A warhorse trotted at a steady pace towards the town. His rider had her eyes closed, face lifted to the sunlight. Servants of Pelor did not shade their eyes against the sun; that would be a denial of the glory of their god. Closing the eyes was permissible, though. Mortals could only endure so much brightness at a time.<br/><br/>Horse and rider passed through the gates of Havenhill, the latter asking directions until they arrived at the temple to her god. She left her horse in the care of the hostler, and proceeded inside. She paused just inside the doorway, allowing time for her eyes to adjust to the softer light inside.<br/><br/><em>Those who walk always in light cannot see into shade.</em>A thought near to her heart. Too many of her order preferred to preach at their temples and churches, to tend to their flock instead of watching for wolves. Betimes, one must venture into shade or even into darkness. And where others feared to tread, Yrsa did not.<br/><br/>Battle-scarred and battle-worn, her half-plate armor scratched and nicked by countless skirmishes, she bowed her head in greeting to the others. “Pardon, but are you Father Stirrech?” she said to the older man. “I am Yrsa Gravedigger and I bear a letter to you from the head of my church.” A gloved hand proffered him the sealed letter.