Something is evolving down at the lab and it’s not getting any more bearable, any more pleasant or relishable. Seemingly some entities are best left alone. Our drama unfolds in the gothick backwater of New Lynsmouth,
West Cernyw, a seething cauldron of archaic and primeval forces, bubbling
over with unknown and unutterable things.
It’s no tale for a greenhorn, mark me well, as greenhornhood be the mark of the unmarked. Now, blow wind, blow, and on with our tale. Let the players take the stage as the trumpets sound a breezy fanfare blow and the clouds zephyr slither o’er tumbling rich dripping streets of slumbering eldritch slitherers.