Caoimhin sat by the fireplace, his eyes closed yet restless. Not answering the young woman was insulting and dishonorable enough, but now he was beginning to wonder how long he would go before he let his story of shame slip out. He knew in his heart that he would not be able to keep his cover for long, for the patron of the Inn seemed to long to probe for answers from anyone or anything that entered, as he was noticing. Sooner or later, he would have to tell the truth, unless he left now.
But something kept him there. There was a feeling of longing, and wanting to tell his story. Though he would never do so on his own, surely someone would be able to provoke him enough to tell it.
That would have to wait, though, as Caoimhin's eyes became less restless, and he dozed off in the chair by the fire, with his hood over his eyes and his chair on a tilt against the wall. Any telling of stories would have to wait until later...
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