A portly man, his face framed by a magnificent mustache and round spectacles, barked orders from behind a counter of ornately carved, dark wood. The grand clock behind him, a monstrosity of polished brass and swinging pendulums, was ticking its way toward noon. The entire establishment hummed with the frantic energy of preparation.
Innkeeper: "Come on, move it! Need I remind you we are almost fully booked?! Many of our esteemed guests have come from all corners of the world to see the Grand Melee! For many, we are the first beacon of civilization they have seen in days."
Servants scurried, their movements a blur of black and white uniforms. Rags slick with beeswax glided over mahogany tabletops, making them gleam like dark mirrors.
Innkeeper: "So I want everything immaculate..."
Mops swished across the hardwood floors, erasing every trace of dirt.
Innkeeper: "... pristine..."
Feather dusters flicked at the wrought-iron chandeliers, where gas lamps hissed softly.
Innkeeper: "... spotless..."
The grand entrance doors swung open with a sudden, jarring thud, spilling a trio of figures into the opulent lobby.
Innkeeper: "... f-filthy...?"
The word was a choked gasp. The servants froze. A butler, mid-polish, stared with his mouth agape. A maid nearly dropped a stack of fresh linens. The air, thick with the scent of lemon oil and old money, was suddenly tainted by the smell of the road -- of sweat, dust, and the faint, coppery tang of dried blood. Three figures stood there, their clothes torn and stained, worn weapons hanging at their sides, looking utterly, profanely out of place.
Xayn: "Well. I suddenly get the sensation we are somewhat under-dressed for the occasion..."
Bazren: "The hell, witch?! This isn't the kind of inn I was expecting! We can't even afford to--"
Innkeeper: "Oh, I assure you, we were not expecting your ilk here, either!"
The innkeeper rounded the counter, a thunderous expression on his face, his considerable belly leading the charge.
Innkeeper: "You'll have to excuse me, but we are at full capacity. I must ask that you leave--"
Mola stepped past her companions. Her movement was fluid, her expression a veil of cold indifference. She shoved the worn leather pouch of coins under the innkeeper's nose, the clinking sound sharp and loud in the sudden silence.
Mola: "... Purdamma will not take kindly to your turning away of her protegé. You realize this, right?"
The man's eyes, which had been narrowed in fury, widened at the sound of the coins, then bulged at the mention of the name. He took a clumsy step back, his gaze darting over Mola's face, recognition dawning like a dreadful sunrise.
Innkeeper: "M-miss Mola?! O-oh! Apologies, many apologies!"
He bowed, a gesture made awkward by his girth.
Innkeeper: "I barely recognized you! My, my my... Whatever happened to you?"
Mola untied the pouch.
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Mola: "Bandits, that's what. Luckily, I had these two brave bodyguards with me. I trust we can at least expect a meal...?"
She tilted the pouch, and a cascade of gold coins tumbled out, ringing as they rolled across the spotless marble floor.
Mola: "You should find those ought to cover our expenses."
His eyes followed the coins with a greedy, mesmerized glint. The amount was far more than necessary.
Innkeeper: "Oh, you are too kind! But please, a meal is the very least we could do. Hey, you!"
He clapped his hands twice, his voice booming with renewed, obsequious authority.
Innkeeper: "See to it our three guests here are treated with the utmost prestige, understood? Take them to one of our VIP rooms, and fetch a clean set of clothes for them to slip into!"
Mola cinched her pouch shut, crossing her arms as if she had expected no less.
Mola: "Good."
As a butler hurried forward, bowing deeply, Mola prepared to follow. She glanced back to see Xayn and Bazren still standing near the entrance, their new faces etched with identical masks of stunned disbelief.
Mola: "Come on, you two. Move it!"
They followed her, the innkeeper scraping and bowing as they passed, his earlier hostility completely forgotten. The butler led them down an ornate hallway, the walls lined with rich tapestries and polished oak doors, until they reached the larger, more luxurious rooms at the far end.
Xayn: "'Purdamma'...? Is that your Master's name?"
Mola sighed, the sound heavy with a weariness that went beyond the physical.
Mola: "Was, anyway. Yes. She is well known in the surrounding area. Her name carries weight, as you could see first-hand."
She drew closer as the butler fumbled with a keyring.
Mola: "For as long as word of her death doesn't get around, we can use that to our advantage... although that card won't remain up our sleeve for long."
The butler unlocked one of the most distant doors, swinging it open and gesturing for them to enter a spacious, well-appointed room.
Butler: "Please, make yourselves at home! The bath is to your left. We shall promptly deliver a new set of clothes for you, in the meantime."
Mola swept inside without a word. Xayn and Bazren followed.
Xayn: "Thank you."
Bazren: "Yeah, thanks."
The butler offered a heartwarming, professional smile, though his eyes darted nervously over the bloodstains on their clothes.
Butler: "My pleasure! Lunch will start being served in around half an hour. You will find that our meals are to die for!"
Mola: "Great. A better reason to end up six feet under than that of the poor idiots we met earlier."
The butler's smile tightened, a flicker of disgust in his eyes.
Butler: "I-I will be going, now. If you need anything, please, pull the rope by the bed. One of the maids will be with you shortly."
Mola, her back already turned, waved a dismissive hand.
Mola: "Yeah, yeah."
The door clicked shut, leaving them in the luxurious silence.
Mola: "Alright. You two will have to excuse me, but I'm going first. I've been aching for a good, warm bath..." She began to untie the laces of her stained robes.
Bazren: "OY! Do that in there, would ya?!"
Mola paused, her robes half-open.
Mola: "Huh?"
She let them fall to the floor in a heap, leaving her standing in her simple underthings.
Mola: "Oh. So you've seen me sacrifice limbs. Deform into shapes that could haunt your nightmares. Almost get devoured by a bloodthirsty dagger. You have tried to kill me, seen me kill, and killed by my side. But suddenly..."
She spread her arms, gesturing to her own body.
Mola: "... this, is too much? This is where the line is drawn? Grow up."
She turned, her bare back to them as she walked towards the bathroom door.
As she did, they saw it.
Xayn's breath caught in his throat. It was not a scar. A scar was a mark of healing, a story of survival written on skin. This was a wound in reality itself. A pitch-black fissure that originated from the base of her spine, spiderwebbing all the way up her back in a fractal pattern of impossibly fine, dark cracks. It didn't look like an injury; it looked like the very fabric of her being had been torn open, revealing a glimpse of the absolute nothingness beneath.
Xayn: "Holy..."
Mola's head swiveled around, her glare sharp and defensive, catching his horrified stare.
Mola: "Tch! What is it, pervert?! That long since you've seen a woman showing a bit more skin?"
She disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door shut.
Mola (muffled): "Honestly...!"
The sound of running water began. Xayn and Bazren exchanged a look, their new faces pale with a shared, silent horror...