It was a dark and stormy night.

The prospect held the front of his cloak tight to his chest. He stumbled, fell over into the mud, and picked himself back up. Shivering, he slammed his body against the front doors of the Temple and collapsed under its awning.

He picked himself up and slammed his fists against the double ironwood doors. He couldn't hear his own knocks above the gale. He banged harder, then with all his strength.

"Hello! Is anyone in there? Does anyone still tend the Fire?" he implored.

There was no answer.

The Temple's stone walls were built to last, but rotting plywood covered the apertures that once framed stained glass. The prospect slumped down again, leaning his back against the ironwood. He listened to the pitter-patter of rain on overgrowth. It wasn't a bad place to think.

The trouble [...]

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First published:

Source:

Narrated by TYPE III AUDIO.