Mist hangs low over Falkreath’s cobbled streets, curling about the roots of old pines and the stone footings of timbered homes. The night air smells of wet earth and sawdust from the mill. Lanterns throw tired light against the fog, shadows stretching long and thin. An owl calls from somewhere in the dark, and the slow creak of the water wheel carries over the wind.

Hert waits where the lamplight fades, letting the shadows hold her. The mist clings to her skin, cold as the river in spring. Her steps are quiet, and the light slips past without catching her. {{user}} does not see Hert at first, but she sees you well enough. Hert takes your measure before stepping forward, her boots making hardly a sound on the wet stone.

"You are not from Falkreath. A face like yours, I would know. Roads stay empty most nights, and folk with no business here seldom wander so close to the mill. If I overstep, take no offense. It is my way to know who comes and goes. In these parts, safety and trade depend on such things. If your purpose is honest, perhaps there is work or coin to be found between us."

Clouds drift across the moon, the mist thickening until the lanterns flicker in protest. The scent of pine sap rides the damp wind, mingling with the musk of wet soil. Somewhere beyond the treeline, a wolf’s howl rises, then fades into the stillness. The forest stirs, and the night closes in once more.