New campaign means new campaign fiction. After some personal vacillating, I decided to return to Urban Shadows for my group’s next game. It both contrasts very well with the campaign we’re also running and gives me a chance to take the system out for another run after a promising stint with new roleplayers here in Boston. Due to my group’s origin story, we’re basing the game in Pittsburgh, the city where the founding clade of us met in college. I wrote a little fictional interlude to help me build a thought process as I was reading Pittsburgh urban legends.

I sat with Mr. Bauer at one of the high-top tables set up against the brick wall at the far end of the sandwich shop. It was quiet; while this was one of the densest bar districts in the country, it was a Tuesday night, not exactly the peak of nightlife. Mr. Bauer took a big gulp of his beer before pushing a wirebound notebook onto the table between us. I sipped from my beer as well while he began drawing.

“Yinz gotta understand that there’s always been more going on in this city,” Mr. Bauer said. He was notably older than me, gray and white stubble over his round chin. Not much hair poked out under his hat, and the Pirates jersey he wore was at least one size too big. He drew quickly and neatly with stubby fingers.

“This is foothills country,” Mr. Bauer said, finishing his drawing. “You head south into the Appalachians, and you’re in the old mountains. It’s the strongest, most primal wilderness in the country. You can get closer, of course…go to Wheeling, or Morgantown. But they don’t have what Pittsburgh has. You ever hear of the Green Man?” I looked at him quizzically.

“I, uh, haven’t, no,” I said.

“Real guy,” Mr. Bauer said. “Got electrocuted as a kid on a trolley bridge. Completely messed up his face. He used to walk at night so he wouldn’t scare anybody, you know being disfigured and all. Became a bit of an urban legend.”

“So he was mystical?” I asked.

“Naw, as I said, real guy,” Mr. Bauer said. “But he walked the side of the highway with no eyes. Some say that the Wild protected him as it was being stepped on by the rails and the mills and the coal barges.” He wrote the word ‘Wild’ in one of the four circles he drew.

“The rivers, the woods, you can’t forget what they bring here,” Mr. Bauer said. “But that’s just the first part. This city’s built on corpses of millworkers and striking union men and even the Iroquois who were pushed out by those steel men’s ancestors. The dead scream here, they demand to be heard. You ever hear of the Blue Lady?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Is there an urban legend for…” I looked down at his paper. “Each of these four circles?” Mr. Bauer laughed, the spasm of chuckles turning gravelly.

“Of course,” he said. “You needs taught about what these powers mean, and why people respect them. Anyways. The Blue Lady is a ghost who haunts Chatham University. Maybe not the scariest ghost, but she’s a 20th century ghost. This is important. We’re not talking the catacombs of Paris or the Tower of London; the scars of Pittsburgh are 20th century scars. It’s generations ago to you and me but the spirits are young, here. Young spirits, old woods, and ambitious people. No wonder the city’s like a blast furnace.” He wrote ‘Night’ in the second circle.

“It’s interesting, though…Margaret Mattson was put on trial for being a witch,” Mr. Bauer continued. “William Penn himself was the judge, and William Penn told Margaret to go home to her husband. Everyone thinks of Salem when they think witches, but it was down here where we let them witches go.” He wrote ‘Power’ in the third circle.

“With all those colleges all over, and the darkest of the mountains just outside of town, it’s easy to learn the Elder Arts here,” Mr. Bauer said. “You don’t come back the same, though.” In the fourth circle he wrote ‘Mortalis’.

“You know the story of Joe Magarac?” Mr. Bauer asked me.

“That one I do,” I said. “The Paul Bunyan of the mills. The original Man of Steel.”

“The one and only,” Mr. Bauer said. “A myth of the 1930s, a character that grew and grew because he reflected the people behind him. The people of Pittsburgh are a varied lot, but they all see themselves in this city. They all see themselves in the happenings of this city. Even if you think they don’t know, or don’t understand, they probably do!”

“So why are all of these happenings, all this strangeness, going unreported?” I asked.

“People who want to know, know,” Mr. Bauer said. “You know, most people look at this shop, at a Primanti Brothers, and are told this is Pittsburgh culture. Open since 1933! Heh. This very building was a bar back in 1885, one of the oldest known drinking establishments in the city. When you’re talking to a transplant, a student, someone like that, they’ll just see Primanti’s. Find the right Yinzer, though, and they’ll know about J.W. Ruhlandt, even if there’s no way they could possibly be old enough to have drank there. I think.” Mr. Bauer took another long pull of his beer, and then looked me dead in the eye.

“It’s the same thing with the shadows of the city,” he said. “Peel back the curtain, and you’ll see wonders and horrors the likes of which you never knew existed. You’ll have to decide, just like everyone in this whole damn city, if you truly want to know.”