The Wayward Inn

Aging oak floorboards creaked beneath my heavy paws as they settled the first foot inside the threshold of the destination I’d so wearily wandered towards for near on a week’s travel now.  They felt good beneath my frozen pads, the well-worn, charming scars of so many other claws embedded deep in the memory of this place.  Much like the many rings of scarred tattoos along my forearms, they marked the years this structure had seen.  A sign I’d glimpsed between puffs of cold air and the ongoing flurries outside proudly declared ‘The Wayward Inn’ in four different languages.  One was Amurescan, the other were three local tribal dialects.  It had immediately put me at ease, because one of them was close enough to my own.  I could read Amurescan too by now, but it was a comfort to know I was welcome.  I’d been recommended this trade post, and indeed this particular Inn, but one never knows.  We Northerners are not always welcome, not even in border towns like this.  Not since the Otherwolves’ settlements had become more numerous than our own.
But from the moment I stepped inside, I knew that would be no issue here.  I’d caught the cacophony of voices, sounds and scents from outside, the windows were at least an inch thick of glass (necessary with the cold in these regions, if you were going to risk glass at all) but even that hadn’t dampened it all.  And of course, the chimneys had been venting various enticing odors, grilled meat and bread, probably some kind of stew. . . my mouth was watering already.  Hardly odd for me, but still.  I thought to wipe my jowls before I stepped in.  Big slavering bears made people nervous, even in a place like this.
Much to my delight, I drew nary a glance.  A few wolves and foxes were engaged in a rowdy game of cards at the table immediately to the right of the door, but only the foxes spared me the briefest of nervous looks before flicking their tails and getting right back into the argument they had previously been engaged in.  It looked like a traveling party of some sort, no real animosity there, just a lot of beer and friendly competition.  
My gaze swept the crowded, cluttered dining area, taking in another two dozen or so patrons and at least half a dozen servers, as well as two dogs tending a busy bar.  Proudly displayed along the walls were moose, caribou and great stag antlers, butting up against shelves of glittering canned food and a menagerie of wines and liquor, as varied as the guests staying here.  The proprietors clearly liked to have a broad variety of food and drink for what was certain to be a broad variety of guests, in a trade hub like this.  Anukeetsik, or as it had been recently renamed, ‘Kingsdale’, (don’t ask me to explain Otherwolf names, they’re all strange to me) was just down river from the Long God Lake, one of the greatest bodies of water in the North Country.  It connected via another great river to the ocean, eventually.  Or so I’d heard.  I’d never been so far east.
On the way here I’d seen some of the Otherwolves’ mighty canoes.  They called them ‘barges’, and it was no wonder with such a mastery of the rivers they had come so far inland and settled so much land as fast as they had.  My tribe hailed from much farther north, so we’d never suffered the ill effects of their incursion, only benefited from trade.  And for a fisherman in particular, especially in the winter when I could move frozen fish from far north to the traders here, there was no better time or place to do said trade.  I’d offloaded my entire month’s catch of salmon in a night, the Otherwolves were hungry for any fish that could be salted for their seafarers.  And everyone else in this region had cod. . . my catch was exotic here.
It had been a gamble, to be certain.  I’d come down the river many times before, but never towing such a haul on my raft, and never so far as this.  I’d been lucky and only gotten locked in the ice a few days’ time, for the most part the river spirits had led me on safely.  But if worst had come to worst, I could have hunkered down and lived off my catch through the winter and tried again next season.  That’s what I’d told my family, anyway.
	Of course, I was a bear.  I could well understand why my father and siblings, and anyone from my village, would find the journey I’d taken too dangerous.  They were otters.  Not to say I’d be in any doubt of their skills at negotiating the river, or bringing in a good haul during the spawning run.  But as to whether they’d have been able to transport their haul safely. . . that’s less certain. 
	I’d definitely drawn a lot of attention, traveling for weeks down-river, alone as I was with such a large raft.  But although there had been a few times I’d felt less than comfortable with the sorts of people I’d passed, or the attention I’d gotten at the various stops and camps I’d made, no one had apparently felt up to the task of making trouble for me.  And the reason for that was simple.  I’d met very few other men, even in my travels, who could rival me in size.  Even other bears.
