Bound Hands

1

Dim light pierced his retinas, his head pounding in the afternoon brightness. His back stiffened as he sat up, stretching his arms out as though to find something; anything. Rubbing his eyes, the stripling let out a hard cough before finding his feet. As he began to realise his location, he recounted what had occurred the night before. A sudden urge overcame him as he frantically patted down his jacket, to no avail; it was gone.

"Damn!" he uttered to himself in frustration, with the newfound knowledge that his wallet was gone. In doing so, he came to the understanding that not only his wallet was missing, but the rest of his possessions were too. Stumbling about himself, the adolescent pondered the ground on which he lay, rummaging through the bracken as though he were a hound unearthing last week's bone.

Nothing.

He frowned in agitation, his fists clenching in passionate rage as he proceeded to vigorously kick the plants that had encumbered him the night prior before collapsing to his knees. The stripling sighed, as though in disbelief yet acceptance at the same time; it was useless. Rage got him nowhere and neither did denial. Upon finding his feet, the discomforting touch of silver graced his sole having unsettled it in his rage. He hastily removed his boot, dispersing three silver pieces onto the ground. Recognition struck his face as he instantaneously swept them up and submerged his foot back within the safety of the leather. Plunging his rediscovered treasures into his pocket, he proceeded to trundle his way down the cobbled road, amid shrubberies of olive and avocado, his boots scraping all the while.

The air was cold, with the glimmer of moonlight staining the puddles with frost. With heavy feet, the adolescent continued to trudge his way down the track, his hands clasped around himself as a means of retaining any warmth he had left. A warm light tore through the grey veil of fog before him, evoking a strong sense of reassurance within. He quickened his pace as he continued his way over to the beacon. His thoughts were interrupted by the howl of some no doubt hideous beast in the darkness, somewhere far beyond him. The gentle breeze penetrated the tears in his jacket, piercing him like raw steel. He trembled as he continued to trudge on, relentless in his advance towards salvation.

A great frame emerged from the abyss that lay before him that harboured two heavy doors composed of bound logs - the Western gate of Slateberg. Before them stood two suits of gleaming silver, garbed with the traditional emerald tunic of the town and gripping pole arms almost as tall as the gate itself. As he slowly approached, the guards leaped into action; suits ceasing immobility within an instant.

"Who goes there?" they cried simultaneously, their blades at the ready.

The sudden action startled him, as he leaped back with his arms raised.

"J-just me!" he stuttered helplessly.

The guards shared a look of discontent, before one asked "And who are you, exactly?"

"R-Riobard. I'm just a traveller whose belongings were stolen, so I'm unarmed."

Immediately the guards returned to their original positions, as though nothing had stirred.

"Open the gate!" one called, followed by the creaking of the heavy doors being heaved open. 

As he wandered through, neither of the guards paid him the slightest trace of attention; their gazes fixed on the road ahead. Before him the streets of Slateberg remained unstirred at the sight of the newcomer, with the townsfolk all locked away in their homes of wood and stone, save a few strays left to wander the alleyways in hopes of finding their own lodgings amid drunken hazes. The flicker of golden light illuminated the pathway through to the town centre, the cobbles glowing in their wake. 

As he plodded on in an effort to find the Inn, Riobard noticed a number of bodies splayed out beside various buildings or across the middle of the walkways - each of them drunk. 'This is surely the way to the Inn' he thought, as he followed the faint roar of laughter flowing through the streets. Following his short journey across town, he eventually came to a dark door with a sign hanging overhead, inscribed "The Fiery Horse Inn".

As he pushed against the seemingly black door, a gust of warm air hit him smartly in the face, carrying with it the scent of stale beer and steak. As he turned to close the door again, he noticed the white horse on the pear-painted planks - colours that matched the interior decoration. His footsteps were lost amid the laughter and conversations partaking within the main lobby, the counter lost in the crowd. As he shoved past the seemingly endless horde of townsfolk, he found his way to the robust counter, protecting shelves of rich liquor and barrels of ale. To operate the fortification stood a large blockade of a man, red-cheeked to match the crimson overalls straining to conceal his round belly. 

"Good evening young master" the proprietor said, his voice appealing and smooth. "What is it I can do for you this fine evening?"

Riobard glanced up at the round face. "I'm after a single room, i-if you have one available.."

The man squinted before withdrawing behind the counter, returning with a large brown journal. He began to leaf through it, page after page, all the while caressing the fiery van dyke on his upper lip. His face lit up as he fingered a specific section of his page, before returning to Riobard.

"Just one room, so you're in luck young sir" he said. Rio's face looked uneasy, suddenly going pale despite the blazing heat of the room. His throat clenched.

"H-how much will that be?" he whispered anxiously.

The man's cheeks bulged as he unveiled his sharp grin. "Forty-six coppers, three silvers,  or half a jade."

A gasp of relief washed over the stripling as he handed his three silvers over to the inn-keep, who gladly took his treasure and handed back his own. The key had tethered to it a wooden ring, engraved with the number 24. He smiled with inconceivable relief and thanked the man, before retreating to the safety of the stairwell. He followed the directions made clear in the hallways and eventually found his room. As he pushed the oaken door forward, a cool scent of lavender gushed forward and greeted him sweetly as he locked up behind him. He slowly entered the room, his gaze fixed on the lavish bedding made up before him. Upon making his way over to the lattice windows enshrouded by green curtains, he noticed a book laid upon a small table. Inside it read "We hope you enjoy your stay, and we look forward to reading your feedback!". The page was crumpled and a stain of tea or coffee obscured the lower portion of text. Fatigue overtook him, as he cast the book aside and drew the curtains. Without wasting any time he removed his heavy boots, allowing his toes to relax in the freedom of the rug, before proceeding to throw the rest of his clothing onto the chair. He dived under the thick covers, exhaling in strong relief that his legs might relax for even a few hours. He buried his head into the soft pillow and allowed himself to rest after the long hike East; the day was at an end.