01 - arriving

[alliegiance]

HOUSE GUESTS

The world has built up centuries’ worth of stories.

Stories passed with love from parent to child, snug in their beds, their words the only sound that could exist in a world muted beneath thick, soft snowfall. Bawdy songs and outrageous tales scream-sung in taverns. Jokes and anecdotes shared between friends, an unseen piece of one another exchanged. Bits of comfort stolen and divided among a ragged circle, a ring seated in a campfire’s glow as though it exists as the last warmth in a cruel and cold land. Stories you press your hands against for warmth – tug around yourself as you might a comfortable blanket. Stories so dear that you hold them hard against your heart until they leave an imprint. The sort you can’t wait to escape into.

This will be another sort of story.

A dead land. A cold scar of a valley, choking with trees hard and dead and wild, seamed by a single treacherous road. Godless churches, black and cold in the ever-gathering mists. Soil centuries unkissed by both dawn and its Lord. A people hardened by fright, starved by a land that gives to them nothing and takes from them everything. An ancient castle, maze-like and imperious and named by a son for his mother. The deadly lair of a vampire king.

The vampire king.

Here in the valley you stumble your way to, gasping and sick from the poison, live a thousand, thousand miseries. Ruled by their king, from his throne in the castle Ravenloft. He is the ancient, and he is the land.

He is Strahd von Zarovich.

Though you will soon wish otherwise, you now have his attention.

(random.org for your rng pleasure)

1. THE VILLAGE BAROVIA Julien | Joon-gi Han | Gale | Halsin | Reliani

If “run-down” were a place, chances are good that it would look something like the valley’s own castle seat.

It is a ravaged village, lashed together by nothing but the tenuous will of the land’s own master. Barovia Village has no walls, no armored guards.

No protection.

The roads are gouged mud and the people retreat from you like dogs beaten one too many times. Their homes are rotting and bug-eaten wood, and each looks ready to collapse into the mud for good. The priest is too maddened by the state of his son to do anything but pray to a God who will never answer. The only purveyors of goods here are a cutthroat scam artist who has found a number of ways to squeeze blood from a stone, and an old woman tottering a chipped-up cart of meat pies up and down the village’s central artery. The bar is run down and full of drunks trying to wash away some tragedy. The wailing of a mother bereft of her child cuts through the village. The burgomaster is dead, and his children, Ismark and Ireena, are reticent to bury him for the beasts that circle and attack the walls and doors of their home.

Standing imperious and undeniable above this slump of tragedy are the black towers of Castle Ravenloft, clear and sharp even as the mist softens the lands before her. From one of those black spires, a pair of red eyes silently fixes on this very roof.

He watches. And he waits.

2. THE TOWN OF KREZK The Ghoul | Lozelle | Vasilka | Shadowheart

By virtue of comparison, the town of Krezk must seem like a veritable paradise.

The town is stationed securely at the other end of the valley from far-flung Barovia Village and the valley's castle seat. Built from rock, old and sturdy homes nestled around cobbled roads. The town is nestled in the trees and cliffs, surrounded by wolf-song and fog, but hedged in by a sturdy stone wall. The village's crust of snow has built into a blanket this far north, but the town yet defies the cold. The people here maintain what gardens they can and raise animals for food.

They smile.

But above the village sits a compound to rival Castle Ravenloft. An ancient monastery. The place where, so it's said, the sainted hero Markovia made her first stand against the Beast in the name of the Morninglord, and struck out on a holy crusade against he and his forces of darkness.

She failed, and the monastery closed its doors, standing silent for well over a century. Only a handsome pilgrim found it in him to disturb its rest, demanding the right to reopen the monastery for the good of the people.

That pilgrim is the Abbot, a mysterious figure who still operates the abbey to this day, fighting ailments spiritual and physical alike.

And it is he who will stay the guards and, on the very eve of a frigid and harsh winter, make another demand of the townsfolk who would shut you out to conserve their own supplies - let me take them.

code bases by tricklet

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QUESTIONS/COMMENTS/CONCERNS

[alliegiance]

2

[ghouliecooper]

On a particular evening beneath the purple clouds of twilight, those who found themselves on the outer walls of Krezk, whether turned away before an Abbott's intervention or simply scavenging for the town's scraps, could come across a typical, if not gruesome sight. Propped up against the stone wall, out of sight of the town gates, a desiccated corpse sat collecting snow in its lap. If it weren't for the nose having rotted away, it could be mistaken for someone who had fallen asleep, as a wide-brimmed hat was pulled forward to cover its eyes. The studded leather armor it wore looked even worse for wear than the skin beneath it, though the pair of boots sticking out of the frost seemed to be meticulously maintained.

Most could easily dismiss it as a raider who had met an ignominious end at the hands of the town guard, but for those who dared to come closer-- whether out of sheer curiosity or greed for the weapons belted at the corpse's waist-- would notice a distinct change in the air. For as peaceful and still as it was, a knot of fear would appear in the stomach of anyone daring to get too close. A killing intent lingered in the air, or maybe just the shiver of a long lost haunt.

For those able to shrug it off, perhaps it would be best to make themselves scarce, regardless. Who in Barovia, after all, was foolish enough to loot corpses in a land where the dead were never ones to rest?

👁

[vistana]

Not her.

And not out of some highly-held idealism, some moral compunction against taking what she might need. She sees those weapons, and she is not so poised against thievery that she abstains from imagining their uses in her skilled hands. But few understand how seldom the dead of this land rest better than the invisible force creeping over the snow-crust toward that desiccated body, light as a cat, trodding carefully atop the hardening layer of snow.

No, the figure existing beneath an arcane shimmer of invisibility is no opportunistic scavenger today. She is not made desperate by the gates shut to her. They have been shut all through Ezmerelda's life.

