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The Waystone Inn
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During the early evening, as the snow fell and began to white out the horizon, a horse strode through. It was pretty quiet throughout this town as Grask rode along. A dingy place on the fringe of civilization, where few people went and even fewer stayed. Or so the stories went. The only interesting thing about it was that ominous tower in the distance. Having planned this route in advance, the Artificer knew that the structure was there. He hadn’t come here with the intent to tamper with a legend of the area. The aftermath of a meteor, in this place, with that on the horizon? Interesting as it was, Grask was just passing through.

Greyharrow was the only place between his place of work and a Coldrest, a colony far up into the mountains. They were better off than here, and their proximity to the sky gave access to unusual metals. Meteorites charged with energy from beyond the material sphere, shards of ice that first froze when the gods were said to walk the land, and, if one could believe the superstitions, a [i]haunted[/i] platinum mine. They got a great deal of trade despite the location, largely through entities that had access to air travel or teleportation. Grask [i]didn’t,[/i] so he had to leg it by horse.

And yet he still had another day of travel ahead of him. And it was getting damn cold. He knew it would. He was about an hour ahead of schedule, thanks to the weather being clear most of the day.

Grask paid a stablemaster to keep his horse for the night. And then the doors to the Waystone Inn flung open.

The lightly armored Artificer stepped inside. A wool cloak was draped over a leather cuirass, mostly hiding the hefty satchel slung across his chest. On his arm was a piece of armor with what [i]appeared[/i] to be glass tubes filled with a purple substance. They glowed subtly enough one could miss in. And around his waist was a rather hefty-looking pistol. He looked the part of someone not from around here.

The Inn was awfully lively. The smell of foul alcohol hit his nose like a mallet, about as hard as he could imagine that Goliath hitting the floor. Something strong must have been on the menu. There were card games afoot, drunken fools all over the damned place, and music. Conventional wisdom back home was that Greyharrow was a depressing sight. Sometimes, people were wrong. Grask stepped around the throng of reveling drunkards and gamblers, and managed to find a path to the bar. The warmth from the fire was quite pleasant after a few hours on horseback.

Grask sat down  and reached into a fold of his armor. He waved a bartender over and ignored the blatant seduction happening just beside him.

[color=ea834e]”Ale if you have it, beer if you don’t. And a bowl of goat stew, please.”[/color] He sat two gold coins, and five silver coins down. A pretty respectable tip to the cooks and bartender herself, since Grask wasn’t a stingy man. That, and he was hungry. In his experience, showing some generosity to those who cooked usually meant food was warmer by the time it was served. And he was more than happy to pay extra for some warm food right about now.

[color=ea834e]"And keep the rest, thank you."[/color]