A thin layer of snow covers the cobblestones as the party walks towards their destination. Trash blows lazily across their path every so often. As they approach their destination, they pass by a short alley that seems to be the source of a small trickle of acrid smelling smoke. Trash was burning somewhere nearby. Opposite the alley stands an impressive and sturdy iron gate blocks the party's path. The gate itself is closed with a lock of intricate detail, and their doesn't appear to be a guard. Which is decidedly odd, as the letter mentions one...