A look over her shoulder as the husband disappears into the light of the tavern and his body is replaced with the steady swinging of the door. She approaches the adjacent building and gives one last dramatic spin to check her surroundings. Nothing disturbs her and her newfound nest.
The structure is falling apart, the right side has collapsed on itself, plants have overtaken the interior, providing a soft blanket of which the beggars took advantage. Eve enters the home by squeezing through a hole with debris that is waist-high and a large beam that is angled forty-five degrees in the way of her upper body. She gently places a hand on the beam to support her movement through, as she pulls it away, even that touch coats her hand with the slime, moist, chips of wood followed by the stench of mold that permeates the house.
She gives a disgusted glance at the hand and, in an abrupt flick of her wrist, that which coated her hand disperses into the grass carpet. Her steps among the garbage and homeless remain that light tred, as she polonaises around, not disturbing a single blade of the grass. She manages her way to a collapsed wall that has a head-sized hole with a view of the tavern and its surrounding.
Her eyes emit a faint red as she chants the arcane and forms the ruble to a suitable chair for her to sit in. As she sits, Eve can feel the wandering eyes of the occupants; however, it remains the eyes, nobody dares to move, thus, leaving the only motion of the wind as it blows loose objects in the hut. These objects capture the wind, playing rhythmic sounds of knocks, whistles, and howls, all of which flow into a sound that captures the same drowsy feeling of rain.
Her watch is slow because at first glance nothing is happening. The scan of the surroundings provides no helpful information: the almost ominous tavern surrounded by abandoned estates. When her eyebrows lower, presenting the first wrinkles that poke out from behind her bangs, her eyes narrow on the tavern, instinctively surveying below the pipes that run along the roof. Her eyes tell the story as she scratches a picture with a claw that has been summoned to her index finger. That carefree mischievous attitude drops and so do the eyes on her, for the tension she built in the room causes everyone to intuitively turn away. Her upper lip moves up presenting that of a feral fang in place of her canines. Them. Now far more perceptive she notices a small fire within another decrypt hut. There. At that very moment, Eve disappears into the wind, the only thing left is the symbols carved into the dank wood. The tension slowly unwinds, allowing the beggars to freely resume their sleep.
YOU ARE READING
Journey in a city
FantasíaWriting from a two-year gap within a more extensive D&D campaign. Jump into the middle of this story as I write a detailed short story that tells the story of a family as they tackle a situation with a tavern.
