The town of Solyhill has no walls, but the main road has the party pass through a gatehouse, where three guards, the oldest of whom cannot be more than fifteen, question you as to where you came from and what business you have in Solyhill. You have little difficulty persuading them to wave you through.
It's nighttime by the time you're in Solyhill proper, but there are beacon fires burning up by the fort. The town feels empty, but not sleepy -- torch-bearing guards patrol wide, deserted avenues as you pass by a well-lit but quiet inn whose sign depicts a long-horned ram grazing in tall grass. A small gray donkey, the only animal hitched outside, raises its head to glare impassively at you.
The road into town terminates at a two-story holy house nestled against the slope of the hill. Shops and taverns line the last stretch of road, seemingly closed, but smoke rises from the chimney of one tavern, and you can hear the lonely ping, ping of a blacksmith working overtime.
Annganne looks around. The spacious common room remains nearly empty. Deach the barman is still fretting over the tables with his dirty rag, while the same quartet of widows she's seen in here every day remain camped out at their usual table, weeping and drinking and occasionally falling into fits of rage or strange mirth. How much better for them were they to follow the grieving process of her people! But they were not her people.
Satisfied, she returns her attention to the adventurers outside. Would they stop here to eat and rest, or were they heading straight for the hillfort?
What are you going to do now, players?