Try the old local

"I'll take my chances with your patrons," you say, scowling at the innkeeper. He shrugs and goes back to cleaning the ale mug on the bar.

You turn to the tavern, enjoying the warmth of the hearth on your face, but still feeling nearly naked in your wet gown. The eyes of men take in your discomfort. You settle your gaze on the old local, still drinking the foam from an ale. He seems the least threatening of all your options and perhaps he will find some charity in his heart. You approach his table. He sits up straight, obviously surprised that you have decided to come up to his table out of the tavern. He wipes the foam from his beard and mustache and sets his mug down.

"Well, hello there. Aren't you a lovely sight." He pulls a chair out beside him. "Sit yourself down. Tell me what I can do for you."

You nod slowly and sit down in the chair.

"My name is Sabine," you begin. "I am a sister from the abbey of the Burning Rose at White Rock."

"My name is Murt. I am an old man and a drunk at the Yard's Rest."

There are a few chuckles from those nearby listening in on the conversation. You decide that blurting out your whole story about the abbey might not be the best of ideas. Instead, you tell Murt only that you are on an urgent mission from the abbey and you need to reach Gerlangen, but that you are soaked with rain and in need of a bit of coin. The man listens patiently. You can tell he is drunk, with his bloodshot, watery blue eyes staring at you, but he does not reach for his ale again. He does not speak at all until you are finished.

"I tell you," he begins. "I was going to say to hell with you, got no use for your goddess, but you're sweet as syrup and, more important, remind me of my grand daughter, Keyla."

The man plucks his purse from his hip and looks inside. He shakes it and you hear the clink of coins.

"Five coppers is all I can spare." He pats them down on the table. "All I ask in return is that you see an old man back to his house."

"Walk you home?"

"Not very far, but in the dark and in the rain," he points out. "I don't see well as I used to."

You take his offered arm and walk with him back out through the door and into the pouring rain. If anything, the brief respite of warmth at the Yard's Rest only makes the cold worse. Murt produces a heavy oilskin rain cover and drapes it somewhat inadequately over the both of you. Inside this rattling space with him, you smell the sweat and booze on him.

"Thank you, Keyla," he says. "You know grandpa sometimes has a bit much. Gets lost."

"I'm not Keyla," you remind him.

He laughs at that as you trudge down the rain slick cobbles and then turning down a muddy path. The shingled houses with their glass windows give way to shuttered cottages covered in moss and finally wooden shacks with mud packed up the walls for insulation. Murt turns to one and opens the door.

"Come inside, Keyla," says Murt. "You want your five coppers for helping grandpa?"

You sigh and enter the cramped little house, heaped with junk and smelling rather foul.

"Let me just put the kettle on for you," he says and you hear him stoking the fire of a stove. At least you are out of the rain. The faint light of a candle spills over a beaver's dam of broken furniture and implements. Murt returns with herbal tea in a dirty cup. "There you are, sweet grand daughter. Just how you always like it, with a bit of butter and honey."

"I really need to be on my way. My horse is still at the stable."

"Always rushing about, child," tuts Murt. "Just have a cup of tea with your grandpa. Then you can go."

He sits down on a pile of broken rakes and motions for you to sit on a chair perched atop part of a water pump. Rain drips through the roof and onto pots and pans scattered throughout the house. You lift the tea cup to your lips and take a sniff. It does smell sweet and inviting, if a bit strong. Perhaps indulging the old man this one favor won't be so bad, even if he does keep referring to you as his grand daughter.