Two young women, one with shoulder-length wavy blonde hair and the other a brunette with straight tresses that hung all the way to her waist, moved back and forth easily in the half-empty taproom, aprons and skirts swishing with the swaying of their hips. A slight smile curled up at one corner of the elf’s mouth as he watched them serve the patrons.
A third woman, stouter and older than the other two, entered through a door behind the bar. She held aloft a tray in one hand filled with dishes, each containing a puffy pie with rich brown gravy dripping from the edges of the crust. In the other hand, the woman bore a large platter that held a hunk of white cheese and several loaves of rich brown bread.
The smell of the hot food wafted over Shanhaevel like a lazy summer breeze, and despite his sorrow, he realized he was famished. He leaned his staff against the corner, set his saddlebags down, and unfastened his filthy cloak. He slipped the hood back, shaking his hair free. A full mane of silvery locks cascaded down his shoulders in thick waves. The tips of his angled, pointed ears protruded through the hair, matching the narrow, swept-back features of his face.
The din of the common room grew quiet a second time, and Shanhaevel stopped in the middle of hanging the cloak on a peg near the door to peer over his shoulder, wondering what had silenced the room. Many of the patrons were looking at him, though most of them tried not to show it. Shanhaevel did a quick inspection of himself, wondering what else might be amiss besides the thick mud.
The blonde serving wench, frozen in the act of retrieving an empty platter, stared at him wide-eyed, her mouth hanging open. When she realized that Shanhaevel was staring back at her, she gasped and lowered her gaze, turning away to retreat toward the bar. Unfortunately, in the process of escaping the elf’s attention, she bumped against one of the large tree-trunk pillars and lost her grip on the platter, which clattered to the floor. Everyone turned to look at the poor girl, and Shanhaevel was relieved to have the attention diverted elsewhere.
At that moment, the older woman with the meat pies spied Shanhaevel still standing near the door, his cloak half-hung, and strode out from behind the bar toward the two serving girls, scolding them severely in low tones and motioning them back to the kitchens. Her cheeks glowing, the blonde hastily dropped to one knee to retrieve the dish and then scurried to the kitchen, avoiding looking in Shanhaevel’s direction. Sighing, the matronly woman turned to the elf, a wide and sincere smile on her face.
“Welcome, good traveler, to the Inn of the Welcome Wench. My apologies for Leah’s rudeness. She is a silly girl who should know better than to leave a customer standing in the doorway.”
Shanhaevel waved the woman’s apology away as he watched both serving girls disappear into the kitchen. He finished hanging up his cloak and replied, “It’s all right, although I’ve never seen people so amazed by someone covered in mud before. I may be a bit filthy, but you’d think they were looking at a ghost.”
The woman laughed. “No, not the mud, good sir.” She leaned in and spoke a bit lower, a more serious expression on her mien. “I suspect your, ah, heritage surprised Leah. We do not have many woodfolk visit us, even though we see many travelers pass through. I apologize. I will speak to her about such rudeness.”
Shanhaevel blinked, puzzled, before he realized the woman was referring to his elven appearance rather than the fact that he hailed from the Welkwood. He shook his head. “Well, good mistress, there was no harm done that a seat by the fire and one of those savory-smelling meat pies won’t put right.” He kept the tone of his words warm. There was no sense taking his dark disposition out on her.
The woman’s smile returned. “Of course, good traveler. But please, call me Glora. I’m Glora Gundigoot, and my husband Ostler and I run the Welcome Wench. Anything either of us can get for you, all you must do is ask. I suspect the first thing you’ll be wanting is a bath.” Shanhaevel grabbed his saddlebags as Glora turned to lead him deeper into the Welcome Wench.
“Actually, Goodwife Gundigoot…” Shanhaevel said as they crossed the room.
The woman threw a quick look over her shoulder. “Yes?”
“I’m looking for someone, a local. His name is Burne. Could you tell me where I might find him?”
Glora’s eyes widened, but she covered her surprise quickly. “Ah, you’re the one they’re waiting for. I didn’t realize—My apologies again. Master Burne and the others are waiting in the back room for you. It’s this way.”
The woman gestured for Shanhaevel to the back corner of the room, toward a door. The elf followed her, wondering just how many assistant wizards this Burne was going to need. As he followed the goodwife to the door, he noticed a trio of men sitting at a nearby table, staring at him, scowls on their faces.
The three were in the middle of a game, and their dress suggested travelers like him rather than local farmers. One, a hulking fellow with a scar across the back of one hand, openly wore a long dagger on his belt, while another, a wiry man whose golden-hued skin and blue-black hair marked him as Bakluni, was dressed all in crimson. He was almost completely bald except for a topknot and wore a slightly contemptuous smile on his face. As Shanhaevel and his escort passed their table, the third man, who was facing the door Glora was approaching, leaned out as though trying to gain a better view of what was beyond the portal.
Have they just never been muddy, before? Shanhaevel wondered, certain he did not recognize them. Maybe they’ve never seen an elf before. Boccob, what backwater place am I visiting?
When Glora reached the door, she knocked twice, pushed it open, and poked her head in. Beyond, Shanhaevel could see a good-sized room with a round table and several men sitting around it, thick pottery mugs in front of most of them and a sweating pitcher in the middle of the table. The smell of tobacco smoke wafted through the open door, and a thick haze hung near the ceiling. Glora said something in a low voice that Shanhaevel could not quite make out, then pushed the door open the rest of the way and motioned the elf inside.
“You go right on in, and I’ll bring you some food.”
Shanhaevel nodded his appreciation as he entered the room It was cozy, with a fire built in a hearth on the opposite wall. A pair of decorative swords, crossed, hung over the mantle. Two lanterns hung from the ceiling to give the place plenty of light. Glora pulled the door shut as she hurried out. The elf stood near the door, facing the group of men. There were almost a dozen in all.
Shanhaevel cleared his throat, unnerved by the strangers who sat silently staring at him, and introduced himself.
“I am shadow—” he croaked in a gravelly voice, choking as he stumbled through his introduction. Oh, Boccob! I sound like a frog! He shook his head and tried again. “I am spawn—I mean, the shadow of spawns—”
No, idiot! He silently cursed as the men looked at him, obviously confused.
“You’re who? Did you say ‘Shadowspawn’?” one of them asked with a twinkle in his eye—a younger, cleanshaven fellow with a dimpled chin and a mop of unruly brown hair. “Shadowspawn,” the man, barely more than a boy, continued. “That’s got quite a ring to it. You must be a great hero.”
The twinkle in the young man’s eye grew brighter as several others in the room chuckled along with him.
“No,” Shanhaevel said, disgusted with having just made a fool of himself. “Just Shanhaevel. It means ‘shadow’.”
The mud caking his clothing only added to the ridiculousness of the situation, he realized. You’ve only made yourself out to be a buffoon, he silently chided. No more fancy speeches. Just talk. The elf blinked, knowing his cheeks were glowing red with embarrassment.