Ruby is unaware of any supernatural efforts at play here.
The old man squints at you, clearly having trouble seeing. "Don't get many visitors anymore, not since the murders. I don't suppose you're from around here, are you? One of you sounds local, but the other two, well, I suppose we don't have any rules about outsiders, do we, Mont?" He laughs throatily which turns into him bending over and coughing.
When he recovers, he says, "Oh, now don't go fretting young miss. I'll tell you a story. A short one is the best I can do, so listen closely."
Mont brings out a dark red soup and ladles the hot, rich liquid into bowls he places before you. The soup is a beet broth brimming full of vegetables so almost as to be a stew.
"I have lived here longer than most. I've seen Blackwater rise from a bumbling town to the mighty port city it is today. I was there in the locanth invasion, and when the black gate opened and the north was consumed by dread. I am not meaning to go on about myself, just believe me when I tell you what is happening now is the worst it has ever been."
"Oh, thank you, Mont, my favorite."
He slurps broth from his spoon. "It began with a rain, rain like mud. Probably came from Great Delta, one of those infernal dust storms they get. Just less demons. But imagine, mud from the sky. I don't know if that mud was related, but that was the start. Then there were murders. A mess of them, all at night. Unsolved, mysterious. Now the town watch, well they aren't the sharpest blades in the drawer, but they straightened out quick. All sorts of people been trying to figure it out, put a stop to it. But none of them been successful. The murders keep happening. When was the last one, Mont?"
Mont steps forward, and replies, "Last night, master. And three nights before that." He steps back against the wall, and then fetches more drinks for everyone, offering wine or a thick beer.
"Last night, eh? Damnedest thing. Well, tis a bad time for visiting. Many folks are just up and leaving. Who would stay? Only those with nothing to lose, and those are the ones that most need friendly voices keeping them in line. The city is going bad, rotting like a swamp."
Mont says, "The signs, master?"
He flaps his lips together, his lack of teeth making his mouth wrinkle loosely. "It's not for dinner conversation, but I'll say that it's always the same. The victims are found the same way, no struggle, and marks left on them. We can talk more about that later, but not now. My digestion is finicky enough as it is.."
