Wind gusted through Ironhall's winding streets, carrying with it the scent of soot and damp stone. This fortress city groaned under its own weight as towers once proud sagged due to years of war and neglect; banners once proudly flying now lay scattered and colorless under an overcast sky; merchants muttered amongst themselves while soldiers patrolled with weary eyes wearing armor marked by rust.

Wolfric moved silently among them, his cloak pulled tightly against the cold. His boots echoed against uneven cobblestones as few gave him any notice - Ironhall was known as a city of shadows, perfect for him!

Rumors spread through Ironhall's alleyways of an awakening of the Veiled Dungeon, of ancient horrors emerging beneath its foundations, and of men disappearing without trace. Wolfric heard these whispers, yet did not believe them: Ironhall had always been known for dark tales and hidden truths.

However, tonight the air felt heavier; whispers became louder.

Wolfric found himself standing outside the Broken Pike Tavern, an ancient and run-down establishment as old and broken as his city itself. Its wooden sign hung precariously from rusty chains, creaking in the wind. Inside was filled with low murmur of voices and tankard clatter. Pushing open its door allowed heat and burning wood aromas to fill his senses; quickly followed by cheap ale in its sharp bite.

He took a seat in the darkest corner with his back to the wall and watched. No one seemed particularly attentive; when offered his drink from behind the bar without saying a word he let the bitter liquid sit untouched in his cup.

Minutes passed before someone emerged from among the crowd.

An unknown figure--perhaps an imagined shadow--clad in a dark cloak approached, moving with slow confidence as though fearing nothing. Without speaking a word, they placed on the table a small black coin emblazoned with an unfamiliar symbol on its surface that shimmered faintly with luminosity.

"You seek work," murmured the figure with a rough, gravelly voice. "There is something stirring within, an ancient artifact with incredible power that may or may not be worth exploring, yet this task may not be for those prone to faintheartedness."

Wolfric kept looking at the coin. "And if I'm not interested?", he inquired.

"You will soon learn that the dungeon doesn't wait; it calls and it remembers."

Before Wolfric could speak, the figure had vanished into the crowd of bodies like smoke.

Wolfric stared intently at the coin. Its symbol seemed to twist subtly beneath the dim light, almost pulse-like.

An unfamiliar chill ran up his spine.

Later, Wolfric wandered the narrow streets, the cold gnawing at his bones but not being the source of unease. Instead, shadows flickered at the corners of his vision - shapes which vanished when turned toward. Whispers floated through the air like distant yet audible breaths.

He stopped, his hand resting gently on the hilt of his sword.

"Show yourself," he demanded indignantly.

Silence. Whilst the feeling of unseen eyes lingered on.

He continued forward, yet each step felt heavier as the black coin in his pocket acted like an anchor to weigh him down.

Wolfric had no faith in fate; nonetheless, he knew this encounter wasn't simply chance.

Something ancient had stirred within, and its gaze had fallen on him.

Wind howled again, shattering Ironhall's cracked walls. Yet its inhabitants remained silent.

Wait and watch. It won't happen overnight.