Curious about what sort of food he’d been provided, Hastur poked at the contents of his wooden bowl and found what looked like stew that had been left on the fire so long the liquid had mostly cooked out of it, leaving it more of a chunky paste than a stew at all. It was far from the worst thing Hastur had been forced to eat over the years, though, so he ate it without complaint. It was hot, filling, and made to put some meat on a man’s ribs, which he appreciated, and the halfway decent ale he’d been given did a good job washing away any bitter dryness that came from being left on the fire so long.

Hastur went in search of his room after that and found it on the second floor. Just like the urchin that had pointed him in the Red Bird’s direction had claimed, the place had solid doors and the lock didn’t feel loose when he slid the key home— a good sign it hadn’t suffered repeated picking. The room beyond it was small but tidy enough, if in need of a sweep, and the mattress wasn’t completely flat when he dropped onto it.

Gods I do miss the mattresses over there, though, Hastur mused while he lay there and stared up at the ceiling for a minute. The mattress beneath him was stuffed with relatively fresh hay, but had little on spring mattresses back on Earth. In retrospect he wished he had taken more of an interest in how the things were made. If he had, maybe he could have introduced them here in his own world but all he knew was that springs and padding were involved somehow.

Hastur dozed for awhile and dreamed of sheep with springs in place of wool, before waking around dinner to eat more of what he’d had for lunch but fresher and with more broth. After getting next to no sleep the night before while in his cell at the central watch house, Hastur called it an early night and woke up early the following morning, intent on getting a little training in.

The faint light of dawn was only just starting to tinge the horizon, marking it as early even for Hastur, but after finally getting a decent night’s sleep the man felt up to a little exercise.

Gods knew it was going to take some effort to get himself back into shape after Mikey had almost completely neglected his routine for the last fourteen years.

The man hadn’t been completely sedentary, fortunately. Mike had preferred to take his exercise in the form of long walks and moving heavy stacks of books around the library in the line of his work, but that was hardly the sort of intensive training Hastur was used to.

Cursing a little, Hastur buckled down and got to warming up out in the courtyard behind the inn where the rear of the building butted up to an old stable that looked like it hadn’t housed a horse in years and a battered work shed of some sort.

The actual exercise came next, followed by some basic sword dances to get his neglected body back into the swing of wielding a blade. He didn’t use his sword for the time being, but substituted it for a sturdy stick he’d grabbed off the nearby wood pile. He’d need to acquire a proper training sword soon— his own sword wasn’t flashy compared to most but it was obviously high quality to anyone with an eye for that sort of thing and he didn’t want to draw that kind of attention to himself.

That required money, though, and money was something he’d be in short supply of soon enough if he didn’t find some way to make ends meet.

Just as the sun began to crest the distant sea, something drifted soft and snow-like down from the mostly-clear sky, drawing Hastur up short in his exercises. He frowned and put out a hand to catch a few dark, silvery flakes then smudged them absently between his fingers.

He’d been so long away Hastur had nearly forgotten what gave Ashtown its name.

“I remember when all this used to be called Lowtown,” an old voice like churning gravel remarked somewhere behind Hastur.

When he turned to look, Hastur found an old man seated on the stoop that lead into the backside of the inn. He looked as old and weatherbeaten as the wood used to construct the inn, though his shock of snow-white hair was surprisingly thick for someone of his obviously advanced age. More than just being old, though, the man had a withered, fragile air about him, as if he might break if someone jostled him too suddenly, and his wrinkled skin was nearly as pale as his hair.

He didn’t seem like the sort that should be out of bed, let alone hunched over on a stoop outside in the chill dawn air smoking a pipe almost the length of his forearm, but there he was all the same.

“It’s that damned aether-plant the old duke had the casters build to save the nobles money on candles,” the old man groused. “Nobs are too good for firelight now, I guess,” he added, tone sour.

He wasn’t wrong. Hastur’s grandfather had been the one to order the project put into action after breakthroughs made by casters sponsored by the ducal family. It was common practice for particularly wealthy nobles such as the Fanes to act as patrons for artists, casters, and whatever craftspeople might catch their interest— the great aether-plant had been the result of cooperation between multiple people sponsored by the ducal house. Actually building the thing and running the necessary magical ley lines to power the street lamps and interior lights of surrounding homes had cost a truly astronomical sum but had been a feather in the duchy’s cap ever since.

Granted, it was more of a gimmick for popularity and an attempt at legacy building than anything else. After all, besides an expansion down to the docks early in the rule of Hastur’s Father, Rurik Fane, the parts of the city that actually benefited from easy access to light and power hadn’t changed. It all belonged to the nobility in Hightown and the wealthier parts of the market district.

“Brighter things get up there, the darker it is down here, huh?” Hastur mused as he stepped under the stoop’s cover and plopped down next to the old man. He didn’t mind working up a sweat but that didn’t mean he wanted to throw a bunch of ash into the mix.

“Same as it’s always been. Same as it’ll always be,” the old man said and took a long drag on his pipe then offered it to Hastur.

Pleasantly surprised by the offer, Hastur accepted and took a pull himself. The tobacco was cheap and harsh on the palate but Hastur mastered the urge to cough before he exhaled a thick plume and offered the pipe back to its owner as was polite.

The aether-plant was considered a magical wonder of the continent. It took aetherite, condensed, physical magic mined from the earth, and converted it into power to light the streets and homes of wealthy citizens— the ducal palace in particular. As a side effect, however, it churned out massive clouds of dark, silvery ash twice a day like clockwork. Much of it was carried away by the winds that swept in from the ocean but thanks to the plant’s placement plenty of it dropped onto Ashtown first— the strength and direction of the winds just determined how much.

A quirk of the ash’s nature and the local weather meant that it rarely stuck around long, which was fortunate for the poverty stricken region most affected. Gods knew they’d all be trudging through it up to their knees and unless it started to affect the local markets or, bright star forbid, the nobles, nothing would be done about it by the powers that be.

The ash-fall let up a minute later and both men sat there a moment longer, watching the ash glitter in the dawn light as the breeze set it whirling lazily across the yard.

The door at their backs opened and the woman that had served Hastur the day before and given him his room key demanded, “Da! What are you doing out here? Are you smoking again?” the demanded furiously and the old man winced.

“Of course not, Prishka. Just admiring the boy’s pipe is all, wasn’t I, boy?” he asked and pushed his pipe into Hastur’s hand.

“’Course,” Hastur said, quick on the uptake as he took the pipe and offered the older woman an innocent smile. “I like a good smoke to start my morning, your Da was just out for some fresh air, ain’t that right?”

“The gods’ own truth.”

Prishka scowled at the both of them then ushered her father inside, though not before she threw Hastur a dirty look that made it plain she didn’t buy their story for a minute.

When they were gone, Hastur chuckled and took another drag from the still-lit pipe, finding it easier this time now that he was expecting the harsh taste. Maybe he should go out and see if he couldn’t get his hands on some decent tobacco later. They didn’t have the cigars he’d become so fond of on Earth here in Tyrov (or maybe anywhere), but it was hard to go wrong with a good pipe at the end of a long day.