Out of Character:
Make all the "gotta' keep your plants watered" jokes you want, but this storm is getting ridiculous.
From what the guards told me when I arrived into Beinost, it had been raining hard for two days already and there were no signs of it letting up. This sea-born storm was dumping inches upon inches into the port city as the hours ticked by, causing all activity to come to a grinding halt. The port district had been closed, the street market vendors covered up their wares in heavy tarps and sought shelter until the storm passed, and the few families that made their livelihoods in this magically-crafted city kept their children inside to play, opting to lose their sanity from the noise and activity rather than risk them catching cold from the weather.
By the time I was able to trudge my way down the rain-slick cobblestone streets towards the closest tavern, I was absolutely drenched through the fabric of my hooded cloak. Useless piece of garbage that it is, it still allowed a considerable amount of water through. Everything was soaked--my hair, my vest, my briar-knit arms... It was like I wasn't even wearing the damn thing, and had decided to prance around in this mess like a lunatic.
The establishment I managed to find myself in front of was this decent looking place, the freshness of its wood and stone of its walls giving off the vibe that it was recently constructed. Burned into a wooden sign above the door was the name The Rusted Root, along with a picture of gnarled masses of the namesake painted below in symmetrical patterns.
I gripped the iron doorknob tightly, twisted it, and gave the reinforced oak a healthy shove. The change of atmosphere was almost sudden and shocking. The interior of the inn was quite dry and warm, compared to the windy torrent that raged outside. I tossed my traveling satchel onto the floor in a damp heap and slammed the door behind me.
The commotion caught the attention of a man a few years younger than myself behind the counter. He was a half-elf, so my age math might be off and he could be a few decades older than me--but the point is he looks a bit younger than me, at the very least. He stood a solid head taller than I did, and was dressed in a sort of casual finery that told me his little business here had been moderately successful in the time it was open.
Looking around the place, though, you wouldn't know just how well off it was either way. Granted, it was in the middle of the afternoon, but the place was empty by even those standards. Not a single patron sat in any of the oak chairs, nursing drinks and telling stories to friends. Off against the far wall, a fire roared that gave off enough heat to make the place comfortable.
The halfling host shot me the most professional of looks as I stood there a complete sopping mess. I grabbed a dripping chunk of my hair and moved it out of the way of my eyes. I shook my arms free of water, splattering rain all over the place like a dog. My pants added to the slowly-growing puddle. I looked back at the innkeep, a look of silent desperation etched on my thin, pale features.
"Would you like a room to wait this storm out in," he finally asked.
"That would be lovely," I confirmed with a quick nod.
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