Fitz is indeed perfectly content to leave the talking and haggling and whatever else must be done to secure them lodgings for the night to Huaisang. He knows where his strengths lie, and outside the context of, uh, aggressive interrogation of his family's political enemies, or arguing with the farmer on the neighbouring homestead about the asking price for his chickens, persuasion isn't it. So he and Nighteyes head into the common room and slump into one of the chairs near the fireplace, and almost immediately he is on the cusp of sleep, which means it feels like only seconds later when the cadence of Huaisang's now familiar footsteps rouses him.
Nighteyes' ears prick up with interest at the mention of a meal, complementary or otherwise, because what does a wolf care about how much money something costs. Is there rabbit?
"Bread and cheese, like as much. Maybe beer." Fitz hopes there's beer. He gives Huaisang a grimace of an appreciative smile for his efforts and hauls himself back up onto his feet while fatigue keeps gnawing at him, a dog with a rawhide scrap.
The room itself is spare (definitely several flights of steps down from the Red's amenities, sorry Huaisang, this place is closer to a Motel 6 but 'rustic'), includes a couple of narrow beds, a set of shoddily made table-and-chairs that wobble unsteadily because the lengths of the legs don't match, a lunar-powered heater, a washroom, and a single dusty window covered by an equally dusty curtain. It's more-or-less clean, but Fitz grew up sleeping in a horse stall on a hay bed next to Burrich's hounds, so his standards are. different.
"It'll do," he says from the doorway, hands on his hips, then heads over to the window to peer outside it, some latent paranoia pushing him to check the window latch, to inspect the washroom to be sure it's empty, to crouch down and check under the beds. All clear. Nighteyes, meanwhile, prowls over to one of the beds and springs up onto it, thoroughly rucks up the bedding, and then settles down atop the mess with a deep sigh.
no subject
Nighteyes' ears prick up with interest at the mention of a meal, complementary or otherwise, because what does a wolf care about how much money something costs. Is there rabbit?
"Bread and cheese, like as much. Maybe beer." Fitz hopes there's beer. He gives Huaisang a grimace of an appreciative smile for his efforts and hauls himself back up onto his feet while fatigue keeps gnawing at him, a dog with a rawhide scrap.
The room itself is spare (definitely several flights of steps down from the Red's amenities, sorry Huaisang, this place is closer to a Motel 6 but 'rustic'), includes a couple of narrow beds, a set of shoddily made table-and-chairs that wobble unsteadily because the lengths of the legs don't match, a lunar-powered heater, a washroom, and a single dusty window covered by an equally dusty curtain. It's more-or-less clean, but Fitz grew up sleeping in a horse stall on a hay bed next to Burrich's hounds, so his standards are. different.
"It'll do," he says from the doorway, hands on his hips, then heads over to the window to peer outside it, some latent paranoia pushing him to check the window latch, to inspect the washroom to be sure it's empty, to crouch down and check under the beds. All clear. Nighteyes, meanwhile, prowls over to one of the beds and springs up onto it, thoroughly rucks up the bedding, and then settles down atop the mess with a deep sigh.