A stranger enters.

[Skiprazor]

*[The rain outside pierces the ground like daggers from the heavens, turning the ground outside into a quagmire. The tavern is packed, as is the custom, regardless of the conditions that envelop it daily. Yet even tonight, the locals must strain to converse with each other over the howl of the wind that skewers its way through the tavern doors. It is a truly hellish night.]*

*[The howl turns to a cacophonous roar as the door swings open briefly, revealing (to those who bother to turn around) a dark sillhouette in the doorway. Seemingly oblivious to the barrage of elements, the figure walks into the tavern, methodically closing the door behind them and dulling the roar again as if they controlled the wind itself. Dripping wet, the figure strides deliberately to a table in the far corner as the surrounding locals eyeball him suspiciously.]*

*[The stranger makes not one utterance as he drinks deeply from a tanakrd of mead. His hand never leaves the knapsack he has deposited on the floor next to him. Wiping his mouth, which like the rest of his face is concealed by the shadow of his hood, the figure raises his head slightly, surveying the tavern's ragged clientelle.]*

"I'm looking for shelter."

*[The locals look at each other with a mixture of fear and suspicion, as if the stranger's utterance carried some kind of veiled curse or threat. With no reply immediately forthcoming, the stranger lowers his head again to drink, but even through the hood of his cloak the locals can almost feel him watching them, waiting for a response to his request.]*

[Skiprazor]

*[Time passes. The wind outside appears to subside slightly, as if the elements themselves seem loathe to offer the stranger a place to lay his head on this night. Taking another gulp of mead, he allows himself an inner sigh of resignation - this kind of reception is, after all, the norm now. He has been on the receiving end of enough stony stares and unfriendly glances to be familiar with such ostracization, and yet it still triggers a twinge of frustration - or is it loneliness? - somewhere deep inside him.]*

*[He finishes his drink. It appears all too obvious now that this particular bunch of locals are not willing to help him. Litfing his head once again, he surveys the scene as the inhabitants avert their eyes from his steel gaze. Patience has always been one of his strongest suits, but the night draws on, and it is no night to be sleeping rough under such violent skies. Besides, he has much to do - questions to ask, information to collect, objects to acquire.]*

*[Getting up from his chair and shouldering his burly knapsack once more, he ambles towards the door with the same detatched precision with which he entered. He stops at the bar, where the serving wench is busily cleaning tankards, averting her gaze from his like all the others. He pauses and turns, completing a final slow pan of this Godforsaken watering hole. No-one amongst the crowd appears to be one of his kind, but then again it is hard to tell what one of his kind would even look like in this particular realm. He hopes that, should he happen upon one of his own, that their mannerisms and modes of address will betray their roots to him.]*

*[He opens his gloved hand, and there is the dull shimmer of a gold coin in his palm. He grips it between his thumb and forefinger and reaches it slowly to the wench. She glances at him briefly, her face a mask of suspicion - fear, almost - before taking the coin from him.]*

*[As he opens the doors onto the newly ferocious night, the roar of the wind rises up once more, slicing through the room like the blade of the Gods. And then, just as quickly as it arrived, it has gone again, and with it, the stranger.]*

[ModNote: Continued in Shelter for a stranger.]

[Kully]

[OOC: Hi there - apologies if you were expecting a response - around 75% of the regular players on this board are away at the KMRPG - they should be back by tomorrow at least though. Enjoy play!]