The high elves from the feygrove had already left - they'd entered the inn earlier in the evening in a suitably dramatic fashion, ordered a round of drinks and then, growing bored, had stalked out, purple cloaks billowing behind them in some unseen arcane wind. All that remained of them was a discarded half-pint of Serpent's Dark Kiss, gathering dust at the corner of the bar.
The dwarves from the temple of Moradin sat sullenly in the corner, at a table piled high with empty tankards and glasses. They had started off the evening in good spirits, eager to greet their friend Helgrethe and hear what adventure she had found down in the plains. The singing and drinking had tapered off as the evening rolled on with no sign of their returning hero.
Two middle-aged women, apothecaries by trade, drank up the last of their wine and walked (a little unsteadily) out the door and into the night. Wherever Old Mother Maiva was, she wasn't coming home this evening.
Olldir called the barman over and asked for one more drink for the road. He fiddled idly at his long white beard as his thoughts turned once more to Alagos. Where had that boy gotten to?
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Olldir called the barman over and asked for one more drink for the road. He fiddled idly at his long white beard as his thoughts turned once more to Alagos. Where had that boy gotten to?