The Velvet Paw Tavern

The clamor in his ears, a distant urban hum, yet also a close, troubling murmur of a dream, flickered indistinctly, vexingly stirring in his heart. Even with his eyes tightly shut in exhaustion, the sun, wantonly pouring in through the window, still felt like a searing brand, searing crimson imprints onto his eyelids, baking him in a sickly warmth. All at once, a brutish, unwelcome throb of dull pain assailed his mind directly, precisely like some heavy object, cast by the hand of fate, striking him without warning. Colin Evans struggled to rub his temples, the skin beneath his fingertips seeming to silently plead with every inch. His nerve endings felt as if they were being gently yet stubbornly licked by ardent flames, a sensation akin to dust clinging to silk, itch-provoking yet impossible to grasp. He attempted to lift his eyelids, heavy as ancient door bolts, but what met his gaze blurred into an indistinct expanse, like stagnant, long-undisturbed murky water, unsettling his mind, like a play whose opening act was inexplicably obscure. Slowly, yet with an abnormal, almost fated resolve, his vision reluctantly began to focus, and the contours of the room shifted from chaos to clarity. To his astonishment, he found himself in an utterly unfamiliar dwelling – not a trace of modern civilization's grace or convenience could be found here. Instead, it was immediately recognizable as a typical medieval edifice, etched with the deep marks of ages, its rusticity far surpassing the ordinary, almost like a faded old photograph, shedding the dust of epochs. Beneath him lay a crude cot cobbled together from rough timber. Through the gaps in the boards, an unsettling, lingering aridity permeated, a scent born of poverty and age, tinged with mildew. The linen sheet covering it was ill-kept, its coarse texture already chafing his skin faintly red, like an old, unwashed cloth, reluctantly enveloping his body. The cabinet beside the headboard was bare, save for a few simple items: a ceramic pitcher with a curved spout, a wooden goblet, and a book, yellowed by the ravages of time, its page edges curled like the weary brows of passing hours. In a secluded corner, a small pot of mint, in the stifling heat of the room, emitted tendrils of cool, faint fragrance—perhaps the sole solace in this strange predicament, trifling though it was, yet holding a touch of deliberate appeasement, or an untimely dash of poetry. The view beyond the window shattered his inner peace, like a cherished old glazed lamp broken, its shards falling upon his heart, sending chills through him. Beyond the two narrow windowpanes lay an exotic landscape he had never before witnessed. In the distance, through the intricate, unkempt-hair-like tangles of streets, a magnificent edifice stood proudly against the sky, with an air of unassailable arrogance. Its massive and sacred semi-circular dome, alongside its towering rectangular hall, rendered the entire structure solemn and august, as if embodying some mysterious, unknown power transcending the mundane—that power, too immense, seemed almost aloof. Majestic stone pillars pointed skyward, making the firmament appear even vaster and deeper. Snow-white brick walls shimmered with an almost holy radiance in the scorching sun, and the air around seemed suffused with a solemn and pious aura. Yet, for him, this aura felt detached, as if belonging to another's deity. Nearby, rows of closely joined stone houses, each with a roof sharp as a launched arrow, pierced the heavens, displaying a rough, somewhat primitive, untamed aesthetic. The exterior walls of the houses were vividly colored, some even adorned with complex crisscross patterns of wooden strips, exuding a rich exotic flavor. Yet, this quaintness could not conceal their pervasive decrepitude and the hardships of generations, like a splendid garment concealing a long-ailing body. Two narrow house-shadows embraced a dilapidated and gloomy street, like two weary arms holding a struggling sliver of life. The unpaved, already narrow road was pockmarked and muddy from constant foot traffic, with occasional suspicious puddles and varying depths of mud, all signaling that travelers, if not careful, would easily get stuck. Such a scene inevitably called to mind the residents' plight and their undisguised struggle for survival. The surrounding houses were squat and aged, many walls mottled and peeling, their wooden window frames already rotting. A few small windows occasionally emitted faint light, yet most areas remained steeped in shadow, revealing an unsettling, moldy-smelling desolation. The shops lining the street mostly appeared ramshackle, their signs swaying precariously in the wind, tilting as if poised to bid farewell to their original positions, completing their final, silent adieu. In the open-air market ahead, a few stalls haphazardly piled dried fish, roasted meat, and cheap food. The air was permeated with an unsettling mixture of alcohol and mildew, a scent far from the fresh elegance of his usual abode, more like the smell of pickled fish and stale rice from grimy alleys in London's East End, drilling right into one's nose. Scattered broken wooden boards and scraps of paper lay on the ground. Children occasionally ran and played, their clothes soiled, their faces stained with unknown grime. This scene inevitably evoked a slight, chilling weariness. A few lazy men leaned against walls, occasionally emitting vulgar whistles, an ill-timed act imbued with a crude, almost savage confidence. When Colin Evans's gaze fell upon them, they would deliberately let out boorish, grating laughter, a display of vulgarity that left a greasy taste in one's mouth. "Where...where am I?" Colin Evans mumbled to himself, everything before him plunging him into an extreme sense of unreality and illusion, far beyond his usual imagination, as if he'd stepped into an