Invisibly, she holds her hatchet low, both eyes fixed on the withered figure slumped over his own lap. Everything she does is done with intent; her breathing, slow and careful, for Invisibility does nothing for careless clouds of white vapour. Her stance, holding her weight on careful tip-toe. Her every step, shallow and short.

She's heard something of the legend gathering around this creature, like dust stirring in the wake of thundering hooves. She's also heard enough to know not to trust any of it. It's an exsiccated saint in one tale, and an agent of Ravenloft in the next. There is only one conclusion worthy of arriving at - it can be allowed no further rampage down the Svalich.

Well - there is also another, and that is that she must move soon. She is well cloaked, but only for so long.

She pivots, carefully, turns her hips toward him and begins taking her steps over the snow, less measured, making quick work of the distance. Her breath clouds white. She cannot know what it is she's looking at, but knows just enough to make a safe bet.

As she progresses, Ezmerelda thrusts her hand into her jacket. It returns clutching the components - a patch of mangy fur, cut from the corpse of a dog on the road, and a slender rod of glass. Her boot punches into the snow-crust as she draws to a stop.

She thrusts the components toward the sky and feels them evaporate from her hand, crackling with magical lightning, the whole of her focused on the slumped creature as it fizzes and sparks behind her eyes.

[ghouliecooper]

The corpse jerks to the side with a violent lurch, but doesn't jump to life in time to dodge the spell completely. A thousand pins and needles stab outward from the skin on his arm, and it hangs limp as he springs to his feet. His hat flutters down to the indentation he left in the snow and reveals cold, keen eyes that aren't red pinpricks of light, nor empty sockets, but brown irises on the eyes of what very well could be a living man. His loose arm betrays that notion, at least until he reaches for it with the other and slots it back into his shoulder socket with a dry pop.

Then, like quicksilver, his hand is at his waist as he scans the snow for footprints. Before he can spot any, a wisp of breath catches the corner of his eye instead. With another swift movement of his hand, a shot rings out, startling a whole host of crows in the trees into a noisy retreat farther into the woods.

One friendly greeting merited another in return.

[moonlessblessing]

The stone walls encircling the city loomed out of the fog, and Shadowheart quickened her pace, hoping to reach the city gates before full-dark fell upon her.

Not that she was afraid of the dark, of course not! The darkness held no terrors for her, not so long as Shar's watchful eyes fell upon her. But she could hear the sound of wolves howling in the distance, their mournful cries causing icy shards of terror to prickle at the nape of her neck.

Little wonder the villagers built this insurmountable wall. Mere wolves would never breach it. She'd be safe if she could just get inside...

Something caught her eye—a glint of metal reflecting the last vestiges of twilight. She paused, standing within the long shadow cast by the towering walls, and spied a slumped figure leaning against the weathered stone. A murder of crows huddled along the battlements, fluffing their feathers for warmth as they cackled to one another. A plume of snow drifted downward and settled against the figure's wide-brimmed hat, which was already coated in a thick layer of it. By the looks of it, he'd been sitting there awhile.

Dead, most likely. She wondered if he was some poor pilgrim that had finally given up the ghost just as he'd reached a place of shelter. Or maybe he was some miscreant who had broken the law and was executed for his crimes, his body tossed by the wayside, without even a proper burial.

Despite her better judgement, Shadowheart approached the corpse, her footsteps marring the pristine blanket of snow coating the ground. The crows watched her with gleaming black eyes, cackling to themselves, as if they were fully aware of the foolishness of disturbing the dead in a land where few found peaceful rest.

Even so, she wasn't above looting corpses. And this one might have useful supplies that would better serve the living.

She was, after all, pragmatic by nature.

A deathly chill settled in the pit of her stomach as she stretched forth her hand, and gently tipped back the wide-brimmed hat.

"Who are you?" she asked softly, as though she half-expected the corpse to answer. "Or, rather, who were you?"

[ghouliecooper]

It's a good question, all things considered. He'd asked it himself the first few hundred times he looked in the mirror after his awakening in the Celestial Nadir. As one of scores of abandoned, discarded, or otherwise shelved pet projects of Imaskari artificers, he first learned that answers would not be found among the other husks that wandered the demiplane with him.

A silver tongue came naturally, and earned him access to other planes. Muscle memory served him in the Outlands, and he found some of his answers through force. Though he'd filled in some of the pages of who he was, they were still pockmarked with cigarette burns or weathered by time. What remained was who he is. Outlaw to most, but oathbreaker is whispered among those with keener arcane senses, and the reason why he finds it easier to travel undetected in the Domains of Dread.

Or so he'd hoped, when he stopped to rest outside of Krezk. However, some people, even in the most repellent of places, can't resist an easy payday. Though Shadowheart lifts his hat enough to see his eyes have opened, a previously limp hand shoots up from the snow and takes a firm grip of her wrist.

"Now, don't go asking questions you ain't prepared to get an answer for, sweetheart."

2.

[fangtabulous]

Life underground teaches you a number of things, the biggest being patience. For Lozelle, time is not an illusion it has simply stopped existing. If the tunnel she dug has took years or hours is immaterial. She just kept digging until she couldn't. The earth turned denser, colder, turns to rock and she ebbed along the seams she couldn't break to find the next path of least resistance. And somehow, someway, make for the border.

Another thing life underground teaches you is how deep Barovia's curse goes. Even underground there's no escape, only the toxic grind of the earth turned to stone and impassable. After a while of beating herself against the stones, the thin vampire slowly changes tack and rises through the earth.

She tastes fresh air for the first time since her death and finds herself at the foot of the mountain fortress of Krezk. Lozelle takes in the small pinpricks of yellow light in the stone face of the ancient top, the remote and icy shape of the monastery beyond it, and dusts herself off.