	That was thanks to my mixed lineage.  But a turn of fate that had nearly doomed a young cub was now my saving grace.  And a boon for my otter family, if this run continued successfully.  I’d already sold my catch earlier today, the weight of the coins in my satchel were a comforting reminder of my success, and what it would mean for my family.  I’d spend a few days here, rest and eat well, and then I’d re-supply and head back upriver as far as I could before the ice really set.  I already had a halfway point picked out, a town I’d stopped in on the way down where I knew I could hire a guide and a few good mules, and I’d make the rest of my way back home on foot.  My clan was waiting for me.  The season had been good to us, and we were self-sufficient if pressed, but the coin would be a welcome relief.  The influx of the Otherwolves’ goods into our lands had made life easier in many ways, the little ones in particular certainly enjoyed some of the foodstuffs we were able to buy from their traders. 
	But it also meant that, in a way, you had to keep up.  The first of our hunters had bought a rifle last year, primarily for hunting.  Otters mostly fished, but a little variation in our winter meat had been welcome this past year.  Usually we had to barter with wolves for it, and those trades were never in our favor.  Fish weren’t much in demand in a land so rich with them.  
	The hunting aside though, things changed once we had a gun in our clan.  The wolves began to look at us differently.  At first it had seemed a good thing.  They weren’t fearful, but. . . respectful in a way they hadn’t been before.  Even if it was over a few pieces of metal and wood we’d bought and not anything of real merit, I think it had emboldened many of the clan.  A similar change had come about when I’d come of age, towering over my brothers and sisters, and eventually even my father.  The neighboring tribes had to take stock then of our clan’s ‘big brother’.  
It’s not that we’d ever been at war with them, at least not in my lifetime, but otters were often the meat-eaters of ‘smallest regard’, as my father liked to put it.  Even the fox clans, who kept close relations with the wolves, were invited to the tribal gathers, whereas we hadn’t been in nearly a generation.  Otter chiefs like my father used to be the lords of the rivers, but. . . that had changed once the Otherwolves came with their barges.  So I suppose in a way their incursion was having an effect on us, if not a completely devastating one.  It was more a matter of respect.	
But now, with the trappings these foreigners had brought, my father thought our best chance was to adapt to the new changes in our world.  To ride the current forward, he had said. . . not fight it, not paddle hopelessly backwards, like some of the other clans were doing.  He wanted us to adopt as many of the new things coming into our lands as we could.  So we had been trading as much as possible, we had welcomed many of them into our village, to varying degrees of success.  We had allowed a small town of them to settle along our river, and offered our hand in friendship.  And we had bought a rifle. 
	But then the wolves got guns of their own.
	We weren’t the only ones adapting.  It was inevitable, of course.  I had never fired one of their weapons, traveled on one of their barges or used any of their complicated tools, but I’d eaten some of their food and helped build a structure on our clan’s land using their ‘bricks’, and there was no denying that their strange ways were seductive.  I’d never forget the ‘apple pie’ they’d brought us.  Oh. . . maybe they had that here?
	Anyway.  There was no denying it would be easier for the wolves and foxes to befriend and learn from these Otherwolves.  They looked enough alike, although I’d heard you weren’t supposed to say that to the wolf clans.  Amongst themselves they drew a very serious distinction.  But there was no denying – they were made from the same stock.  I’m not sure why the gods chose to place wolves and foxes on both sides of the world, but not bears or otters, but there you had it.  These ‘other wolves’ were likely to get on with those who looked more like themselves than they were to with me, or my clan.  They could even intermarry and have pups, I’d heard.
	My father was intent to get ahead while we still could.  And bringing home a good share of their coin was key, if we wanted to do that.  The Otherwolves who lived on our river were willing to trade in goods, but our fish sold for far more here than it ever would up north.  And it was high time I began repaying my father’s, and my clan’s kindness in taking me in as a cub.  So if this is how I could serve my clan, I was happy to do it.
