This is a story about the character Alanthis Shadowmoon. The mercenary, or at least that’s what Alanthis assumed he was judging from his dirty, unkempt and heavily armed appearance, leered at her over the rim of his ale mug from the table opposite. She tried not to meet his gaze, pulled the hood of her cloak further over her face, and looked down at the Blackrock medallion she was holding in her tiny hand, thumbing at the intricately carved orcish design as she waited for the serving wench to return with her dinner. It occurred to her that she could have picked a better place to stop for a meal and a night’s rest; then again, she had visited the Scarlet Raven many times in the past, and these were not the tavern’s usual patrons.