Ignore him and enter the inn

You give the handsome young elf a cold, dismissive look and his smile evaporates. Hanging his head dejectedly, he turns away and shuffles around the corner into the alley. Shouldering your bags, you push open the door of the inn.

Suddenly, you are swept up in a blast of warm, sweaty air and the ribald laughter of travel-weary men. The stink of humans combined with the aroma of ale and roasted pork is not entirely pleasing to your delicate senses. It reminds you of a stable. Wrinkling your nose, you consign yourself to the inevitability of such minor unpleasantnesses in the life of an adventurer and push your way into the room. The door swings shut behind you and all eyes turn to stare.

Several human men, sitting at a table near the door, actually stand up and take off their hats, nodding respectfully. In spite of their obvious awe, they seem powerless to resist the need to ogle you. You, in turn, find it hard not to stare at them. You discover that it is only up close, when they are not decently attired in clean uniforms and gleaming metal, that you really notice how ugly, hairy, and apish they are. It really is just as your cousin said, you think to yourself, they really are closer to hobgoblins than elves.

There is a long uncomfortable silence in which no one speaks or moves. The only sound is the cracking of the logs in the fire. You pray that this is not going to become an annoying routine at every inn you visit on your journeys. A large, balding, flustered man in a dark green apron ventures to break the spell by shuffling toward you.

"Good day, m'lady. Welcome to the Whispering Dragon," he croaks, barely able to speak. He appears to be trying not to stare but he doesn't seem to be able to take his eyes from you. You wish you had worn something a little less revealing, but you hardly anticipated this kind of reaction. The man wipes the sweat beading on his forehead with an already damp cloth and musters up the courage to say something else. "Could I get you a table?" he asks, smiling foolishly.

You smile in spite of yourself. His bumbling, awkward, but good-natured invitation has all the charm of an ugly puppy chasing its own tail. On seeing your smile, his face turns beet-red in a blush. It is as if all the blood in his body is being drawn up toward the warm sunlight of your beauty.

"Thank you, good sir," you say, watching his discomfiture with amusement. "That is very kind."

The innkeeper points to a small round table near the center of the room. "I hope this will do," he says, shrugging apologetically. You look around, hoping for some place a little more discreet, like a booth in the back, but every other table appears to be full. In fact, aside from the serving wenches, there appear to be no other women in the inn, and every one of the patrons is staring raptly at you.

"This will be fine," you sigh, letting your bags slide to the floor beside the stool.

"M'lady must be thirsty after a long ride in the hills," he says, leaning helpfully toward you. "We would be honored to give you a goblet of our finest refreshments."

You sink down onto the stool, his words reminding your body how tired it is. You haven't slept in days, so eagerly have you been anticipating...this? You rest your elbows on the table, but pick them up instantly, cringing. The surface is sticky. You send a silent prayer to the goddess of travellers that it is ale.

On seeing your disgusted reaction, the innkeeper cries out, appalled, as outraged as if his own son had been smearing dung on your dress. "My lady!" he shouts, "I must apologize for the horrible dishonor my servants have inflicted upon you!" He turns around, making rapid, angry waving gestures with his hands at the serving girls, summoning them over. "See that this table is cleaned at once!" he yells at the first girl, who seems to be incapable of anything but nodding, eyes wide with fear and confusion. To the other girl he says: "Bring the lady our finest...our finest...," then he stops, perplexed, realizing that he has no idea what you want. He bends down toward you and whispers behind his hand: "What would m'lady like to drink?"

"Wine," you reply with a sigh. "Just bring me wine."

"Wine! At once, wine!" he shouts, pointing at the second girl. "And make sure it is our finest!" he yells after her as she scurries off to the cellar.

Suddenly an older elf, dressed in a simple but immaculate tunic, took the innkeeper by the elbow, intercepting his next barrage of solicitations. "Please, Kellic," he says gently, "this is the daughter of an old friend of mine and it would please me to serve her."

You look at the old elf surreptitiously but you do not recognize him. The innkeeper hesitates, hovering between disappointment and relief. "Of-of course, Zefendel. Why--I had no idea!"

"Of course, of course," says the elf soothingly. "How could you? I think the roast is almost ready. Why don't you get one of the girls to bring some to our guest. I think Old Ralfus there is in need of a refill as well."

"Yes, yes, at once!" he says, rushing off to issue a new round of orders.

The white-haired old elf pulls up a stool and sits down beside you. "I hope I'm not intruding," he says, smiling kindly. "But my old legs are not as strong as they once were and I find I need to rest them quite a bit."

"Of course not," you say, smiling, grateful for his assistance. You wonder who he is.