Suddenly, as if falling into a dream, your head clears and you find yourself sitting at what appears to be a bar in an inn, looking at a balding, mustachioed man as he dries a tankard. The man’s nodding his head slightly in an effort to appease the ramblings of another man, who’s seated two barstools down from you and a three similarly confused looking strangers.
The rambling man is clad in tattered robes that might once have been stately and his eyes are wild with an energy that belies his advanced age. His words tumble out in rapid staccato and his narrative staggers like a drunk, but you hear a fair bit of gibberish about dark energies, living shadow, and terrible visions of the future. The man concludes by downing the remains of his drink then stating emphatically that, "the dark moth-folk are coming for me, to stop me telling people the truth - that the world already ended."