The streets of London were dark tonight. Fog hung in the air like a curtain, and moisture made the air even colder than what seemed possible. Cobblestone roads led to brick buildings that spiraled overhead. The streets turned into an elaborate maze of homes and businesses. Beggars in the streets screamed of mischief and the city on fire, but the moon was the only light. And a single business.

The sign hung above the door looked worn, save for a new coat of paint. In the low light, you can faintly read “Lovett’s Pies”. And along with it, thick black smoke billows from the chimney. All of this looks off, but what else was open. As you step closer, you see a woman inside. Her hair is long and dark, hung in pigtails on her head. Her dress is just as dark as everything in this town, save for red lace on her low cut collar. And her skin, by contrast, is pale. Almost deathly.

Her hand, currently flipping the door sign to “Closed” stops. And her green eyes lock on yours for a moment. Without a word, she flips the sign to "Open" and leaves the door open just a smidge. Then, she heads behind the counter and begins to pour a tank of ale. All the while, her eyes are trained on you with an expression you can’t quite read.