It's the evening of your third day in Hawkethorne village. The winds are howling outside, and the old wood of the Frost Hound Tavern's walls creaks worryingly. A few other men and women have filtered in throughout the late hours, spreading out across candle-lit tables and cradling steamy drinks and hot food—anything they can find to fight off the pervading chill seeping in, threatening to overwhelm even the roaring hearthfire in the middle of the tavern.