It’s a good time to rerun an adventure. I could make it sound like I planned this but, honestly, my days got away from me and Monday night rolled around like a snowball that got out of hand. I wrote the start to a lovely adventure that harkened towards Alice in Wonderland but when I looked back over it, it doesn’t make sense to even me. Oops =/ Plus, I only have the beginning to it and no outline. That’s just a disaster waiting to happen, trust me.
So here we go with an adventure from the beginning of the year. It has snow in it, which, when it’s over 100 degrees outside, appeals to me like the ice cream truck’s jingle does to a child.
Hope you enjoy and thanks for stopping by =)
You’re sitting in an inn well off the beaten path enjoying a hot beverage that wafts the scent of cinnamon under your nose and warms your hands through the wooden mug.
You were on your way to the capital to buy supplies when the storm hit. It started out as sleet but as the day grew later and the temperature dropped, the sleet shifted to snow. Beneath the growing layer of white, the sleet turned to ice and it was all you could do to keep your feet to get to the next town.
Once you reached the town, however, you found the main inns were already full from travelers like yourself. So you were forced to move deeper into the town to find this run down place that boasted only a few rooms above and a stable for four horses out back.
It wasn’t the safest part of town either.
Since you sat down, you’ve kept your eye on a pair of men next to the hearth. Their heads are bowed over a chess table but you’ve yet to see a piece move. One of them, a great bearded fellow whose shoulders remind you of a troll, fingers an axe that hangs by his side. The other strokes his ragged goatee with one hand while tapping his nails on the table with the other. From his belt also hangs an axe. It’s double bladed. Not a woodsman’s axe, but a war axe.
They’re not the only ones that give you pause. At the bar sits a woman with high-topped black, leather boots. This wouldn’t give you cause for alarm except, when the woman shifted on her stool last, you spotted the tops of at least three knives sticking out of the right boot cuff. One, maybe two, would make sense for safety, but three?
Lastly, at the far end of the bar sits what appears to be an older couple. You’d think them sweet with their holding hands but the woman’s shrill voice hasn’t stopped since you entered the place. Every once in a while the man’s gruff responses cut her off but it doesn’t stop the woman’s tirade for long. You’ve been questioning their age for about five minutes when the serving woman approaches your table. It takes you a minute to respond to her because you’re staring at the older woman. Her glasses slid to the end of her nose and when she moves to push them back up, you could swear her hand looked like that of a twenty five year old, not an eighty year old.
“We’re out of beef stew. Want mutton?” The serving woman asks again. Her voice is flat.
Mutton’s disgusting unless cooked right but you’re hungry, so you nod and say, “that’ll do.”
She thumps a plate with bread, butter and a small square of cheese onto the table and moves away toward the chess players.
All you want is to get a decent night’s sleep and leave for the capital in the morning. Behind the bar stands the bar keep. He’s a giant of a man with flaming red hair. Over his shoulder, held on the wall by two iron hooks, is a club he must use to keep the bar peaceful. It’s only a little reassuring.
The serving woman’s half way across the room, headed back toward the kitchen, when it happens. She catches herself on a table’s edge but it’s a pedestal table and the weight on only one edge serves to flip it. She hits the floor and doesn’t move.
There’s a moment of shocked silence before the bar keep’s over the bar and kneeling beside her. He leans in and sniffs. The look on his face when he raises his head makes you shrink back in your seat.
“One of you low lifes poisoned her!”
Another man appears from the kitchen at the bar keep’s bellow. He’s an exact match to the bar keep with flaming red hair. You guess he’s the cook due to the apron he’s wearing. He scoops the woman off the floor and heads for the stairs, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll see what I can do.”
Once he’s up the stairs and out of sight, everyone moves. They don’t get very far.
“No one leaves!” bellows the bar keep, “until I know who’s responsible.”
You sink back into your chair.
“You!” he points a finger your way, “Wallin will need his bag,” he points to a bulging sack just behind the bar by the kitchen door. “Take it to him.”
You nervously move across the room with all eyes on you, guessing he picked you because, one, you’re alone, and two, unlike the woman at the bar, you’re not heavily armed.
It’s this thought that makes you look twice at the knife sitting on the edge of the bar. Everyone watched you reach the bag but then looked away when the bar keep pointed at the goateed chess player and started asking questions.
As you pass the bar again to head up the stairs, you might be able to slip the knife into your hand and up your sleeve.
A.Take the Knife?
B.Leave the Knife?