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The innkeeper had smiled as Marakion had entered, but
now blanched nervously at sight of the hunter's stony face,
the dark, deliberate gaze.
"Uh, what can I do for you, stranger?"
"What do you have to eat this day, innkeep?"
"Fairly thick stew tonight. Mutton, if you've the
wealth."
"Bread?"
"Sure, stranger, fairly fresh, if you've the wealth."
Marakion did not return the man's feeble attempts to be
friendly. "A chunk of fresh bread and the stew." He tossed a
few coins on the bar. "I'll be at that table over there."
The innkeeper scooped the coins off the counter in one
movement. "I'm Griffort. You need anything, I'm the man to
talk to. I don't suppose you'll be staying for the night. Got a
couple of rooms open - "
"One room," Marakion interrupted, "for the night." He
left a stark pause in the air and waited.
"Uh, um, another of those coins'll do it," the unnerved
innkeeper stuttered.
Marakion paid the man and made his way to the table he'd
indicated. As he sat down, he touched his money pouch.
Not much left. A filthy inn, rotten food, a room likely
crawling with rats, and costing him as much as a night in
Palanthas - that was the type of world he was living in now.
The type of world he lived in now . . . Marakion put his
fingers to his face and massaged his eyes gently. He
couldn't make the memories go away. Even if he blocked
the images, the essence of them still came to him. He
couldn't seem to shut that out. It infected his every thought,
his every action
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