Tarquin stood outside the Silver Dragon Inn, a stout and welcoming building nestled in the heart of Willowbrook. The inn's wooden sign, adorned with a graceful silver dragon in flight, creaked softly in the gentle breeze, beckoning travelers to seek refuge within its warm embrace. As Tarquin pushed open the heavy oak door, the comforting scent of hearth fires and hearty meals washed over him, filling him with a sense of comfort and belonging.
The interior of the inn was cozy and inviting, with flickering candles casting a warm glow over the worn wooden tables and plush armchairs that lined the common room. The crackling of the fire in the stone hearth provided a soothing backdrop to the lively chatter of patrons swapping tales and laughter over tankards of ale.
Tarquin's gaze swept across the room, taking in the eclectic mix of travelers and villagers who had gathered within the inn's walls. A burly group of dwarves huddled around a table, their beards braided, and tankards raised in a raucous toast. A pair of elves sat in a secluded corner, their pointed ears twitching as they whispered in hushed tones over a map spread out before them.
As Tarquin made his way to an empty table near the hearth, he caught sight of the innkeeper—a stout and jolly man with a twinkle in his eye and a welcoming smile that crinkled the corners of his mouth. The innkeeper bustled about the room, his apron stained with flour and ale, ensuring that every guest was well cared for and content.
Taking a seat at a sturdy wooden table, Tarquin felt a sense of relaxation wash over him as he soaked in the sights and sounds of the bustling inn. The clink of tankards, the crackle of the fire, and the murmur of voices blended together in a comforting symphony that enveloped him in a sense of homecoming.
A group of humans dressed in rough leather armor and bearing gleaming swords sat near Tarquin at a corner table in the Silver Dragon Inn. Their boisterous laughter filled the air as they regaled each other with tales of battles won and enemies vanquished. One of the fighters, a stocky man with a scar running across his cheek, brandished a finely crafted bow and boasted of his unmatched skill with the weapon.
"I could hit a squirrel from fifty paces blindfolded," he declared, his voice brimming with confidence.
Another fighter, a tall woman with fiery red hair, scoffed at his claim. "Ha! I could split an arrow in twain with my eyes closed. My aim is true as the north star."
The banter continued, each fighter vying to outdo the other in feats of archery prowess. They debated the merits of different techniques and strategies, their voices rising in good-natured competition as they argued over who could make the best shot with a bow.
Tarquin watched the display with a mix of amusement and admiration, marveling at the camaraderie and spirit of friendly rivalry that united the group of fighters. As tankards of ale clinked together in toasts and laughter rang out across the inn, Tarquin couldn't help but smile at the sight of kindred spirits bound by a shared love of adventure and daring deeds. The fighters' friendly argument continued late into the night, their voices blending with the merry din of the inn as they regaled each other with tales of archery feats and marksmanship triumphs.
Regardless of the village, as a stranger you are always greeted with some trepidation, but once you set foot into the local tavern, everyone becomes the same.
A serving wench with auburn hair and a mischievous grin approached Tarquin's table, her apron laden with plates of steaming food and frothy mugs of ale. Setting a heaping bowl of stew before him, she winked playfully and filled his tankard to the brim.
Tarquin smiling at her, commented, "if I weren't twice your age we would be having some fun tonight." She grinned from ear to ear before disappearing into the throng of patrons.
Tarquin had been a sorcerer for a very long time. One side effect of using magic is the impact it has on your body. Standing and looking at him you would consider him a man in is late 20's at the most. His true age, much older than that.
As Tarquin savored the hearty meal set before him, the savory aroma of the stew mingling with the tang of ale, he felt a sense of contentment settle over him. The warmth of the fire, the camaraderie of the inn's inhabitants, and the delicious fare served by the innkeeper's staff filled him with a sense of belonging and ease.
Finishing his meal, Tarquin caught the innkeeper's eye and signaled for his attention. The innkeeper approached with a genial smile, wiping his hands on his apron preparing to inquire how he could be of service.
As the innkeeper approached Tarquin's table, Tarquin noticed his presence commanded the room with a warmth and generosity that seemed to envelop all who crossed his path. He was a stout man, with a round and jovial face that bore the weathered lines of a life well-lived. His eyes sparkled with a twinkle of mirth and kindness, crinkling at the corners as a welcoming smile spread across his lips.
Dressed in a simple tunic and trousers, his apron stained with the remnants of a day's hard work, the innkeeper moved with the grace and ease of someone who was truly at home in his domain. His hands, roughened by years of toil and labor, bore the scars of countless meals prepared and served with care and skill.
As he drew near, a gentle cloud of warm hearth smoke and the comforting aroma of savory stew followed in his wake, wrapping Tarquin in a cocoon of familiarity and hospitality that spoke to the innkeeper's deep-seated commitment to ensuring that every guest felt welcomed and cherished within the walls of the Silver Dragon Inn. He introduced himself as Aldric Blackthorn.
"I would like a room for the evening, if you have one available," Tarquin requested, his voice steady and polite. In fact, I need a room for the foreseeable future.
"Really, are you simply a person visiting for a period of time or have you decided to make our little village your home?" he asked.
"I intend to make this my home," Tarquin answered, "I need a place to stay until I can acquire a home of my own."
The innkeeper nodded sagely, reaching beneath the counter to produce a heavy iron key attached to a worn wooden fob. "Aye, we have a cozy chamber available for the night. It's on the second floor, third door on the right. You'll find a comfortable bed and a roaring fire to keep you warm through the night." He went on to add, "It's not large but it is comfortable and you can use it for as long as you require."
With a grateful smile, Tarquin accepted the key and settled his tab with the innkeeper. As he ascended the creaking staircase to his room, the soft glow of lantern light guiding his way, Tarquin felt a sense of gratitude for the hospitality and camaraderie that awaited him at the Silver Dragon Inn. And as he settled into the soft embrace of the feather bed, the crackling of the fire lulling him into a deep and restful slumber, Tarquin knew that he had found a welcoming home away from home in the heart of Willowbrook. Tomorrow he would begin looking for a home.