The inn is always the place where the rumors come home to roost. Within the sanctuary of these four sturdy walls, tongues wag freely, set loose by honeyed drink. Passing among the nightly horde, an unpredictable mix of locals, traders and travelers, I've grown practiced at the art of aiming my ear at a single whisper and untangling it from the knotty tangle of raucous talk, no matter what the language, dialect or nuance. It helps keep my senses sharp, stay aware of any potential disturbances - and sometimes I will accept a trinket or piece of silver in exchange for what I know.

Another winter is almost over. All the idle gossip that has been fermenting here since Samhain has gone stale. Few are still interested in placing bets on when the Áth-Caomhnóir will return, or the whereabouts of the war chief Dobhar, let alone the fate of the princess-turned-hostage Verica. The Rian Flidais has hardly been seen all winter since her beloved woodsman vanished into the forest. No one dared to speak of this after early speculations agreed that he had most likely been taken by the sidhe. Now no one will even utter his name without looking sideways and forking their fingers for luck.

Inver Colpa, for lack of news, is on edge with anticipation. Tonight it is warm enough for the door to be propped open, allowing the first breath of spring to lighten the oppressively stagnant air with welcome whiffs of rain and fresh grass. Heads turn towards the half open door, nostrils flare, and a few long-lost smiles bloom in appreciation of the aroma. I can almost see the sap starting to rise in the veins of the winter weary warriors who've been huddled by the hearth all season. As one, the patrons of the Sea Hag rouse themselves and shake off their collective lethargies. A wondrous sight to behold!

There is a clamor for more drinks and food but I stand in the doorway for another pleasant moment to breathe in the sweetness of a breeze that is sweeter and headier than even the famous Niafer mead. I breathe and listen hard. There are tidings carried on the springtime flow of wind tonight but I cannot ken the meaning.

Whoever is next through the door will bring word of it, whatever it is. I shrug and turn happily to my innkeeping chores.