke to a traveler sitting at the bar, and didn’t so much as glance in my direction as I approached.
“It’s fucking lunacy is what it is,” the second man said. He looked to be in his early thirties, with the fur lined coat of a hunter and hair cut close to his scalp. He had a short beard, brown skin, and hadn’t touched the mead set in front of him. He looked unsettled, bordering on angry.