Blood & Shadows

Four

Asmodan's Luck. The sign swings on a well-oiled dark chain above a simple wooden door. On that sign there's an effigy of whoever the fuck Asmodan is in a coffin. Yes, this seems exactly the place we should be. Magic crackles on the back of my tongue as we stand just outside the entrance and I'm struck by the strangest sensation as though I've been here before and stood in this exact same spot though I have no recollection of it.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Someone fiddles with something drawing my attention to the source of that noise. Vrythien. I take a half step back, his face is blank but he's standing wrong, his posture is slightly stooped, nothing like the high tilt his chin normally has.

"Are you all right?" My brows knit and he sneers at me.

"Why wouldn't I be? It's just an inn in some backwoods nowhere." He huffs and that chin tilts back up again. "Seriously what sort of pointless question is that? Clearly you lost your sense with all your memories as well." He murmurs the last those eyes of his are dead like a dolls vacant of any shade of feeling as he stares forward, as though he's watching something beyond me and I'm not there at all.

The sign clatters in the crisp wind as Geraent and Faeriel stride into those doors side by side, ignoring my exchange with Vrythien entirely. In all truth, I half wish I could do the same. Vrythien, regardless of his hostile reaction, lingers near as I enter, looming in my wake a pale shadow. His tension bleeds into me as Geraent secures rooms for us by flashing the sigil of his order. I only half pay attention to everything. Something's off about the tavern everything feels... wrong.

It's too clean.

The floor boards are strewn with fresh hay and the only smells are pleasant ones--roasting meat, baking bread and sweet wines. People clad in rags crowd around tables as a pale elven bard with gleaming silver hair and dark eyes plays a lute and croons a song. The finery of his doublet stands out amongst the home spun the patrons wear. They stare enraptured, eyes fixed as though they behold a god. The bard's voice is sweet and is beautiful as most elves are but there's something about him. The longer I stare the less perfect he seems, it's the opposite of Vrythien who is eerie almost in his perfection.

"Ale, hot food and a warm bed. The goodness of these people will surely be blessed by Decerys," Geraent grins, looking all too boyish as he pushes back his unruly earth brown locks.

"I'm more interested in the warm bed. After what I did on the road I've felt... drained." I lie rubbing my forehead. I just want to get the fuck out of this common room and away from the bard. The bard hasn't looked at me but my stomach twists with terror that he will and I don't know why.

"We'll have a plate brought up for you." Feraeriel offers with a bright smile.

"No, I--"

Vrythien cuts me off. "She's clearly too exhausted to eat. Just look at the poor thing. I'll show her to our room." Vrythien's sudden change in temperament nearly makes me jump but I nod all the same. The whole scene of the tavern feels more like a pantomime than something real. No one is talking amongst themselves as the bard plays, his lute holds everyone hostage—except for me and Vrythien.

Vrythien takes the key from Geraent without a word and ushers me up the stairs. The beams above are well oiled and here and there small water color paintings dot the rough plaster walls. A sign of a wealthy tavern at a crossing. Only the patrons below are not the wealthy sort.

With a heavy squeal from the hinges he opens to our room and locks it immediately behind me before walking the perimeter of the room and checking in every darkened corner. He even presses his ear to the wall.