Exhaustion seemed to be all Donovan knew at the moment. His last job of mercenary work had ended in failure with his employer dead and his fellow mercenaries fleeing to the four winds. Cowards was the word he had used for them, but it wasnít an insult. Cowards live to see another day. For his part he had tried, and failed to retrieve what he was owed and had barely escaped with his life. The following weeks had been a blur of travel as he fled toward familiar ground. He too could be a coward when he needed, but now in the presence of the inn he was starving and exhausted.
With effort he hid his discomfort as he approached and entered the building. Sweat beaded on his face the instant he crossed the threshold. Warmth like this was a faded memory to him. His gaze searched the room for a place where he might settle down with his gear and strip the warm gambeson off so he wouldnít sweat to death. Eyeing a round table near the bar he rushed forward to take it and replace his gambeson with a much lighter tunic. If he was uncomfortable changing shirts in a dining hall it didnít show.
In the moment all he cared about was the quest for food, and he didnít care how he earned it.
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