Darian sat quietly in the candelight of his quarters, the arrival of the Hall's Colovian guests bringing upon him a wave of unexpected homesickness. Still, his heart warmed to see faces from his home. As unfamiliar as they were to him personally, their shared origins and homeland brought some measure of peace. He removed his armor methodically, laying his unbuckled arm cops aside and pausing with a sharp intake of breath as his fingers brushed a worn, green silk ribbon that wrapped around his bicep.
Atrian took shelter along the coast, where the Eltheric Ocean crashed against Rivenspire’s cliffs. He hitched his horse inside an old, lean-to stable braced against a lighthouse, long abandoned. The place was entirely familiar and alien to him. The past six years were not kind to the structure. The roof above was moss-ridden and sagging. Vegetation overwhelmed the crumbling stones of the lighthouse’s octagonal base, overtaking the pitted wooden door to the point of almost being sealed shut.
The blond poet lay reading in the small apartment in the Rosy Lion Inn. It was a curious day. He was asked by his employer to investigate a matter that was not really in his field of expertise. The job involved an alleged haunting of a certain piece of property. On the morrow he would meet with the landowner's representative and begin investigating. Boston Grey, his employer and head of the Miracle Players, insisted he take some time to feed his spiritual side. Losses and poor choices had taken a toll on the bard before Boston's sudden intervention. That unsolicited imposition possibly saved the singer from becoming a self induced fatality. Thankfully the booze was now gone.