October 17, the town of Winterlodge received all sorts of folks--whether they be travelers or vagabonds or simply passing folks brought hither--with warm delight. For that day was the commemoration of its liberation from the oppressive clutches of the fallen Dolduran Empire a hundred years ago. And tonight, the townsfolk were embellished with cheers ever so loud and smiles as bright as the yellow moon hanging gently upon the web of stars. The whole town glowed with such brilliance that the mountain on which the town was built on was illuminated with a bright glow.

  Free drinks, pies, cakes, and all sorts of pastries as well as various roasted and stewed livestock to warm and fill the stomach. Folks of many leagues away doubtless brought with them news of good or bad happenings all throughout. This led to the mixing and exchanging of various information, speculations, or opinions, whether it be accurate or merely talks of the street; to this nobody cares, however, for it is only human nature to socialize and to doubt things when they ought to. Regardless, All were here to have fun and savor the gift of liberty.

  Though however wild, otherworldly, and outlandish these news may be, some still find them interesting and meaningful or perhaps even useful--its usefulness being of ill or good manner we shall never know.

  The town of bright light now takes on a new mantle as white flakes slowly fall down from the heavens, slowly ladening the town with a thick cloak of white. The loud and cheerful crowd all around the town remained unattentive though, keeping their rowdy demeanor intact even as the small fragments of snow gathered on their clothes and hair and beard, even on their beverages: they just couldn't care less. Dancing with an ever-growing sense of glee. One, however, was attentive enough to notice and behold the spectacle.

  "Good heavens! It's snowing already?" a peculiar young man cried as he noticed the snow slowly accumulating in the slopes of his pointy hat. "Such a thing to behold, but I've no time to dilly-dally in the middle of the street! Surely there must be an inn somewhere around here." he took off his hat before ridding it of snow and trodding his way on the snowy street, using his wooden staff for support.

  All around the young man, people drank warm ales and sang old rhymes that cheered up the heart, skipping and dancing to its tune. To them, snow was but a curative that complements the atmosphere of their large party.

  As the snow slowly accumulates on the roads of the town-- quickly reaching the height where it could nearly touch the top of the boot-- some of the townsfolk have--at length--start to gather themselves to rake away the snow to pave a path for their visitors and neighbors, dusting away the snows on the table, chairs, and other decorations and ornaments by the road and street. For the night is young and the moonlit night ages by and by, ever so slowly since tonight is a night of celebration and glee.

  The young man steadily and quickly walked by the freshly paved path, looking frantically in all conceivable directions, looking for lodging. Before long, he found it, a building taller and wider than most, lit by lanterns on both the upper sides of the door and one large lamp hanging in the interior of the triangular roof of the building, and adorned with windows of equal proportions located symmetrically on both sides of the facade of the building. How does he know for sure that it was what he was looking for? An oval sign arching outward of the building atop the door, decorated with nothing but letters of bold font saying: "Firhouse Inn".

  "Good enough," the young man murmured beneath his breath, followed by a sigh of relief.

  Loud noises and clamors reached his ears even before he could reach for the knob of the door: noises of celebration, songs, and the tapping of feet and shoes, it seemed. Clearly indicating the joyous populace dwelling within. To this, the young man can only sigh, feeling a sense of discomfort and forced contentment. This inn was the first he found--if any more exists--and he did not want to search further for he was simply too tired and he felt that he was being picky: a trait that his mentor told him to cast away when he traveled the mainland.

  "Well, I perhaps can use this to my advantage," he said to himself. "The rowdy folks inside probably know something I need. Any form of information--even rumors--is welcome at this point, having traveled for so long." Reminding himself that even getting oneself into a place of noise and ale could provide some advantages before opening the door with one hand while the other clutches his staff tightly.

  With a creak, the wooden door opened inward slowly as the silhouette of the young man slowly entered through the opening of the door; his pointy hat was what came in first, then his long blonde hair up to the base of his neck, indicating that he meant to peek a bit first and try to enter inconspicuously to no avail for servers and servants of the inn had already come to know of his presence: each giving a brief "Welcome! Guest!" before going back to what they were doing previously.

  This gave him quite a scare: indicated by a little jerk he made right after getting called out.

