. . .

It was a cold and glimmering morning

It was a cold and glimmering morning after the dark and stormy night. People huddled into their wrappings when they needed to be out and about. It was a Sunday, and the roads were nearly bare, of people at least, as many many fireplaces sprouted many many fires in a futile attempt to warm the inhabitants.

It was cold. It was bitterly cold. The unexpected snowstorm had come in with the unexpected cold front, and the sole topic of conversation was "It NEVER snows out here!" This statement was self-evidently false, but it was true that it had not happened previously in the memory of any of the locals. Mr. Edwards, who lived off of 8th street, and who was the third oldest person living in those parts, claimed that another snowfall had fallen in his youth, but Mr. Graves and the aggressively Ms. Petersen (otherwise known as Grandma Elsie) both agreed that that had been a mild bout of hail. Nothing like this.

The streets were paved with white up to mid-shutter height, with occasional drifts ranging up to just below chimney level, and the Henderson's house, unfortunately situated in a dip in the surrounding hills, was completely covered. The only proof anyone had that any of the Henderson clan survived was the thin plume of smoke that emanated from something in that direction. No one cared to investigate further. It was difficult enough to negotiate the actual roads - anyone attempting to travel into the countryside was asking not to be found until spring.

Still, the Goat stood, and welcomed any who cared to enter. The sign out front was covered, but everyone who lived in the area could find the way blindfolded, and anyone nearby who was just passing through had either made it to the inn already or would not be located until the aforementioned spring. A path had been beaten out from the doorway into the street, and the street had been cleared for a short distance in all three directions (as Drover's Lane dead-ended on the King's Highway just outside), and it had been uniformly agreed that these measures would be sufficient. The place was packed enough as it was.

It had once been the Galloping Green Goat Inn and Stablery, but the unwieldiness of the name got whittled down by the past three generations, and now it was simply the Goat. The sign that hung out front depicting a running goat was so faded that it was difficult to tell that it once had been green. The current proprietor had no interest in getting the sign repainted. She held a permanent grudge against artists whose source was never explained, and had once kneed a gentleman who offered to pay his substantial drinks bill by exercising his artistic talents on the sign's behalf so hard that he couldn't move under his own power for several minutes. He flew through the air very nicely, however. The memory still occasionally caused her to smile.

On this particular morning, the place was rather rowdier than it was wont to be on a Sunday morning. It had been decided, en masse, that it was too cold for the church, a decision with which the priest heartily agreed. Most of the town had spent the night gazing out through the windows at the falling snow and drinking, and when the windows were covered over, continuing to drink unabated. By this point, most of the weaker souls were strewn over the tables in the corner, but the remainder had gotten louder to compensate for the losses. The other Ms. Petersen (the granddaughter of Grandma Elsie, and a force to be reckoned with in her own right - known to her friends as Greta, and to everyone else as Innkeep) had announced that her stocks of wine were giving out, but that she had plenty of ale left, and that "the lot of you can just go on drinkin' until the devil himself comes a'callin', you drunk bastards," which conversational sally had been met with a prolonged cheer. Somehow, it had been decided - no one was quite certain by whom - that there was some kind of contest going on, and to stop drinking was to lose. A few had awakened from their stupor, and after some good-natured mockery, they were allowed to rejoin the game, with the understanding that they were swaggering nancy-boys. A good time was being had by most.

One of the ones who wasn't was one of the out-of-towners. His name had been given, gruffly, simply as Griffin, and at that he had glared so sharply at the inquiring barmaid that she hadn't had the courage to ask if that was a first or last name. He had gone up to bed early, ignoring the contest altogether, and had come down as soon as dawn could be seen at his second floor window. Now, he was turning that formidable glare on the snow preventing him from leaving and muttering to himself. The younger Mr. Brooks whispered to Mr. Whistler that he saw the snow outside steaming because of it, and they shared a quiet chuckle at the thought.

Mr. Brooks would have been very surprised if he had examined the snow rather more closely. It was, in fact, steaming where the traveler's gaze had fallen on it. It had even melted slightly in a straight path out from the window.

The barmaid, Lissa, after having made the rounds of the bar downstairs, tentatively approached Griffin. "May I... would you like some breakfast, sir?"

Griffin turned his glare back upon her. Lissa wilted, and scurried to her other duties. Obviously, this was one traveler who wished not to be disturbed.

Griffin turned his attention back to the snow, ignoring the presence sitting across the table from him. Curiously enough, while Griffin himself and all the other nonlocals were the topic of much curiosity on the parts of the locals (questioning what had posessed any of them to travel through such misbegotten areas as this during these kinds of conditions. The fact that the locals themselves had been caught utterly unprepared for the weather was ignored in favor of the traditional bar sport of foreigner mocking.), the young man sitting with him was utterly ignored, even by the barmaid.

"Glaring at the snow won't get you out of here any faster," the man said.

Griffin ignored him.

"Neither will pissing off the barmaid. this during these kinds of conditions. The fact that the locals themselves had been caught utterly unprepared for the weather was ignored in favor of the traditional bar sport of foreigner mocking.), the young man sitting with him was utterly ignored, even by the barmaid.

"Glaring at the snow won't get you out of here any faster," the man said.

Griffin ignored him.

"Neither will pissing off the barmaid. All that's going to do is leave you without any breakfast."

"Will you shut up? This is your damn quest! Is it too much to ask that it be over with quickly?"

kind of weather?