The wind howled through the night outside the tavern window — a restless wail of dissatisfaction that seemed to reach from the very souls of every living creature to the stars overhead, their original home, beseeching those far away lights for what, they cannot put conscious words to. It galed through the cobblestone streets whipping up dust from between the stones that otherwise lay hidden — a semblance of a shiny spotlessness that hid the mold eating away at the streets beneath each stone — it burst through alleyways in fits and gasps sending chills down backs of the hidden bodies trying to snatch a few hours of peace from the controlled fists of the powerful trying to mask their greed in normality and stability; it rattled the windows and shook the outer walls of every home, though some certainly withstood the onslaught better than others; it carried scents of salt and brine from the nearby waters bursting with monsters ready to devour any and all wayward travelers who dared disturb their vast tempestuous tidal territory.

  Xan, for his part, was just grateful the wind hadn’t brought downpours of icy rain that often accompanied it during the season. He loathed being wet — the way clothing prickled his skin, becoming like myriad minuscule needles all running somehow against the grain of his flesh with every movement — and the icy nature of the season’s wind only compounded the constant prickling discomfort further, forcing him into a state of miserable statuesque solitude of which only drink or questionable smoky concoctions could soften the jagged edges, offering the most minute relief short of stripping stark naked and crawling into a basin full of scalding water — always assuming he could afford the coin required for such a superlative luxury. It was a rare and noteworthy treat to immerse himself in water, let alone of the sort that was still clean and hot. Almost, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself. He might even drown in all of that liquid relaxation, inhaling the grime he’d just scrubbed from his skin so that it filled his lungs, never to be parted from him again.

  But nights like these, for Xan, were made of pints and pints of the cheapest ale coin could procure, and he threw himself headfirst into the bottoms of those tankards as though the liquid contained what remained of his life and he needed to inhale all of it immediately lest he lose what precious few years he likely had left to him. So, as was usual on stormy nights, like these, Xan hunched over the darkest corner of the sleaziest pub, curled around his nearly empty mug of unhealthy piss-colored grotty ale, trying not to think about the journey back to his hovel when the place closed its taps and doors for the impending arrival of the accursed morning sun.