It is a dark, foggy night. Nighthawks and whipporwills, both common birds in this area, sing their eerie songs. On a lonely bridge in Ravendrawk, over the river Driin, you all stand. A ways away, the Actar, that intimidating set of tall, dark towers stands, in its pentacle shape, terrifyes the young ones looking out their bedroom windows. Bats fly over the Driin, carrying in their beaks small misquitos and minnoes. Stray cats caterwhall forlornly, their meloncholy sillowettes showing against the moon. drunken men stagger out of the taverns, heavily bruised after a barfight. Ferocious homeless dogs howl at the moon, which will be full in a few night's time.
This cold night in winter, the puddles on the road have completely frozen, though the Driin has not frozen in years. This winter, you all know, stands little to no chance of succeeding in that mission. A light snow falls, making a soft sheet of white over the city.
Lately, you all know, Ravendrawk has not been doing financially well in its main business, the selling of linen. This was a disapointment, for many of you came here in the hopes of making your fortune. The streets have been covered with muck when they once might have been clean. Rats, not people, now rule the city. Even as you all think this, you see rats scurrying around the bridge, to the safety of one of the many rotten hollows now in the bridge. the bridge creaks, for it has not been tended in a while, and it must go through a great struggle to remain standing. It has lasted this long, however and will likely continue to last. You hope. A lone cricket chirps, and all sigh gratefully, for the dreadful silence was enough to drive the faint of heart mad. You hear the clock chime midnight--a powerful omen of a death to come.
State your business. Why are you at the bridge at this ungodly time of the night? by the way, make a listen check. And a spot check.
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