The Mayor's house has a creeping doom feeling to it. One small grey cloud looms above it in gentle rain. The contrasting bright green landscape seems to have been gulping moisture after the instance of months where no rain was tossed down from the echo-less open space of sky that surrounded the town of Golinary. The wooden front door is dry and locked. A yellow paper stapled to the welcome mat  reads " Code 97: Murmbussle ".