The Owls

In Tower Valley, the owls are a fact of life. They glide silently through the night, their wings barely stirring the air as they pass over the narrow streets and darkened rooftops. They perch in trees and on the ledges of the town’s ancient buildings, their wide, unblinking eyes scanning the world below. Everyone in Tower Valley knows the owls are there, and everyone knows there’s nothing unusual about them.

In Tower Valley, the owls are just owls. They are perfectly ordinary birds, just as you might find in any forest or field. Everyone knows owls come out at night, but in Tower Valley, it feels like they’re always there, even when you can’t see them. Like any other nightbird, they hoot at night, they hunt small rodents, and glide silently through the air on wings built for stealth. Yes, the owls of Tower Valley are large, but owls are naturally large birds. Yes, their eyes seem to follow you wherever you go, but that’s just how owls are—they have excellent vision. And yes, you might feel a bit uneasy should you happen to see one of them perched on a rooftop, watching the cobblestone street below, but that’s simply your imagination. Their hoots may sound slightly louder, echoing through the narrow streets in a way that makes the hairs on the back of one's neck stand up. But it’s all normal—just one's mind playing tricks on you. 

Ordinary to the Point of Uncanny

The owls in Tower Valley never do anything out of the ordinary. They don’t speak, they don’t carry messages, and they don’t exhibit any supernatural abilities. They’re just owls. But somehow, it’s this very normality that makes them unsettling. You might catch one staring at you with those large, dark eyes—eyes that reflect nothing but the ordinary moonlight, eyes that are just like any other owl’s eyes. And yet, when you look into them, you can’t shake the feeling that they’re looking right back at you, through you, into you. It’s silly, of course. They’re just owls.

Sometimes, the owls gather in unusual numbers on the roofs of the black towers or in the twisted branches of the town’s ancient trees. But that’s just natural, isn’t it? Owls flock together sometimes. It’s nothing to be concerned about. And when you walk past them, when you hear the rustle of their wings or the low, familiar hoot that seems to follow you down the street, it’s all perfectly normal. There’s nothing to worry about.

After all, there’s nothing unusual about an owl’s call, right?

There’s absolutely nothing unusual or extraordinary about them at all. 

At, least that’s what everyone in Tower Valley will tell you.

The townsfolk will always insist—almost too insistently—that the owls are completely normal. “They’re just birds,” they may say with a shrug if asked directly, “nothing to be concerned about.” And yet, the way they say it, the way they quickly change the subject or avoid a questioner's gaze, makes one wonder. 

Why is it so important for them to insist that the owls are ordinary?

It’s not just the owls themselves that are disturbing—it’s the town’s complete and unwavering insistence on their normality. Ask anyone about the owls, and they’ll tell you, with just a hint of irritation, that there’s nothing strange about them. They’re not a symbol, they’re not a sign, they’re just birds. And yet, everyone knows better than to talk too much about them. There’s an unspoken rule in Tower Valley: the more you point that the owls aren't normal, the less normal they seem.

When the owls are mentioned, conversations quickly shift, faces turn pale, and the mood darkens. But the explanation is always the same: “They’re just owls.” It’s as if the entire town has agreed upon this narrative, as if acknowledging anything unusual about them would unravel something far more sinister. So everyone plays along, convincing themselves and each other that there’s nothing to be afraid of.

The townsfolk of Tower Valley might insist that the owls are normal, but there are small, almost imperceptible signs that suggest otherwise. It’s in the way conversations abruptly change when the subject comes up, the way people glance nervously at the sky when an owl’s call echoes in the distance. It’s in the old wives’ tales whispered to children about the owls being messengers of something far worse, tales that are quickly shushed by the more sensible adults.

The Veil of Normality

The townsfolk are content to cling to the illusion of normalcy. After all, Tower Valley has always been a strange place, and the residents know better than to dig too deeply into the oddities surrounding them. People avoid the towering black structures, they ignore the strange sounds at night, and they refuse to dwell on the unsettling presence of the owls. This insistence on normality is a protective shield, an unconscious pact to ignore what might lurk just beyond understanding.

