Hours later, Percival stood several yards back from the Alpha Gate, his boots anchored in the mud as he tightened the straps of his armor.
Beside him, Eristasia sat quietly on a wooden crate, glaring at the violent glowing crest engraved into her hand.
Percival seemed to be finishing off with his preparations. He had already sharpened all of his blades, even the Nameless which Eristasia had found interesting.
Once he was satisfied, he dragged Eristasia back to the front of the inn where a small crowd of Oldmarsh townspeople were huddled.
Among them was the town mayor. He was a weathered man with a missing finger and a labored face. On his hand was a leather pack filled with salted beef, hard bread, and a waterskin of clean water.