  "Well that was a bust," He said to himself before fully opening the door and entering the bright and joyous room. The entire bar was lit by a chandelier of candles that was hung below the ceiling. Under it sat numerous round tables with someone sitting on the chairs of each. A door stood far in the back with a shakily built flight of stairs beside it. To the far left, he saw a wooden counter; there, he saw piles of mugs filled to the brim with ale and other beverages sitting en masse; each bunch was taken by servants to a certain table where they were direly awaited by men with cheeks, chins, and noses reddened by their voracious consumption of ales.

  As he entered, the patrons turned to look at him, their faces a mix of curiosity and suspicion. His long, yellow hair and worn leather tunic marked him as a traveler, and the staff of his wand, hanging by within the confines of his shivering hand, was a dead giveaway that he was a wizard. He had learned to be prepared for the wary looks, but it still made him feel a little self-conscious.

  He made his way to the bar, his eyes scanning the room for a sign of the proprietor. Behind the bar, a stout man with a bushy beard and a welcoming smile was polishing a mug with a dirty apron. The young man approached him, his hand on the hilt of his wand.

  "Good evening," He said, trying to sound confident. "I'm looking for a room. Do you have any available?"

  The bartender looked him up and down before nodding. "Aye, we've got a few rooms upstairs. What'll it be, wizard?"

  The young man hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal. He didn't want to be seen as a troublemaker, but he also didn't want to be taken advantage of. "I shall take the cheapest one you've got," he said finally.

  The bartender chuckled. "Ah, you're a thrifty one, eh? Alright, I've got just the thing for you. It's a small room, but it's clean, and it's got an excellent view of the courtyard. That'll be five silver pieces a night."

  The young man winced, feeling a pang of disappointment. He had been hoping to spend a bit less, but he knew he couldn't afford to be picky. He reached into his pouch and pulled out the required amount, handing it over to the bartender.

  "Here you are," the bartender said, taking the coins and handing the young wizard a small key. "Room's up the stairs, second door on the left. You can't miss it."

  The young man took the keys and nodded his thanks. He made his way up the creaky stairs, his eyes adjusting to the dim light of the hallway. The room was small, but it was clean and cozy, with a small window that looked out over the courtyard. He dropped his pack on the floor and sat down on the bed, feeling a sense of relief wash over him.

  For the first time in days, he felt like he was safe. And for the first time in weeks, he felt like he was home. And yet, he felt restless and uneasy. He felt that it isn't time to rest yet.

  He stood up and paced round his room, desperately digging up any semblance of purpose within his mind: purpose to go out of his room and into the pits of loud and proud drunkards outside.

  "Ah!" exclaimed him, "Information right?" he said in an exhausted tone, he was tired and ragged and was in dire need of bathing: he isn't nearly ready enough nor brave enough to go out there and ask a few questions.

  "Bah!" he groaned, "I'll just ask for a bath and ask for some pies or meat right after getting some inquiries in." with that, he made up his mind; he was gonna go out there and ask some questions: he can't let his lazy side determine what he'll do, or it'll be the end of him.

  He jumped out of bed after much cuddling and rolling on top of his cold, hard bed. (his weeks of sleeping on grass and branches made him more appreciative of a proper bed.) He arched his back to stretch his worn body out and grabbed a piece of paper from his bag, as well as his staff, before reaching for the door with much difficulty and heading out of his room. He was greeted by the same dimly-lit hallway and the ambiance of creaking floors and the muffled talks and shouts and music below.

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  He let out a final groan before wearily inching his way to the stairs right down yonder: each step being heavier than the last, with each making a louder and louder thumping sound. At last, he reached the flights of stairs that seemed so close yet distant to him, throwing a heavy foot to each stair as he went down; though the loudness of his steps was muffled by the patrons happily drinking and eating and talking at their table, no changes there. What did change was their attitude towards the young wizard; before, they were bombarding him with scrutinizing gazes, but now, they show no reaction to his presence or his loud thumping steps.

  "Finally some peace, not quiet, but at least they leave me alone," he muttered under his breath.

  "I see you've come down from your quarters, young wizard," the bartender of the inn came up to him. "I believe I haven't introduced myself yet. The name's Otto, owner of this inn, at your service." Otto said with a bow.

  "Roland, it would please me if you'd refer to me as Roland." Roland replied, bowing in return.

  "Ah, Roland, aye? Fair name for a daring young folk." Otto laughed, "Say, Roland, What brings you here to this cold land? If You would be willing to impart that knowledge to this old folk."

  "Well, it isn't too grave a matter, really," replied Roland, "I'm just looking for someone, not that I have any business with him; my mentor simply tasked me with sending a message to him and acting as a guide if need be."

