A family of semi-retired doomsday cultists, just trying to live a quiet life while tending an apple orchard in the country. Except with complications.
‘Don’t you go foolin around in the fens buy. Moeder Moeras don’t care none if you mean no offence or just want to fill your wicker creel with fish. She’ll have your guts for fishnets and your bones for soup.’
Paulis the Riverguide
Moonlight shines down on the tranquil scene of a slumbering inn along one of the many roads that cross the land. Trees sway gently in the night air, and the stars twinkle brightly. All is quiet as the PCs snore away, a fine tendril of smoke curlsrnunder their door. The tavern is on fire! This is particularly bad news if the PCs own any horses - the screaming they hear is probably from their mounts! Panicky people are rushing about with buckets of water, trying to tame the flames. The fire fighting effort is not very coordinated as everybody is either hungover or still drunk, including the PCs. Hurry!