Water congregated along his helmet's visor as he stood in the dark cobbled street, buffeted from the side by the rain and winds. He wasn't supposed to block the doorway, but he huddled in its protective stone arch as he watched the streetlamp above him weakly vie with the elements - the old wooden sign doing somersaults. The 'Blind Olyphant' was an appropriate name for a place whose sign had been painted by a man who had obviously never seen one. Indeed, the creatures were rarely seen this side of the mother's sea and only the bones remained of one in the kings bestiary. The poor creature had died - having been a gift from the arch-hierophant - as no-one had known that they didn't eat meat. The wind seemed to blow darkness with it, fronts of mist briefly defining the structures opposite him before dispersing into a formless inky blackness. The patterns captured his attention, like dancing flames, a sense of order in the chaotic weather , confirmed by the semi-regular dripping of water from the eaves above. If this was a story, he thought to himself, a strange man in a cloak might appear and offer him a bargain...or a woman might be heard screaming in the darkness and I would run to find nothing, only the next day to find a loved one has died mysteriously ... or ... Such thoughts often were indulged to pass the times during the boring guard duty. When he first took up the graveyard shift, he assumed it would come accompanied with the gothic intrigue the name implied. He was only later informed the name referred to an absence of activity, not that the shift would be accompanied with supernatural occurrences. However, his inclination was always thus - the sort of person to walk purposefully through a graveyard at night, to leave a book on a ledge, to tempt fate - hoping to have the existence of such things confirmed to him through the terrible encounter described in so many of the folktales. So far, the dead had remained resolute in their silence. He sighed and leaned into the alcove, resting lightly on the wooden door behind him. The door was not of the best quality, and as much light tended to leak out of building as water in. He believed the only reason they required his services on nights like this was as an involuntary windguard, than of any other sort. The place was empty, with the only people inside being those unfortunate enough to be trapped here for the night. It was too late, and the weather too dangerous for people to be wandering to their homesteads if they lived more than a mile from the village. It was about the time for his break, the old man who ran the place, Jaakob, usually knocked the door behind him around now to let him know his lunch was ready. He would enjoy a simple soup by the fire inside and listen to the simple conversations around him as usual. Except, the usual knock hadn't come ... in fact he hadn't heard much of anything come from inside the building. No roaring laughter, or mumbled curse, or screeching stool legs against a stone slab floor. He frowned to himself and uncrossed his arms as he stood up straight. He knocked on the door and waited...he knocked again, "Mr jaakob, is it time for my break now?" ... no response. He reached for the door handle, but instinctively he stopped himself, he didn't want to go inside, he didn't want to know - it would be better not to know. But he was on the graveyard shift for a reason, and his curiosity got the better of him. Sucking in a breath, he opened the door and stepped inside in one bold movement.