[Entry 22]

Entry 22

 I have decided to spend the night here at this tavern. As I write, night is falling. I've also travelled much during the day. While a little bit of fatigue and limited visibility aren't obstacles I couldn't easily surpass with a spell or two, I'm just a bit curious to see this town at night. That is, to see it in its current state. To see what was.

 

I've convinced the innkeeper to let me have the room overlooking the Bends. Its prior denizens did not look pleased, especially when I interrupted them mid-coitus. Several precisely aimed sparks sent them quickly from the bed fast enough. However I doubt they'll be doing anything more this evening, not from those burns.

 

To my ill-fortune they left the picked at remains of a meal on the table, and it's stench nearly made me gag. I didn't bother trying to identify what meat rested on the plate, I just took it and flung the entire thing out the window. A brief and utterly shocked yelp from below at least made me crack a grin.

 

I sit here now, by the windowsill, observing events play out down upon the street. Almost like clockwork, as soon as the twilight grew dark enough for the road torches to be lit I noticed a pair of lanky forms scampering up to my steed. Thieves, I surmised, and thieves they proved themselves to be, as they tried to pry open my saddle bag.

 

What the wretched bandits received was plainly their due. I saw one of them, the older of the two, pause at the sight of Dahlian insignia on the bag. He brought his companion to a halt and pointed out that their task was folly. The other, younger one barked something in reply, and continued with renewed effort at prying open my bag with his dagger. Now, from this vantage point I could have easily dispatched with the ruffians, however I wished to see if my magic-laden failsafes would work.

 

Sure enough, sparks flew from the thief's blade, and flames burst forth, running all along his arm and immediately enveloping his body. The man frantically tried to slap out the flames, even falling and rolling over the ground. But the flames refused to die out, nor would they, being magical in origin. His partner watched on helplessly at first, and then scurried away. His once-friend lay sprawled in front of the tavern, his body now his own funeral pyre. The flames devoured him faster than normal ones would, and within moments nothing was left but a few stubborn bones and cinders. My steed, and my bag, remained safe and untouched.

 

It is interesting to note that no one walking by, even to and from the tavern's own front door, stopped to help the immolated thief. They barely even spared him a glance, as if they weren't aware of it---or refused to acknowledge it. To even greater irony was the fact that a trough full of water was not but a few steps away next to the hitching posts. The man's partner passed them right by on his escape.

 

As I sit here, the charred aroma of the thief is gradually wafting in through the windows. It smells just slightly better than whatever that gruel cruelly called food did.

Author's Note

In the spirit of the journalistic style, I will leave most initial grammatical, syntactic, and other "first-draft" errors intact. Revisions will only occur if major changes are deemed necessary.