Rainoga

Nestled amid the cultured charm of Bloomridge, the Smilin’ Boar once delighted patrons with cheeky humor and a notoriously irreverent breakfast menu—its dishes brazenly named for romantic innuendo and local scandal. Owned by the spirited halfling Jentha Allinamuch, the café was a favorite among gossip-mongers and hungover playwrights alike. But the laughter has curdled. For six months now, corpses have turned up in the alley just beyond the rear door—over a dozen so far—each with identical, horrific wounds: wrists neatly sliced and a single puncture through the heart. The victims span every walk of life in Baldur’s Gate, and yet none have been seen entering or leaving the alley. The Flaming Fist is stymied, and Bloomridge trembles beneath whispers of the “Sickle Man.” Jentha, desperate to salvage her livelihood and conscience, quietly seeks investigators not afraid to chase shadows.

The café itself is a cozy patchwork of mismatched chairs, wobbling tables, and flower-filled windowboxes—its exterior painted in cheerful sage and marigold hues that now clash with the somber mood surrounding it. A plump wooden sign carved into the shape of a leering boar hangs above the door, though someone has recently gouged a long scratch through one eye. Inside, the warm scent of fried eggs, roasted tomatoes, and syrupy nutcakes hangs in the air, mingling with the smoke of a hearth that crackles defiantly. The walls are festooned with crude halfling folk-art and ribald chalkboard menus that try, unsuccessfully, to lighten the dour expressions of the dwindling crowd. Out back, the narrow alley reeks faintly of blood masked by ash and stale coffee grounds. Broken crates and stacked barrels frame the site of the killings—now often strewn with wilted flowers, shrines, and small tokens left by mourning families.