The Inn

The common room was any of a thousand across the Riftlands, the split log walls sealed by plaster, a heavy bar next to the door. A platform in the corner elevated a musician playing fiddle, somewhat drowned out by raucous laughs and boasts from the patrons. Farmers, goodwives, and young unmarried filled the benches and four long tables. She approached the plump, vigilant proprietor, behind the bar between kitchen and common. Opening her cloak to show her dress made it plain she could pay. Rosalyn inquired after a room while scanning the crowd. With luck, nobody had followed from Alanafel.