In a simple but well-kept room at the local inn, Ash stood before an open bag, carefully packing his belongings.
His fingers, though skeletal, were nimble as they tucked away various potions, sharpening stones, runes and spare weapons.
The preparations were done with the kind of precision and efficiency that came from years of experience.
The room was quiet, save for the occasional clink of metal on metal as he adjusted the straps on his armor or the slight rasp of leather as he secured his scabbard.
His movements were methodical, almost mechanical, as he readied himself for the mission.
With the last item tucked into place, Ash's skeletal fingers drew the bag's drawstrings closed with a practiced tug.
The bag, now heavy with supplies, was thrown over his shoulder with ease.
He strode over to a table in the corner of the room, his footsteps echoing softly on the wooden floorboards.
