October 29, 7 pm

Night fell on Corvus Bay like a wave of midnight gossamer. The long autumn was beginning to give way to the first hints of winter's coming bite. The crows stirred uneasily, taking to the skies from steeples and belfries, cawing raucously from beneath bridges, flapping forth from abandoned railway yards. Those wise to such things look to the skies, making obscure guestures, or leaving small shiny beads or pieces of polished metal. Even the squares, the magically unaware feel uneasy though few can say why. The sensitive, artists, poets, painters, complain of strange and dark dreams, the details of which cannot be remembered but elements of can be glimpsed in a burst of uncanny and disturbing works of art.

Rumors are abroad in the magical community too. Harold Robinson is dead. The word is on every set of lips, whispered in shady bars and moldering crypts, circulating on websites and message boards obscure and esoteric. Of the Four Harold was the oldest, a keeper of the peace who has kept blood from the streets for nearly half a century. How he died is as varied as the tongues who tell the story. Some say it was a snipers bullet, others a stroke, others still blame vampires, werewolves, stranger things. There is even a story that Old King Crow himself appeared to take Harold off. No one can say for sure, but everyone knows it means trouble... but for who?