There is a nervous air at the Phoenix Tavern.  Twice now the plane of Mabar has spread it's eternal night to Delera's Graveyard.  Stormreach's heroes have risen to the call and driven the undead back, but the announcement by the Twelve that the worst is yet to come has many feeling uneasy.

The band plays on in their little corner, trying to ease some of the tension from the crowd.  And quite a crowd it is.  The Tavern is packed with a number of familiar faces, as well as quite a few new ones seeking the relief of company as night begins to fall over Stormreach.  Cog seems entirely unphased by the large gathering, serving drinks and polishing away at his counter.


Suddenly, the tavern goes darker than the deepest night!  It only lasts a moment, but the buzz of conversation ceases and several of the patrons cry out.  There is a crash from the direction of the side tables.  From the pit someone begins to sob loudly.

After only a heartbeat the Tavern's lighting burns away the unnatural darkness.  Most of the patrons seem to be milling around in confusion.  Cog surveys the tavern as he polishes his counter.


An elderly Human lies face down on the floor near the side tables.  His long white unkept hair spills around him.  Were it not for his elaborate crimson robes of fine silk he could easily be confused for a beggar.  After a moment he begins to set up and shakes his head, as if disoriented.  A large bruise is already starting to raise on his forehead. 

The old man slowly looks around the Tavern, seemingly in a daze.


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The aged man mumbles something too softly to hear, then shakes his head and comes out of his daze.  He looks at the man offering assistance and smiles.

"Yes... yes, quite a tumble I am afraid."  He touches his head and winces.  "Oh, curse these old bones!".  He stretches an arm out for assistance.  "I apreciate the offer."

After making it to his feet he sways slightly, then smiles.  "Thank you.  It is good to see such kindness from strangers.  Please, if you could help me to the chair?"

The elderly Human takes a moment to look around the room, as if taking in all of the people there.

The elderly man runs his hands through his unwashed hair, trying to get it under control.  Upon closer examination grime and stains spot his clothing and skin, as though it has been some time since he has cleaned himself.  His fine robes bear the wrinkles of having been worn for too long.  Aside from the wound that was on his forehead he seems to be in sound physical shape.


The old man smiles kindly.  "It is always reassuring to find such helpful people when exploring a new place.  Travelers are not welcome in many lands.  Given the difficulty I had in getting here, I am very pleased to meet someone as kind as you."

"But I have forgotten my manners."  The man makes an oddly formal seated bow, lowering his chin to his chest.  "I am Miroc."

Miacch returns the old man's bow a bit stiffly, as though unused to that type of formality.  "Miacch," he states, the name sounding very much like 'Mike' in his accent.  "It's my... calling... to help those that need it, you might say."  The unspoken implication is that his assistance is given more as a matter of duty rather than kindness, although his tone suggests otherwise.

He looks Miroc over again appraisingly.  "You look like you've been on the road a while there, sir... this tavern is as good a place as any to rest, they at least have clean rooms and decent food.  Will you be needing any more healing, or do you feel well enough now?  Can I maybe fetch you something to eat?"