absurd play without a script, with no way to exit the stage. Just then, the door burst open with a crash, and a red-haired boy, his face still dusted with freckles, rushed in with a near-reckless abandon, like a burning, unsettling flicker of flame abruptly intruding into his stagnant pool. He seemed quite young, but his eyes were red-rimmed, clearly from recent tears, which, hanging on his tender face, possessed a touch of pitiable fragility. Upon seeing Colin Evans awake, the boy immediately let out a "wah—" and burst into sobs, uttering completely unfamiliar, broken syllables like "x*&$!oi" as he cried, astonishing in their raw, unpolished lament. Colin Evans furrowed his brow, struggling to decipher the words, but for a moment, he couldn't grasp their meaning. Yet, in that instant he tried to concentrate, as if some invisible force gently stirred in the depths of his mind, he miraculously understood what the boy was saying. The feeling was like a rusty key suddenly opening a long-locked door. "Ayn, are you alright?" the boy choked, his eyes full of urgency and deep concern, utterly sincere. "Ayn..." Colin Evans repeated the name softly, his throat feeling as if a heavy stone were lodged within it, allowing only a hoarse sound to escape. Yet, those strange words seemed to flow spontaneously from his parched vocal cords, without thought: "Ayn, who is that?" As he spoke, he felt a certain surprise himself, as if a name he didn't consciously know, but somehow recognized as his, had abruptly slipped from his lips. The boy's uncontrollable sobbing abruptly ceased. He widened his eyes, staring intently at Colin Evans's face, as if searching his expression for signs of a clumsy joke, his gaze bearing the overly direct scrutiny unique to youth. After a long moment, he spoke hesitantly, his voice trembling: "Ayn...do you truly not remember?" "Ayn, that's your name!" He looked at Colin Evans, still bewildered, as if unknowing, and couldn't help but sob again, a sob carrying the raw, unmasked sorrow peculiar to the lower district. "I knew all along those ruffians coming to the door meant no good! They smashed The Velvet Paw Tavern to pieces and injured you so badly, boohoo... How am I to explain this to old Barton, who's passed on!" His words were filled with helplessness and grief, like an old play half-sung, with no way to continue. In their bizarre and perplexing communication, Colin Evans finally pieced together a preliminary outline of the events from the freckled boy's incoherent, tearful, and fragmented account, combined with his own scattered guesses. That outline was vague yet brutal, like a worm-eaten old ledger. Apparently, he was now Ayn, residing in a dilapidated tavern in the lower district of Borneburg City—that tavern, reeking of the persistent greasy smell of a poor man's home. The tavern's owner, old Barton, his adoptive father, had bequeathed The Velvet Paw Tavern to him upon his death from illness, along with insurmountable debts, like a rather undignified inheritance. During his life, to seek medical treatment, old Barton had borrowed a sum from the notorious ruffian gang of the lower district, the "Glam Gang." Unexpectedly, he passed away before recovering, returning to dust, taking nothing with him. Yesterday, the Glam Gang seized the opportunity to demand repayment, only to reveal that the original 3 gold coins borrowed had, through interest, swelled to a terrifying 30 gold coins—such extortion was unjust, yet in this world, when were unjust deeds ever rare? Ayn, utterly unable to repay, was brutally beaten by the Glam Gang, and The Velvet Paw Tavern was ransacked. As they left, the leader, "Scarface," sneered a threat: "Next time you can't pay, your little life won't be guaranteed." His voice was cold as a blade, exuding the grim menace of a desperado, the most unvarnished malice found in the lower echelons. And Little Jack, the freckled boy, was a neighbor from the lower district. Old Barton, pitying his solitude, had hired him as a tavern assistant. This boy was straightforward and kind-hearted. Despite being impoverished himself, he held onto a simple sense of responsibility, a responsibility that might seem foolish to others. Now, he was determined to find a doctor for Ayn's bizarre "memory loss," no matter the cost. "Little Jack," Ayn called softly, a touch of helplessness in his eyes, like a thin mist permeating their depths. "You should know I'm penniless. Don't trouble yourself about a doctor anymore." This dissuasion aimed to lighten the boy's burden, yet wasn't it also a form of powerlessness in the face of reality? However, gazing into Ayn's bewildered eyes, Little Jack couldn't be swayed, his stubbornness evident, like a tenacious weed growing in an old courtyard. Ayn gazed at this child who would do anything for him, feeling an unusual surge of emotion, and a touch of inexpressible guilt—a guilt like a fine silver needle pricking his heart, not painful, but a constant reminder. So, he found his only remaining decent coat, secretly hoping he could exchange it for some money to pay the doctor's fee, to ease the immediate crisis. This humble hope carried a pitiful gleam. After Little Jack left, Ayn slowly calmed his mind, meticulously sorting through his chaotic thoughts—thoughts like a tangled skein of old yarn, impossible to untangle or cut. Without a doubt, he was not Ayn. His name was Colin Evans, from the 21st-century US. He had lived as Colin Evans for a full twenty-five years; this was an ironclad fact, beyond question, like words carved onto a stone tablet, blurred yet real. Ayn was gone, leaving only his precarious shell behind for Colin Evans to inhabit. Now, in a world of unfamiliar customs and looming threats, burdened by the boy's forgotten past and staggering debts, Colin faced a simple, terrifying question: how long could he truly pretend to be Ayn before his borrowed time ran out?