From behind a low outcrop of rock, the group watches as the hulking 9' tall brute nods stupidly and thunders across the marshy turf and on to the plank road that bypasses the town. Although the creature is out of sight, after about two minutes, the ruckus that erupts in its wake is not. Firstly, the pair of guards at the gate can be seen sprinting towards the squealing pigs, and about twenty seconds after that, a bell begins to toll loud and clear. Dozens of people file out of the main causeway and peer around the boardwalk in the direction of the general din of shrieking guards, wailing pigs and breaking wood.
And away you go . . .
You all sprint across the open flat for the town while people look around bewildered, a couple of shouts and screams echo across the canyon and people barely register your presence as you pull up and attempt to walk by (somewhat casually). A pox-faced man, with wild green hair and puce skin, implores, "What da fook is 'appening oot thar? Sounds like a tree fell offa da mountain and crashed intae the pig pens?" Just as he speaks, there's another audible cry and a loud crunch. People reflexively flinch and duck. Without bothering to answer, you all continue a brisk pace along the boardwalk as the looky loos continue to crane their necks towards the commotions and ignore your presence. Another minute of walking leaves the north gate about a quarter-mile behind you and it seems as though things have started to quiet down, but when you glance back people continue to gesticulate wildly and cast confused looks.
With the danger behind and seemingly in the clear, you take in your surroundings. Taverns, gambling houses, whorehouses, and seedy businesses seem to line the main thoroughfare of Dreg. Three and four storey wood buildings with rotting shake roofs, lean-in and give the place a claustrophobic feeling. The inhabitants around you appear to be a hodge-podge of builds, faces, and colors with a decidedly "fey" cast to their features. Thankfully, some of the people around you look like "normal" men, albeit, tattooed, dingy and unkempt and those that do spare a glance your way seem generally unfriendly. Dead ahead the causeway appears to exit the squalid little dock-town and continue along the river to the south. To your left, another broad pier sweeps toward a series of docks that jut out into the slow-moving river several hundred yards away. Most of the docks appear empty, save for a handful of skiffs and a few small rowboats, but there is what looks to be a wide river barge tethered to a rope that spans across to the steep-sided "whaleback" island jutting out of the middle of the river a hundred yards off-shore. Atop the island there is a manse of dark stone silhouetted against the corsucating purple-green sky.
