The tower bell rang—a high and hollow noise far more brittle that it had been a century ago. The great steel bell had fewer scars then. So did the town around it, for that matter.

Time isn't always kind to a place, regardless of the kindness of her people. Often as not, a town finds herself as the "wrong place" in the old saying: the wrong man passes through; the wrong men come looking; the wrong people pay.

The bell chimed a second time—the sound a recurring reminder of the tragedies the town had seen; seen and survived. That is the thing with a town such as this: it's resilient. A city far grander may devour itself after a tragedy; its people turning against their neighbours until naught is left but skeletons to be picked clean by bandits and wolves. A town like this though: as long as a handful of her citizen draw breath, the town lives. Her building may lie in ruin, but her people will rebuild.

A town like this gathers stories, great and small. She remembers the fires and the beasts which brought them; and she remembers the stowaway couple defying their family and church.

And as the bell chimed a last time for the hour, these stories were told. Gathered around the hearth of the inn, at familial tables in humble homes, and even within the cells of the jail, the townsfolk brought the past to life.