The Dragon's Breath was a worn-down establishment in which the poor resided as the rates for rooms were nothing more than a few hours of work within the lodge. It was a common point of meeting for mercenaries and traveled men alike, and on the inside was a man who waited for those heading his call to arms. Long fingers drummed against an oaken table that had clearly seen much better days. The inn was rather lonesome, seeing few patrons coming and going throughout the dragging day. The salted aroma radiating from the ocean overwhelmed the man’s nostrils, caking the surrounding with a putrid combination of stale ale and odor from long forgotten rodents decaying within the floorboards. With every squeak the door made Arthur turned his eyes to analyze the patron. His hopes of gathering a convoy group began to dwindle with every agonizing tick of time. Time. A measurement of something so invisible and incomprehensible. An indefinite continuation of progress regardless of race and stature. A king was equal to a peasant in the eyes of time. There was nothing that could escape the evil grasps of deterioration taking place with every step forward in time. And Arthur was living on borrowed time, his place among the mortal realm no long. He often cast a glance over his shoulders as if he had been watched from the distance. A constant feeling of unwary eyes staring into the man’s very soul. His right hand moved across the scarred table and gripped his forearm opposite of his right side. A mark of the patron fiend he served brandished forever into his skin, much more permanent than a normal scar. It was a reminder that his life was no longer his own and that his time, was indeed, borrowed. Perhaps this port town was not the best of choices, the outside appearance of such a glamorous town did not do the reality of the town any justice. Sure, the markets were bustling with merchant’s peddling stolen goods for a coin. The bakeries made fresh sweets every day for those ritzy enough to afford such a luxury. Telraidia was much darker than the outer shell suggested, one who journeyed deeper into the town could understand just what that meant. As an adventurer journeyed further into the city, their eyes would see diminishing buildings that seemed to crumble underneath the pressure of its’ own stone. Inhabitants of the inner city wore ragged clothes and smelled as if their bodies had never seen what was known as a bath. Beggars lined the street, their hands held out against the wind with a shaken demeanor towards those much more fortunate than themselves. It wasn’t as if Arthur had much of a choice in the matter at hand, given the current situation of his homeland. With a king being laid to rest and the odd mist leaving much of the countryside in ruins. The door opened with a squeak once more, revealing a much shorter person standing roughly five feet in total. Windswept hair of an auburn color and peerless green eyes stood out to Arthur in the darkened tavern. The figure moved forward and took a stool to the man’s immediate right, the light revealing the face of a young boy no more than twelve years of age. “Any luck brother?” The young boy spoke low, as if he were intimidated by the elder’s presence. Arthur reached down and ruffled the boy’s hair briefly before turning his attention back to the door. He wondered just who would walk through that door looking for an adventure. What kind of being would sell their skills for coin and a chance to travel Esslia. He was a man who lacked trust for fellowman and despised those who disagreed with his views. The very situation boiled Arthur’s blood, as he was always a lone wolf who never looked for the assistance of anyone else. His mind had been corrupted by pride, placing himself on a pedestal above anyone he deemed unworthy, which was almost always. And yet as he gazed lifelessly at the tavern doors he knew deep down that this was his only chance to make his father proud… and his only chance to find the one who reaped his mother’s soul from this realm.