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The door opens and shuts with a clatter, admitting one soldier. He's stumbling and his face is ruddy, an empty flask hanging by his hip. He couldn't be more clearly drunk if he stood on a table and sang about it.
"Evening," says the innkeeper, setting down his rag and bustling over to rummage around in the back. "What can I get for you?"
"Wine," the soldier says, thoughtlessly scattering a few bright coins across the table. "Any kind you got. Thanks."
The innkeeper fetches his wine, watering it down covertly and setting it down next to him before picking up his rag and continuing to wipe the mostly-deserted bar.
"Keepin' your hands busy, I see," the soldier says, with a slightly awkward smile, as if requesting to buy a conversation.
The innkeeper gives him an ambiguous look, as if to say, what can you do? "My assistant is out traveling at the moment," he offers up, almost begrudgingly.
"Ah." It's not much, but the soldier's eyes brighten and he leans forward. "D'you tell him to be careful? The roads've been bad these days, y'know."
A weary smile from the innkeeper. He scrubs a little bit harder. "He's capable of taking care of himself, I assure you."
"I'm sure he can," says the soldier, "but this ain't normal times. They captured a demon near here not long ago."
"A demon?" The innkeeper chuckles, his eyebrows quirking doubtfully.
At this perceived spark of interest, the soldier seems to sit up a little straighter. "A real demon, I swear it. I saw it flinch away from the iron myself." He leans over the bar, trying to seem casual. "Fought like a demon, too, almost got away and all. But our men managed to catch it off guard, and they don't wear iron chainmail for nothin'. They got it in the end."
The innkeeper's face sours. "Can't say I'm surprised," he says. "There's been bad business around here recently."
"Yes," the soldier says, plowing onwards, "but the strange thing is, they captured it alive."
"That doesn't seem safe," says the innkeeper.
"Of course it weren't safe. A few of 'em died, but their captain wanted that promotion real bad, apparently. Dragged it all the way up to the city nobles for them to experiment on." He pauses, taking a long drink. "They killed it, o'course."
"Of course."
"I was there guarding the whole thing," he complains. "Now I been assigned to patrol in case there are any more. What should I do if I see one, poke it?" He scoffs. "They're sending us to die, that's what it is. They don't want anyone to live who saw that thing get executed."
The innkeeper nods sagely, wondering why the soldier is being so unusually loose-lipped. Perhaps he intends to pry the innkeeper for information on demons in the area. More likely, as the soured scent of elderberries on his breath and the redness of his face suggests, he is drunker than is good for him. Perhaps the innkeeper should have watered that drink down a little more.
"It was horrible," the soldier continues. "God's Body, I almost felt bad for the poor thing. They injected it with iron shavings, you shoulda heard the way it howled when it saw the needle. It got all delirious, cryin' and screamin' right up until the end. Took ages to die." He grimaces. "It's bad business, I tell you. They'll bring misfortune on us. Damn nobles don't know how to treat a demon body with the proper caution."
The innkeeper looks up, his interest—or alarm—seemingly piqued for the first time. "It screamed?"
"Oh, it screamed, alright. Talked, too. Looked just like a man, but sure as anything it flinched from iron. It died like a demon, there's no mistaking it." He pauses. "Speaking o' which, I been meaning to ask around these parts in case any of the locals knew anything. 'Cos it was the strangest thing—when the fever had it, it kept cryin' out one thing, over and over again. Save me, Reshi, save me." He glances up at the innkeeper, whose face has gone suddenly blank. "D'you know what it was on about?"