The Black Hound of Meridean Landing

Just west of Caryville the still sienna brown waters of the Chippewa river meander almost noiselessly by meridian landing, when a murky brume writhes across the water and onto shore. An acrid scent fills the air along with an intense feeling of dread. At that very moment a large dog emerges from the mist, eyes as large as saucers glowing red with intensity, fangs like long hunting knives and a coarse coat as dark a black as the bark of burned timber. Most find themselves frozen in place, their feet heavy as foundry weights. Those who keep their wits about them long enough to flee do so with the beast in close pursuit. If swift enough to make it back to the main road the gruesome hound will simply fade into the mist, those who are not may never be seen again.