Prologue

            A firefly, light on the wind, skims over the grass, tips of its appendages touching the vegetation ever so slightly. The wind flies alongside it; the grass ripples in response. Trees dot the hillside, sparse and far in between. The grass and other weeds grow in abundance, reaching nearly three feet in some places on the hill. Other bugs chirrup and make small sounds, but no animals can be heard. If one did not know it was night by seeing, then one would know it by hearing.

            Suddenly, a large object passes over the bug’s path of travel. The firefly attaches itself to the object; it seems to be moving. Curiousness, if indeed bugs do have the ability to feel curious, makes this firefly fly up; for this large lump of… whatever it is… is much, much taller than the bug itself. It alights on a surface, a different one than it was just on. It crawls upwards, seeking –

            WHAM. A deafening sound, accompanied by intense pain and a flash of red, assail the firefly, but only for an instant, for it dies nearly immediately. The man – for this was a man that the bug detected – looks at the smear on his hand and says out loud, “Oops. Sorry, friend.” This is apparently to the bug; there is no one else around to experience the fragrant night.

            This Stranger squats down, gathering the black cloak he wears in hand, and wipes the bug, or what remains of it, onto the grass. He would try to do something for the bug, but unfortunately, today he is in a hurry and cannot stop to do anything. He continues on, shrouded in darkness, following the road. However, he does not step directly on the road, keeping on in the grass.

            Finally, he comes to a stop, now on a dusty side road at the crest of the hill. He looks forward, reading a sign hanging off a tavern: “Hillfeld Inn.” The sign is lit by a warm glow from a lamp, as well as light shining through the front windows. Stables, just to the right of the inn – The Stranger’s right, that is – are lit by the same lamp, as well as another which hangs from the wall. Inside the stables, there are three horses, but there are probably more people inside than three, as this tavern serves the locals of Hillfeld as well as those riding through. Along the road beyond the tavern, several houses are just discernible in the darkness, the rest hiding within the night. This settlement is a bit larger than a village, but could not be classified as a town. All of this the man takes in and deduces with a single look. He takes a small piece of parchment out of a fold inside the sleeve of the hooded cloak; reads it, nods to himself. He enters the tavern.