Hell Is Full

01| Awake

Those bastards took my sword.

My arm cut short by their thievery. I had intended to stop in this godsforsaken town and rest at their inn for one night. One night. Honestly, I should have known better than to show up alone, on foot, and during the rising hour. Any one of those factors would have been fine on their own, but combine them all and you become a very unwelcome visitor. I know for sure I would be nothing more than ashes in the wind had I responded with violence as they apprehended me. Now, I was being held on suspicion of being a revenant.

In the time since the first Rising, the undead have become more insidious. Scholars of old remarked on the rate of their decomposition--it would start about two days after their awakening. Now, hundreds of years later, it takes around two weeks for their bodies to give out. On top of that, they have gotten disturbingly good at pretending to be human. I've been here for twelve days according to the tiny tally marks I carved into the wall. Just because the town guard made a fair assessment doesn't make it any less agonizing.

"How much longer? I'm sick of this place," I called out, not expecting a response.

"One more day and you're free to go," responded a guard. I noticed that his voice is oddly young for a man of his profession; that speaks to how small this town is, I suppose. "It's just standard procedure."

"The poor sod in the cell across from me is already rotting and you jailed him the day before I got here. Let me go," I snapped back.

"Standard. Procedure. I'm sorry."

I hate this place.

∗ ∗ ∗

Gods, I need a shower. That was the first thing I planned on doing after I gathered my stuff from the jailhouse's storage. They were nice enough to spare me from freezing to death by allowing me my own clothes. I gathered my belongings--my beloved sword, dagger, canteen, backpack and all of its attached bits and bobs--and glanced at the youthful guard as I took my leave.

"Where's the bathhouse? I'm sure you can smell me from here," I said.

"Just down the road at the Whiteriver Inn," he responded. "You can't miss it."

"Cheers," I said as I started toward the exit. "Can't wait to stay the night at the second best hostel in town."

I was halfway out the door as the guard exclaimed, "W-wait! Miss, I need your name."

"For what purpose?"

"For the registry. I want to make sure we don't hold you here again." he said, pulling out an ancient-looking logbook. "As long as your flesh isn't sloughing off the bone, you're welcome here in Whiteriver."

"Fine. It's Red."

"And I'm Ames!" he said, with a bit too much enthusiasm; looking away and clearing his throat immediately after.

After giving him a brief wave goodbye, I flipped the hood of my cloak up and started to make my way towards the inn.

∗ ∗ ∗

As soon as I opened the jailhouse door, icy winds nipped at my exposed face. Little flurries of snow dashed across the ground as my boots crunched against the powdered cobblestones. Even though it felt as if my nose was about to bleed, the frosty air was wonderfully refreshing. Anything was better than the cell I was trapped in. Little snowflakes landing and melting on my cloak served as a tiny reminder to keep moving. I ignored their urging for a small moment, lingering to watch the other snowflakes dance freely in the frigid air.

Whiteriver was oddly lively, given the hour and the weather; judging by the way the sun poked through the overcast sky, it was about midday. I caught a couple of odd looks as I walked down the stone path. It's not every day that you see someone of my stature--in this town, I stuck out like a sore thumb. My forest green cloak and dark gambeson starkly contrasted the snow-covered street and the numerous scars on my face probably didn't help either.

∗ ∗ ∗

As I searched for the inn Ames mentioned, I passed a wide variety of establishments: a bakery, a cobbler, a tailor, a smith, all seeing a considerable amount of business. I tried my best to ignore the way the patrons looked at me. "Right down the road," he said. Sure. The once-refreshing cold had begun to overstay its welcome, and getting out of it quickly became a priority.

I turned a corner and was blessed by the sight of a large, well-maintained building that exuded a welcoming aura; a beacon of warmth in the cold. My eyes were drawn to the stable attached to its side and I noticed workers were trying their best to keep the boarded horses warm--I felt a pang of wistful sadness seeing their small shows of affection. Eyes wandering, I took into account the inn's blue roofing and extravagant woodwork. Knowing these things suggested a wealthy owner and good service, I assumed I was in the right place.