Hogarth had been waiting in the sitting room the entire day, occasionally giving the girl near him a few stray curious looks. He really, really didn't want to be late. Not that he minded the waiting, the old decrepit structure had quite the pleasant atmosphere, or so he thought anyway, and his overwhelming enthusiasm kept him occupied and unaware of most of his surroundings. His wildest dreams would, perhaps, come true any moment now. The only downside of this waiting was that approximately three hours of constant grinning had left his face in great pain. Not that he cared, anyway. He adjusted his bandolier for the thousandth time, made sure his all his vials were in their proper place, for the hundredth time, and ran his fingers across one of his axes, which he had unsheathed, and whirled it in his hand, for gods know how many times. Practice paid off.

 Even though not formally trained, the young man, among his countless hours of isolated studying, had come across a good number of arms manuals, and with constant repetition had managed to grasp more than the basics, eventually becoming quite the user of the throwing axe. Having no instructor to guide him, however, most weapons, especially the heavy ones, remained far beyond his grasp. But, as he told himelf over and over in one of his nigh-unstoppable inner monologues, practice made perfect, and he was absolutely determined to master the famous Grave Keeper shovel, even if it meant to he had to face a hundred malefactors.

 A sound broke Hogarth's daydreaming. Could it be? It was none other than the famous Old Ben speaking. Here, in the flesh. Quickly he sprang to his feet and, clicking the heels of his massive boots together, gave the man a military salute, and afterwards stood in attention. But his discipline was short lived. In an instant, he returned to his usual slouch and brought his hands together, twiddling his thumbs in nervousness and stared at the old man, still wearing that wide eyed smile, in complete silence.