Storms of Midnight

Another crack of thunder rolled across the blackened sky. The heavy, gray rains fell in sheets, pouring down upon the thatched roofs and houses below. Lightning lit up the sky, but dimly, testifying that the storm was fading away...but leaving no shortage of its wet rain behind. The wind, though considerably slowed, was still howling through the trees, making them shiver and writhe as if in pain. And overall, the heavy, black clouds rolled slowly by, moving over the forests, the hills, and silver mountains below. The dreary, stormy night generally wained, giving way to midnight. As the churchtower heralds cried midnight, the slow, low ring of the church bells sounded. It was midnight.

The storm continued to pour down slowly upon the rather small, hidden away village of Aurora. Hidden away in the forested mountains of Norbenshire, the sleepy town could usually care less about the midnight ring of the churchtower bell. Just a small scattering of houses, a few inns, and the stone church dominating over all, it loomed above the trees all around it. The forest gave way to open farmer's fields just before the dusty, but now soaked, road wound its way into the single town street. The only person awake at such an hour would be the church herald, the man who waited the night out, sounding the hours. And, of course...the travelers.

Another crack of thunder rumbled across the sky above. But when another sound rang out across the small cobbled stones of the tiny forest hidden village, very few were awake at the time to notice it. The sound of hoof beats, slow and weary, grew in volume upon the stones, and a single, gray horseman figure appeared out of the rain, walking slowly through the fields, hunched over in his saddle. Not even the churchtower herald, who had long since gone back down to the warmth of the church chapel, was left to see the incoming figure...or figures.
A long, gray cloak overhung the entire person of the man upon the horse, with the hood hiding the face of the man from view as he hid from the rain. The dark colored horse he rode was tired, but still willing. They were old friends, this man and his mount. As he rode, the gentle clink of metal underneath the cloak sounded of a sword, or some such metal weapon. Perhaps a ragged, weather-beaten ranger come out of the forest from a long sojourn in the mountains, or whatever the case may be...he made for the village, apparently his destination.
Upon reaching the gray, empty streets, the cloaked figure looked up slowly, just enough to see the sign of a particular roadside inn on the edge of the tiny village, with still a few lights in the windows. Dim lanterns glowed from inside, lighting up dimly the street outside. The rider stopped before it, studied it a moment, and then with a grunt he dismounted. A stable, though a poor one and little more than a shack outside the actual inn building, was close enough for the traveler to place his horse in it, before returning to the rickety front door, taking a deep breath, and entering.
Opening the door, the smell of fire smoke, furs, and country ale greeted the unknown stranger, but the silence took him by surprise. Keeping his hood on, the stranger strode in, placing his hands on his sides and surveying the open room. The door was open...meaning the inn was still awake. Though no soul was in sight. The man raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. A fire crackled on the hearth kept the room warn enough, and lit it dimly, well enough to see. A few lanterns, again, still hung in the windows. The stranger strode over to the nearest table, closet to the fire, and after glancing about at the empty, roughly hewn room, he sat down near the fire, but out of the light. Mostly.
With a sigh he shook some of the water off of his cloak, and looked up.
"Innkeeper?" He said aloud, hoping for an answer.