Melann rubbed her fingers, working away the soil. She turned, and as if to prove her point to Whitlock she prayed to Chauntea, calling on her power to place a ward around the campsite that would protect them while they slept. When she was finished, she lowered the holy symbol pendant she used to focus the warding and sat beside the fire. Whitlock stared at her in silence, and she stared back.
She dumped the berries out of her pouch and onto the ground.
Whitlock looked down into the meal he was preparing. The truth was, he actually did prefer camping outside to the often more dangerous roadside inns. Tales of diabolical innkeepers who overcame their patrons in the night and murdered them for their possessions or sold them into slavery were common in the more unsavory parts of the faraway Moonsea region. Melann just couldn't understand the dangers that reared around them at every turn.
He had not cared much for staying at the Abbey of the Golden Sheaf, either, but that had nothing to do with distrust. Holed up in that walled fortress, tending to their gardens, those people didn't have any idea of what the world was really like. They didn't understand the dangers and the truth behind the evils in the world. Zhentarim, brigands, monsters, undead-one needed to be both strong and aware to survive in a world with such threats. Soldiers, mercenaries, adventurers-they understood. They knew the horrors that lurked in dark caverns, evil temples, and dimly lit alley-ways, and they were prepared to face them. Like the priests in the Golden Sheaf, his sister was too concerned with lofty religious ideals and not the harsh realities of life.
Neither spoke again as the fire died. Whitlock ate, but Melann waved off any offer of food. Sounds of crickets and buzzing night insects filled the darkness.
The walls of Tilverton rose high above the flat plain on which the city stood. As Whitlock and Melann came just within sight of the city, traffic grew noticeably more congested as smaller paths joined with the road. People slowly traveled to and from the city in heavily laden carts and on fine, tall horses as well as on foot. Situated in the strategic mouth of Tilver's Gap, the city watched over the only easy way between the Thunder Peaks to the south and the Desertsmouth Mountains to the north. Outside of the city, Whitlock and Melann passed a number of homes, most of them herders' and horse ranchers'.
Tilverton had once been an independent frontier town. Now it was under the protection and rule of Cormyr, a powerful kingdom to the south and west.
Fortunately, the hand of King Azoun IV was light and beneficent, and Tilverton prospered in the care of the city's Lady Regent, Alasalynn Rowanmantle.
The city offered thousands of people a home, safe behind high walls, safe against the dangers of the surrounding mountains.
The road took them past a stockyard that smelled of cattle and other livestock. Eventually the road wound to an open gate offering a means through the protective wall. The noise and smells of thick crowds rose above the wall as they approached. A the sun set, the city's lights guided them easily along their path.
Inside the wall, the streets were alive with humanity. Dancing, colorfully dressed people frolicked in the street to the sounds of melodious horns and stringed instruments. Voices-some beautiful, some not, but all filled with emotion-rose from all quarters of the town, joined in song.
Midsummer had come, and both Melann and! Whitlock had completely forgotten it.
This was a festival the siblings had taken part in! many times on their own in Archendale. On this day each year, everyone celebrated life with wild festivities, food, wine, and music. Young unwed maidens would hide in the woods, waiting for their suitors to find them and propose marriage. The Long Night, as it was sometimes called, was a time of love and happiness, but it hardly fit into Whitlock and Melann's current plans.
A guard, dressed in surprisingly severe plate armor, brandishing a spear in one hand and a turkey leg in the other, stood by the open gate. His helmet rested at his feet, along with his shield. Juice from his meal ran down his beard. When he looked up, wiping his beard, he saw Melann and Whitlock. The two remained mounted and looked at the festivities with wide-eyed surprise.
"You won't find a room here” he told them. "Inns and rooming houses are full-up. It's the festival." He shooed them off with the turkey leg and looked away.
They could barely hear the guard's words over the music and singing. Whitlock leaned closer to the man, far to one side of his mount and shouted, "Isn't there somewhere we can stay? Anywhere at all?"
The guard paused and stared for a moment. "Well, you could try the Flagon Held High," he said, louder this time. "You can get something to drink there and ask around about a room. Maybe someone will know of someplace." He pointed with his turkey leg. “Follow the Street of the Sorceress until you get to Phorn's Lane. You'll find it." With that, he took a hearty bite from the leg and turned back to watch the dancers in the street.
Melann had little interest in dripk, particularly in comparison to her desire to find some information to help them find the Crypt of Chare'en. She looked to Whitlock and simply shrugged rather than attempt to be heard over the noise. He nodded a thank you to the guard. The two rode down the street, carefully avoiding dancers and merrymakers.
The Flagon Held High was a large tavern with new, smooth stone walls and fresh paint on the sign. The drinking, eating, singing, and dancing clientele had spilled out onto Phorn's Lane. Like the rest of the city, the tavern that night bustled with all manner of patrons, rich and poor alike. Tilverton, as a community, apparently wasn't old enough to develop a strict segregation of classes. Melann enjoyed that about the place. Whitlock didn't seem to notice.
The two dismounted and tied their horses to a post a few buildings away from the tavern-as close as they could get. Whitlock pushed his way into the crowd, but Melann slipped through the teeming throng faster than he. He grabbed her arm and held it as they moved. They stuck together as they threaded their way through the wilderness of people.
Inside the tavern, the crowd thickened. The two finally procured some wine as well as a bit of roast pork and vegetables. The meal's flavor almost matched its exorbitant price. While they ate, after actually managing to find a table just then vacated, Melann attempted to ask the barmaid about lodging for the night. The woman just shrugged and moved on, obviously more concerned with serving drinks than chitchat that didn't help her earn her keep.
Whitlock rolled his eyes and motioned to the door. "We'd be better off on the road, I'm afraid."
Melann sighed. She knew he was right, but at the same time, she regretted that duty so consumed her life that they couldn't stop for just one night and take part in this celebration. Instead, it presented them only with another obstacle in their quest.
"Pardon me," a man said, seating himself gingerly on the only empty chair at the small table, "but I couldn't help but overhear that you are in need of lodging." He was tall, with a high forehead and wide cheekbones. His voice carried a slightly annoying nasal quality, accentuated by the fact that he had tell almost shout to be overheard in the din. He ran his hand through his thinning black hair and continued, "I know of a place where you can sleep tonight I if you're not too picky."
Whitlock's glare in this newcomer's directions seemed to carry with it all the suspicion and distaste he could muster, which Melann realized was considerable. The man tried not to notice but did anyway. He cleared his throat.
Melann replied, "Where?" Whitlock turned his glare to his sister.
"Well," the man said, turning to Melann, "just outside of town there's an old granary. It's not much a rooming house, but I can assure you there's room there, plenty of hay and what not to sleep on, and it away from the noise a bit-if that's what you're after. I own the building but no longer use it. You’ll find it to the south of the main road, just on the other side of the stockyards. The door bears the name Northrip."