  "Hmm," Otto caressed his bushy beard in thought, "Who might this person be?" Otto raised his brow.

  "Even I do not know for certain." Roland said, raising his shoulders, "The only thing my mentor gave me was a pack full of food, a map, some silver pieces, and a riddle." Roland showed Otto a worn out piece of paper with cuts on the side and a little dusty.

  "In the moon's pale glow, I shine so fine,

  A treasure prized, in ancient times, was divine.

  In coins of old, my image doth abide,

  A symbol of wealth, where honor doth reside.

  What am I, that doth reflect the night,

  And in the heart of kings doth hold its light?"

  "This writing befits a wise man indeed," said Otto after reading the riddle on the paper "What do you make out of it, Roland?" He asked, turning to Ronald.

  "Silver," Ronald replied, "Silver is the answer to that, I reckon, Though the mind of my mentor can be as ambiguous as can be: nobody can truly guess his intentions at any given time."

  "Silver, aye? Then I might have the information that you need," said Otto, beckoning Roland to follow him.

  They passed through the round tables with drunk men sitting around it; they passed quite a few, with some people greeting and calling Otto as they passed, with Otto returning the gesture kindly with a bow; he seems to be well known. Before finally reaching the counter near the door of the inn; going around it. Otto called one of his servants to come over to manage the table while he was gone. A young servant with curly hair and clad in fair garments came, wiping his hands on his apron as he walked. After Otto instructed him, he bowed his head slightly. After that, Otto continued walking, and Roland followed, but when he turned back his head, he saw the young servant looking at him with wonder before averting his gaze immediately after noticing that he had been caught. Otto led Roland to a wooden door obscured by the piles of barrels of ale and went in with him.

  Inside there were more barrels, but there were also crates full of vegetables and plants and herbs of wondrous variety. The room was dimly lit since there were only two candles stationed on the walls of either side of the room.

  "Now, this should be a more fitting place to continue our conversation at length." Otto said, turning to Roland with an interested gaze. "So where was I? Silver, right?" Roland nodded.

  "To tell you the truth, what I'm about to tell you may as well be considered common knowledge, at least to the folks of this town." Otto continued.

  "Then why the unneeded discretion?" Roland raised one of his brows, "Talking at one of the tables outside would have been incomparably more comfortable and more desirable." To this Otto shooked his head, closing his eyes. "To the common folk here, news of that man is treated as an unimportant matter: hardly of any concern to any men and women, save for children, for his arrival meant a new round of tales of his grand adventure; all of which roused all the children and even grown-ups." Otto sighed, "But it doesn't mean that nobody with any ill intention would come looking for him or news of him. In fact, some queer folk came to this town, asking equally queer questions." Otto sighed with discomfort: the memory of strange men showing up at the town made him anxious once more. "The appearance of these folks, of course, reached the keen ears of Silvertide--as we call him--and his reaction to this is anything but dismissive. I remember those events happening on the eve of June this year. Since then Silvertide seldomly shows up in this town, and when he does he don't linger for long." Otto sighed once again, bowing his head seemingly in exhaustion.

  "He does not often come, then." Roland caressed his chin, " Where is he now?" Roland asked, tilting his head slightly. Otto simply shrugged to this: "Ever since he became aware of the pursuit of shady folks, he came in and out without anybody noticing: not even the guards."

  Roland was hopeless, with no hope of finding the whereabouts of this "Silvertide", any notion of completing his task, and by extension, his chances of going back to his academy of Lamspire would be crushed. The harsh conditions of the wilder-lands tire him and torment him to no end; and the comfortable bedrooms of Lamspire seemed to be calling him.

  "But," Otto broke the tense silence after taking some time mingling with his own thoughts: "There are some who caught sight of him roaming the town at night, whistling songs of old and rhymes unbeknownst to us."

  "What are you suggesting?" asked Roland, "This may not prove to be the most desirable strategy; but waiting for him and roaming the streets at night-- discreetly, of course-- could work. It would be like trying to seize a phantom, but truth to be told, Silvertide ain't much less a phantom than he is a man." Otto answered with a bit of hesitation.

