The temperature plummeted sharply.
The registrar muttered a curse under his breath, wrapping his coat tight around his body and adding a few more logs to the nearby stove. However, this provided no respite.
Winter was approaching, and the bone-chilling winds foretold the onset of a cold spell. Yet, for the registrar, this was not the worst part. Cold, famine, war – the whole year offered little hope, yet even so, he would rather brave the harsh weather here than go to the front lines to fight those damned Evil God Cultists and monsters.
"Sigh..."
He glanced at the empty roll before him. Up until recently, the place was bustling. Thirsty for adventure, and lured by the promise of both money and power, the mercenaries nearly wore out the doorstep. Back then, some would even bribe him, just for him to scribble their ridiculous names into his registry.
But now?