LOG: The Inn
Clink, clink, clink.
Moonlight shone through the upper window of the inn. It shone down upon the table beneath it, and slanted across the bed as a soft, pale beam. Stars glittered in the night sky.
In the window a candle flickered. It sat upon the table, in a dish to collect the melted wax. Upon the side of the bed sat Clive, alone. A scrap of cloth smudged in soot and oil lay on his knee. On the table lay a small box lined with empty cartridge cases. Sturm rested beside him, leaned up against the bed.
Upon his face was a frown of concentration. Clive fished through the box of brass cases and pulled another one free. He held it gently between his fingers and rolled it between them, within the glow of the candle. No cracks, no burrs he could feel or defects he could detect; the brass case clinked when he set it on the pile of cartridge cases he had already inspected and found suitable.
A second pile lay discarded to one side- cracked cases, unsuitable for firing. Faulty, imperfect. Sort the good from the bad. It saved you a lot of trouble later.
In the window, the candle was a tiny oasis of light. The moon lit up the courtyard beneath the inn with white, cool light. It was a calm night, crisp and full of deep shadows. And quiet, save for the crickets that trilled in the trees.