The Inn
The air outside the post house feels colder than it should. Evening’s gloom hangs heavy across the square, shadows puddling thick along the edges of stone and timber, darker than they have any right to be. Your party moves in silence, the clerk’s final words still clinging, unspoken, between you — not in memory, exactly, but in the strange hush that has followed you down the narrow street. Ahead, the inn waits: windows glowing faintly against the deepening dark, the light inside pale and brittle, as though it barely holds against the night. Above, the old wooden sign creaks softly, swaying once, twice — though the air here is perfectly still. Your party pushes in through the doorway, eager to take a break from the oddities of today, for some semblance of normalcy. The warmth rushes up at once, wrapping around you like a blanket, but the comfort is uneven — too hot near the fire, too cool in the corners, the air thick with the smell of woodsmoke and something else: damp stone, the faint tang of iron, a trace of something acrid just beneath it all. Shadows from the low flames in the hearth flicker and stretch unnaturally along the walls, almost alive in their restless movement. The innkeeper’s face splits into a broad smile — the same smile he’s worn since you first arrived in this place. A little too wide. Teeth a little too straight. Eyes crinkling just right at the corners, but without the light that should live behind them. “Evening, friends,” he says, his voice smooth, polished with the weight of routine. “Out late again, eh? Still poking around this old town?” He chuckles softly — a sound that skims the surface of warmth but never quite dips below it, like a joke that never earned its punchline. The cleric lingers near the door, fingers brushing over the strap of their pack, a faint hesitation in the set of their shoulders — as though part of them wonders whether to keep it on. The barbarian steps toward the fire, boots thudding gently across the floorboards, but their stride is looser than usual, their broad back tight with something unspoken. The wizard does not move at all, their sharp gaze fixed on the innkeeper — watching, noting, measuring every small shift, every uneven tap of fingers against the wood.
It’s the sorcerer who breaks the silence at last, their voice light, almost playful, as they lean a hip against the back of a chair. But the weight beneath their words is anything but casual. The innkeeper responds too quickly — too immediate, as if the answer had been waiting on his tongue all along. His smile stretches a little tighter as he leans forward onto the counter, the motion smooth, practiced, the same easy charm you remember from the first night you arrived. “Orymme’s full of stories,” he says, and for a moment, it feels as though you’ve stepped back in time. He said the same words then, in nearly the same tone. But now, there’s a faint tremor in his voice. “Ghosts in the woods, curses in the ground… This town’s got its share of tales, all right.” He nods toward the barbarian, who snorts faintly at the mention of ghosts. But when the barbarian’s eyes flick over a shoulder, there’s something more thoughtful lurking there, something the scoff doesn’t quite erase. “And the bell outside?” the innkeeper continues, his grin thinning just a little. “Some say the rust on it’s not rust at all — old blood, they call it. Blood from something… something that didn’t belong. But that’s just old wives’ tales, eh? Rust is rust.” The paladin raises an eyebrow but says nothing, their arms crossing loosely, the muscle in their jaw shifting once. It’s the wizard who steps forward next, their voice cutting through the innkeeper’s rambling like a blade. They ask — not softly, not gently — about the post house, the strange carvings, the faint sulfuric smell that still clings at the back of your throat. The innkeeper’s easy rhythm stutters, just for a second. His hand, mid-wipe against the counter’s worn edge, pauses. The wood gleams faintly in the firelight, polished by years of touch, and then — almost too quickly — his hand resumes its slow, steady motion, the rhythm just slightly… off. Near the door, the cleric tilts their head, quiet, thoughtful, as though weighing some unspoken question. The innkeeper’s grin snaps back into place, broad and toothy, but it sits uncomfortably on his face now. He gestures faintly, his voice light but too practiced, explaining away the sulfuric tang clinging to the air and the strange carvings in the wood. His words are smooth and almost oily as it slides over you. “Kids playing around,” he offers with a shrug. “Or woodworms. You know how these old buildings are.” His hand lifts vaguely to indicate the beams overhead, but his eyes never follow the gesture, staying locked instead on the faces before him. Near the counter, the sorcerer leans, posture loose, half-casual — but their eyes do not match the pose. They do not blink. Do not shift. Do not soften. Their gaze holds the innkeeper fast, sharp and unflinching. The faint tap of their fingers against the polished wood slips beneath the crackle of the hearth, a heartbeat rhythm that neither soothes nor fills the room, only marks the spaces where words have begun to fail.
