A broad-shouldered man stands in the shadows of the rooms small oillamp, his bare shoulders like knots of wrist-thick vines.  His hair, wild and unkempt, is youthful, angular.  His breath is the only sound before he speaks.  "Cael," he says softly.  "It is time."<br/>--<br/><br/>Cael had been just about to leave his tiny room, detained for a moment by the rain on his window - a comforting sound and sight, at least when one was indoors and dry - when it happened. Loud, joyous (so it seemed) sounds were a common occurrence in taverns, and he had taken no notice of them. Until they became obvious in their absence. Complete silence made him stop in his tracks and listen to it.<br/><br/>Through the ringing in his ears, he heard sounds that he had heard so many times before - leaves rustling. But he was indoors, and even were he not, it would be a wet sound due to the rain. Things were getting very strange. He shivered slightly at the oddity he was experiencing and clenched and unclenched his fists.<br/><br/>"Come now, Cael," he whispered to himself. "Downstairs to the crowd with you." He turned to the door and stopped yet again. This time, a violent chill ran up his spine and he shivered quite a lot in response. Eyes on his back. Slowly he turned, slipping the hilt of the knife strapped to his forearm into his hand. He flipped it out as he faced the man by his window, the light from the weak lamp causing shadows to dance around the intruder.<br/><br/>"Time for what?" he demanded, eyes narrowing. "Who are you and what are you doing in my room? Why are you here!"