Your quest for answers leads you eastward to the moderately sized village nestled in the bend between the fields and the river. Well-lit in the darkness from countless windows and streetlights, this village looks rather welcoming in the strange night.
Upon reaching the edge of the village, you see a stooped old man standing upon the street, watching you.Nodding slightly to indicate that you mean no harm, you approach the old man. "Sir, may I trouble you with some questions?"
The old man regards you suspiciously and tenses at your approach. "So it's you again, Spawn of What do you want with us now??"
Puzzled, you try to comprehend what this means: he knows you! He has encountered you before and, for some reason, seems very apprehensive about you.
"I don't know what you mean. I don't even know what I'm doing here —" you begin, but at those words, the old man scoffs derisively.
"Only destroying all that we hold dear in Deianera, I'd say!"
"Deianera? Is that the name of this place?" It doesn't strike you as remotely familiar. When the old man continues to glare at you, you try again to explain, "Look, old man, I don't know what I did to you. I don't remember anything —"
Again, he cuts you off, "Likely story, Do not think that what you did will be forgotten by anyone anytime soon. You'll likely be loathed for generations!"
Angered by such a hateful person, you decide he no longer deserves your kindness. Holding the tip of your against the old man, whose own attitude begins to change, you warn: "Old man, I had nothing against you, but you insisted upon being a vile ass. I'd say it's long past time someone taught you civility."
At that moment, a young girl runs up to you and throws herself between the man and you. "Please, don't! My grandfather speaks foolishly. He's old and confused. Spare him, please!"
Your anger is slow to dissipate, but you find yourself taking ironic pleasure both in the old man's now fearful expression and the child's rendering of him as a mindless fool. Seeing you hesitate, the child quickly grabs a sack from the old man's beltstrap and holds it out to you. "Please take our gold instead!"
Lined on both sides with quaint shops and little buildings, warmly lit by daintily fashioned wrought iron streetlamps, you stand at one end of an inviting village lane. Yet the name of this village escapes you. And while it seems as though there should be numerous people traversing the village streets, there are almost none. Aside from the occasional horse-drawn carriage worriedly strolling past, the village seems almost deserted. In the disturbing quiet, you notice the sounds of boisterous cavorting coming from one of the little buildings. Approaching it, you see a sign hanging by the door that reads: Blackwell Tavern and Inn.