The Price of Silence
Built from roughly hewn beams, the tavern smelled of smoke and old wood; the earthen floor was hard-packed, the walls dark with soot. A long counter stretched to the left, with a barrel set into it beside a shelf lined with mugs of clay and wood. At several tables sat men from Thir, their voices mingling into a coarse murmur. Farther back, two powerful barbarians wrapped in thick furs crouched without a word, drinking mead from heavy cups, scars running along their forearms.
To the right, a group of traders had spread out their wares: rolled blankets, saddle fittings, knives in leather sheaths. One counted coins, another tested a strap, while two argued in low voices over a measure of weight.
Behind the counter stood the innkeeper—a broad-shouldered man with sun-browned skin, powerful arms, and a round face that seemed to miss little.
As Prince Sylvian moved farther inside, the innkeeper cast him a brief, measuring glance. “What will it be, stranger?” he called across the tables. Wordlessly, Prince Sylvian pointed at a mead mug. The innkeeper responded with a short nod.
While Prince Sylvian continued to study the room, he noticed a Glorious Elf seated in a darkened corner far from the noise. Beneath his dark cloak he wore silver armor, set with violet gemstones and worked with fine engravings. His head was slightly lowered, yet his alert eyes rested on the entrance. That must be Elroth, he thought.
Stooping, he approached and sat at the table, saying nothing. The innkeeper brought the mug, set it down without question, then turned to the Glorious Elf. “Will the noble lord require anything as well?” A brief shake of the head was the only reply.