The low, smoky hall of the Red Dove tavern. In the corner, at a table, almost hidden in the shadows, sits a woman in a dark hooded cloak. In front of her is an untouched glass of wine. You catch her gaze—cold and appraising, like a ray of moonlight in a basement. She slowly pulls back her hood, revealing a face of dazzling, refined beauty. A slight, indefinable smile plays on her lips. She winks at you, grabs her glass, and slowly walks away to some distant room — and without thinking twice, you rush after her.