The cleric speaks next, their voice soft, measured — a thread pulled quietly through the heavy stillness of the room. They ask about the town, about the shape of the days here, about the weathered walls of the post house. Their questions seem idle on the surface, almost polite, but something in their cadence makes the air feel close, the kind of closeness that draws sweat to the back of the neck. The innkeeper’s smile wavers — not much, only a small, almost imperceptible shift at the corner of his mouth. His hand pauses mid-motion over the countertop, the rag caught loosely between his fingers. For a heartbeat, he seems to weigh the silence itself, as though groping for the thread of his own words. Then, too carefully, his hand resumes its work, wiping at a spot that’s already gleaming. “Oh, you know,” he says quickly, the words sliding over one another like pebbles down a slope. “Old places have their moods. The beams creak. The floors settle. The wind finds its way in.” His eyes flick briefly to the windows — not quite meeting them, almost skimming the glass — before darting away again. “You get used to it, after a while. It’s nothing.” The cleric’s expression doesn’t change, their gaze resting on him as lightly as snowfall — yet it presses, somehow, with the weight of a glacier beneath. By the hearth, the barbarian shifts, boots dragging softly over the boards. Their silhouette ripples across the wall, drawn out long by the firelight, distorted into sharp, broken angles that twist and stretch with every flicker of the flames. The wizard moves a step closer, arms loosely folded, their posture casual but their eyes sharp, watching the innkeeper with the stillness of a coiled wire. The innkeeper clears his throat. The sound is harsh, cracking awkwardly through the brittle quiet. “These old buildings,” he offers, forcing a light laugh that thins too quickly into silence, “they play tricks on you. On everyone, really. You can’t take it too seriously, you understand.” His hands move faster now, scrubbing at the wood with an urgency that seems misplaced — no stain, no dirt, just a desperate need to keep moving, to keep doing. His smile flashes again, too bright, too quick, the skin around his eyes pulled tight. The lantern on the counter flickers once, the light guttering before flaring up too brightly, casting the worn features of his face into stark, unnatural relief. For a moment, the whole room feels sharp-edged, as if every corner, every beam, every shadow is thrown into sudden, exaggerated clarity. “You’ll need rest,” the innkeeper says abruptly, his voice pitching up slightly, straining to fill the silence. “Long day, long night — tomorrow’s bound to keep you busy.” He steps back, hands fumbling at the lantern again, twisting it just so, though it needs no tending. The fire snaps loudly in the hearth, a sudden pop that draws a faint flinch from him before his shoulders square once more. His hands drop to the counter again, fingers tightening around the rag as though it’s the only solid thing left anchoring him here. As your party turns to go, there’s a moment — brief, almost weightless — when you feel his eyes on your backs, following, watching, before they snap away, dragging back down to the counter, to the cloth, to the endless, pointless wiping. His movements carry on behind you, quieter now, a restless, circling motion that seems less like cleaning and more like someone holding themselves together by sheer habit.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The rooms upstairs are small but passably warm, each of you splitting off — one to a door, one to a corner, one to another — the weight of the day pressing harder as you separate. The sound of boots scuffing along the narrow hallway fades quickly, and then only the old wood speaks, creaking softly beneath the shifting weight of the house. The barbarian’s room feels slightly too tight, the ceiling low, the hearth flickering with a sharp, restless flame. They sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, the faint tang of ash prickling the back of their throat. Every now and then, a draft stirs the curtains, though the window stays closed. Their hand flexes unconsciously, as though to grasp something that isn’t there. The sorcerer’s quarters are colder, the window overlooking the square outside, where the night sags heavy and damp. They lounge half-curled on the bed, fingers idly twisting a thread from the blanket, gaze unfocused on the far wall where shadows knot and stretch with every flicker of the lamp. Silence pools thick around them, not oppressive, not sharp — just a steady weight, pressing in. The cleric kneels briefly at the bedside, the familiar ritual done more from habit than intent, words whispered into the hush that feel thinner than they should. They pause, fingers lingering over the edge of the bedpost, the wood cool beneath their touch. With a quiet sigh, they rise, slipping under the covers, lying still. The sound of their own heartbeat fills the room — or perhaps it’s only the subtle thrum of the walls settling, the old house folding in upon itself. The wizard moves without sound, placing their staff neatly within reach, extinguishing the candle with a steady breath. They stand for a long moment by the window, eyes open but unfocused, as if waiting for something unseen to resolve from the darkness. When at last they slip into bed, it’s with a sense of calculated precision, their mind still taut, still working at unseen threads even as the body surrenders to the waiting dark. And you — you retreat to your room, to the shape of a bed that feels both familiar and wrong, the walls too close, the quiet too brittle. You lie still, listening to the house breathe, to the floorboards stretch, to the faintest brush of wind slipping through spaces you can’t see. Time curls strangely here; the minutes pool and dissolve. Sleep does not come easily. It slides in fragments, fits and starts, peeling you down layer by layer. And when at last it takes you, it takes all six of you — each in your separate rooms, each in your separate minds — drawing you down into restless, churning dark.
! massive chapter or smaller, individual chapters
