ᵀʳᵘˢᵗ ᴹᵉ

With the clatter of a few septims left on the merchant’s stand he turned on his heels and lowered his dark hood against the onslaught of cold wind. His purchase—a drawstring bag of tawny feathers—slid into the pouch at his hip.

The next few moments as the sun set on the snowy marketplace were filled with more questions. Each answer grew less informative until they reduced to shrugs, and by then most of the merchants had packed up and began their walks home. With little option left Vikrolomen approached a form he thought looked enough like a person despite the shrouding shadows to warrant an attempt.

But the last thing Vincialem was prepared for was to see said elf turn and walk in his direction. He tensed up and glanced at whoever was closest to him, silently hoping that he hadn’t been discovered. It turned out that what his elf eyes saw was correct after all and in a matter of seconds Vikrolomen stood before him, asking:

“Excuse me, can you point me to the nearest inn?”

“That direction.” Despite his surprise, he didn’t even hesitate and pointed to his left. It was a direction chosen at random but not entirely false. “There’s an inn just over the hill.”