She hasn't talked to anyone by the darkness in so long she doesn't know if her voice still lasts. She's dirty and wan, make-upless with her rawboned face haggard from the endless time underground. With her rusted axe and the worn out sack carrying the last of her and her love's things, she shelters in a copse of trees.

Working silently, her hands and face moving mechanically, she scrubs the dirt from herself and brushes on the soot and spit she'll wear as mascara. She winds the well worn scarf around her shoulders and covers her kinky hair, shuffling her clothes into something tired but conservative enough to be seen in the monastery town. Clearing her throat and keeping her head down, she climbs the road up to the stone town.

2.

[corpsebride]

A. Inside the Abbey

The Abbot had business in the village below, and so he left Vasilka to tend to the abbey in his absence.

Her instructions were clear: Open the gates to any petitioners and, if they had business with the Abbot, bid them wait until his return. Offer them hospitality, if they desire it, but do not allow them to wander the grounds unsupervised. Finish whatever chores are left undone and tend to the patients as needed.

She nodded once and bid her father farewell as he began the long trek down the mountain path to the village below. The sight of his retreating form was a familiar one, his golden hair seeming to shine like a halo amid the gloomy shadows cast by the trees along the path. She knew that he would return soon enough, yet that knowledge could not prevent some small pang of loneliness to settle in the hollow space behind her ribs.

She returned to the main hall to attend to her chores and pass the time until the Abbot's return. Dressed in her humble acolyte's robes, she swept the hearth, laid the fire for the day's cooking, and began work preparing soup for the patients. All the while, she listened for the sound of her father's approach, or that of petitioners in need of aid. She had just finished another week's worth of mending the night before, and so was expecting someone from the village to come and retrieve it.

B. The Village of Kresk

Sometimes the Abbot would send Vasilka down to the village to run errands when he was busy with other work, or there was a surgery to perform which would require his undivided attention. He would give her clear, concise instructions and a list of required items, then send her on her way.

These trips were infrequent, especially without her father to chaperone her, but the village was safe and familiar, and the people understood that she was acting on behalf of the Abbot himself. Vasilka spoke very little, if at all, and the villagers were never much keen on conversing with her, but they always accommodated her requests.

After all, the people owed much to the Abbot and his charity. What were a few pounds of venison and a pittance of salt in exchange for the miracles wrought by his hands?

Vasilka wandered among the streets toward the village square where a few stalls had been set up for market. She wore her hood pulled up over her hair and carried a woven basket looped over one arm. The villagers largely passed her by, ignoring her presence until she approached one of the stalls and handed over her list in silence.

While she waited for the old man to gather her things, she quietly observed her surroundings, noticing that there were a few new faces wandering among the residents. She watched them closely, her expression blank, eyes unblinking.

Though there was a part of her that longed to approach for a closer look, the old Barovian wisdom gleaned from various sources came to mind: Never talk to strangers.

But what if one of them approached her? What should she do? What should she say, if anything?

B

[zlato]

Koudelka had never been one for small-talk, believed firmly in minding her own business and keeping to herself as much as she could possibly afford to. It was a practice that had served her well in life so far; in the years since she had left her village, it had been key to survival, but there was something about the village of Krezk itself that had her eager to ask questions.

She had arrived in the village a week earlier. When asked what brought her to town, she had little to offer in the way of answers— she had learned long ago that it was best not to advertise the things she heard and felt, the way voices or visions were what often dictated her path. In that past week, it had become quite clear to her that whatever it was she was feeling had something to do with the monastery that looked out over the town.

Another piece of the puzzle seems to fall into place when she sees Vasilka in the market— even from a distance, the moment she lays eyes on her, a sudden pain shoots through her skull, the air taking on a sudden chill. It's enough for Vasilka to draw her full attention. For awhile, Koudelka only watches from a distance, sees the quiet young woman come to stop at a stall while the proprietor gathers her things.

She waits until Vasilka has finished with her errand and gained some distance from the stall before she approaches, closing the distance between them when the other woman isn't looking, and with no one else within immediate earshot, she speaks.

"What are you?"

[corpsebride]

Her basket is laden with foodstuffs and other sundries, each item carefully wrapped and assorted by size and weight. The people of Kresk take pride in self-sufficiency, and Vasilka understands the value of those items given to her. She must ensure that these precious supplies make it safely back to the abbey, for the mountain path is steep and treacherous, and she is travelling alone.

Vasilka, absorbed in her own thoughts, is completely unaware of the woman who approaches from behind until she speaks.

What are you?

Not who, as might be the proper way of referencing another person, but what, as though she were a mere object.

The question gives Vasilka pause. She pivots silently on her heel, turning to face the one who addressed her. She recognizes the woman from the market: her jeweled cuffs and outlandish attire are certainly unusual, and Vasilka has rarely encountered outsiders before.

Vasilka stares at the woman with pale blue, glassy eyes. Her skin is powdered white as to resemble fine porcelain, but it is easy to discern the careful lines of stitches that bisect her face and circle her throat.

The silence stretches thin between them as Vasilka turns over various responses in her mind. She stands there with unnerving stillness, like a statue carved from flesh.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, she answers: "I am... an acolyte in service to the Morninglord." Her voice is soft, demure. "Are you, perhaps, a petitioner seeking guidance from the Abbot?"

She blinks slowly, remembering that it is something she is supposed to do, because humans blink at intervals during conversation. Unfortunately, she has forgotten that she is supposed to breathe, even when she isn't speaking. It's something that constantly slips her mind in moments such as these.

1.

[elfenritter]

Like any impetuous young noble, Julien had spent time slumming it down in Lower City. It was honestly almost a rite of passage, all things considered.

