It was a dark and dreary night. The rain was pissing down across the moors, and the oppressively low clouds that veiled the moon's radiant face made anyone foolish enough to be out in this weather hunch over, as if expecting the sky to fall in on them at any moment. Everything was quiet and still in the village – if you could call a dozen or so buildings strewn haphazardly around a handful of streets and a steeple a village – except for the local, the Slaughtered Lamb. Warm and welcoming light leaked out from between its shutters, and snatches of song and laughter could be heard over the incessant rain.
The door crashed open, framing an older man and a young woman against the darkness outside. The strangers were decked head to toe in slick black leather, which fluttered and flapped in the howling wind greedily rushing past them to get inside. Every voice within abruptly fell silent. Baleful eyes turned towards them.
The man shook out his long coat and doffed his wide-brimmed hat, splashing a mess on the tiled floor. Revealed, his face was a fright to look at, and the eye was inexorably drawn to a jagged line of badly reknit flesh that meandered up from his chin and disappeared under a wicked-looking eyepatch. "Fear not, good people of Ragway. We have come to take care of your werewolf problem!" he proclaimed.
This did not get him the grand welcome he'd expected.