[IC] The Plague of Tamor Town

[Gluteus_Maximus]

Taara dreamed last night. She dreamed of Domorn's sickly face as she shot him. She dreamed of the crackle of the fire, the warmth and smell that came with it. She dreamed of strange shapes hanging over her and watching her every move. She dreamed of finally catching her first rabbit, restraining it, and snapping its neck without remorse. She dreamed of the struggle that came with trying to skin it without a sharp blade, eventually just eating it fur-on and raw, as she didn't have a fire to cook it with. Suddenly, Maut's hulking form appeared over her, and the haze and figures returned. One of them handed her an arrow. She shot Maut and ran for what seemed like hours, before finding that he had not been chasing her- she had killed him too; he uttered in draconic- "Traitor..." before falling to the grassy ground and Taara sprung awake with a jolt.

In a cold sweat, she looked around the room. The bow rested, as it had for the last six years, on her pack, arrowless. Her coin pouch, a few small coins poorer, was inside the pack, hidden well under her darts and other accoutrements. The only things from the dream that remained true was the warmth of the sunlight beaming through the window and the sounds and smells of cooking over a flame. She took a deep breath, sighing "Good grief..." to herself in elvish as she dropped back on the mattress.

While it wasn't extravagant, she had never slept on such a mattress; she only had a very small cot that she often had to share with Chand at the monastery, and the stone and dirt of the forest caves was certainly not comfortable for her first year there, though she eventually accumulated enough furs to at least keep warm in the cold winds. The pillow was another matter; she felt like she could sit cuddling it for hours like one of her captured rabbits.

Her stomach growled, and she looked down at her belly- lightly muscled, though slightly emaciated from malnutrition. Lying there for a few moments, she sprang out of bed, packed her things, and made her way downstairs, walking with her staff, a stick about half her height that had many short, snapped branches. Tied tight to a string, her rabbit's foot dangled from one of the branches.

She had never been allowed drinks at the monastery, though she had seen a few of the dragonborn drinking from time to time, buying from a dwarf passing through the mountains. Channeling them as best she could, the short young elf made her way to the bar, trying her best to play an adult elf who could more easier partake in such beverages.

"Melomel and a slice of pie, if you please," she said kindly, clattering a couple coins- change from the gold she paid in for the room the night before- onto the bar.

Spoiler: OOC/Rolls

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Deception to say "hey, I'm not that young, gimme an alcoholic drink": (1d20-1)[8] EDIT: Oops, forgot what her charisma was. That's an 11, not an 8.

Q: How much coin should I mark down for her stay and her breakfast?