The next morning, Reynard was in an agonizing state.
"Good god..." he murmured as he sat up, the insides of his stomach churning. "I really shouldn't have drunk so much," he groaned as he clutched his nightstand and struggled to stand up. "The things this stuff does to your insides is torture indeed."
Somehow, he got to his feet, but not before he had tried to remember how he had got into bed in the first place. No way did Uncle Franke carry him all the way up. No absolute way. Reynard stared at his bed for a minute or two in deep thought before sighing and heading downstairs.
As usual, the inn was swarmed with laughter and clinking of beer jugs. People sat in the lounging area with their meal trays in front of them, and a couple of children ran around chasing each other. For a professional inn, this was quite a cozy atmosphere.
Reynard approached his Uncle's desk where he sat drinking a glass of juice and checking something off of his register.
