As you step onto the moldy sawdust that covers the ground of the main strip of the Dying Moon Carnival, you enter a world of faded magic and exposed seams. A ghostly breeze whistles through the gashes in the canvas of the tattered tents, rattling the ancient strings of colored lights and ragged streamers looped over the lane. Despite the evident decay, the carnival still seems to be open for business...to the east, past a decrepit gate, you hear the music of what might be a carousel. On the other side of the lane, slightly to the northwest, stands a faded tent bearing a sign whose peeling gilt letters proclaim that within is the House of Freaks. Behind the House of Freaks, slightly to the southwest, you see what might be a small building of some sort. The lane leads north out of the carnival.

It's midday, and the bleak afternoon light shines unforgivingly upon the disuse and decay around you. A dreary almost-rain is falling from the sky. You feel uncomfortably damp, more clammy than wet.