My Writing Place

Shadows flicker across the darkened wall as a cold breeze from the windows dances with the flames of candles scattered throughout the room. Yet, the warmth from a roaring fire counters the breeze, blanketing those who surround it, which number no more than a handful. At first glance, all seems to be silent and still, but a moment of patience makes you realize this to be a lie.

Although it is the dead of night, footsteps, far and few between, can be heard crossing the cobblestone street outside the large, wooden doors. A barmaid, shapely and fatigued, makes her last rounds for the evening, tending to the night's drunken leftovers before her sister starts the next shift. However, not all of the inn's occupants are in a stupor. A tall, slender figure with blackish-blue hair, pointed ears, and narrow green eyes sits in a soft, beaten arm chair before the fire. Her thin, long fingers wrap around tendrils of smoke, infusing them with a hidden power. (Nadia Ardhan, a forsaken drow, calmly awaits her fate, knowing that her past seeks her outside the inn at this very moment.)

Behind her, two dwarves speak in hushed tones beneath their braided hair and braided beards, their stubby hands shooing away the barmaid as she refills their mugs with ale for the fifth time that night. (Borgus and Drugar Phargon, brothers and once princes of Darshall, go over ideas of how they plan to march back to their overthrown kingdom, amassing an army along the way to drive out the dragons once and for all.)

Closer to the main entrance, a bewildered regular tips back his empty mug for the third or fourth time, imagining sweet liquor to be running down his throat. Slamming his mug down in disappointment, he yells harassing remarks at the new barmaid that emerges from the kitchen, demanding a refill that will be denied yet again. "You've had enough, old man! Go home!" she calls back, exasperated, but amused, as she brings a fine elven wine to the drow. (An exiled Templar Knight of Alterone, Khalid Medion now finds himself squandering away what years he has left in a nameless town. Little does he know that his skills will be called upon once again as a new, unforeseen enemy threatens his forgotten home.)

In the shadows of the staircase, a glimpse of a swishing tail can barely be seen as a meerca leans against the wall, arms crossed as she waits for her moment, eyes intently on the innkeeper. (As second-in-command of the infamous Thieves' Guild, Kalianah Quatar counts the minutes before she can finally lay her hands on the innkeeper's safe, which holds more than just gold and silver.)

And far in the back corner, hidden in the shadows of the candles and fireplace and the ignorant minds of the inn's occupants, resides a small, human female. Just-past-shoulder length, dark brown hair frames her pale face as brown eyes seem to study the parchment and the people around her simultaneously. A quill with an endless supply of ink scribbles away, provoked only to stop by the command of the girl, and only when a new idea pops into her mind. She is all seeing, all knowing, of everything that has, are, and will happen. This sacred place of the fantastic, the Inn, is her homestead and source of inspiration, for in it resides the countless tales of old and new and the colorful people they involve. Everyone who enters and leaves this place has a story to tell, whether good or bad, dull or exquisite. The only thing that matters is whether or not there is someone to tell it.

With this fact in mind, another line is jotted down, but barely completed as an elf bursts through the front doors, bruised and bloodied. "Orcs!" he cries. "They've charged past the western sentinels and are about to ransack the town!" He collapses to his knees, sodden blond hair attempting to strangle him into submission. The innkeeper and help take the weak and distraught elf closer to the fireplace, where the drow shoots him a look of disgust. The coming onslaught begins to filter through the town as the doors slam shut and several, now awaken and disheveled, occupants march down the stairs. And through all the rising commotion and eventual chaos, a small smirk rises to the surface on the lips of the small girl in her dark corner.