As the sun scrapes the roofs of Westcrown, the streets are abustle with its people rushing home or to their amusements. Lanterns flicker to life with an eerie hum as twilight approaches, flooding busy streets with manufactured light. Mothers corral their sons and daughters inside their homes, fear painted on their weathered faces, and men stumble as best they can from their taverns and whorehouses. The streets of the high nobles were always lit throughout the night, to prevent the shadow beasts from haunting their streets, but the poorer districts lights were cut off not long after sunset, to enforce the city wide curfew. The well-lit streets of the nobility are never touched by darkness, lest the horrors of the night encroach. Poorer districts are not so lucky, and after curfew, the dim islands of light fade to hungry darkness. The Dottari claim this is to keep the fuel costs down, but there are whispers of a darker truth. Dottari haunt the streets in daylight, and pass their iron-fist reign to the beasts as the sun falls. They say they patrol the streets at night to hunt the beasts, but it’s a lie- they never stray far from blessed light. No one sane ever does.
Of all the poor houses that lie rotting in the stagnant heart of Westcrown, one building stands defiant. A tavern known as the Drunken Brigade, for many it is their only reprieve from the soul-crushing fact of life in this city. Vizio and his family took over the bar not too long ago, bringing a heavenly scent to a city in hell. Inside, renovations had just begun to restore the famed Wiscrani style and class before the money ran out. Though Vizio would normally charge a half-pound of copper for visitors after dark, he pointedly ignores this citywide custom, instead busily wiping the spotless bar. This motley crew sitting in his tavern gave him an uneasy feeling. Though he was forewarned of tonight, he still told his wife and daughter to go home long before the lamps were lit.
Thank you, Vizio. A stern voice spoke from the room behind the bar. A slender woman moves through the doorway, her rough clothing draped with the telltale weight of chainmail backing, her black Chelish hair wrapped into a tight bun, secured with a plain wooden hairpin. She nods to you in greeting as she walks into the room, the soft pad of her steps amplified by the creaking of the old wood.
It’s the least I could do, for all the help you’ve provided. Vision’s lifted a lantern from beneath the bar and lit it. He nods at the woman and sighs. Take care young miss, god bless. Vizio takes one last look at the group and leaves through the kitchen.
Thank you for agreeing to meet with me here, the woman begins, my name is Janiven.
She pauses a moment for any who wish to make their own introductions.
I have chosen each of you for a singular reason—everyone here, myself included, has suffered, whether we realize it or not. I have lived in Westcrown my whole life, and although I love this city, I must admit, as must you, that despite our peace and prosperity, we continue to suffer. As she speaks, her fists ball with a deep passion and a deeper frustration. Or, is it anger?
Fear should not be an expected part of life, and yet each night brings fear to our doorsteps. Yes, Westcrown has been safe from war and famine for nearly seventy years, and yes, our businesses have prospered—but this safety and prosperity has been bought in the coinage of fear and prayers to Hell, she waves a hand at the door, barricaded against the evils of the night. A distant scream echoes, punctuating her words.
Other lands live free from tyranny. Other cities do not fear the night. Other governments do not cede the streets to monsters of the infernal shadows. Westcrown was once such a place, and she wants to be such a place again. Westcrown is not only her buildings and canals and docks and history—she is also her people. Westcrown is our friends and neighbors, our mothers and fathers, our siblings and cousins, our sons and daughters!
She pauses briefly to see if everyone is agreeing, and allows brief vocalizations of approval before continuing.
With but a small group of supporters and dedicated brothers and sisters, we can earn the trust and admiration of those people. A Westcrown free of these shadowy beasts that stalk our streets is one step closer to a Westcrown free of the devil that is the Thrice-Damned House of Thrune!
She utters this treason without hesitation. Everyone has a friend, or a friend of a friend, who has gone missing after speaking so boldly, but this woman, Janiven, seems to ignore that possibility.