The room that the man with the silver, miniature manticore head around his neck was eventually shown to wasn't anything special, the usual affair from these sort of inns. A lumpy straw mattress stained with fluids from who knew where (or rather, whom), a pillow that looked like a broken dead thing, barely more than one candle for light (though he had no desire attempting to light the second stub), and nothing else at all. There was probably a room with some sort of communal chamber pot nearby, but he had no desire to go directly confront that kind of smell tonight.

So, instead, he simply settled down and prepared for the night. The bed was completely ignored; he had no plans to sleep that night, and he only wanted to rest his body from the road. His mind was still more than sharp enough as it was, and would last another day easily.

There were some rituals he went through before he finally settled down. The removal of his weapons, the two swords being carefully set upon the floor in front of where he would eventually settle down for good. Then came the tools, from the various knives and hooks, to the potions he always carefully carried with him and the ingredients with them. By the time he was done, he had created almost an entire circle around him, laid around so that that a curve of empty floor would be left behind him.

It was with that he finally settled, kneeling down. He held his hands down in front of him, fingers lightly intertwined together and loosely hanging in front of him. His body slowly relaxed saved for an almost eerie rigidity of his spine, his head dropping forwards ever slightly, shoulders slumping a little, everything becoming loose at the joints.

For a few minutes after that, his mind was as active as it ever was. He planned his departure, which direction he would go, the villages and towns he would see on that path before more news reached him, or some other clue was dropped. No time would be wasted, and yet he would take every single second of it, keeping his alertness always sharp in order to spot anything that seemed out of place, hear even the fragment of a sentence that could have been a clue, and so on and so forth.

And then, not unlike a candle being put out with a simple exhale, his thoughts drifted away with the least bit of resistance. He was not asleep, but was instead somewhere between resting and waking, balanced as if on the edge of a blade on that middle point. In that state he dreamed and remembered in the same breath.

The dream was one of violence, and was the same one he had experienced any time he chose to rest for years, be it full sleep or simple meditation. One where he relived every single experience, with all of his senses in flashes-

He remembered the dark and the cold. He remembered the stillness, the silence, and how that had all shattered in just a moment. How, suddenly, there was movement all around him, quick and hard for him to even follow with his eyes. He remembered how instinct took over, and how that was the only reason why he didn't die with the first attack, instead swinging his silver sword up and around to guard his throat.

He remembered barely being able to counterattack, despite all of his training, and all of his preparation. How Signs may have well have been obscene gestures, with how little they were doing him. How he was stuck using his sword more as a shield. And how the metal was knocked out of his hand like it were merely a piece of wood, and snapped like a twig too.

And then he remembered getting his throat slit open, the sharp pain reliving again in a dull throb in the presence. How he fell backwards, and the next rakes went down his chest. Really, it should have been the end of his life then and there, thanks to his own desperation, stupidity, and weakness, but he had been smart enough not to come alone.

The numbers frightened his attacker, and it fled. What he remembered next was slipping into unconscious, and it was then he opened his eyes. The dream, clearly, hadn't passed like the rest of time; it had been drawn out impossibly only like a dream could be, and already grey light was leaking through the cracks in the boards. Slowly, he began to rise up, his muscles beginning to tense once again.

With his full awareness came a brief flash of anger, so much so that his teeth ground together. After just another moment he once more began to relax, and with that came a breath that released all of his stress. For many, many years he had been nothing more than constantly angry, but then the months turned into years turned into decades, and he was calm. No longer was his wrath hot. Instead, his vengeance was now very cold, and very, very patient.

Each tool was picked back up, and placed back into its proper place. The swords were sheathed, and all of the straps and belts were tightened down. He left the inn quietly, well before anyone else was up; even the keepers were still dozing, not really ready to prepare for the new day. He exited without taking more than a piece of bread that had been left out, and as he chewed on the stale loaf he stepped out to the stables, where his horse was waiting.

He fed it a better meal than he had fed himself, and once it was ready to go he splashed some of the cleanest water he could find onto his face, before he swung himself up onto the saddle. One breath later and he flicked the reins, sending him on his way once again.

Quickly, he left the slightest resemblance of civilization behind that was the village. He followed the river nearby, and the path set into it, as was the usual tradition with the settling of villages. Everything was quiet, and still. For the most part, the monsters who roamed the night had gone back into their holes, and the monsters who roamed the day began to pull themselves from their caverns and their beds.

It was a very rare moment of quiet.