The floorboards creaked softly beneath Cecil's boots as he descended back into the inn's lobby. More patrons had arrived, although the atmosphere remained subdued.
Cecil walked past the patron, making his way to the counter.
The innkeeper, standing behind the bar still cleaning glasses, looked up with a raised brow as he approached.
"Room not to your liking?" she asked, in the same dry tone as earlier.
"It suits my needs perfectly," Cecil replied, "I was hoping to hear about supper and its price."
"Five Leptans. Tonight's meal comes with bread, beef stew, and your choice between water, tea, or coffee. Alcohol and refills cost extra."
"Tea. Black if you have any." He reached into his coat and laid down the required coins with a quiet clink.
She swept them into the till. "Take any open seat. I'll bring it out when it's ready."
Cecil gave a courteous nod and took a seat at the counter, one that gave him a clean line of sight to the rest of the room. His cane leaned against the counter within easy reach.
Minutes passed. He observed the other patrons as they came and went, most of them unremarkable, though a few caught his attention.
One was a hunched shaggy man in a thick robe, muttering to himself over a bowl of broth. As he shifted, the robe fell open just enough to reveal an old Imperial uniform beneath—frayed, faded, but still bearing several medals dulled with age. His skin was weathered and drawn tight over high cheekbones, and scars cut across one side of his face like lightning over dry earth. His eyes, pale and unfocused,as they flickered around the room.
Another was a woman cloaked in layered fabric, her face painted with ritual sigils and occult markings. She leaned casually against the bar, speaking to the innkeeper with the ease of familiarity. Likely a local mystic, or at least a frequent patron of Widdershins.
Eventually, the innkeeper returned, setting down a bowl of steaming stew, a fresh loaf of bread, and a cup of black tea. She didn't linger.
Cecil began to eat. The stew was earthy with various root vegetables and shredded beef seasoned with rosemary.
The stew was earthy, root vegetables and shreds of mystery meat seasoned with what might've once been rosemary. It wasn't anything gourmet, but it did its job of being filling. The bread was firm but fresh, perfect for soaking up the broth. The tea was still steaming hot.
Cecil ate his food in silence, watching the rhythm of the inn:low conversation, the occasional scrape of a chair, the crackle of the hearth. Here, time seemed to move slower.
Then a voice shattered the stillness.
"YOU FILTHY IMPERIAL DOG!"
The cry cut through the tranquility, causing Cecil to glance up from his meal and towards the racket.
A man stood near the hunched veteran. Tall, broad-shouldered, and clearly drunk. His posture swayed with imbalance, but his voice filled with fury and sharpened by intoxication . One arm was raised accusingly, finger aimed square at the old soldier.
His face was red, flushed with drink and rage.
The old man didn't move. His milky eyes blinked once, slowly, as if the insult hadn't reached him, or perhaps it had, and he simply didn't care.
Cecil let his spoon rest gently in the bowl, one gloved hand drifting under his coat and to his revolver, though he made no movements.
All around them, the inn had gone still.
"IT'S BECAUSE OF WAR DOGS LIKE YOU MY FAMILY'S BEEN FORCED TO LIVE LIKE REFUGEES!"
The woman with the painted face rose halfway from her stool, one hand slipping beneath her cloak, but made no movement to act yet.
The drunkard took a staggering step closer, the toe of his boot knocking against the veteran's chair.
"YOU SCUM KILLED MY BROTHER! FIFTEEN,NOT EVEN A MAN YET! YOU MARCHED THROUGH OUR VILLAGES, AND LEFT NOTHING BUT SMOKE AND ASH! ALL FOR THAT BLOODY EMPEROR OF YOURS!"
Still, the old man gave no reply. He didn't flinch. Didn't speak. His hand hovered over his bowl, spoon unmoving. Still muttering to himself.
His hand twitched at his side, reaching for something but he didn't get far before the Innkeeper slammed her hands on the counter.
The drunk turned toward her, startled by the motion, his eyes bloodshot and wide.
"I would advise against whatever you were about to do," She said, voice calm but cold, holding back fury at the drunkard. One hand holding onto the shotgun in a threat.
