Pitted cobblestones wind their way down a low hilltop, the scratchy grassland around it looking patchy and poorly tended. The road begs for repair, but no mason has traveled this way in a very long time with any intention of lingering too long. A small hamlet of clustered buildings lay near the base of the hill, windows cracked and shuttered, the few people seen outside walking with downcast eyes. Everything around the little town looks dead or close to it. The waterlogged land around it looks to have once been a successful farm, but now only meager and drooping crops are grown in the small spaces between puddles of brackish water. The only thing that doesn’t stink of decay are the large flower beds that adorn the foundations of nearly every house and structure. Roses bloom in defiance of the stagnation around them. A learned man may make the connection that these flowers once earned this small hamlet its name, their variety of colors and vibrancy celebrated across the kingdom. Now, whatever force has stricken the lives and bodies of this region, has turned the proud namesake into a perverted mockery of itself. Vile thorns grow long and sinister along the twisting stems, the bulbs bursting into petals of a dark black color with a bit of pearlescent purple. 

The sun is a red ball hovering over the horizon on Kirklan Bay, nearly fully set. The glow of the waning light has forced many inhabitants indoors, the poor light of candles and lanterns glinting through the cracks of shutters. Only one establishment even seems halfway receptive to travelers; a sagging and dilapidated tavern. The sign that dangles from one hook above the door bears the chipped and peeling likeness of a beautiful girl. The name [i]“The Lovely Maiden”[/i] can be read with some difficulty below the portrait. This poor excuse for an inn has become a beacon within the town, the fat tavern keeper rubbing his hands with greedy glee at the amount of new business he has had lately. 

Inside, seated on stools, benches, or even just their own packs, are all manner of strangers. Most look like hard men and women, their belts carrying weapons, their faces crossed with scars as they drink and wait. Some of those waiting are clothed in more simple attire, reading books and jotting notes in their journals. And some are simply vagabonds, clothed in little more than rags, kicked aside by the mercenaries. Some have been here for days, others having only just arrived. All have come here for one reason: to answer the call cast out by a mysterious employer, looking to make themselves rich on gold and artifacts promised. 

Today the crowd is especially anxious. Today is the day that the contract said would be the final meeting time. Today they were all supposed to meet their new employer and start this job. Yet still, they wait. The hours drag on, and as the sun sinks below the horizon and darkness falls upon the hamlet many of the gathered hopefuls pick up and leave. There are mutters and mumbles of hoax and con, curses spat and a few especially drunk patrons upturning their chairs or tables as they leave. And still no one makes themselves known. As the tavern slowly empties, there are left only the most devoted, or the most desperate. The tavern keeper returns from his back room bearing a tray of nine mugs. He places the mugs down on top of a rough linen napkin in front of nine remaining patrons casually, as if only filling an order they have placed. 

Underneath each piece of cloth is a single black rose petal, and a word hastily written in black charcoal. 

[i]Stable[/i]