Stacy
Spiff, Prophet of Synthereon
Town of Lewwyk, Northwind

Clouds overhead are swollen and fat, hanging low in the sky like a heavy quilt sinking over a passing of buildings some could lovingly refer to as a township. The air is thick, suffocating to breathe and filled with the stench of heatstroke deaths and vile, rotten illness. One could assume a storm were brewing by the humidity, the lingering *Cold*, the clinging *Wet*. The grass is *Green*, theoretically, though tinged and tainted with greys and browns, in no fault to the heavy rains but all to blame in old, sour soil which should no longer be supporting such dense areas of shrubbery. The path to town is worn down, but not near to the amount of the larger dwellings— it's *Gritty* And *Grey* And *Bumpy* And *Twisting*, and there's spittings of weeds dotting amongst the mounds of ground which have not been tamped down by the heavy wheels of a carriage. 

Yet a nomad toddles along, nonplussed by the smell nor offput by the weeds. Not paying mind to the gloom, *Never*, nor turning a pampered nose up to a distinct *Lack* Of generally anything. The man is armoured, wearing a pack over his shoulder which rests upon his hip, and with the stature of a great warrior but the lively step of a merry bard. It's as though there's a tune hanging in the air, music dancing along with his cheer-filled steps; a bubble, a *Break* In the dreariness that is instead filled with the warm and loving embrace of the great yellow sun.

Spiff has travelled long without break, and though his feet do ache and his shoulders are heavy, his spirit is stronger than any silly ache could ever aspire to be. How, pray tell, could someone feel miserable when there is such beauty and life in the world? How could a person allow something as silly as an acquired ache bog them down, when the light is battling just as hard in order to guide his way despite the clouds? Life is a gift, an extravagant miracle, a beauty, a wonder, an everything-good-and-sunshine-and-rainbows adventure. Here, within the wee town of Lewwyk, Spiff has already found home before he has even stepped proper foot within. 

The Grey Rabbit is a known place of casual sanctuary. A place to rest and recuperate, to celebrate how far the journey has come so far, and prepare for further travels as soon as one may feel they are ready to. Spiff, for one, is thankful to have made it so far. He is lucky to be welcomed by the sun's grace, knowing many have not been so magnificently fortunate as he. With a gentle touch to the emblem on the cheek of his helmet, Spiff readies to take rest within the tavern.
Jeremy
Kharn Vheln
'Town' Of Lewwyk, Northwind

Kharn was a Northern man, and a Northern man was Kharn. A sudden light jutted forth into the periphery of his blackened, tea-soaked eyes. The helmet glinted unlike any metal he had seen, it was a rare, one might say, once in a lifetime opportunity to see shined metal for a Northerner. It stole his attention away from the alleyway dog fight, and in turn, his nights dinner. Kharn was young, and standing seven and a half feet tall, naturally, he was the runt of his father's litter. || And litter a small Northern man was || Like any Northerner, he sported a full dark beard down to his neck, unbraided, unmanaged. His eyes moved independent of his body in the helmet's direction. Kharn stepped away from his wall, a carpenter's hammer in one hand, a woodsman axe in the other, his back cracked as it straightened, rising up to his full height before addressing the helmet.

"*Southerner*." Every one of his features were charcoal, his black eyes sunk for miles within their darkened sockets. There was no mistaking what attracted Kharn to said *Southerner*. "Southerner, may I see your helmet more closely."
Stacy
Spiff, Prophet of Synthereon
Town of Lewwyk, Northwind

Many names has Spiff heard addressed to him in his years of life, and many, he knows, are still on the way. But as this newer name rolls out from the stranger's mouth and juts through the shuffled quietness of the solemn folk at the tavern, Spiff fails to recognise it as directed to him. It takes the specification, *Helmet*, for it to click that this kind fellow is most certainly referring to Spiff's own battle-scuffed, but dutifully cared for helm. 

"Good, jolly, bright day to you, dear sir!" He greets, voice filled to the brim with the sound of a smile and the feel of a familial hug, "My helmet is, truthfully, covering the physical appearance of my cleansing. I prefer not to remove it in the company of good fellows, although you are most certainly welcome to draw closer." Not once, not in a word, not in a syllable, not in a breath does Spiff's jovial tone falter. He's standing, though his bag is pinned now between his leg and the bar. "Are you a craftsman?" The question follows effortlessly, and with earnest— though weary from travel, there is nothing that Spiff could value more than good company and conversation, whether perceived correctly or not.