	It also meant I got to travel, which I was finding I greatly enjoyed.  In the last month, I’d seen more people than I’d ever seen in my life.  And that was just between home and a few towns along the way.  This place was the biggest town yet, and I’d only seen it at night so far!  I couldn’t wait to see how lively it would be tomorrow.  
	The Wayward Inn was lively enough on its own.  I had to push aside a few chairs as I made my way towards the bar, as in many dwellings I’d been in before, there just wasn’t always enough room for me to walk about without pushing things over.  A serving girl- a pretty weasel, I couldn’t help but note how she somewhat reminded me of some of the women in my clan – moved past me with a tray of bread held high, the aroma wafting right past my nostrils and setting me to licking my lips again.  She glanced briefly in my direction and I blanched, caught in the act.  I lowered my muzzle and nearly stumbled past her, and I swear I heard her giggling.
	The majority of the patrons here were canine, of course.  Tribal wolves and Otherwolves, the latter mostly recognizable by what they were wearing, their odd fur coloration, and in some cases, the bizarre, almost distorted ways their muzzles were built.  The more of them I’d seen, the more confusing the variety.  It was clear they were all wolves. . . once.  But their pelts were spotted, brindled and even short-furred sometimes, and their muzzles were often pushed in or drooping.  As were their ears.  I tried very hard not to stare, but you get used to seeing wolves looking one way your whole life, and it’s hard not to be shocked when your whole perception of them changes.
	I was hardly one to speak on looking odd, of course.  My own pelt was strange, even amongst the Great Northern bear clan I had likely come from.  My father- my adoptive father- had always told me they’d lived in the peaks near our clan’s land for generations, before the Ice Bears had driven them out.  They’d gone too, in time.  The Bear clans did not get on well with the Otherwolves, and even the Ice Bears, despite their size, had fared poorly in their skirmishes with the armed Otherwolf communities.  Rifles made all the difference.
	My adoptive mother believed I was the child of a union between the two tribes of bears, before they’d been driven out.  But if that was the case, something terrible must have befallen my parents, because my father’s clan had found me clinging to a fallen tree in the river when I was a cub.
	For my own part, I could remember none of it.  But I’d seen Great Northern bears and even one Ice Bear, and it was clear I carried the bloodline of both.  My fur was not pure and white like the Ice Bears, my undercoat was brown and cream-colored in places, especially along my spine and flanks, as well as my muzzle and eyes.  And my muzzle was shorter, like the Great Northern bears.  
	I had never known to be conscious of my appearance, because my family had never made me feel as though it were something to be ashamed of.  But since I’d reached adulthood and begun traveling to fish, and now to trade, I’d learned that to many others, I was. . . not normal.  And that it was shameful, at least to them, that I was not normal.
	It seemed strange to me that in a world so full of such a variety of people, something as small as a brown stripe down my back, or a muzzle that wasn’t quite like other bears’, would be something of ridicule.  But I’d gotten a taste of what it was that unnerved them all when I’d seen my first Otherwolf with a pushed-in muzzle.  Just like how I was used to seeing wolves looking one way, the world was used to bears looking a certain way.  And I didn’t fit that.
	It made me mindful even now, not to stare.  And not to think ill.  I wouldn’t want them to feel as I had on many occasions, when I knew someone was staring at me and thinking how strange I was.  
	So when I at last made it to the bar and the woman who greeted me was a stocky Otherwolf with spots over her eyes and muzzle, a short, wrinkly face and small flopped-over ears, I smiled at her and pushed aside my thoughts on what wolves ‘should’ look like.  It wasn’t even that hard.
	“Ain’t you a big fella!”  She exclaimed with a broad, jowly grin.  She finished wiping a tankard in her paws with her apron and put it on the counter for me, gesturing behind her to the various barrels and bottles.  “What’ll be your pleasure, love?”
	I gave an easy smile, instantly won over by her pleasant tone and round, kind features.  “Mead, if you’ve any,” I asked.  “Please?”
	“ ‘Ow’d I know!”  She barked out a laugh, turning and gripping the tankard to empty the sweet-smelling, frothing drink from one of her barrels.  She filled it to the brim and then some, pouring with care to avoid any spill or frothing over.  “You’re new in town,” she noted as I gripped my drink and brought it to my muzzle, greedy for the brew after so long on the river with nothing but water to drink.
