The tavern swells in a dark shroud, as the few remaining torchlights burn low and suffering. Patrons huddle closely to the walls, their faces hidden behind the blanket of night. Your eyes find a table, oaken and stained with the years lost, and you take your seat. Something in the way the barkeep looks at you, or how the strange eyes behind the familiar shadows flash their interest, keeps your hand on the pommel of your sword.You hear a sound. A gale of wind flings the doors open. ...