The walk out of town was not a long one, only a few hundred yards past where the cabin homes started to become scarce. The inn was a simple thing, two stories with windows shuttered closed by grey planks, and with little more than some white plaster finish for color on the walls. Two large chimneys rose high into the air behind the building, spewing grey smoke and embers in the air above; he could smell the burning wood from here. Making his way over, all the windows on the first floor were closed up, and the door was a, surprisingly, deep rich green. Above the door hung a metal sign that simply read, “Dracon’s Inn”, on it.

Even though he had hoped to be able to peek in and see who was occupying the place, with the closed windows he was out of luck, and simply opened the door wide and strode in with confidence. It was pretty dark and gloomy, only a few candle lamps lit around the place to provide light. There were many tables meant to seat four, and a few table booths along the walls, but he had his eyes set on the bar. It was long by all rights, and had many simple stool chairs around it’s front end. But, as far as he could tell, there were no patrons or even workers.

Bringing himself toward the bar, he looked over the stools. They were small by even pony standards, likely any minotaur or sizable griffon that meandered their way in here would break the little things. So, he stood there, looking around at the plain walls and simple decor: a few plaques with words he couldn’t read. Some simple, manufactured, paintings. Not to mention all the colorful bottles of booze lining the wall behind the bar.

“Hello?” The man called out, looking to the little white linen flaps of a doorway he noticed during his study of the place.

He did not get a response.

Was this place even open? Maybe he should have taken all the closed windows for a sign of their operating hours. He looked to the stone fireplace keeping the place warm. No, someone was definitely here. He turned to his left where he spotted some stairs, surely going up to the second floor. But he didn’t feel it his right to start walking around the place where he probably didn’t belong. Even though he had done it back at Mister Mer’s Farm, it was mostly open air, and anyone would have seen him a mile away, and he could explain that he was simply looking around.

Placing his stick against the bar, and putting his pack against the wooden floor with a light thud, he turned once again to the linen covered door frame, and moved towards it, peeking his head through. It was a kitchen. There were a few countertops and cabinets of simple wood, an iron stove and oven, and an open fire pit with some stew pots laid around it. However, nobody was present.

Hmm, upstairs perhaps? The man thought, and retracted his head from the cooking area and walked his way towards the staircase he had spotted earlier. Giving a few more knocks on the wooden support beams, he again got no real sign of movement. He looked down to the old wooden boards that made up the steps, and took a quick, light, foot on it.

It creaked slightly, but wasn’t louder than his steps on the floor boards. Making his way halfway up, before he could turn to the second half flight up, he could tell it led down a long hall of doors. Rooms most likely, a few more candle lamps lighting up the place.

“Hello? Anyone here?” He called out down the hall.

Still, he got no response.

Turning back towards the bar he walked towards his bag. Perhaps he should come back some other time? Perhaps a bit more towards the afternoon? What would he do in that time? Where would he go? Rubbing his hand down the smooth surface of his walking stick, he pondered his next course of action.

The man looked down to the stools, and, using his stick to take most of his weight, he did a light test, and sat on it. It was surprisingly sturdy, and didn’t so much as creak under his mass. He still had the habit of judging a book by it’s cover it seemed. So, he sat there in the silence of the, seemingly, empty inn, the faint crackling of the fireplace across the open room the only real sound in his ear.

His stomach growled softly.

He was hoping to have gotten some brunch here in the inn, but with nobody here, he hadn’t gotten the option yet. Patting his coat pocket, he opened up the buttoned flap and pulled out one of the chocolate bars he had bought. It had been a very long time since he had any of the sweet, creamy stuff. He knew Mareka was a good brand as well.

Sliding the thin paper cover, he gently unfolded the gold foil wrapping to reveal a nice, solid chocolate bar, little segments in the forms of squares running along the brown brick of sweetness. Carefully breaking off a piece, he brought it to his mouth and took a light nibble with the ends of his buck teeth.

It was extremely sweet. Easily the sweetest thing he had tasted in months. It made him shudder, and his jaws ached, but he took the rest into his mouth, and let it melt over his tongue, and ran it across the ridged roof of his mouth. He looked down to the rest of the bar of cocoa, and debated if he even wanted to continue eating it.