	“Just came in off the river,” I said after I drained the tankard down by half.  “Got in a bit later than I was expecting, I was surprised how busy the market was despite that.”
	“Oh tha’place never shuts down,” she chuckled, wiping her hands on her damp apron.  “But most’a the rush should be comin’ in from there shortly.”
	I glanced around.  “It gets busier than this?”
	She just gave me that broad grin again.  “Oh, sweetha’t.  You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
	She wasn’t jesting.  An hour later I’d received my dinner, a welcome break from fish, a whole round loaf of bread, a thick slab of butter and roasted venison, and the place was alive.  I don’t think I’d ever been anywhere so crowded or so loud.  Many of the folks I’d seen earlier in the waning hours must have ended their day at the market and come here for spirits, dinner and company.  Most were drinking, many were enjoying bread, butter and cheese, but far fewer could afford meat, I noticed.  This was a buying season down here, I had to remind myself, not a selling one.  Many of these men would be taking to the river or the roads moving their merchandise tomorrow.  Winter was sweeping down in from the mountains and it was likely that very few people here would be heading further north, like I was planning.
	It just meant I should enjoy my time here while I could.  My Amurescan was decent, but I wasn’t usually one for talking to strangers. . . but I could watch, take in the sights, and have many stories to tell when I got home.
	More card games had erupted throughout the bustling tables, and I’d briefly entertained the idea of entering one, but dismissed it as irresponsible outright.  My father wouldn’t have approved of gambling, especially not with the coin I intended to bring home to my clan.  I was my own man now, nearing twenty years in fact, so it wasn’t just that I was afraid what he’d think of me if he knew I’d partaken in the Otherwolves’ vices.  I just wasn’t that bold.  Maybe later, I thought, I’d work up the courage to meander over to where a few of the bigger lads were arm wrestling.  That, at least, was a far surer bet.
	A lanky coyote had sat himself down near the fire awhile back and begun playing some kind of string instrument I’d seen once or twice now in the Otherwolf communities.  It was sharp and plucky, with a hint of melancholy now and again depending on which songs he played.  I liked it after a while, although it took some getting used to.
	The nice woman at the bar had gotten far too busy to continue any kind of conversation with, although she did periodically check on me to ensure I got as much mead as I needed.  I’d drained my fourth tankard and was feeling pleasantly full and fuzzy when a sudden hoot caught my attention.  
	I turned in time to see a coyote woman taking to the floor with some kind of rough-furred big cat, a stocky man in well-worn clothing and thinning suspenders stretched over his broad chest.  He took her by the arm and spun her once, and another few of those hoots went up throughout the crowd, as the coyote playing the instrument cackled and stomped his foot, and the music suddenly picked up to a more excited pace.
	They were dancing, I realized.  Before long a few of the other men joined in on the stomping, and one of the women I’d seen earlier serving bread unstrapped her smock and stepped out with a lean young wolf, who began to move with her like the other couple were.  It was a lot of quick turns and intermittently holding hands before clapping along to the furiously sawing string instrument.  I wished I knew what to call. . . well, all of it.  But regardless, it was engaging.  I couldn’t look away.
	So it happened that, when he entered the room, taking his time down a staircase I’d seen earlier but not taken much note of until now, I was looking in his direction.  Otherwise I might have lost him amongst the crowd.
	On the surface he wasn’t much different than many of the Otherwolves here.  A bit shorter, slighter of frame, with primarily dark fur except in a quasi-mask around his features and a flash of white down his throat.  His paws were lighter as well, and I think I saw a white tail-tip.  But it was more the clothing he wore that caught my eye.  Nearly every man here, Otherwolf or tribal man, had come into this place wearing layers.  Many of them were heaped in furs, or old leather coats or cloaks.  Since it was practically blazing inside with so many furred bodies, the ovens going and a roaring fire in the center of the room, most were stripped down to threadbare, worn cotton shirts, or just the fur on their chests.  This wolf had a long, dark coat and a forest green vest, the white cuffs of a long shirt, and breeches beneath it, and he hadn’t come from outside. 
