It was the dawn of a new day in Greenrest, one that bore a better message than the previous night's storm. The torrential downpour had slowed into a misty drizzle, and the first few rays of morning sun were starting to peek through the clouds.
At the far edge of the town, just before the road led out into the Whispering Forest, an inn stood at the end of the cobbled street. It wasn't a particularly large building. The first floor was made entirely of stone, the second of dark oak, and the thatched roof of the thickest straw this side of Faerun. Its windows, shuttered during the storm, were now open to let in the early morning breeze, and the gentle stream of smoke from the chimney suggested the kitchen was already busy.
Admittedly, the Yawning Cat didn't have the refinery of, say, a counterpart in a town of more repute. But what it lacked in finesse, it made up for in charm. And that said little of the wonderful bread baked fresh every morning.
The Yawning Cat fared better than most other establishments in Greenrest during the storm. Partly due to its sturdier construction, and partly because what else was there to do during a storm but drink and be merry?
Well, in Henry's case, there was also pouring over old maps and books—the oldest he'd ever come across, in fact—in search of an ancient cursed tower that may or not be nearby.
He was a tall man, easily over six feet, and broad in the shoulders and chest. A traveler's cloak covered most of him, but if anyone dared to get close enough, they would see pale, almost ghost-like skin and a ghastly complexion hidden underneath. Large dark eyes hungrily scanned the books at his table. Sitting there, hunched over and absorbed in his work, he indeed looked more like a corpse than a man. And that was enough to keep people far, far away.

The forest was quiet this early in the morning. Then again, it wasn't called the Whispering Forest for nothing, and as Aurora stood on the edge of the treeline, listening to the wind gently rustle the leaves in the canopy above her head, she thought it a fitting name indeed.
She was a wood elf on the shorter side—slender, too, with dark hair framing her face in long, silky strands. Wide, excitable eyes curiously took in the world around her, like she was seeing everything brand new for the first time in her life. And in a way, she was. See, she'd never left her home grove before. And now, standing on the treeline, hesitating to even put one foot out in the open, she wasn't so sure she could do it.
No one who lived in her grove had ever left. Not once. A wood elf could get in a lot of trouble out in the world, if they put their mind to it. Aurora didn't consider herself a troublemaker. She was just... eager. She wanted to do more. She wanted to explore. Her home was wonderful. It was beautiful, comfortable, and safe. But it still wasn't the more she craved.
There was a squeak at her feet. Aurora looked down, smiling, as a small white rabbit thumped its foot impatiently on the forest floor. His name was Leopold. He'd been Aurora's constant companion for quite a while, though for the life of her, she couldn't remember exactly how she got him. She supposed that he just sort of found her—just as much as she'd found him.
Leopold squeaked at her again. Round, black eyes blinked at her, then looked toward the clearing. The beginnings of a road were just barely visible in the early morning light. And, as Aurora looked even further, she saw something in the distance that brought a small frown to her forehead.

They went to the crypts beneath the Temple of Brodure at dawn, all three of the Redbriar brothers, intent on paying respects to their dead mother. It was the harshest winter yet, and the cold had nearly frozen the entrance to the crypts shut, but nothing would stop them from seeing her. She was only recently laid to rest; the fever that took her did so only a fortnight ago. It was on the twenty-first of Nereen, the winter solstice, and the first time Ardaric had stepped foot in the Temple of Brodure in over a decade.
He was the youngest of the Redbriar brothers at two-and-twenty, and he brought up the rear of their tiny procession as they walked toward the back of the crypts. The light from the surrounding braziers illuminated the passageway just barely enough for him to see. They gave off little heat, and he was suddenly thankful for his thick wool cloak, fastened beneath his neck by a mammoth tusk brooch. His mother had given him both the cloak and the brooch for his twentieth birthday—the latter a family heirloom, so she’d claimed. Ardaric had cared little for sentimental gifts at the time, but that was before his mother passed. Death changed people, for better, for worse, he didn’t know… but it certainly changed him.
The Redbriar family practiced the burial customs of Nordel, not the ways of the rest of Duracia. Duracia refused to acknowledge the Six Bastards of Brodure, the highest God in the pantheon, and that notion nearly caused a war. Ardaric remembered when his father, Alaric, read the news.
“Duracia without the Six,” he’d said as he’d dropped the decree in the Great Hall’s central firepit. “That’s not a Duracia I want.”