Closed For Business

The night was calm and cool. Fireflies danced effortlessly on the light breeze, their twinkling show only adding to the calm demeanor of the place. The windows of a nearby building cast light onto the cobblestone road that ran infront of it, the only sign of activity this far from the town that a leaning signpost nearby indicated was just over the hill. The building itself was of good proportions, two stories high, constructed mainly from stone at it's lower level flowing into wood and plaster comprising it's second. A heavy looking wooden door, bound in iron stood between the two windows at the front, with a porch encompassing all of it. From one of the porch beams hung an old, weather beaten sign. The sign swayed slightly as the breeze coaxed it and it named the building "The Traveler's Way Inn".

Griswold cleaned at a stain on his long, worn countertop. Though he didn't really mind that the stain was there personally, he didn't want word to get around that his establishment was a dirty place, potentially hurting his business and the good name that he had made for himself. Griswold had always considered himself to be of good character. Never charging too much for his wares and services, even though he did have the deffinate advantage of having one of the only inns for miles around, with the exception of the smaller and less frequented "Foaming Mug" which resided in the town that lay not a hundred yards over the hill to the north. Griswold also considered himself to be well kept, although he was getting up in his years and the grey hair that seemed to form a ring around the growing bald spot on the center of his head confirmed the man's age, or atleast the lack of youth. His clothes were always clean, and even though he was beginning to show the signs of a gut peeking from under his shirt he wasn't in too bad of shape.

Pouring a bit of water onto the stained area that he was obsessively scrubbing Griswold looked around his place of business, admiring the place as he caught himself doing quite often. The long countertop that he now scrubbed upon was the focal point for the ground floor of the inn. It ran nearly the entire length of the room, with a hinged door where the countertop ran up to the staircase so Griswold could get behind and back out from the long counter. The stools that ran along the front of Griswold's countertop were enough to seat twelve men comfortably. In the event that more room was needed Griswold could add stools or take them away as he saw fit. Across from the long countertop, spaced across the rest of the floor were atleast a dozen round, wooden tables. Each of the tables hosted four simple, wooden chairs. The tables seemed to give way to the stone hearth that rested upon the wall opposite the countertop. The fire within it crackling and popping in regular intervals. The staircase was pinched between the countertop and the front wall of the inn. This front wall contained two good sized windows and a heavy looking, iron bound door. The entrance to "The Traveler's Way Inn". And probably most important of all was the small stage that was set against the furthest wall, directly opposite the entrance. It was here, on this stage that the various performers and bards who happened to be passing by would entertain Griswold's patrons, bringing a good deal of business whenever they were staying at the inn. Yes, this was Griswold's pride and joy. His key to a good life of moderate wealth and a few well deserved comforts.

"Another please", a well kept looking man seated at the bar said to Griswold as he held up his mug. "Not a problem", Griswold replied as he collected the man's mug and walked over to a nearby, tapped keg. Griswold knew the man, as nearly everyone else in the inn that night did. He was one of the councilmen of the town just over the hill, the town called Brinford. Griswold sat the mug of warm mead down infront of the man and noted as he, in turn, tossed a few coins onto the countertop. Wasting no time in scooping them up with a light jingling sound, Griswold dropped the coins into a leather pouch tied to his belt and went merrily about tending to his other customers. "Tonight will be good business" Griswold thought as he watched a lone performer take her seat on the small stage, a flute in her hand. His assumptions were not far off in any case, as most of the tables were full, and eleven of the twelve stools at the bar supported men from Brinford, out for a drink after a long day of whatever work they performed. While serving a second helping of stew to a guardsman of Brinford seated at the bar, Griswold noticed the door to the inn swing open and latch quickly behind a cloaked figure. The cloaked figure then swept over to a seat at a vacant table in the far corner of the room, a table no doubt left vacant because it was in the area that offered the least amount of light. Not thinking on it very much, Griswold went back to serving his other needy guests with his usual fervor and smiling face. Several times he had considered hiring on a young girl as a barmaid, but he wasn't about to go looking for one himself as he had decided that a suitable maid would not doubt eventually come looking for work. Until then, the entire work load was his alone to bear, and on this night it would be considerable.

