Until the traveler is almost directly upon it, the only indication of Waymeet is the scent of burning peat from its rough-hewn chimneys. Astride the well-worn cartpath marking the route between Yulash and Hillsfar, Waymeet’s outskirts begin with a few outlying farmsteads eeking out a meager harvest of tubers and legumes. Approaching close enough to see the village, perhaps twenty-five structures, a mix of stone, daub, and thatch buildings cluster north and south of the road. Wagons and men-at-arms are lined up, both within and without the village proper, as some choose to camp with their goods under the stars, while other pay for stabling and seek the comfort of a straw bed. The red flashes of Hillsfar can be readily seen among the traveling parties; as is the unmarked but also unmistakeable black dyed cloak and armor of Zhentil Keep. As long as their purses are full and their weapons sheathed, commerce trumps cold stares. Interspersed throughout are various persons, displaying a wide breadth of seasoning and road experience.
At the center of the village, surrounded by the various service and goods providers tailoring to the caravan trade, the weathered carving a large faded green goblin fist closed around a foaming goblet marks the Fist and Flagon. Wagons and mounts fill the open stable that runs just off the main road, partially enclosed by the two low slung wings of the inn.
The large open hall is loud and busy, with customers filling the long tables that make up the center, as well a many of the darker more secluded booths lining the walls. The bar along the back is nearly standing room only, as both villagers and the tradesmen spend the coin the spring caravans are bringing.
Standing back behind the bar, a portly human beyond middle age hooks his thumbs in his leather belt and takes it all in. “Rest Malcho’s poor soul, things have certainly picked up since those companions did him in.” He thinks ruefully, reflecting on older years when the Druid would lead assist the local clerics in a variety of religious rites. “He may naught appreciated the reds and blacks returning in such numbers; but I certainly do!” Belgar’s fortunes had certainly swelled in recent months.
In a rear corner, farthest from the entrance, and opposite the wing housing the rooms for hire, a muscled but gnarled human observes the floor silently, nursing a flagon. Appearing without weapon, he wears polished but old black leather armor.
At the end of one of the tables flush with drinking caravan men and guards, a slight but lithe dark-haired human in road worn chain and a peace beaded bastard sword picks at his dinner, attempting to furtively scan the room.
At least sixty patrons fill the ‘Flagon this afternoon, and the smell of cooked meat, spiced potatoes saturate a growing din, making any direct conversations unintelligible to those without specific skills.
This message had punctuation tweaked by the GM at 13:53, Sat 30 Oct 2021.