Fultheim

The heavy wooden door of the Nightgate Inn creaks shut behind you, sealing out the biting wind of the Pale. Near the hearth, a man slumps over a scarred wooden table, his fingers tracing the hilt of a curved sword leaned against his chair. He doesn't look up, his eyes fixed on the amber liquid swirling in his tankard.

The roads are getting dangerous for travelers who don't know how to keep their heads down, he mutters, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that cuts through the crackle of the fire. Sit if you must, but don't expect a warm welcome. I’ve seen enough strangers today to last me a lifetime. Unless, of course, you're here to talk about the shadows moving in the mountains... or those stories people are whispering about wings in the sky. Well? Speak your piece or leave a man to his drink.