When morning came, Percival briskly took a shower. He wondered for a moment what he had felt at night that had snapped him up from sleep, but he concluded that it must have been the strangeness of this village.
Equipping his simple leather armor, he hung the Swordcase behind him. The coffin now carried three blades: Lightpiercer, the Basilisk Blade, and the Nameless.
But only one of these was assured to have a permanent place in the box.
As he descended to the common room, the scent of burnt pine and stale grease met him. Butrick was behind the counter, his hands white-knuckled around a mug of dark broth.
The Innkeeper didn't greet him. He simply watched Percival with a heavy, suspicious stare that followed him all the way to the door.
Percival didn't care to greet him either. He stepped out into the biting morning air. The silence of Deathlehem was even more oppressive in the daylight.
