Night had fallen on the little village when Fairlain guided Daysey up to the stables of the carriage house. She called out, and after a moment was greeted by a faint lantern light and a sleepy-eyed Ostler. The man lifted the lamp in his hand and squinted at her, his eyes widening as he caught sight of the starred brooch she wore at her neck. He stirred himself and bowed his head respectfully.
"This way," he said, heading towards the stable. Daysey pricked up her ears on seeing the trough filled with sweet hay and walked into the large, dry stall without any hesitation. The stableman turned to Fairlain and pulled his forelock in salute.
"If you please, I'll see she's rubbed down proper and set for the night...they'll want word at the Inn though."
Fairlain looked at the young man, he was one of the villagers that was trusted by the Order though she had only seen him once or twice before. She nodded and walked over to give Daysey one last hug before she left. The little mare merely shook her head and snorted, munching hay all the while.
The lights of the Warhorse Inn burned brightly. It was busier than Fairlain remembered it and a few somewhat inebriated patrons pushed past her as she made her way up the rising walkway to the Inn's door. She stepped into the foyer only to move quickly to the corner as two patrons boisterously charged for the door. There was some sort of celebration afoot. Suddenly, she felt a rough hand reach and grab her, his fingers sinking into the same place that the Amber Man had burned his mark of ownership so long ago. She heard a drunken voice say with a laugh,
"Eh, yer a likely wench...fancy a tumble, eh?" The voice stopped as he felt the elven steel press into his neck. The man dropped his hand and slumped back against the wall, mouth agape and the blood draining from his face as he looked into eyes lit by a fierce light beyond any flame in the Inn's fire pits.
"You will not touch me again," Fairlain said very softly.
The man could only look at her. He was a drunken lout that had only wanted to scratch an itch, instead he looked into the eyes of his death. The front of his breeches visibly darkened. She waited for two breaths then stepped back from the man, lowering her blade. The light in her eyes, however, did not dim.
"Begone" she said simply. The man drew away from her and scrabbled quickly and unsteadily to the door before rushing out into the night. She walked through the common room and peered into the kitchens. Rose the cook was sitting on a stool by the roasting spit, weary from feeding the rowdy crew that had descended on the Warhorse that evening. Fairlain walked up to her and said,
"Feed and stable for the manorhouse...."
Rose looked up at her and nodded, her cheeks ruddy from the flame's heat, saying shortly,
"Aye...I'll see it's taken care of."
Fairlain thanked her and turned to leave. She had no wish to tarry there. She passed through the common room, through the doors and began walking across the small stream and up the gentle hill to the Manor house. There, at least, she would find some rest.
