Wistrit
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The stranger finished his breakfast and reached for his mug of ale. He had noticed a strange fellow with a lute staring at him for quite some time. The observer was rather slender, tall, with blue eyes and short, sandy-colored hair tousled in different directions. He was wearing light, short trousers, a white shirt with some kind of pattern, and high leather boots.
He was sitting against the wall, leaning his shoulder against it, and strumming something incoherent on his lute. A strange fellow indeed.
The stranger would have liked to get a good night's sleep, and then have another good meal; he had traveled a long distance on roads that were already freezing. But there was no time to waste; he had an important meeting scheduled in an hour.
A certain representative of the authorities entered the establishment, sat down at a table nearby, and ordered drinks.
The stranger suddenly remembered something important, jumped up, and headed for the exit.
- Hey, you!...
Captain Hommi walked down the corridor of the dungeon, jingling his keys. The day promised to be terrible, not only cold and unpleasant. As he approached the interrogation room, he heard dwarven cursing and the sound of footsteps, followed by the clanging of metal against stone.
Bursting into the room, Hommi saw an unexpected sight:
An enraged dwarf with an axe in his hands in one corner of the room, and a disarmed, white-haired rogue in the other.
- Ulric!...
The dwarf, startled, lowered his axe and pretended that nothing had happened.
- I interrogated the prisoner as instructed, he reported.
Hommi clutched his head in helpless despair. They were hopeless!
- Just give him his things back and let him go...
- Yes!
Watching the two of them walk away down the corridor, Hommi stood there for another five minutes, pondering his own actions and those of others. Then, near the wall beside a shelf that had been chopped in half, he picked up a piece of paper that had been torn in two. He would have to make Ulric rewrite it on a new sheet. Approaching the table that had been split in two, Hommi threw the scraps into the pile of chopped wood, kicked half of the bench with all his might, spat on the floor, and quickly left.
The doors of the monastery opened once again, and a warrior in black leather trousers and a cloak entered. A medium-sized club hung from his belt, and a pouch of throwing stars was attached to a chain.
He was sitting against the wall, leaning his shoulder against it, and strumming something incoherent on his lute. A strange fellow indeed.
The stranger would have liked to get a good night's sleep, and then have another good meal; he had traveled a long distance on roads that were already freezing. But there was no time to waste; he had an important meeting scheduled in an hour.
A certain representative of the authorities entered the establishment, sat down at a table nearby, and ordered drinks.
The stranger suddenly remembered something important, jumped up, and headed for the exit.
- Hey, you!...
Captain Hommi walked down the corridor of the dungeon, jingling his keys. The day promised to be terrible, not only cold and unpleasant. As he approached the interrogation room, he heard dwarven cursing and the sound of footsteps, followed by the clanging of metal against stone.
Bursting into the room, Hommi saw an unexpected sight:
An enraged dwarf with an axe in his hands in one corner of the room, and a disarmed, white-haired rogue in the other.
- Ulric!...
The dwarf, startled, lowered his axe and pretended that nothing had happened.
- I interrogated the prisoner as instructed, he reported.
Hommi clutched his head in helpless despair. They were hopeless!
- Just give him his things back and let him go...
- Yes!
Watching the two of them walk away down the corridor, Hommi stood there for another five minutes, pondering his own actions and those of others. Then, near the wall beside a shelf that had been chopped in half, he picked up a piece of paper that had been torn in two. He would have to make Ulric rewrite it on a new sheet. Approaching the table that had been split in two, Hommi threw the scraps into the pile of chopped wood, kicked half of the bench with all his might, spat on the floor, and quickly left.
The doors of the monastery opened once again, and a warrior in black leather trousers and a cloak entered. A medium-sized club hung from his belt, and a pouch of throwing stars was attached to a chain.
Tomorrow holds no promises
Except the ones we've made
Except the ones we've made