The air had gotten colder again.
Not the murderous kind from the mountain, just the kind that reminded you boots had seams and winter didn't care.
The snow in the village had turned to a soft crunch, trampled down by enough footsteps to make it politely navigable.
The inn sat at the end of the lane like it had done something heroic. Probably hadn't. But it was warm, and it had chairs.
Lindarion shoved his hands in his pockets and let the others trail behind at varying degrees of exhaustion and carbohydrate overload.
Meren was hiccuping softly like he'd fought and lost a battle with a potato dumpling.
Ren had stolen something from the counter. Again. She was halfway through eating it. No one stopped her anymore.
Ashwing trotted beside Lindarion with a little too much confidence for a creature who had tried to eat soap this morning.
"Don't get used to being fed three meals a day," Lindarion muttered. "You're still technically a wild animal."
