>>5919803The three of you travel a ways down the road—by foot, to conserve magic and for the joy of one another’s company. That it takes longer than a <Dimension Door> just gives you more time to talk… And yet, you don’t not really. Not about what, ultimately, you have gathered together to discuss. Somehow, it seems to awkward to talk about it here, out on the roadside—exposed, though to whom you cannot say. Instead, you continue to catch up on one another’s adventures and endeavors. You tell them of Dappulyet, and the Unseelie, and of the werewolf Oncyth and the Moon Priestess Clanirae, and of Holy Luna, the Moonwoods, and your attendants-turned-friends Neremyn and Devidan.
(You don’t tell them about the cuddling with Nym and Devi, or the… Other matter, with Sylmare of Dappulyet.)
Eventually you reach the inn in question, the Heart’s Own Inn, a place that had obviously stood for ages on this well-traveled road. It's a sturdy structure of old honeyed stone and weathered, darkened timbers. The roof is thatch, thick and uneven, a patchwork of fresh straw next to older layers. The wooden door, thick and sturdy, is propped open, and its singular central window is carved in shape of a stylized heart.
“Isn’t it, like, SUPER cute?” Costella asks, presumably rhetorically.
Upon entering, warmth wraps around you like a familiar blanket. A cozy array of mismatched wooden tables and chairs filled the space, set upon worn but immaculate cobblestone flooring. The bar kept to one side of the room, a half-timbered affair, heavy with time-polished barrels and gleaming with an array of dusty, jewel-tone bottles. An enormous hearth took up most of the adjacent wall, glowing with red-orange embers as if a matter of principle even at midday and at this time of year. The scent of wood-smoke dances with the tantalizing aroma of caramelizing batter.
In the back corner, a robust (ie. portly) halfling works a peculiar contraption at a steady pace. His eyes crinkled in a permanent grin, his hands sure and seasoned as they poured, pressed, and flipped over the iron device. Enthusiastic sizzles and generous wafts of the batter cooking alerted the senses of his expertise. A scant few customers anticipating their waffles idled around the dwarf, watching his expertise with a hawk's eye, exchanging jolly exchanges about matters salient to simple farmers or merchantile travelers.
“It’s a halfling inn?” Izzy asks.
“Gnome,” Costella corrects her, whispering.
“What’s the difference?” Izzy asks, innocently confused. “Aren’t those largely synonymous?”
“Gnomes get MAD if you call them halflings,” Costella clarifies, “but not as mad as dwarves do.”
