Peggy had left Lutz and his farm behind for a couple weeks, spending days travelling between islands before intending to head on home to Drywich; her mother had been asking for her more often and so thought it was time to go and tell her of what she had found on her travels.
That would have been all well and fine had Peggy not come down with something; what it was, she couldn’t put her finger on, but her stomach was doing flips and she was gaining headaches faster than she was getting rid of them. This crippling head pain and nausea had Peggy taking longer to travel, as she was resting and camping to catch up on the sleep she didn’t know she’d lost.
A sigh passed her lips, as she passed the weathered stone arch entrance of a small village. It hadn’t been one she’d visited often, but she knew of an inn somewhere nearby. She just needed to get to it.
Yet, she found herself perching on a wooden barrel, situated outside a rural pub, named The Blue Horn. True to its name, a funny looking painting of a horn was cast upon a high swinging sign. The gentle wind rocked the wooden slab on its hinges, causing light squeaks to escape the metal holding it in place.
A beat.
Peggy placed a hand to her head, groaning in pain before she felt her stomach begin to do backflips again. The heat was rising to her cheeks and she just begged any God that she wasn’t going to throw up.
“You aren’t going to be sick,” she kept repeating to herself.