  "But that would just extend my expenses further, and I'm not even sure if this Silvertide is truly the one I'm seeking. This plan of yours relies much on luck; and judging by the happenings while I was journeying, luck is the last thing I can count on." Roland furrowed his brows in dissatisfaction and skepticism. "Then give me a week; one week is all I ask of you; wait here until the time you hopefully have allowed me has come to pass; then you can choose to live if you want. You can even use your time here to allow some respite into your worn body: wander around the town of Paletree if you ever so desire; I'm certain that a tiny breath of a town and its people will be to your liking." Otto clasped his hands and rubbed them, hoping to convince the young wizard to reconsider.

  Roland crossed his arms, thinking to himself and considering the implications of his prolonged stay. While it is true that his body is far from being in need of the harsh cold and roughness of the plains outside the town, he is also oblivious to the old bartender's schemes: having his mentor warn him of the queer and dangerous folks of the world.

  Roland had fifty silver pieces when he left Lamspire Academy no less than a month ago. He still has a tiny portion of the rations that he brought with him on his journey, and he reckoned that it would last him only two days. Now he only had a bit over thirty silver pieces left in his possession. Living there for seven days would be possible, yes, but that only accounts for his stay in this inn, barely scratching his need for food. "I'm sorry, but I truly cannot stay here after all. My barren treasury only allows for an immediate stay." Roland finally said after much consideration.

  "It is food you are worried about, yes? Why, I can take care of that. Just pay the five silvers every night and you can stay." Otto smiled. Roland was now truly bewildered by Otto's ambiguous intentions: it seemed as if Otto desperately wanted him to stay.

  "Well, if you must insist, then I shall oblige." Roland sighed, giving up any intention of refuting Otto, to his joy, laughing and patting Roland's back in glee.

  Roland yawned; it had grown late, and he planned to run some errands first thing in the morning. "Oh, it seems that you are in dire need of rest, lad. Go on, sleep and rest well; I'm certain that you will be occupied tomorrow." Otto slightly pushed Roland in the back towards the door leading back into the bars of the inn. Roland was surprised; it was as if Otto had read his mind. He simply shrugged it off as sleepiness and weariness got the better of him. Pulling back the door and leaving Otto in his cellar.

  The rowdiness of the inn still hasn't died down yet after such a long time, keeping its immense number of patrons entertained throughout the long night. The servants were tired; some even slumped down on top of the counter and fell into deep sleep, though some still kept working, leaving their work fellows to rest, even sliding a blanket over them.

  Roland finally made it to the stairs, slowly inching his way up once again, into the same hallway and into the very same room, jumping straight to bed and falling fast asleep; forgetting to ask for a bath.

  The sun slowly came up, shedding light into the windows of the houses in the town, and through this light, dozens of men can be seen laying down on the floor, sleeping, with some hanging atop their chairs, their mugs of ale still laid on their table unfinished. Not too far from them at the counter, the servants lay still and asleep, some with blankets covering and some not, some on the counter and some on the floor. The entire bar was filled with remnants of a great celebration that had passed.

  Roland stood up from his bed yawning; he had a good rest and he was ready to go out. But a sudden realization came: he hadn't bathed yet! How was he to go out when he smelled as foul as a beast? Roland wasn't someone who tolerated foul odor, having been raised in a place where he was sufficiently and regularly bathed. He stormed out of his room and into the bar below. There he met Otto, waking his servants up one by one and ordering them to clean up the place.

  "Otto!" cried Roland, "I need to bathe; do you have a tub somewhere?" panting, he asked.

  "Aye, we've got one. Through the door to your right." Otto pointed at a wooden door beside the flight of stairs.

  "You have my thanks!" Roland ran like the wind towards the door, opening it and entering.

  Minutes passed, Roland came out of the bathroom looking fresh, but his clothes weren't. This blunder of his was caused by his hastiness, for he forgot to bring spare clothes from his bag. He ran up the stairs and into his room to get spare clothes.

  He rustled through his bag, skimming through various items within. Maps, vials, herbs, and others came out of his bag--It was surprisingly full despite its meager appearance. Finally, he grabbed what he wanted by chance; he pulled out a blue tunic and a white robe as well as some trousers and some underpants. Though by accident, he also pulled out a piece of light leather.

  "Huh?" Roland exclaimed in wonder; he knew that he was rustling through his bag with due haste since he was on a race with time, but he never thought that his pouch would be swept with it as well, "My pouch? It got pulled out as well?" He pulled his pouch aside to make way for the mess that he had created with his wide variety of luggage; but to his fear and surprise, the leather was light--Too light.

  "Wait, it cannot be," Roland took his pouch and opened it, "My treasury! It's gone!?"