But this place... it made Lower City look like a luxurious haven in comparison! At least there were paved streets, even if they were in disrepair, and sturdy stone walls to keep out roaming monsters and bandits.

Julien grimaced as they walked down the muddy path that served as the main thoroughfare, and tried to avoid stepping in the worst of the filth. They grimaced as their perfectly polished boots soon grew caked in grime and Corellon knows what else...

"Excuse me, but could you please tell me—"

A group of washer women, baskets laden with dingy clothes, quickly ducked their heads and hurried on. Julien frowned and tried addressing a pair of doddering old men, but their eyes bulged from their sockets when they beheld Julien's face, and they, too, hobbled away as quickly as their failing legs would carry them.

Julien stood there, utterly dumbfounded. Even if these people had never seen an elf before (which might be a possibility, given how remote this village seemed), that was hardly the reaction they would expect! Why, these people ought to be throwing themselves at Julien's feet just for the privilege of gazing upon such an unearthly beautiful face!

In fact, given the way the villagers cringed and stuttered at their approach... it was almost as if they were afraid of Julien.

But why?

No matter who they approached, everyone skittered away before they could finish a single sentence. Having grown frustrated with such treatment, Julien grabbed the sleeve of a sturdy-looking, middle-aged man before he could wriggle away.

"Please! I'm lost and terribly hungry, so if you would kindly point me in the direction of the nearest inn, I—"

"Let go of me!" The man tore free of Julien's grasp, voice hissing in a panicked whisper. He looked around wildly, as though he half-expected to be attacked. "Cover your head, fool! Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

Julien blinked in confusion. Was there some sort of taboo about wearing their hair uncovered? While many of the village women wore scarves or kerchiefs, it certainly wasn't all of them. "What are you talking about?"

The man shook his head and backed away, waving Julien off. "You'd best be gone before nightfall, that's all the advice I can give you..."

And before Julien could utter another word, the man turned and hurried down the muddy street, nearly tripping over himself just to get away. He didn't spare a single look back.

1.

[joongipan]

The faded sign hanging above the tavern proclaimed it to be the Blood on the Vine. That was not its original name, though. Long ago, it was called "Blood of the Vine," but someone carved over the "f" and replaced it with an "n". The identity of the one responsible has remained a mystery to this day, along with their motives.

Joon-gi always assumed that it was meant as a joke, though he could find little humor in it. He certainly wasn't alone in sharing such sentiments.

Once, long ago, this tavern would have been the lifeblood of the village, beckoning weary travelers to rest and wash away the road dust from their parched throats. Now it was a shadow of its former glory, its furnishings dull and faded, much like the occupants who sat huddled by the meager fire, drowning their sorrows in cheap beer.

Aside from the regulars, travelers would stop by from time to time. Visitors from the outside.

These were the people that Joon-gi was most interested in observing. He kept himself tucked away in a dark corner with his back pressed to the wall, head bowed. Unmoving. His black attire allowed him to melt into the shadows quite easily, as though he were a shadow himself, cut from the same cloth.

He listened. And he waited. A black spider perched in its web, waiting patiently for potential prey to flit by.

Eventually, the sound of idle conversation was peppered with enticing phrases: "I'm lost. Can you help me?" and "I don't know where I am, can you tell me the name of this place?"

Joon-gi lifted his face, black eyes glittering with keen interest from beneath the shadow of his hood. He quickly scanned the premises, honing in on those voices with unfamiliar accents; those clothes with unusual patterns. The sort of travelers from lands far beyond Barovia's borders.

He pushed himself from the wall, a black shadow tearing itself free from its brethren, and made his unhurried way toward the newcomer. He had to remind himself to step purposefully on the creaking floorboards; people tended to be unsettled when someone approached without the sound of footsteps to accompany them.

Force of habit, for one in his line of work.

"You're not from around here, I take it?"

His voice was soft and smooth as silk, though slightly muffled. He wore a black half-mask to hide the lower half of his face, and a hood pulled down to cover his hair. What little flesh remained uncovered was pale and ashen; perhaps sickly, in certain lighting.

Joon-gi insinuated himself in a nearby seat, his posture relaxed as he scrutinized the newcomer. "You look like you could use it drink." He smiled behind his mask, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Don't worry, it's on me."

[seemagicshit]

Bad enough he got pulled into...wherever this was while he was trying to make a couple gold. Even worse the entire group was attacked by wolves and then dragged away.

But then he made a mistake. An honest one, given how discombobulated all the outsiders felt. Zhulong felt comfortable enough to let down his hood. He swallowed any number of curses as he felt everyone in the bar get a good look at him and pull away.

They saw his horns curling from the sides of his head. Black hair, black goatee, yellow eyes, orange skin and long tail. Tiefling. Fiend. Demonspawn. Other. Couldn't even escape goddamn racism.

Well, except for someone who was sidling up to him as he lifted his hood back up. "Yes, I'll take free alcohol after the bullshit that just happened to me. Are you in the same boat?"

Zhulong decided if he was about to get shanked by this guy, he'd at least hit him with some of the new spells he'd learned.

[joongipan]

Over the years, Joon-gi had encountered a wide range of colorful characters who had been dragged through the mists, which included a handful of tieflings, as well. The sight of curling horns and yellow eyes hardly phased him, but the same couldn't be said for the other patrons. Some gasped softly under their breath, others made surreptitious gestures to ward away evil.

This newcomer wasn't likely to find much in the way of help, at least not from these people. Which suited Joon-gi just fine. It meant that, if he played his cards right, he could quickly build a rapport with this newcomer and earn his trust.