The drunk's jaw clenched. He looked between the innkeep and the old veteran.
Then he spat on the floor.
"Wasn't worth it anyway," he muttered, shoving past a table and staggering toward the door. "Nothing in this damn city is."
He slammed the door open, vanishing into the alley beyond.
The tension seemed to dissipate almost immediately.
The mystic woman exhaled and returned to her stool. The innkeeper went back to polishing her glasses, albeit slower now.
Cecil's hand drifted away from his revolver and back to the spoon and he went back to eating.
When his bowl was empty and only the last sips of his tea remained, he set his utensils down and looked toward the innkeeper.
"Pardon me," he began, "I have a few questions, if you don't mind."
"What'cha need?" the innkeeper asked.
"First of all, that drunkard from before," Cecil said motioning to where the fight was, noticing that the veteran seems to have left. "He was from the Grand Republic wasn't he? A refugee from the most recent expansion efforts of the Empire?"
She just gave a sad nod.
"... Yeah."
The innkeeper didn't elaborate, nor was Cecil going to press her.
"I see," he said simply, and took a sip of his cooling tea, finishing it before setting the cup down. "In that case, perhaps a change of subject. What exactly is this Charterlight Festival that's caused such disruption to departures?"
The innkeeper's brow arched slightly, but she seemed more than relieved to be changing topics. She leaned her forearms on the counter, the polished glass still in her hand. "Well, first off, it's not just any old street fair. It's a civic holiday here in Grandport. Happens every year on both the 5th and 6th of Tudoria."
Cecil nodded. "And what precisely does the festival commemorate?"
"Charterlight celebrates the signing of the city's independence charter," she explained, voice taking on the practiced rhythm of someone who'd explained this more than once. "Back when Grandport broke from the Empire, there was a moment, legend says, just moments after the ink dried, when the torches in the forum all flared white-gold, for not even a second. Like the city itself exhaled, happy to be free."
"A rather poetic story." Cecil remarked. "But is it actually believed?"
"That all depends who you ask." The woman gave a wry shrug. "Some say it was the work of a Powerful Sorcerer. Some say it was nothing more than a trick of the light. Others swear it never happened. But either way, the people love it. Parade, fireworks, light displays, open markets that spill into the streets. Me? I don't care if it's true or not. The festival's fun."
"Understandable." Cecil nodded. "Would you say the city becomes particularly chaotic during the festival?"
"It is a festival, what do you expect? It becomes loud, bright, and even more crowded. Pickpockets and preachers come crawling out of the walls, but I wouldn't call it unmanageable, the city throws the Charterlight well. It's been doing it for decades."
Satisfied, Cecil moved on to his final question. "And why are all the mystic shops located in one district?"
She blinked, then shrugged. "Don't know. It's just always been that way. Probably happened naturally as the city expanded."
Cecil blinked, with a soft frown. "What a boring answer."
She gave a faint smirk. "Not everything has a deeper reason. Sometimes things happen because the dice land where they do."
Cecil sighed, standing up and retrieved his cane. "Thank you. You've been helpful."
"Anytime, just come back before midnight, that is when I lock everything up for the night."
"Of course." Cecil said, and stepped out into the alley once more, this time, in search of Blinkwolf eyes.
The door creaked as he closed it. Outside, the Alley had begun to dim. Evening filtered through the glass dome above the galleria, casting long shadows across the cobble road.
Cecil stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the shift in lighting. Widdershins Alley was even quieter now if that was even possible.
He made his way deeper into the alley, scanning the remaining open shops. He wasn't interested in charms or powders that some of these shops sell to swindle lost tourists or naive hobbyists. Those types shops rarely sold any actual mystical ingredients of any type, much less ones used in a Sorcerer Recipe.
After walking for a few minutes, His eyes landed on a nondescript shop tucked beneath a crooked archway. Above the archway read a hand-painted sign, this one had no picture just the name of the shop:
Madame Follin's Curios
Cecil stood before the door for a few moments before sighing and opening the door.