Adventure of Wolfie 1

The transition from the violent, ozone-heavy alley to the quiet sanctuary of the tavern is seamless. Wolfie drags his feet up the sagging stairs, each step complaining with a rhythmic groan of ancient timber. He ignores the splintered debris of the common room, his mind occupied only by the prospect of a flat, horizontal surface.

He tumbles into his small, dust-moted room and collapses onto the thin mattress. The heavy velvet curtains are drawn against the mountain wind, muffling the chaotic world outside. For the first time in an eternity, the silence is absolute, save for the rhythmic settling of the tavern walls and his own steady breathing.

His eyes drift shut, but as he sinks into the heavy fog of exhaustion, a soft, rhythmic scratching sounds against the wood of his door. It is not the frantic clawing of an assailant, but a deliberate, slow tapping.

Wolfie rolls off the bed with a groan, his limbs heavy as lead. He strides to the door, his hand fumbling for the latch with the grace of a man half-asleep. He yanks the heavy oak panel open, preparing a weary, sarcastic excuse to dismiss whoever is knocking.

The wood of the door splinters inward with a deafening crack. A massive, iron-shod boot slams into the frame, catching Wolfie square in the chest. The force of the impact lifts him off his feet, sending him sprawling backward into his own room. He hits the floor hard, his breath stolen, staring up as the dark, armored silhouette of a towering soldier fills his doorway.