Nearly an hour had passed and Griswold, not thinking much about the cloaked figure who had chosen the dark table in the corner, was suprised when he scanned the room and found the person still with their cloak about them, hood still drawn up, their face and featured still a mystery. What made Griswold even more uneasy about this person is that they seemed to be staring intently at him, and although he could not truly see the cloaked person's face nor the direction of their gaze, he let his feeling pass away as mere paranoia. Another hour had passed, and Griswold swore he could still feel the cloaked figure's eyes peircing into him from across the room. Cloak still around them, the hood still drawn up, Griswold began to feel the paranoia creep back into his mind. "Can I get you anything?", Griswold called to the dark table where the dark figure sat. The cloaked figure didn't respond in any way. "You there", Griswold began, pointing his finger at the person in the cloak, "Can I get you anything or not?". The figure still only sat, motionless in the dark of the corner. Griswold became more uneasy at this latest encounter. Staring was one thing, but refusing to answer a simple question brought his worries to new levels. Watching the dark table from the corner of his eye, Griswold continued his assaulting scrub on the stain that marred his countertop.

The music stopped, the maid had played her flute for nearly two hours now and it was someone else's turn to take the stage. It was taken by a young man who carried three blackened sticks, and a bucket of water. Griswold looked up as the youngman took to the stage, lighting fire to the black ends of the sticks. The youngman then proceeded to toss them about in a rather entertaining juggling routine. Griswold smiled thinly, and turned back to the menacing stain in front of him. He nearly gasped when he saw the cloaked figure standing right in front of him. The cloaked person then took a seat at the bar directly in front of Griswold. "I know who you are", the cloaked man almost hissed, it's voice to deep to have been a woman's. Griswold froze in his attempt to move further down the bar, away from the man in the cloak. "E-excuse m-me?" Griswold stammered as he turned once again to face this man who seemed to enjoy terrorizing him. "I said I know who you are", the cloaked man said once again. Griswold's face had gone pale, and though he stared directly at the hooded man he still could'nt see even a hint of who he was. Not that he would recognise him anyway. "O-of course you know who I am" Griswold stated uneasily, "I am the proprietor of the most celebrated inn within a hundred miles or more.". Griswold waited for a response, but none came. Griswold drew himself up to his full height, his newly found confidence that the matter had been concluded seemed to bolster his nerve. "Now, may I get you a drink?", Griswold asked in an even tone. "Yes, some wine if you please.", came the response from beneath the dark hood. Griswold gave a slight bow and turned to find a glass and the corkscrew when the hooded man finished his sentence, "Griswold of Pennington, traitor to the guild.".

His mind raced so fast with the hooded man's last words that he nearly fell backwards. "Who was this man?", thought Griswold, "More importantly, how does he know of things that happened to so long ago and so far away?" Griswold had no clue as to whom the man might be, but he could guess at his intentions anyway. Griswold fetched a nearby bottle of wine, then poured the one in the cloak a tall stemmed glass, obviously trying to play it as cool as he could. "Who are you?", Griswold asked as he topped off the glass, "An assassin from the guild sent to kill me after all these years?". The cloaked man took the glass and sipped from it casually, upon setting it back down he looked up at Griswold and seemed to look him square in the eye, "I am no assassin, just someone sent to observe", Griswold felt some of his tensions ease at the news that this man hadn't been paid to kill him. "Then what are you supposed to be observing?", Griswold asked when the man in the cloak offered no further explanation. "I was sent to make sure that the assassin who sat at this very bar last night performed the duties for which he has been paid.". Griswold nearly laughed as he replied, "Well I suppose he didn't do too well seeing as I'm still quite alive and well.". The hooded man offered no response, except for a small vial of thick amber liquid he produced from inside his cloak. He toyed with it for a moment then placed it onto the counter before Griswold. "Do you know what this is?", he asked in his hissing tone. "It is a vial of a strong venom found in some spiders and other large vermin.", the man answered his own question after noting Griswold's confused look. Griswold looked slightly amused at the cloaked man's apparent mistake in revealing his plan, "Well I've not drank or eaten a single thing since you've been here.", Griswold said in an amused tone , "And if I'd have been poisoned last night I wouldn't be where I am right now, that's for sure.". Griswold said as he picked up the small vial.

The man sat and watched him a moment more before offering an explanation, "You see," he began , "This particular poison is not meant to be ingested." , the man explained, drawing a confused look from Griswold. "It is topical.", the man finished, an evil grin forming under the dark mask of his hood. It took a moment for the newly found information to settle in Griswold's mind, then he looked accusingly at the stain on his countertop at which he had been scrubbing nearly all evening. It was then that he noticed the slight numbing sensation in his right hand...the hand that had held the rag. The juggler's act was in full flight now, as blurs of the fiery torches that he threw into the air made Griswold's head ache and spin. Griswold found himself unable to think, unable to do much of anything but sway back and forth with the blur of the torches. He thought he noticed the cloaked man rise from his seat at the bar. He thought he heard the door to his inn...his precious inn, open then close. But before he could warn anyone about the treachery that has befallen him, his world turned to darkness. He thought he felt himself falling, slowly falling. No one saw the fall of Griswold, the proprietor of "The Traveler's Way Inn".