[Red Rooster Inn]

Back on the streets of Littorbourg, Claude strolled towards his next destination, clutching a small pouch, filled with a few coins tightly in his hand.

"At least thanks to Mr. Pierre, I've managed to sort out my financial situation temporarily..." Claude muttered to himself, releasing a sigh of relief. The librarian had kindly advanced him a few days' wages.

But beyond the temporary financial reprieve, something else gnawed at him. Mr. Pierre's words kept replaying in his mind.

"Don't tell me it wasn't just my village that got attacked by those things? And was it really just covered up as a bandit attack?"

Claude felt a growing annoyance. How could people believe that a bandit group, no matter how organized, could annihilate several villages and then simply vanish without a trace?

The thought was absurd. He couldn't decide whether to feel speechless at the people's gullibility or disgusted by the authorities' blatant disregard for the lives lost that night. Perhaps, it was both.

As he walked, lost in his thoughts, a rough hand suddenly clamped down on his shoulder, pulling him back to the present. Startled, Claude turned to find a sallow young man with a predatory grin, his crooked teeth on full display.

"Hey! You there! You're a new face around here. First time in Littorbourg?" The man's voice was rough and gravelly.

Claude blinked, taken aback by the sudden interaction. "Yes? Can I help you?"

The man chuckled, a sound that sent an uncomfortable shiver down Claude's spine. "Haha, don't worry. I'm here to give you an opportunity. It's hard to make a living in this city by yourself. Why don't you join our Grey Falcon Gang?"

"Gang?" Claude's voice echoed his rising confusion as he answered.

"Don't be intimidated by the name." The man waved a dismissive hand, trying to sound reassuring. "It's just a group of brothers trying to make a living and using our lives to serve a greater cause."

Claude had to bite back a laugh, incredulous at the man's audacity. 'A gang serving a greater cause? Do you think I'm an imbecile? The only cause you're serving is crime and violence.'

"Sorry, I need to get going. I'll think about it and let you know later," Claude replied curtly, his tone polite but firm.

Without waiting for a response, he pulled away from the man's grip and continued down the street, leaving the would-be recruiter standing there, bewildered.

As Claude put more distance between himself and the gang member, he couldn't help but ruminate on the encounter and the words Mr. Pierre had used to describe the city.

'Safe? From my understanding, having people scout for potential gang members in the middle of the street doesn't exactly inspire my confidence in the city's security…'

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he refocused on his surroundings and felt a small wave of relief wash over him as his destination came into view. Before him stood 'The Red Rooster Inn,' a modest yet inviting establishment that Mr. Pierre had recommended.

The inn's exterior was simple, with weathered wooden beams and a faded sign that depicted a vibrant red rooster. Despite its unassuming appearance, Claude felt a sense of comfort as he approached, recalling Mr. Pierre's assurances that it was a good place to stay.

Upon entering, Claude was greeted by the warm, slightly smoky atmosphere of the inn. The scent of roasting meat and freshly baked bread filled the air, and the murmur of conversation from the patrons created a lively backdrop.

Behind the counter stood the innkeeper, a stout woman with kind eyes and a no-nonsense demeanour. She looked up as Claude approached, her expression shifting from curiosity to a friendly smile.

"Good day," Claude began, giving her a polite nod. "Mr. Pierre recommended this inn to me."

The innkeeper raised her eyebrows, her face softening further. "Ah, Mr. Pierre! He's sent us a few fine folks in his time." She leaned forward slightly as if considering something. "You know, if you're looking for a place to stay, I can offer you a reduced price for a room, with meals included."

Claude's interest was piqued. "That sounds like a fair offer, but why such generosity?"

The innkeeper chuckled warmly. "Well, there's a small favour I'd ask in return. You see, my son, who's nineteen, and my little daughter, who's seven, need some help with reading and writing. If you could tutor them while you're here, it would save me from hiring a teacher."

