White Palette, Ivory Horns
The last few days have passed slowly—too slowly. Sweat drips down your brow as you pray for another gentle breeze to pass through the open window of the Green Griffyn Inn. It’s hot and the still humid air makes any physical activity uncomfortable.
Four days past, a heavy shower drenched the roads and forced you and your companions to seek shelter in the village of Vew. When the rain subsided and you stepped back outside, the road had transformed into a pool of mud—nearly impossible to traverse by foot or horse. In the interim you’ve done little more than pass the time sitting in the dimly lit inn, hoping that the road will dry up and free you from this living agony of utter boredom.
The call of excitement and adventure is silent. You’ve had nothing to do but sharpen your weapons and practice your skills in anticipation of a break in the monotony. You know enough to stay put at the inn, because if there were anyone seeking the help of heroes such as yourself, they seem to always burst or stagger into such an establishment just at the right moment.