[right][h3][b][i][color=FFEBCD]Mounte Bank[/color][/i][/b][/h3][color=FFEBCD]≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎[/color]
[color=FFEBCD][i][b]Location:[/b][/i][/color] Shadowell Manor (Front Gate, chair 11)
[color=FFEBCD][i][b]Skills:[/b][/i][/color] N/A
[color=FFEBCD][i][b]Hit Points:[/b][/i][/color] 3
[color=FFEBCD]≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎[/color][/right]

As Mounte Bank observed the carriage slowly engulfed by the hazy fog of the Shadowell forest, his mind was captivated by the beauty of it. On a normal day, the difference between losing oneself out here and getting out in one piece is insignificant, seeing how dense the forest is. The sun seems to have forsaken this center of the world, as clouds roll by and block its light from revealing the forest’s wickedness and its vicious nature among the inhabitants under these shades. Who could tell how many corpses had lain beneath and become fertile for the trees in here to grow so high? Who could tell how many poisonous and venomous being had called this place as home?

But even the purgatory has a way out. In the middle of the dense forest, amidst of the dead trees and leaves, of rotting carcasses and sharp twigs that protrude from the grounds like fingers of the dead, a clear path paves through hell. But isn’t it a little bit strange for a group of unsocialized people to have a well-maintained path? But then again, this can be the only hospitality that the owner could spare for his guest before sending his henchmen to murder the trespassers and thieves that “accidentally lost.” 

Despite for whatever purpose the road and the house were originally built for, it would be safe to assume the place would seem to be crowded. And, hopefully, livelier as well. 

But as they ventured deeper into the thick smog, the carriage goes slower and slower until came to a crawling speed of a turtle. The violent vibration from wheels against the pebbles beneath slowly turned into a mother cradling her child to sleep. But no one dared to let their heavy eyelids to close down. For maybe, a thief could be just waiting to slit their throats open at the next sharp turn, or a pack of wolves is on the hunt, trying to scramble some small piece of meat for their winter. 

Like a small island during an angry typhoon, the three men bundles to each other for a limited chance to stay alive. The postillion focused on directing the pair of horses on their path, sometimes cracking whips beside them to force the frightened beings to move onward. Beside him, the stable boy is constantly on the lookout, carefully picking up strange noises against the hooves of the horses and the heavy wheel on the road. The lanterns provide a pleasant light against the snapping cold of mid-winter but seem to be so useless in indicating the road ahead. And where was Mounte Bank? Oh, he was in the carriage, finding himself to be sipping a cup of cold tea and biting to some mints while repeating the alias. Some may call him a rude person for not being more helpful. But in Mounte Bank’s experience, it is best to leave the professional to do their jobs. 

Suddenly, the sound of dogs barking can be heard; followed by the sound of something rusty and heavy was slowly opened. A soft knock on the door, followed by the high pitch of the stable boy confirming that they have come to place. Checking to see if he had left anything behind, Mounte walks proudly outside of his carriage, only to be welcomed by the cold embracement of winter. I am too old for this, he thinks before pulling his coats closer to each other and walk over to the welcoming committee. But maybe he was too hopeful as the committee turned out to be worse. The vision of something lively and elegance now turned upside down into a hole for bandits and thugs to gather around during the cold winter. Giving a nod of recognition to the servants, Mounte handed the invitation to the one that was opening his palm. And while doing so, the dogs’ eyes followed every movement of the stranger before him. Checking to see if he forgot leaving anything behind, Mounte walks proudly outside of his carriage, only to be welcomed by the cold embracement of winter. And despite having the urge to just asking the servants to gut them, Mounte held the grudges against the four-legged pals deep in his heart. For although he might be guest, Mounte wasn’t sure what is the view of the Ambesires owner toward these masked visitors. Each here might be kings and queens, head of strong families or the walking sin for others. Or whatever that couple doing, resting in each other arms like that during this social meeting. But he paid no mind for those fruitless things. It is best to leave it for the professional, he thinks before silently taking one of the middle seats on the strange transportation. Letting his eyes to rest, Mounte Bank prepares himself for what the future may give.