See the sites 2

Just north of the city centre, in a neighbourhood of ramshackle cottages being slowly assimilated by apartment blocks, there is a traffic roundabout by a park. By day the park is deserted. By night it is the haunt of the walking dead, their eyes white, vacant and hungry, with tracked scars upon their forearms. Cranky old pine trees shroud the park in resinous gloom no matter the time of day.

The roundabout is lit at night with dim orange lights that give it the sense of being in a fire-cave, except that it is always unreasonably cold there, never warm. It is at the site of the oldest crossroads in the city. A circle has replaced the cross but the underlying energy is still the same.

Twice a year, on the ancient festivals, a faerie cavalcade passes through the roundabout between thither and hither. Typically mortal witnesses are blinded by the riders' splendour and sent into a cloying sleep from which they wake in their own beds, unable to remember how they got home.

In recent years, however, the cavalcade has not passed by at all and its place has been taken by the Wild Hunt. Now witnesses do not make it home at all.