The inn was quieter now, the last of the evening's revelers having retired to their rooms.
Zix sat on the edge of their bed in the modest chamber, sorting through the contents of their well-worn pack. The faint remnants of applause still echoed in their ears—a small, appreciative crowd had gathered earlier to hear tales of distant lands, their faces lit by the warm glow of hearthfire. But tonight, the usual satisfaction of performance was mingled with a growing excitement.
Critic perched on the windowsill, its sharp eyes scanning the moonlit road outside. Occasionally, the corvid ruffled its feathers, an impatient energy coursing through its frame.
"
Yes, yes, I’m almost done," Zix muttered, pulling out a bundle of spare clothes and refolding them tightly. The pack already contained a carefully wrapped lute, a collection of worn but treasured scripts, and a leather pouch of coins earned over the past week.
From the bottom of the pack, they retrieved the small stack of papers their parents had given them long ago—masters’ notes on concealment and evasion. Zix paused, running their fingers over the edges of the pages. The weight of memory settled over them for a moment before they slid the stack back in, securing it beneath a spare cloak.
"
Food, water..." Zix ticked off the essentials aloud, tossing in a few rations of dried meat and hardtack, along with a flask of water. "
And this." They held up a vial of ink and a few quills, smiling faintly. "
For when inspiration strikes—or when I need to explain myself in writing again."
Critic let out a soft, approving caw, hopping down from the windowsill to the table. It nudged at a folded piece of parchment—the acceptance letter from Misthaven.
"
Don’t worry," Zix said, picking it up. "
I’m not leaving this behind." They slid the letter into a side pocket of the pack and tightened the straps.
As the first hints of dawn crept into the sky, Zix slipped quietly out of the inn. The world was cool and still, the road ahead veiled in soft mist. Critic flew silently alongside, a shadow against the pale light of the rising sun.
By mid-morning, Zix had left the busier roads behind, taking a winding path through a forest that promised a more direct route to Misthaven. They walked with a steady pace, humming fragments of half-formed songs, the trees around them alive with the chatter of birds and the rustle of leaves.
By nightfall, the forest had deepened, and the road had faded into a narrow trail. Zix found a small clearing beside a gently flowing stream and set down their pack. Critic landed on a low branch nearby, watching as Zix gathered wood for a small fire.
The flames crackled softly as Zix unrolled their bedroll, laying it out beside the fire. They sat for a while, staring into the flickering light, the sounds of the wilderness filling the space around them.
Soon, Zix leaned back on the bedroll, their gaze drifting upward to the stars peeking through the canopy. The night felt peaceful, the kind of calm that usually came with distance from crowded inns and bustling roads.
Too peaceful. Suddenly, Critic’s head shot up, its feathers ruffling as it let out a sharp caw, its gaze fixed on the shadows.
OOC:
Roll Observation, please.
