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You take down the rifle off a shelf and sling it over your shoulder.

Having selected a few weapons, your grumbling stomach compels you toward the Gathering for breakfast.

Candles flicker in the Gathering, and the faint smell of coffee seeps through the air. Cold radiates off the stone walls, and a stiff draft churns through the floors of the Cathedral, strengthened by the coming autumn winds.

Uncle Lou stands at the grill, chopping sizzling potatoes with the edge of a spatula. He wheezes with each slow, labored breath, and at one point, he lays the spatula on the side of the sink and clutches his ribs, leaning over with a grimace. But only a few seconds later, his face calms and he stands, and a wide smile spreads across his red face. He swipes his forehead with a stained tan towel. Spooning out a generous portion of hash browns, he slaps it on a plate and slides it across the table to you. He turns the grill to low and pours a cup of thin, black liquid into a Yogi Bear mug.

Lou sits at the table and wipes a spot in front of him, then lays the cup down.

"Not the best coffee, but it'll do."