Graf limped through the city gates, his chainmail rustling with every step on his game leg. The leg ached deeply from his days travels, a smoldering coal of pain slowly awakening back to flame. Even the twisted scars on the leg prickled with discomfort. He shifted the beaten shield higher up onto his shoulder and nodded to the guards before passing through.
Inside the city wall, passers by made way for the hard faced grey-beard coming down the sidewalk, clad in worn white robes over dull gray mail.
He paid them no mind, nor the curious stares after him. He thought about hot stew and a hotter bath to calm his aches and pains waiting for him in each inn he passed. Sweet Alara, the offer tempted him.
But no, not this day. There was work to be done and he would be resting his head within the damned, damp, dark catacombs tonight. He prayed a brief prayer the devil’s cough hadn’t returned since his last visit many years ago. By the Flight, not again.
Still, face set, step by step, Graf made his way to the nearest temple to begin his ministry.