Quentin had all but settled down; he waited patiently as the waitress brought all he requested.
He began with the spit-roasted pheasant, its skin perfectly golden and crisp, glazed with honey and infused with thyme. Tearing into the leg, he savoured the harmonious blend of smoky sweetness and the herbaceous tang that lingered on his tongue, the juices rich and satisfying.
The bards beautiful symphony accompanying him along as sweat bullets formed on his forehead.
Quentin was having a feast to remember, and he wasn't done yet.
Next, his attention turned to the venison pie, its flaky crust yielding easily beneath his knife to reveal tender chunks of stewed venison bathed in a rich, red wine gravy. The filling was studded with wild mushrooms, their earthy depth complemented by a subtle hint of nutmeg, warming each bite as it settled on his palate.
Away in the far end of the inn, a drunken customer was causing a ruckus. Quentin, being some ways away from the drama, did not get the full discussion, but he knew the drunk man was in the wrong when he said something about the food here being below par.
He shrugged off every distraction, re-aligning his focus back to the meal that lay in front of him.
'Once I'm done eating, I'll have to find a way to talk to that polite waitress.'
A smaller platter offered thin slices of cured boar, their ruby-red flesh edged with a glistening rind of fat. He paired one with a sliver of sharp cheese, the salty, savoury richness of the meat balanced beautifully by the cheese's tangy creaminess. Each bite demanded his full attention, as if such a pairing warranted a moment of reverence.
At the centre of the table rested the pièce de résistance: a slow-cooked haunch of lamb, its tender flesh falling apart under the gentle touch of his fork. A drizzle of garlic-mint sauce elevated its richness, the bright, fresh tang cutting through the earthy succulence. Every morsel was a symphony of flavour, the kind that demanded silence in appreciation.
He paused briefly, reaching for his goblet of mead. The honeyed brew swept over his palate, its sweetness tempering the robust flavours of the meal. His gaze then drifted to another dish: a platter of quail eggs delicately wrapped in crisp bacon and dusted with paprika. He plucked one and bit through its layers, the smoky bacon giving way to the velvety yolk within—a perfect, indulgent finale.
He was full.
This feast was not merely sustenance; it was an ode to the art of the hunt, the comfort of the hearth, and the sheer pleasure of dining. As Quentin leaned back, his hunger sated, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. In this moment, he felt the profound joy of savouring life's most primal and satisfying offerings.
The inn was alive with activity. The drunken man had been escorted out by what Quentin assumed was the security. Two gigantic-looking ogres in the most pristine suit Quentin had ever seen had escorted the drunk off the enterprise.
Lanterns cast a golden glow over the rough-hewn wooden tables, and the hearty laughter of patrons mingled with the clinking of tankards.
Quentin sat at a corner table, his military-trained posture at odds with the relaxed chaos of the room. He had eaten to his heart and silently hoped he had enough to pay for the meal, even though he was sure that the coins in the pouch were more than enough.
"The pouch…"
He realised the pouch was gone. His relaxed composure flew out the closed windows as he patted the jumpsuit he had on, desperately searching for any signs of the pouch.
Plates of food were still piled high in front of him. He glanced at the little serving girl who was behind the counter, poring ale for a rather scary-looking man.
Everyone in the inn began to scare him. He had noticed the weird looks he got from other eaters when the plates of food kept coming over, but he didn't care.
Now he was done eating, but alas, the money to pay was nowhere to be found. The ones that looked at him with envy now had a legitimate reason to hurt him.
He calmed himself down as his training kicked in. He looked around the inn; no one had been paying him much attention during his search for the pouch.
'Phew, thank goodness I didn't attract any weary eye. Now what to do?'
He kept on sweeping across the inn, his mind calculating the best thing to do. The exit was on the far end of the inn. No way he was just going to Walmart right out without paying.
Just then the little waitress walked up to him, brimming with an even bigger smile than the one she had on earlier.
"The Limbo's Meat hope you're enjoying your meal, sir? Our owner sent me over to your table to get your personal review," she said, motioning to a man that sat in front of the bar area.
He had an eye patch slung over one eye and was sipping something out of a beautiful black glass cup, his one good eye meeting Quentin's as he turned towards where the waitress had pointed.
"It's amazing!! I'm having the time of my life, and you know what? I'd really love a refill of my... What's this called again?"
"Ale?"
"Yes, Ale. Hurry up, please; I can't continue with the feast if I don't have any of them beautiful honey ales to wash down with."
"Coming right up!!"