Joon-gi spared a glance toward the barkeep and held up two fingers briefly before returning his attention to the tiefling. "Not exactly. I prefer to think of myself as being in a lifeboat, offering a hand to those who find themselves in troubled waters." His eyes crinkled yet again with an amused grin. "And you certainly look like you could use a helping hand."

Dark eyes scrutinized the tiefling standing before him, taking in every detail. He was dressed in long, voluminous robes with a small number of leather pouches belted to his waist. No weapons to speak of, save for a small dagger and light crossbow. His pack was small and looked half-empty, meaning that he would be in desperate need of supplies for the road ahead.

All in all, Joon-gi could easily assume that this tiefling was no warrior or swordsman, likely a spellcaster of some kind. He felt invisible fingers curling against his right shoulder, squeezing with a barely disguised hunger.

This was exactly the sort of person they needed.

He gestured toward the empty seat across from him, indicating that the tiefling should sit. "Now, why don't you tell me how you arrived in Barovia?"

[gwilym]

A man like Sir Godfrey Gwilym hardly needs to open his mouth and ask questions to betray that he does not belong in Barovia Village. All it takes, it seems to him, is to be.

And, he supposes, he should have seen this coming; tall and broad beacon that he was proving to be, shelled in polished gold and caped in clean ivory, sunspot of God-proof strapped to his back. Something about him threatened the very core of this foul place; he could nearly feel the cold mists wearing themselves thin as he passed through them, as though he forced them to part.

There's no greater proof of his ill fit to this land than the looks on the faces of its people when, after leaving his companions promising to return with valuable information, he approached the blocky and vague shapes of civilization. Miserable, thin faces, which invariably curdled and despaired to meet him - if indeed they met him at all. Most averted their gazes from his brightness, etched defiantly against the gloom of this wretched place. And their distate only grows whenever Godfrey does try to ask his questions; they scatter from him like schools of fish, sneering the whole way.

Only the old woman at the creaking pie cart does not rebuff him. She's instead too eager to wave him over, to prattle at length about the village and its reluctant population, to encourage them to pay them no mind, dear, for they would certainly come around to having such a strapping young man around - and indeed, such an ample specimen of a man must have a monstrous appetite, and how long has he been wandering the village in that heavy armor, and wouldn't he care for a free pie?

Something about her puts a stone in his gut. He politely declines and disentangles himself from the conversation, leaving with more questions and no answers to match them to.

It's mercifully not long before Godfrey happens upon the tavern, a rotting old shell of a building not unlike the rest of the village. The very floorboards groan sharply beneath his weight as he pulls his boots from the sucking road and tracks frigid mud inside. The looks he gets.

Most men don't notice him from the bottom of their cups. Some men size him up, either for mockery or a fight. Some, he can see, are eyeing his polished armor - preparing some scam or a way to cut him out of it, certainly. Godfrey is just considering what wisdom may have been in sending one of his other companions into the village instead when he hears someone else too eager to speak.

He turns, and obediently, blights to the bar, struggling for a moment to catch up with the shadowy strangers' propositions (and to the light his god-weapon manages to cast underneath his hood) and he stumbles over the conversation with the only thing he can think to ask;

"Who are you?"

[joongipan]

His confident stride slows as he approaches the heavily-armored man and his brilliant weapon, the light gleaming brighter than any he has ever beheld before. It almost hurts just to look at it, and something sparks within the depths of Joon-gi's black eyes: red pinpricks that burn like the embers of a dying flame.

Joon-gi tips his head in what appears to be a deferential gesture, but in truth it is a surreptitious means of averting his gaze from the brightness of Godfrey's weapon. He touches the edge of his hood briefly with his fingertips, pulling it just a fraction lower.

"Call me Argent," he says, lifting his head once more. His eyes crinkle with an amused smile, inwardly laughing at his own joke, for the name is the alchemical word for white metal or silver. "Now, about that drink?"

If the man refuses his offer, he won't force the issue. By the looks of him, he's already on edge, which isn't much of a surprise, given the circumstances.

Still, a little wine would certainly help to soothe his fraying nerves and loosen his lips, as well. Which would suit Joon-gi's purposes nicely.

Invisible fingers grip his right shoulder, and a voice that only he can hear whispers within his ear: Be careful around this one, brother.

Joon-gi nodds imperceptibly, but does not answer. If he started talking out loud to himself, this stranger would surely take him for a madman. Not that Barovia doesn't have its fair share of madmen, but he needs this stranger to trust him.

[mortarch]

Reilani had found herself drawing stares immediately upon entering the village of Barovia— suspicious eyes that almost felt as though they could bore holes right through her, and a few attempts to try and converse with the locals painted a better picture of exactly why. Visitors, it seemed, were not unheard of in these parts, but certainly not common, and a young child asking her rather bluntly about her horns gave her an even better idea of why some of the townsfolk opted not to speak to her at all. She knew that tieflings were considered unwelcome in many places, but the city of Waterdeep was large and varied enough that she didn't stand out quite so much. Here, that was clearly not the case.

By the time she reaches the tavern, she's drawn her hood up over her horns and ears to deflect what stares she can, though she knows there's still no mistaking her for human. Regardless, places like these were often a safe bet for a traveler trying to get their bearings; they tended to draw in locals and visitors alike, and she was almost certain that someone here would be able to answer at least a few of her questions.

It's the gentleman working the bar she approaches first, and while he does pause long enough to tell her the name of village— Barovia, she notes— the evening crowd is starting to trickle in, and he doesn't have the time to spare to answer anything more involved. She makes an effort to veil her disappointment and is about to thank him regardless when a voice from behind startles her— had she been so out of sorts that she hadn't noticed approaching footsteps?

She turns to look at Joon-gi as he slides onto the nearest stool to where she's standing, and at his offer, her shoulders sag thanks to some combination of weariness and relief.