She paused, giving him a thoughtful look. "It's a good deal for you, too. Not only would you get a roof over your head and food in your belly, but you'd be doing honest work, helping out a family. Plus, you can come and go as you please, and stay as long as you need."

Claude hesitated for a moment, weighing his options. The thought of having a stable place to stay without worrying about daily expenses was tempting, and teaching children wasn't a daunting task for him. In fact, it seemed like an opportunity that was too good to pass up.

"That does sound like a beneficial arrangement," Claude admitted, nodding slowly. "I think I'd be happy to take you up on that offer."

The innkeeper's smile widened. "Wonderful! I'll show you to your room, then."

After settling into his modest but comfortable quarters, Claude made his way back down to the common area, where the evening meal was being served.

He took a seat near the hearth, enjoying the warmth of the fire as he ate. The food was simple—hearty stew and freshly baked bread.

As he ate, he couldn't help but listen in on the conversations happening around him. The inn was bustling with patrons, many of whom were in varying states of inebriation.

Their voices carried snippets of stories, jokes, and local gossip, but one particular conversation caught Claude's attention.

At a nearby table, a group of older men sat huddled together, their faces flushed from drink and animated discussion. Their voices, though hushed, carried enough for Claude to catch bits and pieces.

"I'm telling you, Henri swears he saw it with his own eyes—a massive arm reaching out across the sky," one of the men said, his eyes wide with the thrill of storytelling.

Another man chuckled, shaking his head sceptically. "Ah, old Henri sees a lot of things after a few cups of ale. Next, he'll be saying he saw dragons flying over the river."

"But what about the fish?" the first man pressed, leaning forward. "Ever since that night, the river's been nearly barren. Fishermen are coming back with empty nets more often than not."

A third man, stroking his greying beard thoughtfully, chimed in. "It's true. My nephew's a fisherman, and he's been struggling to make ends meet lately. Says the river's gone eerily quiet. No fish, no birds, nothing."

The sceptical man took a swig from his tankard, considering this new information. "Could be just a natural shift. Rivers change all the time."

"Maybe," the bearded man replied, his tone uncertain. "But it's not just the river. Have you noticed how the nights seem darker lately? And the silence... it's unsettling."

A brief hush fell over the group as they contemplated his words, the lively atmosphere of the inn contrasting sharply with the sombre turn in their conversation.

Breaking the silence, the first man sighed and said, "Makes you miss the old days, doesn't it? Back when Bertrand's Blue Heron Tavern was still open. That place always felt alive, no matter what was happening outside."

The mention of another tavern piqued Claude's interest further. He leaned in subtly, trying to catch every word.

"Ah, Bertrand's place," the sceptical man mused, a nostalgic smile creeping onto his face. "Best ale in all of Littorbourg, and his wife's cooking could bring a man to tears."

"Do you think he'll ever open it again?" the bearded man asked, his eyes reflecting a glimmer of hope.

"Doubtful," the first man replied, his voice heavy with regret. "Ever since his wife passed away those few years back, he's been a shadow of himself. Closed up the tavern and shut himself away from the world."

"It's a damn shame," the sceptical man added, shaking his head slowly. "That tavern was like a second home to so many of us. The laughter, the music, the community—it all died when she did."

"I heard that around the time he closed up, he started talking about strange things happening nearby," the bearded man said thoughtfully. "Whispers of odd sightings and eerie sounds in the dead of night."

The first man nodded. "Yes, I remember that. Some said grief was making him see things, but now with all these peculiar happenings, makes you wonder if there was more to his stories."

"Perhaps Bertrand saw something he shouldn't have," the sceptical man suggested, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Something that drove him to shut his doors and hide away."

"Maybe someone should pay old Bertrand a visit," the bearded man proposed cautiously. "See how he's holding up and maybe get some answers about what's been going on."

"Good luck with that," the first man scoffed gently. "Last I heard, he doesn't open his door for anyone. Lives alone with his memories and ghosts."

The group fell into silence, each man lost in his thoughts as the bustle of the inn continued around them.