The summer’s early and vibrant light ripped through Falk’s sealed curtains, but neither the morning rays nor the incessant pounding of Mira's fist upon the room’s heavy door alerted him of the new day’s arrival. The hunter’s meditation session ended prematurely, his flimsy concentration broken by a chorus of cries in the night’s late hours. The inn’s walls were deceptively thin, and it seemed that sleep brought with it unspeakable horrors for both his neighbors. Falk discontinued his meditation, leaving him feeling perhaps a little weaker than normal, but he knew any further attempts at achieving his curious form of rest would be foiled by the mumbles and shouts in either room beside his own. Even without his neighbor’s nightmares, Falk knew he simply couldn’t return to rest, for his mind was completely enraptured with the mysterious Brithian he'd met. Though a total stranger, Falk felt as though he knew him, or at least [i]of[/i] him. A vague recollection, or some fleeting familiarity. 

The skeleton turned his attention to the rough leather book sat at the room’s quaint desk. In total darkness he flipped through the pages, each containing a queer combination of forbidden, dark knowledge and quaint journal entries, complete with dates, sketches, and titles of literature he intended to seek out. It did not do a hunter well to travel encumbered by books, equipment, and other items, so Falk simply took note of whatever knowledge he needed from a tome and copied it into his journal. It was a sloppy method, to be sure, but the only one available to him. Through his notes, Falk slowly began unraveling the enigma of Valkav. There was only a vague mention in each instance, references to a nameless Brithian travelling the lands, bearing some dark curse. He, or sometimes recorded as she, took many forms, and even more names, but in every instance of his appearance The Stranger carried with them a distinctive lute. What puzzled Falk more than anything was just how wide in time these appearances occurred. The Tome of Bunnir, a text Falk stumbled across in the ancient Four Pillars City, dated back over two millennia, but even this wasn't the first reference of The Stranger. The stone tablet mentioned a cat-like human who arrived in the king’s court, speaking in riddle-like prophesies which predicted the king’s descent into madness. The king ordered The Stranger’s execution almost immediately for such blasphemy, but after the public hanging the royal slowly fell into insanity after claiming he was visited again by The Stranger. At the time of copying it, Falk was interested solely in the cat’s resurrection and apparent immortality, similar to his own curse, but now he was not so sure of the relationship. A more recent text, Zanitha’s Tales, was perhaps not as reliable, but nevertheless relevant. Zanitha was a scholar who traveled the land, collecting folk tales from various cultures and publishing them in her anthologies, often adding her own dramatic flair to enrapture the reader. One brief tale Zanitha gathered from a small human fishing village in Crysteria, revolving around a beggar boy’s rise from poverty to become a great minstrel. The boy was visited by a travelling Brithian who showed him kindness, despite the cat culture’s cruelty towards humans on the island; the Brithian visited him on occasion, giving him coin, advice, and even teaching him to play the lute before disappearing altogether. The boy grew up a successful minstrel, always crediting his abilities and songs to the Brithian, though none believed his stories. However, on his deathbed surrounded by family and friends, the now-ancient minstrel was visited by a Brithian carrying a lute, but he looked to be a young man. In his age-addled mind, the bard claimed it was the Brithian who saved him as a boy, though his loved ones cast the cat out. The cat came to be known in Crysterian culture as The Stranger, though the people today doubt his very existence. 

Falk wasn’t entirely convinced of the stories either. Surely, history was filled with many odd cats, and it was all too likely the connections he drew were simply coincidences. The physical appearance was constantly changing, along with names, time, and age. But then again, hadn’t Falk named the Brithian himself? The pounding on his door drew the hunter from his thoughts as he slammed the journal shut, turning to the window. The morning had crept up on him. He gathered his belongings, strapped on his belt, beckoned Grey to join him on his shoulder, and headed downstairs, the last of their party to arrive. The sunlit tavern floor hit Falk like a warhammer to the head; the skeleton rarely occupied the waking hours, preferring to live when most slept. It was in the night he felt most safe, his malformed shape and unnaturally still chest cloaked in darkness. He felt vulnerable in the day, as if all eyes were burning through him, right through the facade. Falk observed his new companions as he approached the table, spilling into a seat near the end. He spotted a familiar face in Lady Wolfram, but was surprised to see the Brithian bard among their ranks. The others, a male and female dwarf, he hadn’t seen before. 

[color=burlywood]“You lot look like hell. Heard at least two of you screaming all night, pleasant that,”[/color] Falk said casually as he drummed his fingers on the table. The raven on his shoulder puffed up and imitated one of the voices he heard in the night, croaking in a tortured voice,[color=maroon] "The sand, sand.”[/color] Falk turned to Talis at the head of the table. [color=burlywood]”Well, Talis, any more demands from the Talon Company?”[/color]