The Prophecy

8th Movement: Irving the Great's Tavern

Walk of the Prophecies

14 Lïon 1307

It was a real dump, such as one does not want to imagine or dream it... Not even in the worst of nightmares. Everything was incredibly dirty, greasy and noisy, as if they had managed to break records in bad taste. The place was however marvelously frequented, to the great joy of the owner who had known how to take advantage of the smallest square ianus(1) of his inn. It was a maze of tables, stools, chairs and crates stored apparently without logic, all piled up and tangled so well that it seemed totally improbable to add more, an elementary rule of physics that the owner however cheerfully diverted!

Incidentally, Irving, the owner, as small as the sign of the inn was big, moved in this universe with a feline flexibility. Glowing with pleasure at the entrance of a new guest, his cheerful and gracious physiognomy widened even more when that same guest passed the door in the opposite direction, with a demeanor far less reasonable and lightened by a few golden solis. For despite his small size, the man was respected, and made sure he was, in the rare case this fact could have been dispute by foolish people. In fact, no one would have dared (in full possession of these means or not, as a matter of fact) to attack him from the front... or from the back, and everyone was very kindly discharging their debts, sometimes phenomenal.

The man had dragged Half Moon through the meanders of this barbaric place with an ease betraying the habit, and had settled without hesitation at the most coveted table: the one next to the fireplace. There, there was always a pleasant warmth, but above all, it was the only place in the whole tavern that guaranteed a hot meal. Half Moon, sitting opposite the man, could finally stare at him with impunity. She realized, looking at him as she would have detailed a strange beast, that she had demonstrated pure madness in following a man she knew nothing about, starting with his name... And yet, she could not help but find in his eyes that something that seemed to be the mark of superior beings. He was tall and apparently strong, their incredible escape from the lair of the wise trolls men had shown her that. And he was young. Yet the clothes he wore seemed borrowed from another world, their cuts had long since gone out of fashion, and the fabric had already withstood the tests of time so valiantly that it was utterly rude to let them face them again. A coat, which must have been colorful, covered him up to his feet. Under the high, straight collar that protected his neck, Half Moon saw a shirt slightly yellowed by wear and tear, but which seemed to have retained its softness, while having acquired additional thinness. Everywhere, however, there were conspicuous, though ephemeral, signs of aristocratic wealth: all his clothes were embroidered with gold threads.

She was about to go on quietly detailing him like this, when he turned his face towards her. His eyes of a deep and intense blue, the color of the most beautiful sapphires, so intense that it seemed artificial, suddenly reflected her own face. She could not suppress a backward movement that surprised the young man.

_ Do you want to have a snack or a bigger meal? he repeated quietly.

_ Um... It doesn't matter. I don't intend to stay in this place any longer than is strictly necessary.

_ I wouldn't insult our host if I were you, continued the man, pointing to Irving, who was standing beside him, stiff as a stick and apparently in a very bad mood.

_ I don't insult him... I am only stating facts! This place is the most infernal, pestilential and nightmarish dump I have ever seen! exclaimed Half Moon, proud of the tirade.

The two men stared at each other, their wills clashing in a mental and silent battle. They were like two snakes watching each other and wondering which one would be the fastest. And they... literally collapsed laughing into each other's arms.