You go to the docks

It takes some time to walk all the way to the docks, and by the time you reach the quayside you have already developed a considerable dislike for the district. Evening is also approaching, although that doesn't seem to have emptied the streets. The port is very busy, with men and women of all ages going about their business noisily. Fishmongers announce their prices at every corner, wailing loudly about their latest catches. Young men hurry to and fro, carrying heavy-looking crates from the warehouses on the shore to the numerous merchant ships docked at the harbour. Several stop to look at you, though you make sure to keep your head down and hood up. Elsewhere, provocatively dressed women patrol the street, parading their unique wares to the many sailors lounging in open-air taverns dotted around the area. Over everything hangs the strong, unpleasant odour of fish and salt.

Eventually you discover, after negotiating the crowds of people as best you can, the dilapidated pier the mother mentioned. It is long, falling apart in several spots and largely abandoned, obviously in favour of the newer, much sturdier stone quayside. A couple of fishing boats sway in the wind on one side, but only a handful of people are around, and they disperse soon enough, likely to one of the nearby inns, or brothels.

A few minutes pass and you are all alone, although within easy eyesight of the busy wharves. Uncertain what you are looking for, you merely wander up and down the pier a few times, looking for signs of a struggle or anything interesting at all. There isn't much to see, unless you're a fan of rotting planks and dry seaweed. After your fourth inspection you grow bored and move to sit on a pile of nearby crates, wondering if you should've just gone after the drowners. That's when you notice the thin, dark-red splatters on the grassy bank below the pier itself and hesitate. Even from this distance and in the evening light, it is obviously blood, and not from too long ago. You hop down and your fears are confirmed. More telling than the slight stains are the large, if shallow, paw prints that criss-cross one another, before they break away in growing strides to the west. Whatever took the girl certainly wasn't human. It was also very large.

'Shoot first, ask question later then', you mutter to yourself as you begin to follow the tracks. A flicker of flame appears in your right hand.