Playing along you kneel and stare at the wall, and wait. With nothing to occupy you time is slow to pass, and the bed becomes more and more inviting, less so as a ward against the chilly air and more as an escape from banality of this night.<br/><br/>Hour crawl by, and then suddenly the cellar doors slide open. It cannot be near dawn, and sure enough the night outside shows no sign of ending. Down the steps comes a figure dressed in a dark blue cloak, almost black. Thick leather boots barely make a sound on the steps, and then the hood is thrown back. The face is barely visible, but you can tell they have short hair, are they male? Almost all the monks here are old women.<br/><br/>“Wake up little one. There has been a murder upstairs,” the voice is calm and soft, but with an ominous note just below the surface. In his right hand he holds something, a dagger. Something drips from the blade. Blood?