Odelin 2011
The night’s air felt heavier than usual, weighed down with the kind of uneasiness that only death could bring. The castle walls seemed thicker and more distant as the villagers crowded into the Stag Stone Inn, their chatter low and anxious. The familiar scent of rosemary bread and aged wood hung in the air, offering little comfort against the tension that gripped the room. Outside, the streets of Odelin lay silent, the once lively bustle of villagers reduced to a mere echo.
Inside the inn, speculation and wild tales flitted from mouth to ear, carried by the flow of mead and pear cider. This wasn’t the usual crowd for the Stag Stone; tonight, they had gathered to hear any scrap of news about the Queen’s untimely death. Some spoke of wild wolves, catching her while she picked Lavender and Meadowsweet in the fields. Others whispered of more sinister forces—debts unsettled, and perhaps the debtors had come to settle the score. But these were all just rumors; no one really knew what had happened to her.
Concerned whispers circled through the tavern, dwelling on the fate of the twins after the loss of their mother.
“Poor things,” said a peaceful-looking woman with ruby hair, her voice tinged with sympathy. “I wouldn’t mind moving to the castle and being a mother to those little ones myself, if you know what I mean.” A playful gleam danced in her eye as she nudged the old man beside her with her elbow. He shook his head, furrowing his brow as he stared into his mug of ale.
A tall, thin woman with a nose resembling a rat’s dared to speak up, her voice laced with insinuation. “I’ve heard the twins aren’t even the Queen’s.” She opened her mouth to elaborate, but a sharp voice cut her off.
“Merciful heavens, Marci, watch your tongue! You could be hanged for saying such things!” barked the old man who had been silent until now.
Marci recoiled, lowering her head and her voice. “Very well, but you know as well as I do...” She paused, her words slurred by drink, interrupted by a hiccup. “Excuse me,” she murmured, placing a bony hand over her mouth in a mock gesture of grace. “But as I was saying, I’ve heard things from the maids with my own ears, Vern. Things that would make even your hair curl!” She punctuated her point by jabbing a long finger into the wooden table, causing ale to slosh from her mug, turning her threat more comical than menacing.
The old man just shook his head again, his eyes scanning the room for eavesdroppers.
As the night wore on, the inn grew blurrier with each drink. Conversation lulled into a heavy silence as the last of the patrons staggered out. Yet, the uneasiness lingered, spider-webbing through the air, clinging to the walls of the Stag Stone Inn.