A Fortified Bivouac

Night set in, and remaining exposed on the open counter is poor tactical sense. I marched past the cinnamon stick outpost toward the corner where a heavy ceramic teapot stood beside an empty embossed tin. Its lid had been left loosely askew. Bracing my boots against the counter's polished surface, I pried the metal lid open, hoisted myself over the rolled lip, and dropped into the interior. The tin walls still carried the rich, roasted scent of dry black tea leaves. Tucking my boots into the corner and keeping one gloved hand resting near my dagger, I found myself fully shielded from drafts and unseen angles. This station is fortified.