]
The room was familiar and yet, not.
The bed itself was the central focus point of homely, comforting space. Four posted and carved with dragons that slithered in circular patterns up to the canopy that draped a shadow over homespun comforter. The fabric was simplistic and it flows down over the sides of the bed, tied at each corner. To the left of the bed was a large and spacious chest for belongings and clothing, to the left a wide and flat writing table. Tucked in under the table was a thickly padded tall-backed chair in wine colored material that matched the bed.
The massive floor boards had been swept spotlessly clean. He imagined the softly gleaming floor came from years of vigorous scrubbing with soap and footsteps of countless others who had paced this very ground. He stood for long moments in the hallway, skewed rectangle of light spilling inside, twisting the shape of his shadow. Behind him, the sounds of the inn and merry-making flooded inward. Cups and mugs chinking together, laughter, giggling of women and the rough baritones of men uttering things below all of it. Below him, life went on. Before him, things stood still.
Alistair's stomach twisted itself in knots.
Another empty room, he thought. He tried his best to push the fact aside as he stepped forward and inside. He shut the door behind him and locked it, carried the key to the table near the bed. He wasn't surprised to find dust-free vellum awaiting him and an ink pot with brand new quill resting beside. There were small drawers hanging to the underbelly of the table. He opened one and dropped the small key to his room inside of it and shut it.
Glancing upward, he noted that positioned wisely above the table was a single window. Glass was not a common for most in Ferelden, so he was distantly pleased to note between the lattice works of metal, diamonds of milky glass had been fixed. Reaching up and over, he lifted the latch which kept it closed and opened it.
It was a beautiful night. The sky had not turned an ominous black, instead, it had greedily held onto the deep blue of summer nights. Sprinkled liberally within the soft depths of night, white-silver stars twinkled merrily. There was no moon tonight, but it did not really need it. The star-shine was bright and illuminated much in a wash of grays. And he remembered a promise, then"a pact that he had made. He did his best to try not to, but the human mind was very good at sabotage".
The room was familiar and yet, not.
The bed itself was the central focus point of homely, comforting space. Four posted and carved with dragons that slithered in circular patterns up to the canopy that draped a shadow over homespun comforter. The fabric was simplistic and it flows down over the sides of the bed, tied at each corner. To the left of the bed was a large and spacious chest for belongings and clothing, to the left a wide and flat writing table. Tucked in under the table was a thickly padded tall-backed chair in wine colored material that matched the bed.
The massive floor boards had been swept spotlessly clean. He imagined the softly gleaming floor came from years of vigorous scrubbing with soap and footsteps of countless others who had paced this very ground. He stood for long moments in the hallway, skewed rectangle of light spilling inside, twisting the shape of his shadow. Behind him, the sounds of the inn and merry-making flooded inward. Cups and mugs chinking together, laughter, giggling of women and the rough baritones of men uttering things below all of it. Below him, life went on. Before him, things stood still.
Alistair's stomach twisted itself in knots.
Another empty room, he thought. He tried his best to push the fact aside as he stepped forward and inside. He shut the door behind him and locked it, carried the key to the table near the bed. He wasn't surprised to find dust-free vellum awaiting him and an ink pot with brand new quill resting beside. There were small drawers hanging to the underbelly of the table. He opened one and dropped the small key to his room inside of it and shut it.
Glancing upward, he noted that positioned wisely above the table was a single window. Glass was not a common for most in Ferelden, so he was distantly pleased to note between the lattice works of metal, diamonds of milky glass had been fixed. Reaching up and over, he lifted the latch which kept it closed and opened it.
It was a beautiful night. The sky had not turned an ominous black, instead, it had greedily held onto the deep blue of summer nights. Sprinkled liberally within the soft depths of night, white-silver stars twinkled merrily. There was no moon tonight, but it did not really need it. The star-shine was bright and illuminated much in a wash of grays. And he remembered a promise, then"a pact that he had made. He did his best to try not to, but the human mind was very good at sabotage".