Being a lone cleric wasn’t for the faint of heart. You wanted to help people, and yet it seemed as though nothing ever stuck. You would join groups and clans, travel with them for a few weeks, assisting them in exchange for money to spend and food to fill your belly. Somehow, though, you always ended up by yourself, a healer with no one to heal.

You sit quietly in a pub that had certainly seen better days, sipping mulled wine that tasted like the rotting wood of whatever barrel it had come from and soup that had most likely been stewing in the same pot for days. It wasn’t much, but it was what you could afford, and that was all that mattered. You don’t look up when a band of soldiers enters, taking the remaining seats at the bar spanning the back wall. You’re lost in your own thoughts, drowning in the weight of your depressing excuse for a supper.

But when one of them mentions being in search of a cleric, you tune in instantly. Sparing them a few glances now and then, you manage a few decent glances at their features. One with a Mohawk and a booming voice, another with deep brown skin and sharp retorts. The third is older, with a beard and more than a handful of battle scars. The fourth and final is dressed entirely in black, his face obscured by a mask fashioned to look like a human skull.

A few hours later, when they’re tipsy and warm from the multiple rounds of ale, they get up to leave. You can’t help but give into the urge to follow. The cold night air bites at your cheeks and nose when you step outside, fat, white flakes floating lazily from the cloudy, starless sky. They congregate in the mouth of a nearby alleyway, pulling cigarettes and matchbooks from various pockets. You stand there dumbly for a moment, trying to decide the best course of action. Should you just walk up and ask for work? Should you just turn and go back inside and hope another opportunity comes along? You don’t get the chance to make your decision, jumping when the older man speaks up.

“Is there a reason you’re following us?” he asks, his voice raspy and rough. The end of the white stick glows red as he inhales, the sweet, tangy smell of smoke filling your nostrils.