The Unsettling Reassurance

For the players or investigators in Tower Valley, the owls are an ever-present reminder of the town’s eerie atmosphere. They might see them perched silently on the edges of buildings, watching with their perfectly normal eyes. Or perhaps they’ll hear the faint, familiar hoot in the dead of night, a sound that should be comforting in its normalcy but instead leaves them with a deep sense of unease.

The owls of Tower Valley are normal—so normal that their very presence becomes a source of discomfort. They’re a reminder that sometimes, it’s not the overtly strange that’s most frightening, but the things that are perfectly ordinary, the things that should be harmless but aren’t. In Tower Valley, the owls are just owls, and it’s this insistence on their normality that makes them anything but.

In Tower Valley, the owls are more than silent watchers in the streets and alleys; they have a way of appearing in the most private, vulnerable moments, slipping into memory like a half-remembered dream.

Whispers of Midnight Visitors

Some of the townsfolk—especially those who’ve lived in Tower Valley all their lives—carry memories they barely dare to speak about, usually only whispered after too many drinks or late at night when the streets are empty. They’ll recall, with a shiver, seeing an owl perched on the ledge outside their bedroom window. It’s always when they’re right on the edge of sleep, that fragile moment between consciousness and dreams. They’ll open their eyes to a faint scratching sound or a soft flutter of wings, and there it is—an owl, silhouetted against the moonlit sky, its round eyes locked onto them with an unnatural intensity.

Some say the memory feels like it’s always been there, like it’s part of their very being. They’ll remember waking up, feeling the prickle of fear that they might not be alone, and seeing an owl standing in the middle of their room. They know it must be impossible, that an owl couldn’t have silently slipped through a locked window or perched so calmly on the back of a chair. But the memory is there, persistent and strangely vivid, even if it fades by morning.

The Midnight Visitations

The stories vary from person to person, but there are common threads. Most say the owl never moves, that it simply sits and watches, its large eyes gleaming in the dim light. It doesn’t make a sound; there’s only an overwhelming sense of stillness, a feeling that time itself has paused. Some claim they remember trying to scream or reach out, but their bodies were paralyzed, trapped in that strange state between waking and dreaming.

A few insist they saw the owl hop closer, its talons clicking softly on the wooden floor, its feathers rustling as it tilted its head to study them. But these details always come with a note of doubt—a hint that it might have all been a dream. Or was it?

The Lingering Sense of Dread

Those who remember these nocturnal visits often wake with a lingering sense of unease. They can’t shake the feeling that the owl left something behind—a quiet, unsettling presence that lingers in the corners of their mind long after sunrise. 

For days after, they might feel the owl’s eyes on them even when they’re alone, a phantom sensation of being watched from just beyond the edges of their vision. Some try to convince themselves it was nothing more than a trick of the mind, a product of restless sleep and overactive imagination. But the memory doesn’t fade. It lurks in their minds like a half-forgotten nightmare, surfacing at the most unexpected times.

The Stories That Go Unspoken

People in Tower Valley rarely discuss these experiences openly. They’ll share vague hints, a knowing look, or a shiver when someone mentions an owl, but direct conversations about the midnight visits are rare. It’s as if speaking of it might make it real, or worse, invite the owl to return. Some of the more superstitious townsfolk believe that once an owl has visited your bedroom, it leaves a part of itself behind, a small but irrevocable mark that connects you to Tower Valley’s darker secrets.

Those who do speak of it warn others in hushed tones to draw their curtains tightly, to avoid the windows at night, and, above all, to ignore any sounds that might drift through the night air. “It’s just a bird,” they’ll say, their voices laced with a nervous edge. “Nothing to worry about.” But their eyes betray them, filled with the haunted look of someone who knows better.

Is It Just a Dream?

For those who experience these visitations, the line between reality and dreams begins to blur. They wonder if it was just a half-formed nightmare, a trick of the mind. But the memories are vivid, too detailed to dismiss so easily. Some come to believe that the owls are more than they seem, that they slip between worlds, entering the spaces between waking and sleep, watching and waiting for reasons only they understand.

And as they lie awake at night, staring at the drawn curtains and trying to convince themselves it was all a dream, they can’t help but wonder if the owl will return, slipping into their room in the dead of night, watching with those knowing, unblinking eyes. In Tower Valley, the line between the ordinary and the extraordinary is thin, and even a simple owl can become a harbinger of things best left unseen.