Juliette swung down out of the saddle and wiped her hands on her trousers. It occured to her that everything she owned in the world had been at the inn she had slept at... last night? She tried not to think about how long she had been in the cursed orchestra and how much time might have passed in the real world. Whatever she owned would have long since been taken by the innkeeper, who probably assumed she had been mugged or otherwise met an unsavory end. She hefted the lute she had taken from the Court of Mist-Shrouded Tindar in one hand. It was evidently ancient, the dark timber having drunk the polish of generations, its gold inlay worn smooth against the fingertips of countless players. Well she supposed she could make do.

"I never refuse free drinks from knights who rescue me from cursed castles out of ledgend," Juliette deadpanned as she followed Torm into the tavern. It was only early afternoon but the place was already doing considerable business. A fat tapster with a lazy eye was bustling behind a bar of battered would, pulling pints of foamy ale into wooden tankards, making coins vanish in exchange for booze. Three adobe ovens squatted against a far wall, wafting the smell of course brown bread out to cover the familiar combination of sour ale, human sweat, and pipesmoke that clung to every tavern Juliette had ever visited, except for those in Tirabai, where the local duke had outlawed pipeweed on pain of an amputated nose. There were perhaps a score of people in the place, the usual oldsters who spend their days swapping stories and quaffing ale, a soot stained blacksmith taking an afternoon break from his labors, and a trio of farmers who were busily discussing what was either a live stock deal or a marriage, it was difficult to determine which without context. All of them wore homespun smocks and most of the coins Juliette saw were coppers. Simple people enjoying what little they had.

All eyes turned to them as they entered and conversation died down before rising up in a series of mutters that speculated on who the newcomers were. It was doubtful that a place like this got many knights, and probably not too many more bards. If she had coin in her pocket and a horse beneath her Juliette doubted she would have been tempted to stop. Roadside taverns were a place where a song and a tale might get you free lodging, but might also get you fleas, lice, or your throat cut if the locals were of a particularly rough sort. Fortunately these didn't and Juliette didn't have a horse or coin to seek better lodgings.

"Gods help us," she murmured in a voice so low that only Torm could catch it.