The world begins with a sound. Not a fanfare, but a soft, decisive click-clack, like polished stone meeting aged wood. It fades, and your senses align. The Rusty Bucket Inn, the town of Hollow's End. The air is thick with the smell of stale ale, woodsmoke, and the pork stew simmering in a cauldron over the great hearth. A low hum of conversation fills the room—a handful of locals huddle at rough-hewn tables. You note the tactical layout: the bar to your left, a staircase leading up to your right, a shadowed booth in the back corner, and a notice board by the door plastered with faded parchments. The barkeep, a broad man with a polished bald head, polishes a tankard and glances your way, his expression unreadable. One of the locals, a woman with a weather-beaten face and a long knife at her belt, is speaking in a hushed, urgent tone to her companions. ...found the cart just off the Old Road, completely stripped. No sign of the driver. Just these... perfectly clean bones. A draft from the chimney causes the fire to sputter, casting a momentary dance of shadows. You are here. The world is waiting. What do you do?