Head toward the room at the top of the stairs

You look around the room, trying to decide on the best path toward the staircase. The inn is now jam-packed with patrons, more coming in off the street, talking loudly about the knights' announcement. It will be impossible to make it to the main staircase at the front of the inn, you decide, but you can probably make it to the back staircase with little difficulty. There is a small group of tough-looking men clustered in the back corner of the room, near to the stairs, but you don't think they will give you any trouble.

Taking your bags from the floor, you stand up and make your way toward the stairs. The stairs are in the back corner of the room, beside the bar, and there are a large number of excited and **** patrons between you and your destination. Fortunately, most of the patrons are still in awe of you and step aside quickly at your approach. It is common knowledge that elven maidens make the most powerful sorceresses in Valendrel and there are few among the throng, rough-and-tumble as they are, who are willing to risk causing you any kind of slight. In spite of this, you can feel their cloying stares, made bolder by the ale and spirits, and you feel dirty and used simply walking among them.

Mere feet before reaching the stairs, a tall, grizzled, red-faced man with a long, greying pony-tail and a dark leather jack steps in front of you, barring your path.

"And where do ya think this fine, luscious peach is a-slinkin' away to?" he asks to no one in particular, eliciting a snicker from several rough-looking men standing nearby. "Sneaking off to her room to hide from the bad man, perhaps? Or to cower in the arms of her lover?"

You give him a cold stare, which causes him to take a step back, involuntarily. "That's none of your business, sir," you say icily.

Recovering his composure, his face twists in a snarl, as ugly and savage as a mad dog's. "I think it is my business, lass," he says, a threat clearly evident in his tone. "In these dark times there's few enough to trust in. And I can't say as I trust ya. Any respectable lady would be seekin' the protection of strong, bold men, like myself, and not be slippin' off into servants' rooms where as there's none to protect ya."

The other men, sharing the grizzled old cur's opinion--and intentions--draw closer, to get a better view of the exchange.

"I am in no need of your 'protection'," you sneer between clenched teeth. "I am more than capable of defending myself." But in spite of your bold words and confident pose, you are beginning to feel a little frightened. You have never had to face real flesh-and-blood opponents before who mean to do you ill. You can only pray that your long years of training have adequately prepared you.

Suddenly, the man steps toward you and grabs you by the arm in a vice-like grip, dragging you toward him. He presses his body against yours and you almost **** on the stench of human sweat and sweet ale. "You'll do as I say," he says, his eyes wild with lust and anger.