Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-25828117-20191215223703/@comment-25828117-20191220212302

The inn seemed to have been built in length rather than height. The path leading up to it was adorned with bushes whose flowers awaited summer to blossom.

The warm glow of lamps and hearth projected out from the small windows nestled snugly into the stout limestone walls. The roof was thatch and matched the length of the house.

Once they were inside it was as if the sensation of warmth was felt for the first time. After more than a month of sleeping outside in tents, being greeted by the insulated walls of a welcoming inn was like heaven.

Inside there was actually a fair bit of clientele for an establishment of this size outside the city but it turned out most of the local farmers and their families were here, reminiscing over warm cups of mulled wine about what the year had meant to them. Chances were they would stay the night until dawn so they could wish each other a happy New Life. For the occasion there was music. Fiddles, flutes, tambourines, lutes. All locals who practiced one of the instruments in their spare time. They would make sure jaunty tunes would be played at any time.

The innkeeper was a man with a marvelous ginger moustache and no other visible hair bar his very thick nearly connected eyebrows. The fleshy man was laughing loudly at a joke that had just been told to him by one of the patrons. He seemed to become as red as a tomato whenever he did.

As they rode the surroundings got more twisted and dark. Daedric influence seemed to seep into the cracks left by the devastating war. It would fester there and turn the West Weald into something unrecognizable given enough time. The smell of brimstone hung in the air despite the fact there was no fire visible.