KORBIN
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
That blushed and bloomed,
It was more early than late. The Kraai was quiet, all the patrons gone for the night or asleep in their rooms, or on cots by the flickering light of the hearth. After posting the notice earlier in the day, Korbin had spent the majority of the day answering questions, reassuring the refugees and interrogating the staff. Most of them would have to leave. Only the chef remained of the people Weaver had originally hired, the rest casually hiring themselves or replacing a friend or just pitching in... and he was grateful. No question, they had stepped up when he couldn't and Korbin sent them off with good words and a small cask of booze each, and there weren't too many hard feelings. But they still had to go. And without competent staff, with food and liqour stores severely depleted, he had no choice but to close down.
It was a good time for it. Would mean he could start fresh with the new season. Get the place properly cleaned up, new business connections established, new staff hired.
Have a week to himself to get used to the idea of committing to this life, to this business. To realize what the fuck he was doing.
Exhausted, but too wound up to sleep, Korbin had roamed into the kitchen. It was a mess, completely unacceptable, and he stared numbly at the greasy walls, the dirty floor, at unwashed pots and pans stacked high next to cutting boards he could have boiled soup on.
It was too much. Too big, too heavy. Slumping hard against the wall, Korbin dragged a hand over the face, craving a drink so badly that his hands shook.
The wall shifted beneath his back. There was a hollow sound, as of an echo being spread through a hollow space, and Korbin turned around, puzzled. He tapped the wall again, trying different places, to see if there was a difference in the sound. There was. Frowning, he fetched a candle and lit it on the hearth, and with the added light he searched for... anything. Color discrepancies, indentions... the fingers of his free hand searched for cracks and founf one.
Minutes later he stepped back, grim faced, and stared at the outline of a door. It was faint, cleverly disguised, and so hard to see that if he looked away he almost couldn't find it again. But the door was there. And it had a keyhole. Clearly the door led somewhere.
Since when had there been a room here?
It was a good time for it. Would mean he could start fresh with the new season. Get the place properly cleaned up, new business connections established, new staff hired.
Have a week to himself to get used to the idea of committing to this life, to this business. To realize what the fuck he was doing.
Exhausted, but too wound up to sleep, Korbin had roamed into the kitchen. It was a mess, completely unacceptable, and he stared numbly at the greasy walls, the dirty floor, at unwashed pots and pans stacked high next to cutting boards he could have boiled soup on.
It was too much. Too big, too heavy. Slumping hard against the wall, Korbin dragged a hand over the face, craving a drink so badly that his hands shook.
The wall shifted beneath his back. There was a hollow sound, as of an echo being spread through a hollow space, and Korbin turned around, puzzled. He tapped the wall again, trying different places, to see if there was a difference in the sound. There was. Frowning, he fetched a candle and lit it on the hearth, and with the added light he searched for... anything. Color discrepancies, indentions... the fingers of his free hand searched for cracks and founf one.
Minutes later he stepped back, grim faced, and stared at the outline of a door. It was faint, cleverly disguised, and so hard to see that if he looked away he almost couldn't find it again. But the door was there. And it had a keyhole. Clearly the door led somewhere.
Since when had there been a room here?
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
Of the old time entombed.
