|
The night before…(a.k.a The Attack of the Midnight Writer)
The gray-clad servants had extinguished the lamps and retreated from the room shortly before the moon had a third of its journey through the night sky. Without their ministrations, the fire in the common room of the Seventh Star had collapsed into a mound of glowing embers. Shadows flickered and danced across the walls, spawned by a quartet of candles that drove the darkness from a table in the middle of the hall. Despite the fairly reasonable size of the table, messenger cylinders, scrolls stray scraps of paper, and a handful of empty inkwells all but hid the surface. A large, black tome sat in front of the only occupant, its pages covered with small, spidery script. His labors had begun shortly after the evening meal, when he broke the wax seals on the scrolls and began reading. When the last drunken guests had stumbled into the beds, he began to write
While he waited for his final letters to dry, the Gondorian carefully sorted the scrolls and returned them to their respective cases. A little candle wax and a small stamp ensured that no curious maids would be doing some supplementary research the next morning. The inkpots went back into his small writing box along with the feather pens and a small sharpening knife. He gathered up the remaining scraps of paper and deposited on top of the embers, giving them several experimental prods with a fire poker to ensure their timely destruction. After tucking the scrolls and the now closed book under the other arm, he blew out three of the candles. The moon had just begun its downward trip when the guest extinguished the candle and settled in for the night.
The next morning…
Rimbaud’s clandestine entry into his establishment had succeeded in securing the bruised and battered innkeeper a good night’s rest. Olaf gave the proper commands in the dim twilight before the dawn, and the servants and cooks sprang into action. Most of the guests rose with the crowing of the roosters and began to prepare for their return to the long and dusty road. Some simply purchased traveling rations from the kitchen and went on their way. Centuries of experience had demonstrated to merchants that eating on the run (or walk, or ride) greatly cut the travel time and, conversely, increased the long run profit. Others, who did not feel the pressure of time, loitered long enough to enjoy the prize-winning breakfasts before departing. Finally, some guests intended to remain at the inn through the next morning (or perhaps beyond). These, like Rimbaud and the previously mentioned nighowl, generally did not rise until after the ninth or tenth hour had come and gone.
Despite his late rising, Casimir Danwedh exuded a general impression of untidiness and sleepiness. Two large bags hung beneath his eyelids, strongly hinting that the Gondorian had not slept well for an extended period of time. His short beard and long, black hair had obviously not suffered the discipline of a comb, and generally shot off at an odd angle. While he had not spent the time to tidy up his appearance, his clothing bore some evidence of decent attention. A tunic bearing the coat of arms of Gondor hung around his shoulders, held in place by gravity and a skillfully designed leather belt. In contrast, Casimer wore fairly nondescript brown trousers and leather, dirt caked boots.
He stumbled across the room and dropped into a chair not far away from his previous workplace. To his relief, the servants had cleared away any remaining traces of his labor. The innkeeper would, no doubt, charge a premium price for the number of candles Casimer had consumed during his research. Two gray clad servants, bearing a cup of some hot liquid and a bowl of porridge, approached and set their burden on the table. The scent of freshly brewed tea drove the last vestiges of sleep from the official’s addled brains. He nodded thankfully to both servants before beginning his morning meal.
|