Arzal Ravencloak had never been a man of idle talk. His boots seldom lingered long in one place but on one dusky evening, as the hearths crackled and shadows danced across the walls of The Prancing Pony, a grim-faced knave whispered something that gave even Arzal pause. It was one of the spies he employed.
“Trouble stirs in the east,” the man muttered, eyes darting toward a darkened corner of the inn. “The dead don’t stay buried in the Lone-lands.”
