It was September in London, the year 1895. The crowds milled about impatiently, awaiting the first official address from their new mayor, Jonathan Howard Smythe. Nearly as soon as the address began, a deafening explosion tore across the plaza. Smythe was torn in two mid-sentence, and bodies rained down on the cobbles.
Local authorities attempted to contain the chaos, guiding the wounded and disoriented to makeshift shelters nearby. As the disguised halfling Sullivan moved toward one such shelter, he was beckoned to an alley by a hooded, red-robed figure.
When all was said and done, Sullivan found himself in the company of a ten foot tall warrior named Nyx. Nyx was a Brontus, whatever that meant, and the unlikely pair rode aboard the cutter Elysium toward Scotland, where a series of grisly murders (or the solving of such) held the key to Sullivan clearing his name of an expert frame job for that morning’s bombing.
Upon landing near the hamlet of Raven’s Rest, Sullivan and Nyx were accosted by three hungry, tough-looking scottish highwaymen. Turned out, the bandits found they had bitten off more than they could chew. They also found themselves in pieces on the sand.
After the melee, the pair came across a handsome young man slumbering in a cast-off whiskey barrel, coincidently clutching an empty whiskey bottle. The man introduced himself as Caliban, from behind a cocked pistol.
Quickly, mistrust gave way to thirst, and the newly formed trio made their way to the Gilded Chalice, Raven’s Rest’ singular tavern and pub. As the night wore on, the search for information commenced.