My duties have brought me to the Forsaken Inn once again, and thus I hoped for a bit of mirth. At times, especially when travelers and outsiders call on the Inn, there is some measure of joy to be had, and even music -- usually music brought in from the Soft Lands, as few of the Eglain bring their own.
I spent several hours in the Inn, taking the opportunity to dry off after being caught in a blustery, cold rain the day before, while making discreet inquiries about some business that's not for this journal. Sadly, my business went poorly, and my hope for mirth even worse.
There was not a single soul in the Inn save those maudlin creatures that are always to be found there, a mishmash of Eglain and those from the Soft Lands who've lost their way and settled, or become trapped. Joy is scarce amongst those folk. There's that one waiting-woman who tries to be kind, who slipped me a cup of tea while Anlaf wasn't looking, and charged me only what Anlaf would have asked for that swill he calls ale, which isn't fit to wash my axes with. No honey to be spared for it, though. Warm, but not sweet; this is the sum of my night there.
And thus there were no tales, no songs, no jokes, no dancing, and scarcely even a smile. Even the waiting-woman seemed ill at ease, though she dismissed her anxiety as being about her poor choice of dress. One day I should find out her name.
Not an auspicious start to a journal meant for nonsense and joy! But, assuming my work tomorrow does not prove too dangerous, there is always another day.