He had eaten a few more segments, and wrapped the remaining chocolate in its foil, and covered it up with the blue and red paper holder. It was good, albeit a bit too sweet. He had always preferred darker cocoa bars. He had also popped the cork on one of the bottles of cider he had bought from that merchant, the cool beverage refreshing on the throat. It didn’t have any alcohol, but he figured that was for the best. A man like him needed to be in prime shape when traversing the wilds and winding roads here down south, and alcohol would only spell trouble for him.

Mid swig, with his arms on the bar, he stopped at the sound of the front door behind him opening wide, the cool air flowing in and nipping his neck. It closed slowly as he hear the tick-tack of talons on the wooden floor.

The man turned himself slightly to peer at the newcomer, and he was in fact right in his assumption: there was a griffon there. Brown head with a grey crown, and a white body. His beak was short but thick like a lori, and was almost gold in color.

“Well...I’ll be. That human.” He gruffly said and he walked forwards, a limp in his back left hind. “You’s are a human right? My eyes ain’t so good na’days.”

The man turned fully to face the old griffon and nodded, “You are correct. Fuzzy said word had spread around about me in these parts.”

The griffon smiled, “Yeeep. Fuzzy hears just about all the rumors ‘round here. Heh, even more than me on some days.” Grunting, he came around the bar and rested himself on it, “So...what brings such a rare an’interestin creatures into ol’Dracon’s Inn, hmm?”

It took a moment for the man to respond, mostly because he was trying to quickly swipe away his signs of long waiting, recorking the cider bottle and placing the half-eaten chocolate bar into his coat pocket, “I...wanted to see about having a room for the night, and perhaps a warm meal, if you would.”

The griffon, Dracon, hummed, “How long’ya been in for, son?”

The man saw his steel grey eyes wander down to his bag and coat pocket, but the man simply held his head up, “Not long. Just got here not long ago.”

Dracon looked at him for a silent second, then hopped down from the bar, “Give me’a minute.” With the clacking of his talons of wood he made his way back into the kitchen beyond the white linens.

It took only a moment before the comotion started, “MATTY! GET YER’FUR BLAZIN REAR HIND UP HERE!” Dracon shouted, and despite the walls separating them, the man nearly fell from his stool from the raw anger the griffon expressed in his yelling.

There were the sounds of thumping steps, and a door swinging open, “Oh, Pa! I didn’t expect you back so soon—!”

“Ya didn’t expect!? I told ya’ta watch the bar while I was gone!”

“But Pa! Nobody comes here this early!”

“That’s where yer’wrong, missy!”

The argument made its way closer and closer until Dracon came out from the linens, shouting behind him. Then out stepped a much smaller griffon chick. Her upper body was a light, almost fiery brown, and her lower half a well groomed, bright white. She had a short yellowish beak like her father, but it was thinner, and a bit wider at the edges. Her red eyes locked onto the man, and she immediately froze.

“See what’a tell you! You can never be too sure!” Dracon finished with a stamp of his right tallon against the wooden floor. Dracon turned to face you, that same warm, genuine smile on his face, “I’m so sorry for ya’wait. If not for my daughter’s laziness, you would be eatin’ by now. Was there somethin’ya wanted specifically?”

The man shook his head in response, “Just something warm and hearty would be nice.”

Dracon nodded and turned to his daughter, “You heard ‘em Matty, get a pot going for him!”

She bowed, “Yes father.” And disappeared behind the linens again.

Dracon came around the bar again, “It’ll be a bit before she gets some soup for you. In the meantime, can I get’ya anything? Beer? Whiskey?” He asked.

The man put his hand up, “No thank you. Alcohol is not something I choose to indulge in often.”

Dracon nodded in understanding, “Heh, despite owning an inn, I was never much’a drinker myself. Mostly my wife, rest her soul.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Dracon waved him off, “It was a long time ago.” That smile came back to his beak, “And I won’t be soiling my customer’s mood with sob stories.” The old griffon leaned in, “But I’m sure yer well travelled, got some tales of yer own?”

The man took off his hat and rubbed his brow, “I...might have a few.”

Author's Note

Sorry about the lack of update last week, my computer was, for lack of a better word, shitting itself.

As always, comment your thoughts, be they good, bad, or ugly. It's what keeps me going!