As you continue your patrols through the narrow streets of the city, you can't help but notice the men in leather beaked masks moving in and out of houses marked with red crosses. The plague is worsening, and you barely dodge the buckets of waste hurled from windows above. Yet, as you make your rounds, something else gnaws at your mind, a name carried on the wind in whispers: Ethan Winters. The rumours say he's been distributing texts and books, the letters neat and clear compared to the hand written parchments from the monasteries.

Curiosity eventually gets the best of you and you decide to visit the man under the guise of following up a possible conspiracy against the crown. A reasonable enough excuse, after all, who knows what a man outside the church might be up to with such knowledge? When the door creaks open, you’re met with a slight, blonde man, his white tunic stained at the cuffs with black ink.

"Oh, I wasn't expecting a visit from a royal knight. Please, come in."

He pulls his ragged tunic tighter around his thin frame and steps aside to let you in. The scent of lavender and exotic spices from the harbour markets wafts in the air, but it is quickly overpowered by the musty aroma of old parchment.