The feast hall, or "restaurant", is actually called Aunt Hillary. She is one of the best educated feast halls around. Aunt Hillary is a busy place. There is always an unusual activity and it is located in the busiest square of town: the market square. Through narrow streets the odour of fish, meat and spices will attract all hungry travellers, merchands and sailors. The square in front of the hall is bustling with activity. Crates and barrels are being traded, fresh supplies of vegetables are delivered. All seems to evolve around the feast hall. It makes one wonder wether the square is so busy because of it, or whether the feast hallis thriving because of the square. There is always one table available, but all the rest of the tables will be packed. The waiters hurrying about and shouting orders towards each other. There doesn't appear to be anyone in charge. Sometimes one waiter will fire another, whilst he himself is being fired by someone else. When everyone is fired the feast hall seems to organise itself again. It quite resembles an anthill. Shared responsabilities and when looked upon from a distance a complete and utter chaos.
The mighty adventurers had stuffed themselves with whatever was on the menu. When they looked up after gobbling down the grub, they noticed everyone else had left, even the serving wenches. Night had fallen. The feast hall was deserted. They wandered around in the dark, from this giant hall to that giant hall, all empty but for two plates and two cups nicely dressed on one of the long tables.
The hair on their neck rose. In the dark, this placed seemed almost... alive. In the kitchen, through one of the copper speaking tubes, they heard the faint sobbing of a woman, echoing in the empty kitchen.
They knocked on the wooden door somewhere high up and far back in the building. A woman's voice cold as a forgotten grave answered from behind it: "help me...", but they could not get the door to open...