Parravon lies upon the north bank of the upper Grismarie against a background of steeply rising chalk cliffs. The houses follow the valley floor for some four miles, never attaining a width of more than three or four streets. Many of the houses are cut into the rock face or have cellars sunk into the soft stone, whilst the towering cliffs are home to thousands of birds whose white droppings pepper the red-tile roofs of this picturesque city. The river is narrow here and the upper limit for large ships is at the city's northern edge, where small dockland warehouses are cut directly into the rugged rock. The citizens like to think of themselves as simple country folk and are fairly prosperous, thriving upon abundant harvests of fruit and grain from the surrounding countryside.
Here, isolated from the larger cities of the north, the lords and ladies of Parravon indulge their whim for gardening and pleasure - pursuits of a superficially healthy nature, far removed from the heights of decadence practiced in Gisoreux and Couronne. Yet even here, the worm of Chaos is at work, for at night the city changes - doors are shut and bolted, windows latched and shutters closed. After sunset, the streets of Parravon becomes strangely empty and an uneasy quiet descends, while the citizens remain indoors, unwilling to acknowledge the stranger's knock and grudging in their hospitality. For Parravon is afflicted by some sinister evil, some weird cavalcade of beasts or daemons who stalk the night, breaking into houses and carrying off whole families. Only the aristocracy seem unmolested and many in the city blame them for the problems. Others curse the city's wizards for their meddling or talk in muted tones of witches and shape-changers. Yet nothing can be proven and the lords and ladies of Parravon do much to see that the streets are patrolled, that watchmen guard the night, and that bereaved citizens are recompensed as far as possible.