#desynt

It had been raining for three days. A line of grey clouds first gathered just of the edge of the Storm Breakers, rolling through the shallow waters between the Breakers and the mainland, and swept across the rugged plains and fields of the Highl March. They darkened as they pushed across the red expanse of the Shimmer Sands, faintly teasing the Ghost Sea with isolated showers, before finally settling in the southern portion of the Goven Woodlands. For many, this storm was surely a sign of the quickly approaching shift in seasons, and they waited the coming of a true Shivering Winter. 

Despite the rain, or perhaps in spite of it, merchant caravans, traders, and wandering souls of all kind made their way up and down the Iron Road and its many branches. Traders and caravans specifically made the trek in hopes of opportunities that would allow them to participate in the White Marketplace--in the very least, they could make contacts there. These aspirations of wealth arose with word that the Three Cities had united. However, for the variety of travelers, there was a variety of words. Words of change. Words of trepidation. Hope. Fear. Opportunity. The continent of Cabbal was beginning to change, but especially so in the village of Narrow Mouth. 

Pre-Cataclysm, the village of Narrow Mouth thrived as a stopping point on the Iron Road between Vamos and Govensport. The stacked stone pillars at the northern and southern entrances bear the tattered banners of the long-crumbled Goven Empire, of which this village quietly rested on the edge of its territory. And rested it did, for 200 years, relatively unvisited. The remnants of a dilapidated Round Fort stood as a reminder of the fragments of Narrow Mouth’s influence. Those that toiled on the village’s single muddy street did so in silent determination, awaiting the day that the Round Fort would rise from its ruined state. 

The Burnished Hoof, Inn, nestled on the southern edge of the village, saw the number of visitors steadily increase over the course of a week. A single long, rusted horseshoe swayed above the door, slightly askew from the weathering of wind, rain, ice, snow, and sun. The interior of the Burnished Hoof was meek and mild, but a welcome reprieve from the cold rain that steadily fell outside. A fire crackled in the left-hand corner where three tables were arranged in a half circle so all might enjoy the warmth. Above the grey stone fireplace from one of the arched wooden struts that supported the roof, a tattered dark green banner bearing a wreath of thorns and a single white rose in the center hung like a sheet left to dry. 

On the other side of the inn a bar, stained a rich black, curved around the room much like the horseshoe above the door. With short, black curls and a pair of spectacles that rested just on the edge of her small nose, a comely halfling sat, her green eyes drifting listlessly as she took in the room. Eyeing the hallway to her left, she waited to see which of her guests would be the first to awake. Behind her, a smaller fire crackled underneath a tin pot filled with that morning’s porridge, which was just beginning to warm. She thoughtfully stroked the white fur of her cat curled tightly in the folds of her faded brown smock. A peaceful quiet, save for the tapping of rain on the roof, settled over the inn. 

And in this quiet, tiny inn, tucked in away just off the Iron Road from Vamos to Govensport, four wandering fates appeared like beacons in the darkness of night.