The long shadow of the Throat of the World was cast over the small hamlet of Ivarstead as the sun sank behind the huge mountain. Even so, the orange shade of twilight filled the, the last remnants of the day. The Vilemyr Inn already bad its fair share of patrons, all shuffling in for the promise of a warm fire, a hot meal and a cool ale. However, one man stood in the inn sat alone, patiently awaiting night to settle in.

Vincent Storm-Born sat just outside the crowd gathering around the fire, a comfortable distance from the sweltering blaze. His fingers drummed on his leg and he slowly sipped at a bottle of cheap wine, his burning eyes watching the slow trickle of travelers entering the tavern. In this part of the world, the traveler crowd mostly consisted of pilgrims journeying to High Hrothgar, but the tonight the crowd was a tpuch more diverse.

Would-be dragonslayers filed in, drawn by the promise of honor and glory offered by the meeting offered by the Greybeards. Vincent supposed he couldn't judge them too harshly, given that he was among their number, but even as dark a person as himself had more altruistic motives. He figured that these adventurers were settling down for the night so that the Seven-Thousand Steps could be climbed in the warmth and safety of daylight, but Vincent had different plans.

As soon as the sun had fully retreated from the sky, he would make the climb alone, and shelter himself from the following dawn in the cool depths of High Hrothgar. For now, he waited. For one as old as him, a few hours was nothing. He had all of the time in the world, for as much time that the world had left.