Ian didn't let morning, or whatever pale mockery of it that happened here, come before he left the Tavern.
The wind as though a paid actor, only carried dust and the scent of old blood through the outer camp as Ian walked alone, his cloak dragging like shadow across the earth.
Past the crooked tents and makeshift towers of sharpened iron, past the stench of sweat, sulfur, and wet stone, he drifted through the graveyard of ambition.
They called this place Outer Exile, the gathering ring for those bold enough—or mad enough—to face the gate.
For a deadmans gate, it sure was active with life, but not of the kind that smiled or slept easy.
The first camp he passed was a semi-circle of obsidian stones, arranged in a ritualistic crescent.
Figures in bone-laced robes knelt in prayer, unmoving even as flames licked the air around them.
Northerners.