"I'm sure it's terribly obvious," she says, lips pursed for a brief moment. "I've never even heard of Barovia Village before now, though I suppose that doesn't mean much. There are lots of places I've never heard of, but I'm not sure how I got here."

[joongipan]

It is terribly obvious, but he's not about to outright say it. That would be rather rude and off-putting, wouldn't it?

After all, he wants to gain her trust, and first impressions are always important.

"Well, you're certainly not the first tiefling that's wandered into this tavern, and I'm certain you won't be the last." He glances over his shoulder at the few patrons stooped over their cups and gives a little shake of his head, almost pitying. It's difficult to read his expression, given the black mask covering the lower half of his face. "Before long, they'll grow accustomed to your presence, and then they'll ignore you, just as they do every other outsider that makes their way here."

As if on cue, the barkeep sets a glass down in front of Reilani, sparing her only the most cursory of glances before pouring a generous serving of wine. He tips his head toward Joon-gi, who nods once in return, sliding a pair of dull silver coins across the scuffed countertop.

The two exchange a wordless look before the barkeep sets the bottle down in front of Joon-gi and slips the coins into his pocket. Then he returns to his endless task of wiping out mugs with a dingy rag.

The entire exchange carries the weight of a ritual, for the barkeep has been Joon-gi's accomplice for many years, pouring drinks and divulging secrets so long as there is good coin to be paid. And Joon-gi prides himself on always repaying his debts.

He waits for Reilani to settle herself before asking: "Can you recall the moments prior to your arrival? Anything unusual at all?"

He's questioned countless outsiders and, aside from a few botched teleportation spells, almost all of them recounted the same phenomena: a strange mist that mysteriously appeared, seemingly from nowhere, which enveloped the hapless outsider. When it dissipated, they found themselves here in Barovia.

Reilani's account wasn't likely any different, but sharing her story with an interested party might help to put her at ease.

1, the village barovia

[netherese]

a. outside the village

At first, Gale believes himself to be in the Shadow-Cursed Lands when he wakes, having no immediate reason to think otherwise. The ground beneath him is hard and cold, something he's become quite used to in recent weeks, and there's a distinct pain in his neck from having twisted himself into some unnatural position while sleeping— all business as usual, as far as he's concerned; his everyday has been far from comfortable for quite some time now, even with the aid afforded by magic.

It isn't until some moments later, when he props himself up with one arm and the sleep begins to fall from his eyes that he realizes the ditch he's found himself beside is decidedly not the well-appointed ditch he and his companions had made camp in. There is, in fact, no sign of said companions anywhere to be found, and while at first glance the thick mist might have appeared to be something like the choking shadows he and his fellows had become accustomed to navigating, it quickly becomes apparent that it is something else entirely.

He looks up. The sky is dark, overcast, miserable— but it seems brilliant in comparison to the oppressive darkness that has taken over the land. Brighter, but only by contrast, and no more welcoming. As he gets to his feet, he feels a chill settle into his very bones, something that he knows is not owing entirely to the dreary weather, and the orb in his chest roils in discontent, as though it finds something about wherever this is to be distressing, at odds with the land itself.

His stark surroundings are no place he's ever had the opportunity to visit before, and given what he sees, he cannot say he would ever want to. Collecting himself, he quells the initial urge to call out for one of his companions— Godfrey, Shadowheart, Karlach, anyone— for as eager as he is to know if they are near, he did not find his way to this miserable spot on his own, and raising his voice has the potential to draw attention from unwanted parties.

Difficult a task though it may be for Gale of Waterdeep, he must exercise caution and remain quiet. The distant howling of wolves pierces the air, and he scowls as he pats himself down to take stock of himself and his belongings. His pouch is still present, and he claims his staff from its place on the ground a few feet from where he had awakened, but it would seem there is nothing more.

The entire situation can be summed up as being a certified predicament.

Dim lights in the distance, however, offer the promise of civilization as he glimpses them through the fog. Heartening, but even as he begins in that direction, he looks for any sign of life, friend or foe.

"I knew we ought to have invested in sending stones for the lot," he murmurs to himself, if only to break up the oppressive silence.


b. blood o' the vine tavern

A few hours spent learning what he could about the town and the current happenings within had proven fruitful in a number of ways, but the name Barovia was not one he could recall, for all of his years of tireless study. Eventually, he decides that piecing what he's gathered together will have to wait; he doesn't care to proceed on an empty stomach, and the local tavern seems serviceable enough. He was sure there would be even more interesting tidbits to pick up on there, but first and foremost, he intends to fill his stomach.

Seated at the bar, he offers the young lady who brings him his meal a grateful smile and a nod of thanks before he proceeds to help himself, suddenly quite keenly aware of how ravenous he is. A moment later, his eyes widen as the heat of those first bites begins to take root, and he sputters as he raises a forearm to cover his mouth and keep any of his meal from making its way back onto his plate, fumbling for his glass of wine.

He downs the entirety of the glass in one go, his preference to savor entirely disregarded in the moment, and draws in a deep breath before exhaling, looking down to examine the contents of his plate.

"That's—"

How many spices were in there? He's encountered his share of heavy-handed chefs, but this was something else entirely.

"Ah, it's— good." He coughs, feeling the burn lingering at the back of his throat. "Very unique. I can't say I've ever experienced that blend of spices before."

Gods above, it was like having a firebolt in one's mouth.

b. blood o' the vine tavern

[elfenritter]

Unlike a certain wizard, Julien's search for answers has proven less fruitful. People continue to skitter out of their way at their approach, or keep their eyes firmly downcast when they pass by.

They can't understand it. Why are they being treated like some pariah?

But soon their quest for knowledge gives way to a quest for food. They're starving and it feels like their stomach is trying to gnaw its way out of their metal armor.

