To the west of the city of Northpoint, lies the provincial fishing village of Northsalt.  Its quiet solitude is in stark contradiction to the tumult that afflicts the rest of the region.

At its docks tethered fishing boats totter gently upon the soft lapping of the calm waters, their loose canvas sails flap idly with the passing of the coastal breeze.  Gulls strut impatiently about the pier for the next boat to return home with brimming hold.  And from the small rustic cottages, dirty white puffs of smoke rise lazily to meet the ever-darkening clouds clustering overhead.

Tranquillity it would seem, and yet as the first drops of rain fall the villagers begin to jitter and bustle for they know that the winds are sure to follow.  Soon the fishing boats will return to harbour, for they dare not trust the tides.

As I seek my own refuge from the rains, I soon discover that even here people can find no shelter from the storm that besets Rivenspire.

Gendinora, a sickly Wood-Elf, learns of the death of her brother far to the south at the dolmen of Westmark Moor.  In desperate need of money to buy his sisters medicines he foolishly joined the Bitterhand bandits, only to meet with an outlaw’s end. 

The Redguard gravedigger Giran sits alone at a table set for two, unaware that his wife has been lured away by a vampire, and no longer hungers for fried hake or grouper stew.

And alone upon the jetty the widow Granger sits in the rain staring out to sea.  Upon each trembling breath she hangs an unanswerable prayer, ‘blessed Divines return my husband to me…’

S.K