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Time was running short. Before long, it would be well past midnight, and whatever lurked within the ancient town of Tharlüm would roam its decaying streets. He stood directly outside of the old town, his shadowed appearance illuminated only by the flickering, dying light of the torch he fashioned to the gate and the few remaining embers still burning within Tharlüm itself. The moon lie high in the sky but cast barely an inkling of light over what remained within the shadows. It merely added to the pall of dread which haunted this town.

He could hear his breath as if he were a preying beast of the night; his full and broad chest expanded menacingly as he drew each and every issue of rancid air through his cloth mask. The stench of this place could not be filtered through said mask; it was a filth Donovan could only associate with the diseased and the dying. An affront to the ideals of humanity. Whatever foul beasts called the fetid streets of Tharlüm their home, it was mere certainly that a man such as Donovan would fit right in. While he lacked the putrid odor so akin to the dead and afflicted, he was a man of terrifying height, a man who resembled the very beasts he hunted in the night—and yet, despite his unapproachable stature, his dark manner of dress, and the weapons he bore, the man known as Donovan had soft, blue eyes unfitting of his status as a hunter of all things that preyed the dark. He cast these human eyes behind the shadow of a tricorn hat.

He was not normally called for action. Long ago, he scattered his calling cards around the larger cities, but until now none had ever come to Donovan on their own. He always found work in one way or another. Perhaps he was drawn to the night and the vermin that infested in. He was never paid for his work, but it mattered very little, for the slain corpses of noblemen and their rich swines of daughters, wives, and mistresses carried their expenses on their sleeves. He pawned their jewelry off while he broke open their safes. It was never an honest living—but men are stubborn and foolish, and they see bloodied hands such as his as kindred to his prey. They saw him as expendable, as a tool. And so he treated their belongings as such—dispensable tools for him to use.

Donovan turned around briefly, the hem of his duster brushing against his dirty, leather boots. Time was of the essence, so where was this client of his? The lady was desperate when they last met. She raved on and on about her husband and his sudden obsession with Tharlüm, wiping her tears and dripping mascara with a fresh handkerchief, all while she held her butler close, who looked upon Donovan with a scrutinizing gaze. She told him to meet her here, but now that he looked past the gates, he had to wonder if that crazed woman had gone ahead of him? He was never asked to escort her. What he was told to do was to merely find her husband among the wretched, encroaching darkness of this town. He frowned beneath the cloth mask.

He would give her ten more minutes before he entered the town.

It was a tough call to make. He was a patient man, but even standing outside of Tharlüm was enough to make his hair stand on end. Now that the clouds choked what little light the moon provided, the hunter grasped his torch, placed one hand on the seam of the gate, and then paused when he heard Nora approach from behind. She made it...though Donovan could easily see that she was no longer in a gentle state of mind.

He placed a gloved hand against his chest and bowed his head for Nora. Choosing to stay where he stood however, Donovan awaited her greeting before deciding to do anything else. He felt apprehensive about her manner of approach—she was alone, though he had expected her butler or someone of note to accompany her. What was the meaning of this?

Lord? Ah, that was right—she addressed him as such before, although he found the title entirely forced. Or perhaps it was mere courtesy. He watched her with wary curiosity as she began ranting again, about magic, about her husband, and about unrelated things that barely mattered a coin to him. Even as she handed it to him, the apparent disinterest in Donovan's eyes in regards to the pouch remained still. She did not seem to be in any position to pay him.

He held the torch stiff as she fell, observing her soundlessly but doing nothing to aid Nora before or after her attempt to stand. Donovan merely watched her with a shadow of pity darkening his eyes.

“What you should do,” he said, “is return to your boarding. This is no place for you, and I have no intention of escorting you. If your husband and servant are within this town, then I will find either them or their corpses.”

The woman was clearly desperate, but now that he was here Donovan had no intention of leaving. He had done his research on Tharlüm following their initial meeting. It was a place of interest for him now, not so much a job for Nora alone. The locals within locked these gates and let none venture within, and every night the sound of bells chiming, nightmarish screams resounding, and the snarling of vicious dogs spooked those who trespassed the roads he and Nora now stood on. What interested him the most was that not a single local had approached the gate. No one told him to leave yet, not had Donovan seen a single human being since his arrival here.

He was about to repeat himself until the voice of another reached his ears. Turning towards her, he observed Kelsi with the same pallid look he offered his client. She was dressed rather fancily for a place such as this. Blood can stain, he thought, but said nothing aloud, although it was not in fear of Kelsi nor Nora overhearing. He was never one to speak his mind if it added nothing to the conversation at hand.

“My intentions are my own,” he told her. “If the lady sends you back, know that I will not be in wait. There is nothing to find here during the dawn.”

Or perhaps there was more to this town than what lurked after dusk. The skies had been cloudy, even more so in Tharlüm itself. Curious as his thoughts were, he bowed for both Nora and Kelsi before turning back towards the gate. The torch came with, illuminating the gate to Tharlüm to reveal a rusty padlock. He reached for his belts without a second thought, retrieving the pistol blunderbuss he used as a sidearm. His primary weapon—a nasty thing that resembled either a short sickle or a cleaver, it was hard to tell in this light—remained a mysterious thing attached to his lower back.

He shot the padlock not once, but twice, and then proceeded to kick it off. The gate shook as a result, creaking in the night as he then began the slow and steady process of opening it.

Junk littered the streets. Tools for working were tossed about, as were strange contraptions like baby carriages, buggies that were once drawn by horses, and several pyres that had since gone dim. The dreadful stench in the air had since turned to the scent of burnt flesh, charcoal, and wood. At one point he found the charred remains of a horse atop one of these dead bonfires. There was also something else below it, though its remains were too far burnt to make any notable estimations.

So far he had only seen things such as these. Each home he entered was empty with trash strewn about, but there were also several homes that had retained their dignity. He wondered if the denizens still lived in said homes.

As he walked down an alleyway, however, he came across his first encounter. It was a gangly looking man who was gasping and writhing about on the street. Donovan put the man out of his misery with a shot to the brain.

Aside from this encounter, he had only seen the average architecture of a city in this day and age. He had yet to see the other citizens.