After finishing breakfast, they consulted with Grandma Iko, the innkeeper, about which hiking trail was the best to go on at this time of the year.
With breakfast remnants cleared and the last vestiges of yesterday's revelry being politely swept away by the inn's diligent staff, Theo and his boisterous crew, still collectively nursing their hangovers with a mix of herbal tea and sheer willpower, gathered around the innkeeper's table. Grandma Iko, a woman whose wrinkles seemed to hold the wisdom of a thousand Bloom Weeks and whose apron likely had its own ancient lineage, greeted them with a knowing twinkle in her eye. "Ah, the young kids! Ready to face the mountains again, are we?" she chuckled, her voice like the rustle of dry leaves.
Theo, ever the spokesman, stepped forward. "Indeed, Grandma Iko! We were hoping you could point us towards a trail. Something that won't have my hangover friends trying to have a heart-to-heart with a bewildered squirrel, you know?"
