It’s a quiet night in a town that doesn’t even have a name. There’s four houses, a guard garrison, and a merchant that comes only once a month – and that was two weeks ago.
It’s a quiet autumn night in a hamlet people only call ‘Hamlet’, with the cows and sheep taken indoors to keep them from the cold and wet, and the furlongs of carrots in the fields ripe and bushy. Rain patters down, a murmuring shush-shush.
It’s not a quiet night for the sixth building in this nondescript cluster, however. The Arrow At Rest, a magnificent two-storey inn, is alive on all nights, but especially on nights like this.
Music pours from the inn like liquid, drowning out the water from the sky. Within, a half-orc is responsible for most of the clamour; two halflings gamble with a trio of farmers, a large-hatted wizard mulls over a glass of milk, and a consort of elves sit quietly in a private room.
It will not be a quiet night in this town that doesn’t even have a name for very much longer.