Although he had hitherto not perceived any indication of fatigue, despite having stood leaning against the wall near a dim corner for what seemed to have been the best part of the day, finally contriving to seat himself upon the segment of a bench vacated by a corpulent adventurer was for Ectemund a singularly relieving experience. Nor was the elation exclusively physical in nature: notwithstanding the undeniable fact that the fewer participants were eventually to set off upon this expedition, for such it seemed it would be, after all, the fewer assets its body would have disposed of, a lesser number of them would likewise have entailed less distracting and fundamentally unnecessary tangents, not to mention a lesser likelihood of provision shortages, which could certainly not be defined as an unwelcome development. Besides, the vast majority, not to say the visible entirety, of those present appeared to him to belong to such sorts as more often constituted an obstacle to one's endeavours than anything else, unconcerned as they were with anything beyond practical, palpable and often perceived benefits; not that such a stance was in itself more reprehensible than many others, he allowed, yet it was little more than a nuisance when encountered on a serious venture, similarly to stinging gnats and damp weather. Ah, as concerned damp weather...

Ectemund winced as he abruptly straightened his arms and right leg, which were beginning to wax torpid through their lengthy inaction, and their junctures snapped into place with what must have been an audible report, accompanied by a brief, yet pernicious burst of pain and an unpleasant sensation of brittleness in his limbs. The journey to Roses had led him into a swampy region whose exhalations, which a stouter and, perhaps, younger constitution than his might have shrugged off with comparative ease, had seeped into his bones, rendering them, it seemed to him, water-logged and prone to such rupture-like accesses. Truly, he had been assured by a physician some months before that such symptoms were the forerunners of some chronic ailment as inevitable as the end itself, which would have overtaken him no matter where he might have strayed; yet he was nonetheless convinced that the land he had now wandered into had at least precipitated its advent. Had Sigismund not mentioned rumours of some nefarious influence surrounding this place? Ah, the tricks blind fear of the unknown all too often played upon the imagination... There was surely nothing preternatural in the weariness of his frame, and he wondered just how great a part of those voices had been engendered by some outrageously prosaic cases of illness, as it had all too frequently been the case with "cursed" bogs and marshes he had encountered in the course of his studies.

He caught himself upon his own thoughts. Nay, sceptical jesting aside, there was, in sooth, something curious about the town and, as far as he had seen, the forest beyond it. The desolation and dilapidation he had witnessed were, in themselves, neither extraordinary nor interesting; however, from a number of minutiae he had observed in their appearance, there did seem to exist some particular set of conditions to them, the perfect likeness of which he did not recall having heretofore beheld. The local plant life was markedly bizarre, with such elements as black flowers, an abnormal proliferation of lichens on virtually any organic surface, including grass, and most inorganic ones as well, and misshapen horrors which might have been the distant, degenerate descendants of farm crops standing toe-to-toe, if such an expression was appropriate, with the hardiest of weeds. A mere glimpse of this forsaken stock would doubtless have rendered his esteemed botanical colleagues ecstatic, and had recalled to his mind a previous experience in the environs of a long-abandoned woodland shrine which, he had been told, radiated a dark corruption, and had proved a most fascinating find indeed. There was, of course, the possibility of all these splendid abnormalities being eventually discovered to originate from some perfectly explicable cause, yet was that not always the case? For now, the environs of Dunwick Manor shewed promise, and this was the utmost which could be hoped for at this stage.

Having reassured himself on this account, Ectemund cast a glance about the tavern, which by that time had grown largely deserted. The remaining figures seemed, in the evening penumbra, not to differ exceedingly from the majority of those who had gathered, with high yet fragile hopes, in the morning. Nonetheless, a sudden thought drove him to squint his right eye in alarm and attempt to repeat the survey as inconspicuously as possible. After all, what assurance did he have that one (or more, or all) of these shapes might not be intently scrutinising him, awaiting the most suitable moment to nonchalantly approach him and request "some moments of private conversation", perhaps fingering a hilt under their cloak to lend their low tones further emphasis? Had not both Erfried and Hulzen been accosted by such gentlemen within the last year, and refused to set foot without the University ever since? The warden's contact in Asterwatch was safe, of that there was no doubt; yet was there not a danger that, unbeknownst even to them, this invitation of sorts might have been a scheme to lure out the most zealous investigators of - he winced - "unsavoury" matters? Admittedly, the King probably had better occupations to fill his time than these. But the King had many subordinates, each of whom doubtless aspired to be rewarded for some display of initiative. And who, it may be asked, would be the ideal casualties of their ploys, if not the aforementioned investigators, who were of no use - no use! - to anyone either way?

Lost, despite himself, in such grim reflections, Ectemund barely restrained himself from gathering into a defensive posture when the grinning innkeeper approached him with a loaded tray and set down a mug before him. Somewhat mystified, inasmuch as he had not called for anything of that sort, he peered disconsolately at the mug's contents. It was not far worse than the usual University fare, especially now that funds were running low (they had been running low for as long as anyone could recall), but it was nonetheless not something with which he was impatient to make his throat acquainted. Thereupon he noticed a startling detail - a napkin. Not even in the most opulent taverns he had lodged in had he been treated to such a luxury, and its presence in such a forlorn place as this one was puzzling at the very least. Lifting the scrap of cloth to examine it, he saw that beneath it lay a petal of one of the curious black flowers which abounded about the town, and upon its nether side there was scrawled a word - "[i]Stale[/i]". No, "[i]Stable[/i]". More baffled than ever, Ectemund lifted his gaze and scanned the room once again, but could barely discern anything in the gathering darkness. Seeing no other alternative, he attempted to suppress his apprehension, which was far from being dispersed by the cryptic message, and awaited any further developments with as imperturbable a mien as he could muster.