Another dawn breaks in the room. Usual. Uneventful. Wonderfully repetitive. Sir ‘Cromwell’, or whatever he wished to be called in these lands as of late, woke up at the exact time he always did, and like an unrequested but not unwelcome alarm, the shuffling of his sheets woke the other Dalesman, as it always did. With the usual words of parting, that Theothar most definitely did not care enough to memorize, the older of the two would disappear from the room and the sweet silence would creep into the chamber around him.
Silent. Repetitive. Uneventful. He nestled his head underneath the heavy blanket. A safe haven from the never-ending noise. Just one moment. Just one heartbeat of quiet before the other patrons started waking. He did not like this inn; it was odd, run by elves that worked for 'friendship' instead of pay and what seemed like a legion of dwarves that kept digging something in the basement chambers until late hours of the evening. But no matter how far he searched, and how vigilant his eyes were, he never saw any danger approach the rooms of the patrons. And now it was quiet.
But it was just one moment, after all, because right after it passed he knew he needed to get up, discard the warm covers that shielded him from all that was standing outside the little corner. He did not dwell on it. It was routine. And soon his boots were put on and the twin shivs were strapped to his ankles. The red cloak fell over his shoulder, his hood covered his head and a mask stood secure to shield his face. As it always has.
It was time to go do his duty. Wash the dishes for the odd pair of innkeepers and their innumerable staff. Or kin. Or really, whatever were the ones that kept running in and out of the kitchen. Why would he bother remembering them?
A step down the hallway. Two. An unrelenting rhythm. A pounding of hammers. He stopped at her room, as he usually did, but again it was empty. He knew this, there was no need to check, but still, he did. A routine. Something to cling to. She was gone. Or dead. Or doing whatever she was doing in the years before they met, prancing around her beloved forests. He did not try to explain the pit in his chest. It was what changed the routine, that was all. She was a change. No. Her leaving was a change. That was explanation enough.
Wash. Wipe. Stack. A perfect rhythm each time. Odd pieces of food discarded, leftovers from the meals shared in the busy hall. Wash. Wipe. Stack. Spilled drinks that clung to the edges of glasses, spilled in loud cheers. Wash. Wipe. Stack. Why does her not being here change anything?
The thought scratched at the back of his mind. It is only a changed routine. The skin around the scar tightened as he felt his face struggling to portray an expression, despite his will. Eaddrid would know what to do.
This thought only troubled him further; it was an annoyance, a distraction in his mind. It doesn’t matter. I have dishes to wash. Wash. Wipe. Stack. Soon the inn would be busy again.
