Amarah
The inns where we reside are familiar. The bars are sleazy, and the floors are sticky, the number of stragglers in the morning is enough for my brother to pull me in his tall frame, but the rooms are cleaner though it could be called bare.
It feels clean enough to sit on the bed and gaze out the only small window of the room. They remind me of the border town that was filled with inns just like this, even the brothel had rooms like this. I remember cleaning the stickiness from the floor of the brothel the same as in the pub below the inn.
It’s always natural for a pub to have an inn above it, the tradition of housing drunkards and wayward have been long ingrained in the history of people here. the same way nomad hospitality is ingrained in mine.
My brother holds my good arm. Hel
