When one wishes to have a little mirth in the company of strangers, there are many fine places to be. The Forsaken Inn is not one of them. It is too unwelcoming for many to linger, other than those few regulars who never seem to leave. It's not just the terrible food and worse drink, nor the draftiness from the gaping hole in the roof. No, there is a gloom about the place, something intangible. The regulars almost can't feel it anymore, having become inured to it. Those who, like me, visit regularly, become hardened to it, but it is still always on the edge of perception, like a sound that one only notices the moment it stops. But passersby from the Soft Lands feel it forcefully, omnipresent, like the pain of a wound that will not heal. Some don't realize that's why they're uneasy, but all feel it, and become dour and joyless; and few linger long enough to acclimate to it.
I find myself, unfortunately, cooped up in the Inn for a few days (or weeks) while a broken leg heals. It's the same one that broke in the spring and didn't heal properly, so it has never felt as strong as it was, which is probably how it broke again. The good news, I'm told, is it may heal better this time than last, for I was fortunate enough to be in the company of a scout with a talent for such healing, who was able to set it properly this time. But it will be at least a week before I can travel far. It was an ordeal to make it even to the Inn, so I will have to wait it out here.
I have a dank room in the basement to sleep in, but the stairs are an ordeal on a broken leg, so I do not go down until I must, and pass the whole day in the common room. I allow myself only a few times to step outside for fresh air (given the hole in the roof, it's hardly fresher outside than in), as I was bade to rest the leg. So I spend many hours in the common room, with little to do.
I find myself wishing I had my lute, which waits in my tiny space back in Ost Guruth. Glynn Harper lets me borrow his now and then, but not enough for me to really limber up my fingers, let alone to try composing a tune or two of my own. Neither did I bring any books; there are few to be read in Ost Guruth, and what there is, I've already read, but reading one again might be better than staring at the peeling walls. Dancing, sadly, is entirely out of the question, even ignoring the lack of a partner! I find myself realizing how much of my time is spent in my work, and how little else there is, particularly indoors. If I could get about, I could fish or hunt, hike for hours, gaze at the stars, or study flowers and grasses. But here inside the Inn, none of those things are possible.
Well, except for stargazing. The huge tear in the roof still allows that, at least!
During one of my visits to the Soft Lands, I acquired a habit that most of the Eglain find baffling, and I must admit I cannot explain its appeal either. They grow a plant there which they call, quite unimaginatively, "pipe-weed", for they put it into a clay contraption called a pipe, light it afire, and draw in the smoke, which they then blow out in great rings. The taste of this smoke is bitter and acrid, but it also is somehow pleasant and soothing, especially once one becomes accustomed to it. I have my own pipe now, and usually carry it and a pouch or two of weed, and I was glad to have this with me when I chanced to become injured.
Last evening as I sat in the common room, I took it upon myself to light a pipe. The regulars either ignored it, or cast me one of those irritated, baffled looks, the ones that say "whatever do you see in that?", which comes to the same end. A bowl of pipe-weed lasts a good while, and as it burned, a stranger entered the Inn, a dwarf of somewhat advanced age. He (for I assume it was a male, but there's no way to tell, they say) was heading into the Soft Lands, having put many leagues beneath his feet on a journey from some eastern mountain or other, making his way to some western hall or other, and in need of rest and a good pint of ale. I choked on the smoke at hearing this; he would indeed have a pint of ale, but not even Anlaf dares call it a good one.
While he waited for a meal to be readied, he spied my smoke, and sat himself down right across from me. "Don't see many of your sort partake of the pipe, and fewer still of the females," he said in a great, hearty voice, the sort that sounded like a laugh even when he merely spoke. "What's your name, lass, and what keeps you in a place like this?"
We fell to talking, and then to smoking together (for he also carried a pipe), then to trading samples of the pipe-weed we'd come to collect (for there are many varieties, with differing tastes and qualities), and the evening passed with much laughter. I do believe we even got to a point where Anlaf's ale seemed worth drinking, or so the pounding in my head tells a tale of, though I do not remember that part (which is also typical of Anlaf's ale). The dwarf told many tales, some fanciful and some from his own life (and left it to me to try to tell which was which), featuring great journeys across leagues of wild places lonelier even than the lands of the Eglain, or to mighty cities, soaring towers, and lush forests. He even claimed to have seen the Sea, with great sailing ships unfurling mighty white sails like wings, though I felt sure this was one of his more fantastic inventions. For my part, I told him what I could of my own adventures, dusty and dull though they seemed beside his, though I kept enough fabrication in them that the few bits of truth I shared could not be separated out; it seemed impossible he was an enemy of the Eglain, but secrets, once out, cannot be recaptured.
And all the night, we sent smoke-rings careening through the common room, raising eyebrows and frowns from everyone there. We sent more up through the hole in the roof, as though they might ascend to the sky and ring the stars themselves. Our laughter kept the Inn cheerful in a way that set the teeth of the regulars on edge, but Anlaf, at least, was glad of how many more coins were in his purse by the end of the night, so every time anyone's grumbling threatened to dampen the cheer, Anlaf cleared his throat with a pointed glare, and the grousing was kept quiet enough for us to laugh over it and ignore it.
This morning, I find I have a worryingly light purse, a splitting headache, a stomach soured with the taste of foul ale, a nearly empty weed-pouch, and lighter spirits than I have had in many days. The dwarf has continued on his journey west, into the Soft Lands and beyond, and sadly, I will likely never see him again. But wherever he is, I send him my gratitude for bringing one night of cheer. If it can happen even here, who knows what tomorrow night might bring?
