~ Beginnings ~
It was a cloudy morning. The narrow streets of Huronsbury were thick with people and there was an atmosphere of grim hurry in the air. The formless mist that covered the roads and narrowed the visibility down to a few feet made one weary, and so folk was bustling about rather hastily to get matters done and escape this loom. The stone buildings left and right were of the same color as the faces of the people in the streets that hurried on with their business. The odd dog barking in the distance was the only thing that sounded over the mumbled murmuring of the crowd and the dulled down hammering of the blacksmith seized early on, its owner knowing that this would be anything but a fine day for work. The damp sound of feet on earthen streets was swallowed by the mist just as quickly as the odd cough. No laughing of children was to be heard anywhere; even the young ones would rather stay indoors on days like these. The castle looming over the city with its thick, white walls was reflecting the light rather poorly today. Usually a sight to behold, the marble towers seemed to suffer more under the fog than anything else. The thick grey streams of water and air were lingering around the windows that gleamed from the candlelight within, echoing the warmth. A soft rain started drizzling down.
It was in an inconspicuous place near the city center that our story began. In a somewhat open space between houses, there was standing an inn that was in no way unordinary. It was a wooden building, two storeys high and with a chimney of dark brick that appeared to be a little crooked. In front of the inn there was an open space a few feet wide that made for a little front yard in between the many houses and shops all around, with a small well and a tree next to it strengthening that impression. Over the entrance door there was dangling an arm long copper sign that read < The weary woolhorn > in large friendly letters, with an etching of a woolhorn with its thick, long fur covering it’s body and eyes, and the typical bent horns that arched over the entirety of the impressive animal’s back beneath it. Inside that inn, just past the front entrance, there was a cozy space filled with tables and chairs that was bathed in the warm lights of many candles on the walls, warding of the dull atmosphere outside. Two bards were playing a jolly melody that was just loud enough to fill the room but not intrusive enough to hamper conversation. Around the table and chairs, not many people were sitting, but the ones that were appeared to be travelers from far away, with thick cloaks and many bags. Indeed was this tavern known for its hospitality towards strangers, and many a wanderer coming through Huronsbury was directed here when asking about for suitable lodging. Conversations were more lively in here than out on the streets, and the occasional laughing did not feel so out of place here. The sound of cups clinking and mouths chewing was accompanied by the occasional squeaking glasses being cleaned by the innkeeper standing behind the wooden bar.
At one of the tables, in the far corner, there was a man sitting wrapped in green and brown clothing. He seemed a little out of place, for only the thick, grey cloak and the backpack next to him spoke of a wanderer, while his appearance spoke of a minstrel. Even more so, the wooden lute of red color that was resting next to him was a clear sign of his profession. The man did not look up. He was bent over in concentration, many a sheet spread over the table and ignoring the handful of people distracted in conversation. He was scribbling something at the bottom of a page he had unfolded, and his eyes were fixated on the task. Spread across the sheets the words “disappearance”, “people” and “abduction” repeated themselves, and on the top paper there was a drawing of a young, beautiful woman. Who could this stranger be? And what was it about with his concentrated scribbling? Only one way to find out.
