industrygothica
Adventurer
It is on a cold, fretful night that you find yourselves in the heart of foul Millers Court: a district of crumbling tenements and narrow streets, of rat-haunted alleys and seedy taverns, a place that reeks of death and decay and hopelessness.
Of all the grim comers in Millers Court, none could possibly be grimmer than the one you find yourself standing on tonight. You're surrounded by rows of warren-like homes and shops, each one filthier and more oppressive than the next. All sane people avoid the area, for the melancholy spirit of Mari Kell is said to haunt the comer in death much as she did in life as a "lady of the night."
She was the last victim of the Ripper's horrific spree of a century before, and hasn't found any solace since. Mari's hovel stands at the end of the alley before you.
In a manner, your business tonight is tied to Mari's fate. The Ripper is back, and with a vengeance. His tally is up to five--men this time, as well as streetwalkers. Your investigations have tracked The Ripper here, to the alley before you and Mari's hovel.
With a bitter, drizzle-soaked wind cutting into your cloaks, you find it sadly appropriate that the story should begin anew where it ended off a century ago...
Millers Court, the City of Portheor. The streets are choked with the poor and the dispossessed, begging for crumbs or a spare copper. Disease runs rampant, and the only solace is found in one of the many seedy taverns lining the filth-strewn streets and the prostitutes who work them.
And then there is the bad part of town; there is the East Ward. Unseen footfalls echo through the fog-shrouded cobblestone streets. Even during the day the thick mist hangs over the East Ward like a tattered blanket, choking the sun's rays and casting ominous shadows in every disease-filled corner.
The Cam Inn is a dilapidated monstrosity that looks as if it will tip over at any moment due to its rotting foundation. The smell of stale tobacco exudes through the cracked windows and rotting boards, and despite the less than reputable clientele the place caters to, the surrounding alleyways are eerily quiet.
Blackburn's Bakery lies across the way from the Cam Inn. With shifty eyes and a malnourished frame, rumors abound as to the strange ingredients in Blackburn's recipes. But something is keeping him in business.
A rat stirs in its nest in a darkened corner, and the fog turns into a wet mist. A crack of lightning brightens the sky for a flash, and the first drops of the rain splash on the filthy cobblestone street.
Somewhere in the distance a scream echoes through the night.
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