A man sits on a black, designer chair in a second-story hallway. His short hair and trimmed goatee are grey, matching his eyes. His shirt is pale-pink, loose-fitting, and silk. His pants are the same, but brown. Perfect for a warm, sporting day. A thin mithril chain around his neck attaches to a silver pendent: a single bar, the sides slightly curved inward, thicker at the top and bottom. A recent gift, it replaced the leather and wood one he made when he was little. He still keeps that one on his nightstand. His golden wedding band, now too small for his finger, is also on the chain.
He holds the pendant in his hands. His fingertips trace the engraving on the back. One faith. One truth. One God. The words ingrained in his mind since childhood. His face, normally smooth and young in contrast with his hair, is creased with a mix of worry, fear, and anger.
A faint sobbing comes from the nearby door. He gets up to knock once again. "Honey?" The crying finally stops. A lock clicks.The door opens to reveal a woman, red hair, wearing a dark blue sundress, makeup ruined from crying. He knew before, but looking into her brown eyes now confirms everything.
He is unable to find any words, and they stand there for a long moment. She breaks the silence with "I'm sorry." She quickly closes and locks the door.
Devastated, he stands there. When he doesn't hear the crying again, he looks through the keyhole. Exhausted, she had passed out on the bed. He wanted nothing more than to lay down next to her and hold her. He could easily get the key and do just that, but it felt like a breach of trust. Devastation turns to anxiousness. Tucking his pendant into his shirt, he prepares to leave the house.
A half hour later, he sits down on a barstool downtown. The innkeeper, not expecting someone else before noon on a weekday, takes a moment to give him any attention. "Poitr! I haven't seen you since..." He cuts himself off, seeing Poitr's face. He starts filling a pint with mead. "Another miscarriage?"