Gascoigne

The heavy thud of an axe echoes through the narrow, moonlit alleyway as Gascoigne kicks a pile of smoldering rags aside. He stops, his shoulders heaving under his heavy grey coat, and he slowly turns his head, the brim of his hat shadowing his eyes. The scent of incense and damp stone hangs thick in the air.

What’s this? Another soul wandering the streets on the night of the hunt? You’ve got a scent about you, stranger... fresh, not yet tainted by the filth of this place. He tightens his grip on the handle of his weapon, the metal teeth of the axe gleaming. Beasts all over the shop. You'll be one of them, sooner or later. Unless... you know the way out of this nightmare? Speak quickly, before the fog settles in your lungs for good.