The lacking innkeeper.

[Wendy]

Disassembled.

It's just how she felt, while hibernating in the living space of two rooms considered her 'quarters'. Shouldn't they be called her 'halves'?

This was an example of the many things which taxed her mind until the daylight hours. She'd learned to sleep in the morning, sew overnight. Near to the end of the treasure, she was growing more and more determined to finish this project.

The future remained a dreary forecast with no one to fulfill it. It was crazy to hope; -stupid-. Absolutey. However, anyone could see that she'd not stopped those hours-long meetings with the upstairs window. Her figure could be seen, on any given evening, backlit by zealous candlelight. Its happy glow struck into a loud song whenever it touched against her hair.

What did she look for?

Visitors would come and go, unsuspecting. Some saw through her sadness - others refused to focus on anything less than positive reinforcement... but, she didn't have strength. Not this time.

This time, she wasn't pulling through.

[Pritchard]

Pritchard’s rap was gentle. A single, meaty knuckle knocking gently against the door. Sometimes there would be an indication from within. More often than not, there wasn’t. He knocked again, a bit louder this time, just in case.

He paused a moment longer before lifting the latch and opening the door to Raegan’s quarters. He peaked in slowly.

“Mum?”

The large man’s eyes came to rest upon Raegan’s back as she looked out the window. His gaze moved to the table where he had left a tray of stew. It was untouched. Long cold.

He grimaced in sad sympathy and entered the room completely. ”I’ve brough’ ye some fresh can’les, mum. Figured ye’d nee’ some new’uns soon.” He put the candles on the table next to the tray. He gave his lip a chew for a moment and turned his gaze back to Raegan. ”Ye didnae eat yer stew. Wou’ ye li’ me ta bring up sometin’ else? Ye really shou’ try to eat sometin’."

He paused again. Pritchard probably knew better than anyone how...distant the proprietress had been of late. For a while now. He didn’t ask. She would talk to him if she needed him; they both knew that. She had before. In the meantime, he would continue to help her...as an employee and a friend. He would not hide his concern, however. That was there for her to see. At least in private.

[Wendy]

"I'm sorry, Pritch, I just didn't have the stomach." Her breath spread across the window pane. She reached up and wiped away the messageboard before she drew a name. Time and the lady were jointly thinning.

She was dressed only in a linen shift, making available the gruesome hollows where adipose tissues once caused the soft protection of her ribs. The backs of her arms were starving; they were now covered in slack skin. These were problems that her dowager dresses could conceal.

Raegan only turned around because Pritchard was careful to speak with feeling. It took a surge of effort to step in a semicircle to face him, and another to hold her head up and allow the predictable inspection.

The slip was a simple layer of cloth that sagged miserably from her shoulders. Her slight bosom amiss, there were only the curves of a paltry, matronly pouch and her puny hips to give the undergarment its demure shape.

Her healthy hair had taken leave and in its place a more slender, breakable mane of a whiter shade had begun to grow. It faintly touched her shoulders during inspiration. As she took these breaths, her ribs drew up and out, but collapsed when her lungs took rest.

Distress had drawn faint, purple lines beneath her eyes. She looked remorseful, and more specifically unable to express her thoughts. He was one friend she couldn't quite look into the eyes of.

Before she could speak, she looked off to the side, and harshly pressed her lips together. In the next moment, another of the currents came and enabled her to see who she was talking to.

"I tried." Pink ribbons fluttered.

The air poked at her eyes until they moistened.

[Pritchard]

Pritchard allowed some worry to sit upon his face. He was a gruff man, short-tempered at times, but he had a big heart in his husky shell. He drew in air through his nose, a deep inhale, as if trying to smell the slow death that seemed to grip his friend and employer. He had watched her waste away for weeks now. Months, perhaps. He noticed her fade and slacken, like old, lace drapery bleached and jaundiced by age and sun. His eyes avoided hers a bit, as if her seeing them would reveal how worried he truly was about her.

“Wou’ ye li’ me ta fetch, Barber `ander? Per`aps `e can `elp ye wit yer appetite?”

His voice was quiet, soft. It drifted off at the end of his question. He paused for a moment and finally looked up to meet her gaze.

“Or per`aps there be something more I can dae fer ye? To help?”

[Wendy]

Raegan slid her arms across her stomach and, with hands holding to her waist, she hugged herself.

"I think I should go... see someone."

She swallowed, and cut away from looking at him. Instead, she viewed the laced ebon trimming at her neckline through the haze of dismay. One arm stayed hung from its shoulder, attaching at its opposing hip. The other moved as she lifted her hand to finger the little silken strip.

[Pritchard]

Pritchard nodded; a simple movement that allowed the candlelight to move over his bald scalp like orange moonlight on a pond.

"De Rememdium Edificium then?"

While he didn’t enjoy the thought that Raegan might need to go there, he did want his friend to feel better. It was evident that she was clearly imbalanced.

"Do ye feel tha’ ye can ride? Shou’ I ready an `orse?"

[Wendy]

Her blonde head shook in the negative. She didn't remind Pritch that she hadn't ridden a horse on her own since before Tav was born... and if a broken leg could serve to cure a person of their appetite for adventure, what's more, a broken heart?

"No... perhaps Starr would bring me." she said, knowing that neither of the men would tell a soul. "I'll only take a few things. See if he can wait for me downstairs."

Raegan glanced at Pritchard. The skinny black ribbon, hooked around a fingertip, nervously wriggled. It cinched the neckline of her garment on that side.

[Pritchard]

"O' course, mum. I'll go speak wit Mas'er Starr."

He gave her one last look of sympathy before turning back to the door. He opened it and out into the hall. He quietly latched the door behind him and moved toward the stairs down into the Inn's commonroom, where he'd search for Starr.

[Vagabond]

The merc, per usual-- was in the bar somewhere, most likely behind it reading the dailies;

"Aye, Pritchard, what do you need?" He said, as the older gentle barkeep found him.

[Pritchard]

Pritchard nodded to the mercenary in greeting. He gently clapped him on the shoulder and leaned a bit closer than he normally might. He spoke softly, but not so soft that it was a whisper.

”Wou’ ye be so kin’ as ta escort Raegan wherever it tis she’d li’ ta go this evenin’?”