Areyn led the way through Shelby to the Horseshoe, one of the two inns within the town’s boundaries. It was a two-story house stretched long, giving the appearance of four of the smaller abodes stacked beside and on top of each other, two by two. Rough wood panels covered the outside of the inn, bridging the occasional stone support that ran up to the inn’s grey clay shingled roof.
It was late afternoon, wearing on to evening as the pair pushed open the stiff wooden door of the inn.
The air inside the Horseshoe was quiet and still. No one lingered at a table, nor sat at the bar a woman stood behind, rubbing down the counter with a cloth. There were several short casks piled behind her, along with a small assortment of coloured bottles, each a subtly different shade.
The Horseshoe’s innkeeper—a kind woman called Geraldine with ample cleavage, a naturally amicable face and messy hair pulled back with a dishcloth she’d fashioned into an impromptu bandana
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