	But it wasn’t just the fact that he wore dyed, well-fitted clothing that caught my eye.  Clutched in one hand was a head covering. . . a hat. . . of a type I’d never seen before.  I had to assume it was a hat, anyway, based on the ear holes.  It was almost like a small bucket, black and with a rim, which is where he was gripping it by.  
	He seemed as intrigued by the dancing as I was, as he slowly picked his way through the crowd past it.  Well, intrigued might not be the right word.  Maybe more ‘baffled’.  Still, I think I saw him smile a bit.
	By the time it became clear that he was heading for the bar, I had to remember myself and look away.  I was doing the ‘staring’ thing again.  And this man wasn’t even particularly strange looking, he was just dressed unusually.  I dropped my gaze back to my food and brought the haunch of venison back to my muzzle, trying to look more interested in my food than him.  It mostly worked.
	But then, suddenly, he was beside me.  Not in my personal space, mind you, he’d just found a place to squeeze himself up against the bar that happened to be at my side, and it became even harder than before to ignore him.  Especially when he deposited that hat on the bar right beside me.
	I figured at that point I was permitted to look sideways, at least at the hat.  It was fascinating up-close, although much like its’ owner. . . more ragged than I’d thought from far away.  The man’s clothing altogether both looked and smelled of the road, his fine garments fraying at the edges and stained in places.  And the musk about him was not much different than most of the other canines here.  Just from a cursory sniff, he smelled tired and a little damp.  For some reason, that set me more at ease.  He was just another traveler.
	The bartender noticed him and padded on over towards us, greeting him with a familiar “Finn!  ‘Aven’t seen you since breakfast.  You been up there all day?”
	“My business can be a cruel mistress, I’m afraid,” he said in a surprisingly deep voice, with an accent I couldn’t quite place.  He was speaking Amurescan, but not like any man I’d heard before.   One of his hand paws was resting on the bar very close to mine, and I chanced a glance at it, something out of the corner of my eye making me take note.  His fingers were stained.  With what I couldn’t say, but it seemed dark.  Like soot.
	“Thas’unfortunate,” the bartender tutted at him.  “Y’ought to get yourself a proper mistress who’ll treat you right.  Keep you up all night’n’day for the right reasons.”
	He laughed at that.  “Perhaps.  Once my work is done, anyway.  I think a proper mistress would prefer a man dedicated to his work above a lazy one, wouldn’t you say?”
	“Aye but you need t’make some time for livin’, love,” she said as she pulled a glass from behind the counter and filled it with something from a pale brown bottle. 
	He took the glass in one paw and downed whatever the spirits had been in a gulp, before setting it back down and giving a sigh.  “Soon,” he promised.  “Soon, I’ll. . . be done. . . .”
	Something about his tone caught my attention and I finally turned to look at him completely.  He’d turned away from me, from the bartender as well at that, and his eyes had gone as distant as his tone.  He was staring off into the crowd near the door, it seemed like.  I would have had to crane my head entirely around, which would’ve necessitated moving my entire body to the side, so I couldn’t see what he was seeing.  But I knew the scent I caught from him just then.
	Fear.
	“D’you need me to get you more ink from town?”  The bartender asked him, clearly oblivious to his sudden change of mood while she poured me more mead.  
	“Yes, please,” the man said quietly, “I’m nearly. . . out. . . .”
	Just like that, he’d risen from his seat and folded himself into the crowd, surprising both me and the bartender.  All I caught was the white tail-tip as he shimmied between a raucous gaggle of badgers and was gone.
	“And he’s off again,” the bartender sighed, leaning down to scritch at something she had beneath the counter.  “Put that’un on his tab too, I guess.”
	My eyes were drawn to my left, specifically down by where his hand had been resting on the counter.  “Do you know where he’s going?”  I asked.
	“What, Finn?”  She snorted out a breath, shaking her head.  “He comes’n goes since he got here.  Spends most o’his time in his room.  Some kind of writer, ah think.  Or he fancies himself one, anyway.”  She glanced back up at me.  “Why?”
	“He forgot his hat,” I said, lifting it in one hand.