The streets of Tarn’s Rest are dark, as are the buildings that line them. The braziers, lit every evening by the nightly guard, have burned down to nothing, with only the barest of cinders remaining. The only sound is the faint whistle of the wind coming off the bay as it winds through the eaves of the buildings in town and whips past the bare, ashen trees just outside the main gate.

In a short while, the approaching dawn will begin to shed a scant luminance over the coastal settlement, until finally the sun breaks over the horizon and begins to warm the air just enough for the average person to hazard venturing outside. The changing of the guard happens before this occurs, of course, due to the new recruit whose sensitivity to the sun is of dire import. By now, the other night watchmen know of his condition and of his status as the lost son of Tarn Southgate, facts which fill them with relief concerning the monsters outside the gate, but which also fills more than a few with a new fear of the monster that resides within it.

Considering that the position of night watch rotates through the entire rank of available guards in Tarn’s Rest apart from Andrew Southgate himself, as is only fair to the others, this knowledge is shared amongst all who take up arms in protection of the town. And, due to the nature of loose lips and the tendency for said protectors to engage in respite within the Moonpeak Inn after their long stretches of duty, most of the town is aware of said War Hero/Vampire within the walls.

Yet, it has been more than a week without incident from the nightwalker. Bernadette has spoken highly of him, as have most of the guards that have interacted with him. Indeed, the mayor of Tarn’s Rest, a man by the name of Lord Ivan Gray, has spoken out in support of the assistance of the Vampire. Unofficially, of course.

Thus, by the time the sun has crested over the walls of the town, Andrew has already returned to the safety of his makeshift room within the basement of the Moonpeak Inn. The morning patrol of guards have taken their positions throughout the streets, eager for the morning food stalls to begin setting up, ready for the day of merchants haggling in the market square and the laborers to help loading and unloading the ships that will eventually either leave or make port, as it is some of the only work available during the harsh winter when the road to the iron mine is closed.

There is another that is awake at this early hour, before the first merchant or worker has worked up the courage to face the morning chill, however.

Kazimiera Gwózdek, long accustomed to rising at daybreak from her days as a Captain in the Zhevrun military, greets the cold morning air with a deep inhale as she steps from the door of the inn, careful to not disturb the jingling bells attached to the top of it.

She is without her heavy armor and shield, though certainly not without her blade, which rests in its sheath, attached to her belt. Fearing less the assault of foes and more the air’s bitter chill, she wears a moderately heavy set of winter clothing: New, tailored within this past week using the reward gained from both Bernadette and Andrew for her and the rest of the group’s work.

Yet, her furred hood is down, allowing the cold wind to blow through her neatly-trimmed hair and across her green-tinged skin. She is used to these temperatures thanks to growing up in Siskapol, the capital city located in the northern part of Zhevrun. With only a canal separating the city from the continent known simply as the Crown of Vale, parts of which have snow and ice older than the nation of Zhevrun itself, it is no surprise that the winters of her childhood were surprisingly harsh.

The cold air upon her skin and within her lungs reminds her of home. Of days both better and worse, times both simpler and more complex.

She sets out from the covered porch of the inn, boots crunching against the packed snow. It is curious that she has never actually seen the streets upon which she walks, as they have been covered in a thick blanket of white since her arrival here.

This morning sees her upon a journey that she has been wanting to make since said arrival, though the past week or so has been far too busy for such a trip. Between the events of the first few days leading to the discovery of Andrew Southgate, the ensuing discussions with Felix concerning the supplies and other logistics of the upcoming expedition, and helping with a few odd jobs that Bernadette kindly requested assistance with, there has just been no time.

But upon this day, the 12th of Shellan in the year of 17, of the 4th Era, she is finally going to see her sacred duty done.

Kaz is going to visit the local temple and pay her respects to both her Lord, Kelathorne, as well as the other eight divines that preside over the world of Vale, over all of mortal life.

Assuming she can find the damnedable place, that is.

She stops in front of a building on the edge of the residential district of town: It is made entirely of stone, unlike many of the other buildings, which are a mix of stone and wood shipped in from the mainland. Its construction is not unlike the churches found upon the mainland of Kattelox, which leads her to believe this is the right place. However, the complete lack of care makes her worry that it isn’t–or, perhaps, worry that it is.

The snow has piled up at the entrance of the building, signaling that nobody has been here to shovel it aside. And, worse, nobody has been inside the building at all. The windows are likewise caked in frost and snow, preventing most of the light from filtering through to the interior.

If ass-beatings haven’t been invented yet on this continent, we’re about to have a major breakthrough, she thinks sourly. Where in Kel’s name is the head cleric? Or any cleric, for that matter?

Movement catches her eye and she turns, seeing an elderly woman making her way down the street, likely heading toward the market to get the best possible deals–or just perhaps the freshest street pancakes. One of the Catfolk, with graying fur which is barely visible beneath the heavy cloak and layers of clothing she wears.

Her eyes, bright green and alert, speak to the spirit still inhabiting the aging body.

Kaz holds up her hand in greeting, offering a sociable smile as she says, “Good morning. Would it be alright if I asked you a few questions, while I have your ear?”

The elderly feline squints at Kaz a bit before chuckling. Her voice, deep and raspy, speaks out, “Well, well, you’re one of the newcomers that have been helping Miss Bernadette, aren’t you? A devout Orc woman with a strong sword arm: That wouldn’t be you, now would it?”

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Kaz, with her sword on her side and Kelathorne’s symbol dangling visible from her neck, could be no other. She says, “I’m surprised that word of our little group has spread at all. We’ve done nothing special.”

