Robert
From the street to the interior of the stranger's residence, atmosphere and surroundings shifted, and with them sound and sense, too. Silence was no more; with theentrance of the shelter, there was a sensation akin to the popping of one's ears in the sudden changing of air-pressure, almost startling, yet all the more relieving. The arcane darkness and the illusory suppression which dominated the streets dispersed once he crossed the boundary of the doorframe, and it felt as though he entered a world anew.

The doors opened with a tide of warm, but dusty air which came upon the nose like chalk, which obviously would beckon the eyes inward, towards its source, where lied a faint-lit interior of musty appeal, untidy to be sure, and small, but not ill-fitted for a sole resident. The wooden floor, of the type typical of the snow-swept village yet stained in a faded and scratched brown, creaked with even the slightest step forward, rickety and unstable at every board; not at all unlike the characteristics of the man who kept them. And atop that floor was strewn an assortment — not idle and base clutter, such as trash, dirt, and the sort found in the typical slob's residence, but rather items of more intricate appeal: shelves filled brimmingly with leather-bound books and loose papers alike, folded parchments stretching meters stacked vertically along their string-bound ends and stored in clusters, strange machinations with slight semblance to sheaves, firm rope bound in containers of cloth, and all manner of odds-and-ends; equipment and literature like the sort one would find in an antique shop.
_ _

The odd array scattered throughout the scruffy variety of the only faintly candle-lit home was interrupted by only one item of interest within its Babylonian collection of dusty, unwanted papers and slipshod implements with no actual purpose, and the sole merit of that particular object was its lack of a layer of ware, dust, and disrepair. There was found, to the back wall in the corner of the room, some distance to the right of the dregs of cloth which made the man's bed, a large, rectangular object, thrice as tall as it was wide, covered in a cloth of pure white. The cloth, tied at the bases of the strange object, bound its appearance from any's sight, and did so in such a conspicuous manner that it was undoubtedly purposeful.

But the man's presence would demand all attention that might have gone to the clutter of the manifold curios which scattered his house, or the peculiarity of the tall object whose nature was intentionally hidden from prying eyes. With a stagger — not a drunken kind of step, but a reckless, swift, and unbalanced one, nonetheless — the stranger stomped forward, eyes still a-glancing 'round his own home, his hand already swift to have shut the door, as he paced and paced in a nervous trance for what felt minutes, yet truly only lasted seconds. And with the waving of his arms here, then there, and his face shifted up, then down, his brow furrowing, then unfurrowing, he went through a series of deliberations, silent grumblings ever-pushing from his breath, before finally he snapped:
_ _

"None of your mutterings, none! *Not a one, ye,"* He jerked his finger in dispute toward the outsider.

The stranger went about and about again, and fingers found their way pressed against his temples, antsy as they sifted through his curled hair.

"What's this stunt, say? Knight—*No,* Mercenary, like all your sort, armored, compensating for something or another—on my doorstep, dead of night, as the rites draw closer?—Draw closer us, to all our wits' end? Damn, damn...!"

"You, whoever you are, not a knight of the palaces, not one who knows the cipher, came here, same as all those other cronies. But you, whoever you are, chose the now for the here, chose the wrongest of wrongest times to find your way on *My doorstep,* So you could set the sight of *The witness* Toward *My house* So *I might be thought,* To be, a Spy, one who secretly converses with rest of them *Orthodoxites?* Damn! Damn... What is wrong with you?!"

"Exiles, you, all the same—expect me, just for my beliefs, to be some sort of shelter, but you have not the lick of sense for *Subtlety.* Damn! Damn...! Three of you, all at the worst of worstest times!"
Dennis
The drone arrived first, but it had little interest in the village, it took a quick glance and area scan, but continued onwards towards the city without so much as a second glance at the shanty.
David
It had taken him a while, but eventually Cumhall reached some semblance of civilisation, a village, a shitty run down rickety village that Cumhall was quite pleased about, rather he take a moment to rest up in the low profile rural settlement than continue straight to the big city.
He stumbled up to the village not from the road, but from a ways parallel to the east, he stumbled and fell over a fence, landing in the snow with a dull thud and rolling over, he got back up, and stumbled along the buildings until he could find somewhere to rest, a shed, a pile of junk, even an outhouse, whatever was closest.