Ivan drew the damp cloak tighter about his frame, trying to keep the cold from his flesh. Rain fell from the grey skies as a pitiful pattering, making the streets of the little castle town little more than muddy rivers. Dour faced people pressed together to escape the rain. Ivan walked the streets to escape his deeds. It was the day after the Forces of the Inquisition had splintered the oak door of his manor, wielding a letter of accusation against Ivan for the practice of the Black Arts of Necromancy. Ivan did not care for their limited practices and petty morals. He cared only about Teresa, and he would not let the threat of the stake hold her from him.<br/><br/>But his ambitions were beyond his abilities. In the few words he exchanged with the creature he had brought back as they fled from the torches of the Inquisition, he had learned the extent of his failure. He had plucked a spirit from beyond the veils of Death, and it now wore Teresa's skin as he wore a robe. He could not fathom where he had failed in the ritual. The components were exact, his incantation perfect. The locket around his neck was to serve as a spiritual beacon to call Teresa back, but the spell did not play out as he had scripted. He had sacrificed everything in his quest for his lost love, and with its failure was left with nothing more than an animated puppet that looked back with Teresa's eyes and spoke from her lips.<br/>He had found a temporary safe haven in the nearby inn, before he stormed out to visit the streets, muttering something about making sure that they were not pursued. In truth, he was simply desperate to keep his sight from that<span style="font-style: italic">thing</span>. The thought churned his stomach, bile mixing with the bitterness of his failure, reminding him that he had yet to eat since their hasty retreat from the manor's basement.<br/><br/>He purchased some charred meat from a vendor that had set up his stall alongside the road, and began making his way back to the inn. Several eyes followed him from the crowd, marking where he went. The Inn was named "The Silver Trout" and was a seedy establishment if ever there was one. Ivan had guessed that the Inquisition would hardly begin their search for a wealthy magician landowner in a backwater tavern. He needed the time to plan out his next move. There was no place for him to return to, and few friends he could call on for help, all of whom he suspected would turn him in to the Inquisition. For now he needed to find a place to evade their pursuers and a tankard to hide in.