This was a revelation. It had been far too long since he'd tasted anything so rich and satisfying. The spices, foreign yet somehow comforting, warmed him from the inside.
But now the meal was slowly turning into poison in his belly. How was he going to pay for the meal? And the inn owner didn't strike him as someone who'd gladly accept an 'I owe you' note.
The meat was on fire, but it was Quentin that was being cooked.
Earlier, the day had been a blur of noise and new faces. He remembered the crowded market, where ragged children darted through the throngs like fish in a stream.
He recalled one had nearly bumped into him, muttering a hurried apology before disappearing into the crowd. He'd barely given it a second thought, distracted by the overwhelming sights and smells of the bustling Inferno Realm.
Now, though, reaching into his pocket once more, hoping the pouch had done a miraculous return, he realised and frankly was impressed at how good the kids were at pickpocketing.
The waitress returned with a fill-up. The scent of the sweet ale was almost enticing Quentin enough to overshadow his real problems.
"Mind telling me were your bathrooms at Sweetheart?"
"Oh, its up the stairs to your right; there's a pretty huge signboard; you can't miss it," she said, poring the last drops into Quentin's cup before turning away.
"And don't forget to give my regards to the owner," he called after her.
Quentin took big gulps of the ale, allowing himself to feel the sweetness of the drink before he proceeded with his plan.
One thing he noticed about buildings in this town were their big windows. It was pretty understandable because there was a plethora of sizes in the realm, and I guess the builders have to have everyone in mind as they build.
He stood up, the weight of alcohol causing him to stagger a bit as he walked for the stairs. His movements were deliberately shaky as he advanced.
He got up the beautiful steps, and sure enough, there were runic markings on the walls. The design is a little overkill for a bathroom sign.
In the men's room, he was lucky enough to meet it sparsely occupied, and he knew this was a sign his plan would walk out perfectly.
He tried pushing the windows up, but they must've been screwed shut because they refused to budge. He briefly contemplated busting them open but decided against it.
Flushing the toilet to keep up the ruse, he left the restroom. Now, when he had come up the steps, the signs told him to take a right to get to the restroom, but now his plan had failed and he still needed a way out of here.
Time was of the essence because there was only so much departure from your food and your table you could afford before the management began suspecting foul play.
Quentin got to the magnificent staircase but decided to continue down the hall. To the left side of the hallway, a singular gigantic door blocked the way and was tagged 'administrative unit for staff only'.
He summoned the artefact he had. The Timer. He needed to move fast if he was to move in this unit without being detected.
He knew using this was a gamble because if he needed to get out of a physical fight, the boost if only for 10 seconds was a good addition to boost the probability in his favour.
Knowing this didn't matter. If he had his way, he'd want to go through his first day without having to fight the locals.
The familiar euphoric feeling returned to him as the counter began. Everything slowed down as he moved at stealthy speed.
The gods must have been watching him because before long he stumbled across the wardrobe department, and in a jiffy he had changed into the suit the security wore and had shoved his jumpsuit into a suitcase he found lying about.
The timer had run out at this point, and Quentin was out of the wardrobe department, heading right down the path he had walked, aiming for the staircase.
Two waiters came running up, a male and a female. They looked normal as far as human standards go for normal, and his heart almost sank into his torso; he had been caught.
"What are you doing here?"
"..."
"We've had a dasher. The security team is looking for a young human about yay tall; you should be down there," the male waiter said.
"No, think about it... If you were the dasher, you'd probably think this block would be the safest spot to hide." The female waitress replied.
Quentin heaved a sigh in his mind. He pushed past the two and ignored the chatter they were trying to have with him.
He had been made. Someone had probably gone to check on him in the restroom and had discovered him missing. The situation was very bad.
On the flip side, the two waiters had not recognised him; his disguise was working after all.
Quentin climbed down the staircase steel-faced. He was impressed at how much decorum they had utilised in their search for him. No other customer present acted like they knew what was going on.
It was all still a merry time for them.
'They do not want a ruckus, good for me.'
Quentin held the backpack firmly as he walked, his eye set straight for the exit door. He nodded a courtesan greeting to the guard as he passed. Stepping into the fresh air of freedom, he heard.
"Oi! You!"
Quentin didn't respond or look back; he kept on walking, as briskly as he was, not missing a singular stride.
The moment he turned a corner he made a proper run for it.
Weaving boxes of produce and dodging market people with immense skill, he could hear the giant thunder of running ogres behind him.
Ducking into a run-down alley at the last second, he watched them run. He had successfully given them the slip, and now it was time to find those dumb kids.