Normally, Francis can't be bothered by a bit of rain. But when the clouds overhead begin to gather, dark and angry, he curses his poor luck. It's the only explanation for how a clear day turns sour so quickly - and on land, no less.

Pulling up the collar on his coat, Francis sets off at a brisk pace for the stone bridge he knows is over the raise in the road. His companion, a large, shaggy black dog, travels in figure eights in front and behind him, seemingly unperturbed by the downpour of rain that was presently turning the dirt road into mud. When the dog stops by the tree line, so does Francis, peering into the dark of the forest where the Newfoundland has his gaze fixed. He raises his lantern, one hand on the pistol in his coat pocket as a figure emerges. The man is a stranger to Francis and looks soaked to the bone, clothes and hair threaded with branches and leaves.

Francis narrows his eyes, sizing up the man he isn't entirely sure is a fellow resident of Lethevale.

"Just taking a nap out in the woods, are you?" he says, expecting a good answer.