You scrub your hands across your eyes and push yourself back to your feet. The path takes you on a short, downhill curve, and winds around to the door of an inn. The Quill and Ink, reads the sign over the door. You smile, and enter.
Inside, there is warmth, the hearty scent of food, and a group of people singing songs both off-key and bawdy.
You slide seamlessly into the small community, and feel refreshed after you have shared a meal and stood a round of drinks.
Eventually, you notice the singing has died down, replaced by a rapt silence. There is a knot of people wound tight around the fire, telling stories. At first, you simply listen, but then you are asked to tell a tale of your own. It is the tale, not the coin, that will pay your shelter for the night.
Do you tell a story?