It was early evening; the air was dry and dusty as expected for the season. The innkeeper, a chubby, bald man, was busy near the kitchen, screaming at one of the elvish servant girls for being clumsy again. "You are a stupid, dirty elf! You suppose to bring a costumer a mug of elf! To bring him, not to spill it at the floor! Remind me why I still keep you here?! "He shouted at her to the much entertainment of the patrons. "You should be grateful to me for taking you in. There are many others just waiting to replace you!" The girl cried for his forgiveness. He was a hard, cruel man to deal with but sleeping on the streets was much worse. She'll improve given the chance. The man snorted and sent her back to the hall room. The costumers were waiting.
The "hall" was an almost medium sized moist from alcoholic fumes and packed, sweating bodies of the patrons. Dull light showed the filth on the walls and floors, the stained plates and mugs. But none seemed to care much anyway. Eating, laughing at each other's dirty jokes mixed with cursing and burping freely, just a regular day at "Golden Pig". One of those "good business days" as the innkeeper called them.
The servants ran between the tables back and forth, carefully avoiding stepping on a drunken young man who snored between the tables. It wasn't out from care but an attempt to thwart dropping the full trays they carried around. The man trashed and moaned occasionally, captured in his bad dreams.
Only a few noticed the door opening and closing behind a quite strange group walking in. Two men fully clad in armor, only their helmets were off and a rather fragile woman between them. The innkeeper blinked in confusion at the newcomers, he was used to another kind of customers: harlots, shady personages and thieves, not arrogant powerful knights whose posture demanded respect and obedience. Templars, by their armor. But costumers were costumers. Especially when their pockets were filled with coins. Oh, he could almost hear the coins ringing in his ears.
He rushed toward the group, offering food and rooms for a night right away. Only then he noticed handcuffs enveloping woman's hands and ankles. The man shuddered, stepping back. A witch! He looked nervously at the knights. "Don't worry." A young one calmed the innkeeper with an arrogant chuckle "The apostate possesses no danger as she is now". The woman looked away; anger and frustration all over her face. She had dark circles under her eyes and her clothes were worn yet she held her head up proudly. One could call her pretty if not her eyes, cold and piercing.
No one paid attention to the drunken young man who twitched at the word "apostate", lifting up his head sleepily. Alistair mumbled to himself as his unfocused caramel eyes anxiously searched around. A very certain memory of an apostate appeared before his eyes causing him to sour.
"Ye..ess good ser. The food is on the way" the innkeeper responded meekly, just glad to move away from the witch. Magic was unknown and frightening, something he preferred to hear only in tales. The knights searched for an unoccupied table. The woman was forced to follow them. They weren't looking at her but she knew they were watching her every breath. She could feel their heavy presence upon her, checking, warning, hostile. They still hated her for taking out the two other Templars before she was smitten against the earth. People started to stare at them with an unhidden interest, fear and disgust. Not every day a view of an imprisoned witch was there to entertain them. Meanwhile the Templars discussed between themselves the fastest route the Circle of Mage as the younger one kept complaining at the rather unusual mission-capturing the apostate and to bring her back, alive.
She was scared, yes she was. Scared, alone and exhausted. Those scums in uniforms gave her a good chase all over the woods. She had an idea why they captured her instead of killing but was grateful to be just alive for now. She knew that Arka would be worried not to find her at an agreed upon meeting point. Her mind dared to hope for a moment that her allies will find her, somehow. Two days passed since she was captured and she's still a prisoner. Such a foolish thought, a vain one. The reality was much less fair indeed.
Istowanne Amell simple sat there, refusing to lower her gaze against the prying stares of the interested folk around. Her knees shook from hours of walking and her empty stomach sent waves of dizziness through her limbs. Still her pride was the only thing she had right now, keeping her straight. As long as she breathes there is a hope. I'm alive; I may still have my chance against all the odds...
