A day as any other

A day as any other, the hessitant spring sun clearing away the remains of last nights mist. Inhabbitants on there morning business pausing for a moment to exchange a few words.

The witch and the seamstress seem to have more to talk about then usual and they break off their conversation when the young Cimmerian joins them.

The visitors that get some off the villagers nervous are looking for something, wandering close to the keep, asking questions that no one wants to answer. Their mead is accepted though as a welcome repass from the somewhat dreary everyday struggles. The more mead is flowing, the more questions are asked about the Stygian population, not that the two Cimmerians ejoying the mead care much. The skipping girl is still on edge around them and seems to try and warn people for something.

The Worshipper is still digging, with an almost obsessive zeal. Is he losing grip with reality and getting lost in the dark lure of ancient power?

Ever sinse the demise of the beekeeper, the bees have been restless, some people with too much imagination even say protective, but in the end they are just bees, of course, though visiting the beekeepers wife has become quite a chalenge.

The woman in the red head's house is still fighting for her life and at the far end of the village the building, where the last group of visitors was staying, stands quiet and forboding, when the wind comes from the south a smell of rot and decay is carried with it, behind the boarded up windows the scutling of rats can be heard. Have they left? No one has seen them for a long time.

Soup lady makes her husband, who seems to pop out of cellars at the oddest moments, a meal as the day comes to a close, the comforting smell of her spicy soup softening the the dreaded uneasiness announced by twilight.

A day as any other