Morwen jumped at the immediate shouting, she gulped, letting Morgen talk a moment. She scanned the room, hunching her shoulders and gripping the edges of her dress. She took a shuddering breath, reaching a hand into her a sewn pocket slowly and producing a coin purse. It was frankensteined like her dress, various patterns and fabrics tied together with a ratty piece of thread-bare rope. Only this time, there was a color theme. She had seem to taking a liking to the color green. All the fabrics ha da splash of the verdant degree to it.

She held onto Morgen as she moved closer, only he could feel that she was trembling. It’s always this way with the first interaction in a new outpost. The innkeepers were normally the gossip of the outposts, the ones who know the regulars and the wary of newcomers. They already made a commotion. If the Miraclum was truly following them. This innkeeper could remember them, the black dog, the patchworked outfits. They stood out too much. The short walk to the counter was filled with heart-pounding, worst-case scenarios. Torture, recapture, death, those were just some of the scenes going on in her head.

A clink of her coin purse on the desk ended those thoughts, at least for now. Morwen looked up to the aging innkeeper. The twins eyes were a little too big for her sunken face, hair wild and frizzed from her days in the elements and lips chapped. She huffed, “Do you have vacancy?” Her voice did not waiver, but only spoke loud enough for the innkeeper to hear. She gripped tightly to her brother’s hand.