In death we trust.

Chapter 1: A stormy night and strangers arrive.

Rain pattering outside, the wind howling through the stagnant air, held at bay by the rotting, creaking wooden walls of the Cock’s Roost inn. The (stagnant) residents stirred idly in their seats, lazily imbibing what the inn had for alcohol. Conversation was scarce, the soft spoken request for drinks the only momentary disruption from the depressed, sedentary atmosphere.

The door clicked and swung open, letting in a brief cascade of rain and cacophony of the maelstrom outside. When the door closed, the echoes of the storm were pushed back out into the darkness, but the hooded figure who had stepped inside remained. They drew only the briefest notice from the apathetic residents before they returned to their stupor as the figure walked soddenly to the counter, slapped a coin down and gestured vaguely towards a barrel.

The inn keep wordlessly gave them a mug of the substance they’d requested and the figure took it to a table in a dark corner of the room and sat.

The night wore on in miserable, sullen silence, textured only by the raging of the storm. The silence was broken again some hours later, time bearing no real meaning, by another intrusion on the delicate atmosphere of depression and apathy. The door burst open inwards again, this time more suddenly and with more force. A figure stumbled in, drenched by the pounding rain, blood staining their clothes in places and bruises on their face. This figure took more notice, both for their sudden interjection and for their noteworthy appearance.

Most of the residents recognized the patterns and style of their clothes as that of a cleric of Sune; the figure’s face, once it paused, noteworthy for the runic tattoo upon its forehead. The figure breathed deeply, her chest rising unsteadily in the manner of one breathing through noticeable pain. She took a few uneasy steps forward and stumbled, clutching at her ribs giving a short, involuntary exhalation of breath.

She moved painfully over to the bar and put her weight on its counter. The inn keep walked dispassionately towards her and looked blankly at her, letting neither her wounds nor religion distract from the expectation a drink being ordered. The cleric breathed heavily on the counter, her vision unfocussed as she waited for the pain to subside enough for clear thought.

The subsidence of the vicious storm and necessity to keep moving allowed her to adjust to the pain, if not be freed from it, and she looked up into the worn, dispassionate face staring down at her. An explanation of her situation died in her throat as the man’s greying eyes diligently displayed an efforted apathy towards her. She briefly glanced around and waded through the pain enough to gain more of an appreciation for the type of place she was in and the lack of empathy that she could expect from its constituents. She looked worriedly around the room, hoping to catch the slightest glimmer of concern from someone in the room that might reflect aid, but she found none.

Accepting the lack of empathy and lowering her hopes to someone who might be willing to aid her upon request, she turned back to the barkeep whose face had not changed, even to the slightest muscle, and yet still betrayed a very slow ebb in patience.

“I, um-“ She tried. His expression did not change. “I was attacked on the road by a hound.