“That’s not what I hear. I heard you all found the Southgate boy beneath the manor and figured out why old Tarn set up here in the first place,” the old woman says, a knowing smile spread across her face.

“Ah, well, I guess news travels fast in a small town like this,” Kaz says, a bit embarrassed. She offers her gloved hand, introducing herself, “I’m Kazimiera, from Zhevrun.”

The old woman accepts the handshake, her grip gentle, as she likewise introduces herself, “I am Fatimah, from Indiria. It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Kazimiera.”

Kaz can’t help but smile, enjoying the sound of her name spoken in the Catfolk’s Indiric accent. “There is an Indiran within our group, actually,” she says.

“Ah, yes. The little thief with the big mouth,” Fatimah says derisively.

She knows us pretty well, then, Kaz thinks.

“What can I help you with, Miss Kazimiera? I cannot dally long, for I like to greet the markets first thing, to assure I get the most freshly caught of fish,” Fatimah explains.

Kaz wonders if commenting on a Catfolk enjoying fish would be distasteful, and decides that it probably would be. Instead, she asks, “I was going to pay my respects at the temple, but it seems abandoned. Where are the clerics?”

Fatimah sighs and says, “The last priest to care for the temple was here for only a few months. He left, saying that the Gods do not dwell upon this land, for it is forsaken. Since then, there has been no one to tend to it.”

Kaz frowns with enough force to drop the temperature by another degree or two. “That is unacceptable. Do you remember his name, by chance?” She asks.

“Oh, yes. An older Elf by the name of Garrett. He never seemed very pleased to be here; I am uncertain why he came to the Heart in the first place,” Fatimah wonders. “Are you going to open the temple back up for us, Miss Kazimiera?”

“I am,” Kaz says sternly. “And I will find someone to tend to it in my absence. Thank you for your time and guidance, Lady Fatimah. Allow me to buy your fish for the day.” Kaz pulls a few coins from her pouch and gently places them into Fatimah’s hands.

She smiles and bows her head in gratitude, saying, “May the Nine smile upon your charity for this old woman. If you are to clear out the temple, might I offer to come back with my fish and prepare a nice meal for the both of us?”

“I would be honored to share a meal with you,” Kaz says genuinely. “Looking forward to it will help give me the strength to clear the snow.”

She watches Fatimah carry on toward the market, her thoughts turning toward the mound of snow blocking the entryway.

This is why I should always carry a shovel, she thinks. This and for burying bodies.

Making sure she brought enough coin first, she begins walking down the street, heading for the general store.

**********

Kaz finds that the interior of the temple is not nearly as bad as the outside, thankfully. Upon the Heart of Vale, weather is still a factor, and as such snow is a part of the winter season. However, much of what would signal negligence within a building is absent. There are no spiders here to spin cobwebs about the corners, no insects to accumulate upon becoming stuck within the ironically holy walls of the temple. Even dust is absent from the surfaces within, as the normal causes of such detritus are missing from this unliving landscape.

On the bright side, that makes it far easier to clean up within the temple. A scant bit of sweeping aside, all that really is called for is refreshing the offerings and resupplying candles to the nine shrines lining the back of the one-room stone building. The rest of the space is occupied by a small pulpit, several wooden benches, and a fire pit in the back.

Her stomach growls a bit, thinking of the meal to come with Fatimah.

I would’ve eaten breakfast if the Loxians weren’t so insistent on consuming several pounds of mismatched foodstuffs first thing of a morning, she thinks bitterly.

To occupy her time, she gets a fire going in the pit at the front of the temple. Then, she begins setting up the shrines of each of the Nine, going in the order that they always seem to follow:

Kelathorne, the Loyal Knight, patron of warriors and lawbringers.

Phye, the Stern Scholar, patron of academics and practitioners of magic.

Anboshel, the Fearless Traveler, patron of adventurers and wanderers.

Balgon, the Stoic Artisan, patron of craftspeople and laborers.

Kemartirh, the Placid Caretaker, patron of farmers and hunters.

Vilic, the Competitive Rebel, patron of athletes and the oppressed.

Faloth, the Avid Collector, patron of merchants and sailors.

Elyphiss, the Coy Matron, patron of mothers and the deceased.

Oranvil, the Bound Performer, patron of entertainers and artists.

Each one with their own unique offerings, each altar lit by a pair of candles to invite those with prayers or simply requests to ask of them.

Kaz thinks back to her parents, who were also soldiers. Also followers of Kelathorne. She was raised hearing the virtues of being honorable and loyal, of staying true to her words and fighting for what she believes to be right. Of holding herself to a higher standard than those around her, to be a positive example, but to remain humble and understanding.

She kneels in front of Kelathorne’s shrine, bowing her head in supplication, seeking guidance and forgiveness. Despite her intentions, Kaz knows that her actions are not always the most honorable, her thoughts not the most humble. There is always room to improve, to be better, to be a better person.

I apologize for my mistakes and ask only to learn from them so I can strive to help those in need as well as myself, she silently prays.

Her mind wanders to her friends at the inn, both old and new, and the events that have led her to this land.

She concludes her prayers with, And help me to see that which is true, not merely that which I am told is right.

An offering to Kelathorne often takes the form of a promise, or an oath. Kaz, then, promises to watch over this temple until she can find someone willing to take over for her, so that the townsfolk have a place to seek both solace and advice from the divine.

While it is not always that Kelathorne provides her with some kind of sign, she can’t help but take some meaning in the fact that, just as she finishes, she hears the door to the temple open and Fatimah call out her name, carrying with her the very first, freshest fish caught mere minutes before.

Validated, she smiles and goes to help her new friend prepare what will certainly be a most memorable meal.