Some say the blade is cursed and brings despair to any who own it, others believe that it is merely coincidental misfortune.
The bard tuned his lyre for the 5th time. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. Ancient eyes greeted him. This would be his last performance, it had to be perfect.
The jaguar stood at the door of the temple. The smell of blood from within assailed his keen senses. He placed one paw, and then another, over the threshold. The priest walked to the door, as the sun’s light faded, and greeted the warrior Tepiltzin.
The party had driven the beasts to the edge of the cliffs, the kill was swift. Tlilpotonqui smiled broad and warm. It had been a fine day. His smile faded as he spied the crescent Moon already hanging delicately in the sky. The west was fading to pinks and golds. In his excitement, he had forgotten the time. He fell back, letting the party get well ahead, and turned towards the cliffs. As the last rays of the Sun faded he dove towards the rocky waters below…
In a crowded marketplace, a man is standing on a soapbox, orating. Some of the crowd are cheering, some hissing, some standing around saying "I can't hear a bl**dy word he's saying". It's a hustings for an election. The PCs can either leave, or stay and listen. If they do the latter, then they can vote too, and they might get quite involved in the cheering. Depending on who wins they might get quite involved in the post-election brawl too...
There are numerous possibilities with this encounter: the PCs might end up talking to one of the nervous candidates before their speech, and offer encouragement and support. Of course this candidate may well turn out to be someone with outspokenly unorthodox views, and the crowd don't take kindly to s/his supporters. Or maybe the seemingly innocuous candidate turns out to be a complete racist, and the PCs wander off embarrassedly, pretending they weren't talking to this person five minutes ago.