Re: Chapter 1: Introduction
You head further into the mountains. Some are more tired than the others but eventually the road begins to level out and you can see a medium size village off in the distance. As you get closer the Captain speaks up. "If the weather holds we'll be there by mid afternoon."
You continue to trudge along, as the day passes a sudden storm begins to dump snow on the group. The air is cold and charged with snow, and the wind howls severely through the tall conifer trees. Far ahead, the dim lights of a small village flicker invitingly toward you through the thickening flurries. The captain, plodding at the head of the party, shifts direction toward the lights. As you enter the town, the snow falls thicker, in large pillowy flakes. A sudden chill runs through you like cold steel, but as quickly as it came, the chill passes. The streets are barren. Nary a footprint or carriage track marks the deepening shroud of snow over this silent town. Bringing up the rear of the party, Eldon and Ravewood trudge along, their heads bent to the ground like weary horses and their breath forming ghosts of moisture in the frigid air.
Though the shutters of every house are secured against the night, here and there light spills between the shutter slats, casting prison-bar shadows upon the drifting snow. Ahead, a creaking sign bears weathered lettering - Moondale Inn.
The captain looks over the group and back at the storm. You can tell that he is have an internal battle with himself. Finally the Captain moves further into the village.
As you walk up to the front door of the inn, the stairs shake and rusted nails moan beneath the tread of your feet. The doorknob, however, turns silently and the hinges whisper as the door opens, spilling warm light into the night. You stamp inside and close the door. A small fire burns lazily in a large hearth on the right side of the room. The flames cast dancing shadows across the bleak, tan walls. To the left, a worn set of stairs leads up to the second floor. A man, apparently the inn's proprietor, sits in an oversized rocking chair, smoking a stale-smelling pipe. Though his tunic is blotched by years of tobacco (and other unidentifiable) stains, you can tell it had once been white. Several tables and chairs stand in the path between you and the innkeeper.
As you enter the inn: “Caught in the white maw of winter, were we? Come on in and thaw out your eye-lashes. I’m Dante Lysin, and this is the Moondale Inn. You’re welcome to stay, if you’ve got coin, that is.”
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