Darklands:Head to the inn
From Create Your Own Story
"YOU AGAIN?!"
You quickly duck the flying tankard and scramble beneath a nearby table, your sack abandoned on the doorstep.
"But Signora, I don't know wha-"
"YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHAT!" the voice thunders. You hear a slam as a wide, imposing, leathery-skinned woman comes striding out from behind the counter, clutching an iron poker.
Trembling like a leaf, afraid for your very life, you squeak, "But Signora, we've been friends so long, I thou-"
"YOU THOUGHT WRONG! I TOLD YOU NEVER TO COME BACK IN HERE!" she roars, as she upends the table in one swift motion. You squeal in fright and frantically crawl as fast your hands and legs can carry you over to the furthest corner of the room.
"To think I sheltered you under my roof! Never thought I'd see the day!"
Tables and chairs fly left and right as she makes her way across the room. Kneeling, you clasp your hands and pray feverishly for deliverance.
"Completely destroy the place, drive away half my clients-"
"E mica male," you can't help mumbling under your breath, even in your current state of mortal peril. You are sincerely remorseful for everything that happened that day, but still, if that great ugly brute hadn't made that comment about what your sister liked to do with a certain part of his anatomy after you beat him at briscola (you may have cheated), before your morning coffee no less, you probably never would have started that fight and you definitely would never have thrown that torch and started the fire that gutted the whole inn! You would love nothing more than to be able to make good and pay for the damage you caused, but you have no money...
"- and not even ashamed!"
You were about to launch into a "heartfelt" plea for mercy, accompanied by a waterfall of fake tears, but the first sob catches in your throat as you suddenly realize that it's the truth - you really have no shame. You're always blaming your shortcomings and mistakes on circumstances or on other people, telling yourself lies to explain away your sins. Genuine tears of shame, actually the first real tears you've cried in years, well up in your soft violet eyes as you remember how Marieta took you in when you had nowhere to go and fed and clothed you out of her own pocket - and you repaid her with selfishness and carelessness. And as you turn your tear-streaked face up to look at the very picture of rage that stands in front of you, for once your only thought isn't to weasel your way out of a jam or to make excuses.
"I... I'm sorry," you whisper, not in your well-honed pathetic wail, but with an unfamiliar sincerity. You cast your eyes downwards, too ashamed to look your would-be slayer in the eyes.
"I'm really sorry." You cry softly, not caring as rivers of salty tears stream down your face, onto your legs and sting your skinned knees. You brace yourself for the blow that will knock you into next week.
Instead, Marieta seethes between her teeth, "sorry for what?"
"I'm sorry... sorry for beating up your guests... and disemboweling some of them... and burning your inn down and slipping out while you were trying to beat the flames out of your skirt... and I..."
"And you what?"
"And I just want to make up for what I did... it was wrong, and - and it was all my fault," you choke out.
You wince, bracing again for the shot with the poker you know you probably deserve. After some of the tall tales you've told Marieta, after all, you don't expect that your sincere apology will sway her much.
So you blink in surprise as you hear the poker clatter against the wall and find yourself snatched up by the scruff of the neck, like a lioness picking up her cub, and unceremoniously dumped into a chair.
"Sorry... Now I've heard it all," growls Marieta as she stomps over to the counter and starts violently flinging what looks like stew into a bowl. "Sorry for destroying my livelihood, my home, my savings..."
While you sit meekly with your knees tucked into your chest, still blinking like a deer caught in headlights, she slams the bowl down in front of you with such force that most of it splashes out onto the table.
"Ungrateful little demoness, you say you're sorry, you don't know how sorry. CIAPA!"
You catch the spoon that comes hurtling towards you, still somewhat dazed.
"EAT!"
You snap out of your reverie and decide you'd better do as you're told, as your friend is now beating the daylights out of a slab of beef with a meat tenderizer the size of a sledgehammer.