Perhaps they can kill two birds with one stone if they visit the tavern? Maybe some of the locals will be willing to talk to them if Julien can grease their palms with a little gold, as well.

They enter the dimly lit establishment, their keen eyes scanning the premises. The furniture is scuffed and faded, and the warmth of the meager fire is hardly enough to chase away the chill sinking into their bones. The patrons are a sorry-looking lot, stooped over their cups. Unlike the people on the streets, there's nary a glimmer of acknowledgement in their eyes when Julien strides toward the bar.

Somehow, that feels even worse in its own way.

But just as they're about to hail the barkeep, Julien catches a glimpse of familiar purple robes, the only bright spot of color in this drab establishment. Their jaw falls open as they look upon the man's face, cheeks reddened, coughing behind one hand.

"Gale! Thank the gods, you're alive!" In a few quick strides, the elf has made their way to his table, grinning from ear to pointed ear. "Oh, please, tell me this isn't some hallucination or a waking dream I'm having..."

They ease themself into the seat opposite Gale, chainmail clinking against steel plate. Their pale blue eyes are bright and hopeful as they lean forward, hardly able to contain their excitement.

"How in the world did you find your way to this place?"

blows dust off

[netherese]

There was a time when it wasn't unusual in the least for strangers to recognize Gale, at least in certain social circles, but even in those cases they tended to use his full wizarding title, insistent as he'd been upon it— Gale of Waterdeep, hardly ever just Gale.

Immediately, however, he parses this as being something entirely different. The person calling his name and hurrying to join him at his table speaks to him with familiarity, enough so that the wizard looks honestly bewildered as he looks them over, trying to place them. He can't quite manage; they don't look familiar to him, but there's something about them that is— the immediate feeling of recognition that he knows himself to feel upon meeting another of what the Absolutists would call a 'True Soul.'

That raises an entirely new series of questions.

"My apologies," he begins, cautious and yet genuine, "It would appear my memory isn't what it used to be— terrible, tragic thing for a scholar. Have we met?"

1.

[polyfil]

For the first time in Halsin's life, he is afraid of the forest. Though the trees themselves are not twisted and malignant like those of the Shadow-Cursed Lands, there is a malevolence that lurks within their roots, nonetheless.

No matter where Halsin turns, he feels eyes upon the nape of his neck, and he imagines red tongues lolling over sharpened teeth. There are predators everywhere, malnourished and thirsting for blood.

The forest itself hungers, and he is nothing more than frightened prey.

Godfrey left hours ago to investigate the nearby settlement perched at the edge of the forest, leaving Halsin and the others to wait for his return. Normally, Halsin would have been relieved to be left behind while others more suited to dealing with "civilized" folk ventured into town for information and supplies.

But there was no solace to be found in these woods, the shadows made even deeper beneath the gnarled trees. The sun was hidden behind an impenetrable wall of gray clouds and pale mists twisted among the foliage, muffling all sound.

It's eerie enough that Halsin wants any excuse to leave, even if it means venturing forth into the village in search of Godfrey. It seems almost laughable that he should worry over the man, for mere thieves and cutpurses would stand little chance against him.

Even so, it's been long enough that he should have returned by now, with or without supplies.

Halsin opts to enter the village in the form of a cat so as not to raise undue suspicion. He knows from experience that many who look upon his broad stature and maimed visage are bound to make certain assumptions about his character, and the last thing he wants to do is frighten a bunch of old farmers with his intimidating appearance.

Once he's within striking range of the village, he drops to all fours and summons his wildshape. Bones and muscles shift painfully in a way he hasn't experienced since he was a neophyte, and he bites back a scream as his body folds in upon itself, black fur sprouting where naked flesh and tanned leather had once been.

Now in the form of a black cat, he stalks through the village, hugging the ramshackle buildings as he searches for any sign of Sir Godfrey. He cautiously sniffs the air, lamp-yellow eyes fixating on anything that draws close. There are rats rooting about in the refuse; they bare their teeth and chitter at him without fear, as though they are used to fighting even predators over mere scraps. He hisses at them and they scatter, and he moves on.

Halsin continues to wander the streets, tries to converse with the mangy dogs and stray cats that slink through the twisted alleys. He is met with hostility—snapping teeth and angry howls. Get out! Get out! Leave this place!

The villagers themselves are even less welcoming. People stare at him with wide-eyes, clutching their children close as they hurry by. When he tries to approach, rocks are hurled his way.

He runs, yowling, only to be met with the dirty bristles of a broom thrust into his face. An old woman in a tattered shawl beats him away, crying out in a thin voice: You killed both of my sons, you bastard! Away with you!

Halsin twists upon himself and darts across the street, only to be met by another old woman, this one pushing a cart of meat pies. Unlike the other one, this woman peers at him with kindly eyes. Leaning close, she holds out her hand and makes soothing noises, trying to lure him close...

And he is sorely tempted, for he is hungry, and the smell of greasy meat is enticing. But her eyes are a little too bright, and her smile a fraction too wide, and something curdles in Halsin's gut at that look. She calls to him again, saying: You sweet little puss, you're not fooling anyone...

Every hair stands on end as Halsin arches his back, dancing out of reach of her hands. He trots down the muddy street, following the grooves carved by her wheels, until...

He lowers his nose to the ground, mouth gaping as he tries to take in the faintest traces of oiled steel and incense—those tell-take markers of Godfrey's passing!

Halsin tries his best to follow the scent while avoiding the villagers, but a familiar face may be surprised to find an absurdly large black cat trot up to them, meowing insistently, as though it wishes them to follow.

[alliegiance]

Eventually, on his wild path through the village, he meets them.

