I use WRITTEN cut scenes sometimes as introductions to game sessions. I try to post them a day or so before the session on our Yahoo! group page, and I bring a printed copy to the game in case people missed it. They never really advance the story much, just provide a quick hook for the upcoming session. For example:
Episode 101:
Doing its best to ride the icy winds, the lone crow flaps in weary strokes through the pass, keeping as close to the crust of the snow as possible, squawking as the gale snags it from one moment to another, still pumping its wings as it descends into the valley where the mist-ringed mountain looms over the ruined village.
The black bird pays no attention to the half-buried buildings and only pauses a second on the edge of the dark mist, plunging in with an angry cry, darting into the long hall filled with strange statues, through an open stone door and spiralling down a dark, icy shaft.
Far below, faint light glimmers up, and the crow plunges downward, circling once over a number of not-quite-completely frozen corpses before, with another angry squawk, lifting up and continuing deeper into the cavern.
The crow flaps past tall columns, a strange rotunda of some sort, through open doors, down a long hall lined with floating corpses and into a vast chamber with tables, bodies, a massive grey pillar and four weary-looking people. It calls out loudly a few times, ensuring it has everyone's undivided attention, and settles on the lip of a basin.
And speaks.
"I am Kuro. Message from Nakayo. Do you have the weapon?"
Episode 104:
The streets of Highpass are frozen.
The peaks surrounding the deep valley where the town sits are barren and rocky, with grey strands of cobwebby clouds drifting past their sharp edges. The town huddles against a sheer cliff face, ramshackle buildings leaning to and fro as though wincing from the cold winds that hiss along streets of icy mud.
Few pedestrians brave the night-time cold, bundled against the wind and hurrying from one poorly-lit intersection to the next. Highpass is not a city of blazing streetlights and paved roads; only the occasional guttering lantern offers much relief from the inky blackness of the mountain night.
Even the circle of warm glow that surrounds the massive arrangement of canvas, cables and tall poles that forms the strange structure known as Tom's seems shaky. Paper lanterns sway from every available niche, but their cheery flickering only serves to accentuate the dark and cold all around.
Inside, the wind and cold remain present, but held at bay. Roaring fires leap and dance in the drippings from the many cuts of meat turning on spits above them, and mugs, those empty and those brimming with foam, clink and clatter on rough-hewn tables. Voice rise in greeting, or hysterical merry-making, and anywhere you turn, a different set of musicians offer competing tunes for the masses. The gently heaving roof glows red from the fires, creaking and sighing, reminding all of the savage elements outside.
Tom inhales slowly, expanding his already considerable girth as he considers the question. He lets out the breath in a long, sad sigh. His eyes have little of the sparkle and mischief they once had. The past year has been hard in Highpass, and even the merriment in his tavern has an edge of desperation in it, the feel of a last wild effort to deny the coming of the end.
"You'll have a hard time finding a guide into Yshaka, my friends. All the Yshakans left town a week ago. Right after the murders."
