Midsummer's heat hangs heavy in the air, weighting down everything like a merchant's iron. Afternoon gives way to evening, and fireflies begin their waltz to the gentle fiddling of crickets. The last rays of light strike the stained glass of the town's small chapel at the end of the main street, reflecting in unnumbered rainbows across the village of Kirkenheim. Nestled into the Highcrag mountains, it seems as if no evil could befall its pedestrian inhabitants. Only a generation ago, marauding warbands from the North of Vastapir had left the village undisturbed while burning and pillaging so many others nearby. The people thanked whatever they believed in for being spared. St. Ember, the stars, fate, or dumb luck; whatever it was, it had kept them safe, allowing them to live in blissful peace within the small mining community's confines.


Now though, there are rumors of things roaming the night, and people talk in hushed tones away from the prying ears of children about even darker things that wander the countryside and make their homes in dark places. It is this time and this village that you've made your way to on your travels.

The village in still as you come upon it, a tapestry of rural bliss, complete with candles in the windows, flickering in the gentle breeze. The Summer's Light festival is being held here as it is in many towns, the townsfolk more accustomed to lives of labor and trade than adventure. An Argent Rider sits on his white steed near a hand carved and gilded sign bearing the name "Kirkenheim." The Rider notices you and waves you over.

"Hail, travler. The roads nearby are not hospitable for wandering beyond nightfall, so you'd best take your rest here for the night. The local inn is just up the main street. Das Zwei Hunds it's called, and the owner, Ivan, tends to have a few rooms to spare. Not many travelers make their way here these days. St. Ember guide you, traveler, and rest well."

The cobblestones tap gently underfoot as you make your way down the main throughfaire, guiding you down the street and to a battered sign with a pair of dogs with an eye patch each. It's the Zwei Hunds Inn, and it looks cozy enough for a weary traveler's respite. You enter and take a seat at a battered table in a weathered chair. It's early for the tavern's usual patrons, so you essentially have the place to yourself.

A stout dwarf walks over, wearing an apron that may never have been white and wiping his thick hands with a greasy rag. The dwarf places hands on his hips and adjusts a worn leather patch over his left eye. His accent is as thick as his meaty ands, and there's a hint of "Don't make trouble" to his voice. However, he seems pleasant enough, providing one stays on his good side, and it sets you at ease.

"I have not seen you in here before. I am called Ivan, and I own this inn. I can bring you drinks and fresh stew and offer you a reasonable room if you are a traveler. What brings you to Kirkenheim?"


OOC: For those of you wondering, an Argent Rider is a sort of officer of the law, known for their silver bracers and finely crafted falchions.