It is, perhaps, not at that path's end. Somewhere in the space between thrown stones and sharp and snapping jaws. Where on the path this meeting occurs does not matter. All that matters is that it did.

And, though the scent hanging in the air was perhaps a sure portend to what would follow, his escape is an understandable one. Half-frozen mud beneath his paws, pelted with sharp stones, menaced by street-beasts; the iron-wrought bars and the tangle of desiccated vines that choked them must have seemed too inviting to pass up. The snarling and hissing certainly didn't follow, and nor did the folk. Too busy murmuring to one another about that poor, cursed girl.

Something hangs thick in the air in this wild place, overgrown and twisted, everything sharp and dead. Not just the mist. The lingering smell of rotting feet, and--

There they are. The bulky shapes of beasts rear around the manor-house, heads held low, rumbling with malice. Here is where he meets the wild creatures, bred of the land instead of by mankind.

Their eyes reflect no forest you've ever seen.

[polyfil]

He hadn't thought that the mangy mongrels would pursue him this far, but they were determined to chase him beyond the village borders, if not outright kill him. He knows not what direction to take, only that he must keep running.

The streets widen and the mists grow thick. There are no narrow alleys or bolt holes where he might dart into for safety. His lungs burn and his muscles ache from the exertion, but he has to keep going. One wrong turn—one false step—and he will fall prey to the snapping jaws growing ever closer to his heels...

But there, up ahead, wrought-iron bars flanked by ivy-encrusted stone walls! If he can just make his way though, then he will be safe from his pursuers.

Without breaking stride, he scrabbles up the gate and lands hard on the other side. He stops to catch his breath, looking over his shoulder at what lay beyond the gate.

The dogs never make it within a stone's throw of the gate. Their glimmering eyes watch him though the mists, heads lowered and tails tucked between their legs. They whimper pitifully and circle one another before slinking away, knowing that their prey is thoroughly out of reach.

Now that he is relatively safe, Halsin thinks it best to explore the grounds and see if he can find something to eat. His stomach howls with the same ferocity as the dogs that had been pursuing him, and it edges out over the fear and apprehension of wandering alone in an unknown place.

But just barely.

He stalks through the mists, lamp-yellow eyes wide and bright in the dimness. The smell of rot permeates everything, making it difficult to pick out the passing scent of potential prey. But a house this large must harbor a large colony of rats, and so he slinks along the perimeter, looking for small cracks or openings in the foundation.

As he rounds a corner, he picks up a familiar scent—a canid musk that is not at all like the half-feral dogs that roam the city streets. It carries the scent of the forest: wet moss and dry leaves, fetid loam and decay.

He freezes as primal fear slowly raises the fur along his arching spine. A low mrowl builds in the back of his throat as dark shapes move through the mists, each one bearing a pair of gleaming discs that reflect the light with a predator's eyeshine.

Wolves. How many, he cannot guess. Their shapes seem to meld and separate from one another, like shadows thrown upon a wall by flickering candlelight. Not even his feline eyes can penetrate through the mists.

Slowly, Halsin backs away, ears folded back as another low, fearful noise is squeezed from his lungs. Let me leave in peace.

But something in his heart tells him that these beasts will not let him go so easily. Their hunger, like that of the forest, is a palpable thing which weighs heavily in the air, much like the mist itself.

If they give chase, he isn't at all certain he will be able to outrun them. He's already exhausted much of his energy fleeing from those half-feral dogs, and fear alone might not be enough of a goad to save him.

2.

[moonlessblessing]

Perhaps it was merely her imagination, but having stepped through the gates into Kresk, the howling of the wolves outside the walls seemed softer, more distant. Even the air within felt marginally warmer, for the winds gusting along the frozen fields was blunted against the weathered stone battlements circling the settlement.

Shadowheart felt safe, for once, though she knew better than to let her guard down entirely. From what she understood, the Morninglord was the only god worshipped in these far-flung lands, and the monastery perched high upon the cliffs was dedicated to one of His sainted followers.

Like it or not, she was within enemy territory. But she needed to get her bearings and learn what fate may have befallen her companions.

Though few would likely recognize the obsidian disks adorning her armor as Shar's symbols, she couldn't be too careful. It would be for the best if she disguised herself as an unassuming pilgrim, to better blend in with the natives.

So, slipping out of sight of prying eyes, she cast an illusory spell over herself, granting her the appearance of a human woman dressed in a humble acolyte's robes. She left most of her facial features unaltered, so that if one of her companions should happen across her, she would still be relatively recognizable.

Once her disguise was in place, Shadowheart began to question the locals concerning a "very tall, broad-shouldered man with blond hair and blue eyes". Out of all of her companions, Sir Godfrey would likely be the easiest to spot.

The young woman straightened, her work immediately forgotten. "Oh, do you mean the Abbot?"

"The Abbot?" Shadowheart tipped her head to one side. "Who is that?"

"You mean to say you didn't come here to see him? Dressed the way you are, I thought you were on a pilgrimage!"

Through her investigations, Shadowheart learned that the young man who currently presided over the abbey arrived over a century ago, yet he looked just as youthful as the day he first set foot in Kresk. He offered no name, simply calling himself "the Abbot," and he had a daughter named Vasilka, who lived with him in the abbey. He was a holy man of great power, rumored to be able to cure any ailment, and some even swore that he could raise the dead.

While it was natural for people to speak with reverence concerning such a man, Shadowheart noticed that the people spoke in furtive whispers whenever the Abbot or his work was mentioned. He was a recluse who rarely set foot outside the abbey, which also served as a hospital for those patients suffering from the most grievous maladies.

Of course, Shadowheart couldn't help but wonder if such a man might be able to rid her of the tadpole. Perhaps it would warrant further investigation, despite her growing unease.