The town was too small. Perhaps 40 adults, maybe 60. He had hoped to find work here, something to fill his wallet and ease the ache of his wounded pride, but the chance of finding work in such a place was nearly zero. As disappointing as this was, it was also unsurprising. He had seen many surveys and maps of this mountain range, and none had shown any settlement at this location. However, he was a stranger here, and he hadn't looked at an updated map of these mountains for nearly half a decade, so it wasn't inconceivable for people to be here. This town was new then, and thus, too small. It had been a foolish hope, to dream of a hidden, unmapped town large enough to hold some chance of a job for him, but the sight of maintained fences and fresh wagon tracks in the barely-worn road had been too welcome. He had resigned himself before, then dared to hope, but he knew he still had months to travel before he would reach a settlement large enough for his type of work. But while all evidence and logic had shouted that this would be nothing more than a small trading outpost, perhaps a new farming village, but certainly not a town with enough people to warrant any sort of underworld or aristocratic presence, he had still hoped. Almost a full year of solitude, self-imposed or not, left too much room in his head for such flights of fancy. Weakness. Although blaming solitude might be too generous. Doren knew better than anyone that he had always been weak, always been a fool for hope.

Shaking his head, Doren walked past another homestead, seeing some larger buildings in the distance ahead forming a small square of sorts. Recklessly, he hoped again, now for a small inn, a place for proper rest with ale, a bed, and even music. Ever the fool. As he drew closer, he saw a stable, what might be a town hall, a trading post, and - gods be praised - an inn. Small, but not shabby. None of this village was shabby, although looking at the stonework he thought it might well be older than the maps which claimed it did not exist. Odd, for a town with what looked to be an active trading center to be completely unmapped. But then again, it was very small.

The day was old but not yet gone, sunset maybe an hour away, the early autumn air already crisp. A frigid blast promising a harsh and long winter blew his hood aside. He shivered slightly but left the hood down as he approached the inn. As he stepped inside, he found himself in a tavern - small, but not shabby - with an oaken bar against a stone wall, a large stone fireplace already lit and a corner with what might have been a bard's perch (and oh, here he was, hoping again), and five long tables. Stairs opposite the entrance led up to what seemed to be rooms for travelers, and a half door behind the bar led to what was likely a kitchen if the smells of roasting potatoes and meat were anything to go by. Not shabby at all.

No one was at the bar, but patrons already sat at three of the five long tables, some alone, some grouped and boisterous with tankards of ale. All of them were travelers if their cloaks and varied apparel were anything to go by. Doren stood a moment, and a silence fell slowly as he was noticed. It was always so. The black metal bracers and silver clasp on a midnight cloak made for odd apparel. His sword was hidden under the cloak, strapped to his back along with his leather pack, but the hilt was obvious at his shoulder to anyone who glanced at him twice. And who wouldn't look twice at someone with the marks of a Promised? He took comfort in knowing that only a few would look thrice, and even fewer would know that his shorn hair and absent gloves meant he was Shamed. A Promised, but alone. Trained, but unsupported. A tool without honor.

He bore the stares stoically, feeling out the room as he stood there. No one here was a threat; none were powerful enough, and from how their looks of initial wariness faded into respect tinged with horror, but not disgust and terror, he did not expect to be driven out by a mob. Before the last of them noticed him, but long after he had finished his assessment, the innkeeper came down the stairs, carrying a pile of what looked to be woolen blankets. Their appraisal of Doren was quick, thorough, and knowledgeable. It was hard to be certain of whether or not they knew he was Shamed. If they did, they hid it well - better than most spies would. Unlikely that they knew, then, but they certainly knew him to be a Promised at a glance, and clearly decided that meant he was a proper gold-paying, and thus valuable, customer. They nodded at him brusquely, carried the blankets over to a door behind the stairs, calling through it until a harried-looking boy of maybe fourteen opened it and leaned in from the backyard. Handing over the blankets, they seemed to scold him and steady him all at once before gesturing out the door. Calmed, the boy rushed off. Likely new to the staff, to be overwhelmed so early in the evening. That, or the inn was much busier than he had assumed, and Doren might find his hopes for a bed crushed. Too late to stop hoping, he thought; once you've started, it's always too late.

Doren was shaken from his melancholy by the innkeepers' friendly if slightly stilted greeting. Weak again, to be so distracted. 

"A room, master?" The proper address sounded odd in their valley-accented Common, after decades of hearing it almost exclusively in the curt consonants and broad vowels of Carram.

 

"Yes, Innkeep, if it pleases. And I am not worthy of your address." The innkeeper started a bit, looking again at his hands, confused. So they did not know exactly what it meant. But they might know enough not to allow him to stay. A heavy moment passed, and they decided. 

"Certainly, sir. We have some rooms free and space in the stable. Venison tonight, but yesterday's rabbit stew is ready now?" Their tone was questioning. He nodded, not quite curtly, but almost so. 

"No need for the stable, but a meal now, thank you. May I know your name, Innkeep?" The simple pleasantries came slowly, almost painfully, where they had once flowed like warmed honey, easy to pour and easier to swallow. He did not expect them to ask his name in return, and they did not.

"Aisel, sir, and I'll get you set now." Aisel turned and hollered into the kitchen. "Orlo! Stew and get a room set! I can pour you an ale?" The last was for Doren, who nodded. "That'll be four bronze gourden for now then, sir."

Once his order was settled, Doren sat alone at the long table furthest from the fire, but closest to the maybe-musician's corner, facing the perch rather than the door. Ever the fool, he thought. He stared ahead, pushing away the heavy musings in his observation of the small, raised wooden square and solid chair, the cracks in the chair's arms - the wood needed oil, and wasn't it odd that it did when nothing else seemed so shabby - but that didn't necessarily mean it was out of use. No dust or cobwebs, he noted, that was a good sign. Was this hope or common sense? After all, the entire tavern was as clean as could be hoped for; a lack of cobwebs hardly guaranteed him music tonight.