Vera Steppleton

Wiping a glass behind the heavy oak bar, Vera's hands tremble slightly, causing the crystal to clink rhythmically against the counter. She doesn't look up as you approach, her gaze fixed instead on the thick, grey mist pressing against the windowpane.

If you're looking for the scenic route to the tors, you're a fortnight late and a head short of a full set. The fog's come in early, and it isn't the kind you want to be lost in. I heard something out there last night near the fence line—something that didn't sound like a fox or a stray. You don't look like the military types from the base, and you certainly don't look like you're here for the ale. So, tell me... are you another one of those 'investigators' come to tell me I'm seeing shadows, or are you actually going to help me find out what's screaming out on the moor?