your dread lord and master (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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barovians2024-10-16 04:50 pm
alliegiance) wrote in barovians2024-10-16 04:50 pm
01 - arriving
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)
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.
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.
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.
1.
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."
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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.
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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?"
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He might not be the leader of a gang anymore, but his instincts were still sharp. Not to mention that being a little underweight and wearing robes tended to make people think he was a little less threatening than someone in leather armor and carrying a big ol' sword.
So he decided it couldn't hurt to see where this whole scenario was going to go. "Heard about a group of mercenaries gathering up to hunt wolves that have been a problem. Where there's mercenaries, there's people sitting on their asses being bored for something to happen. So I decided to win a little coin with some entertainment. Then we all got jumped, there's fog everywhere and we all get taken and I end up here. Why? Who the fuck knows."
Two drinks were set in front of them and before the other man could presumably do anything to his drink, Zhulong took it first and drank deep. "Ahhhhh...think there's any stew in this place?"
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Well, it wasn't such a bad thing to foster a healthy bit of suspicion around strangers. Because Joon-gi had most certainly dosed a few adventurers with a powerful sleeping draught when the situation deemed it necessary.
Fortunately, this wasn't one of those situations. Not yet, anyway.
He reached for his own mug, dragging it across the table toward himself. The tiefling's story concerning his arrival provided little in the way of new information. Joon-gi had heard dozens of variations on a theme: that of people being drawn into the mists under various circumstances, and almost never by choice.
"I wish I could tell you the answer but, unfortunately, there appears to be no definitive pattern connecting those who are brought here by the mists. Bad luck, or mere chance? It's anyone's guess."
Well, Joon-gi had his own theories, but he wasn't about to divulge them this early in the relationship. Especially since neither of them had even exchanged names.
All in good time, though.
He lifted his mug, pausing for a moment when he realized that he was still wearing his half-mask. He considered the opportunity to manufacture a moment of vulnerability, to further ingratiate himself to the tiefling.
Joon-gi hooked a finger into the black fabric covering his face and pulled it downward, revealing pale skin that, he hoped, would appear more ethereal rather than sickly in the dim light cast by the meager fire. He lifted the mug against his lips and sipped at his beer. He couldn't taste it, nor could he recall the memory of its flavor.
But his expression betrayed nothing as he set his mug down and fixed the tiefling with a wry look. The corner of his mouth pulled into the barest hint of a smile.
"There is..." His dark eyes, heavily-lined with kohl, glinted with a bit of mischief. "Though, you might find the flavor a bit... intense for your liking."
It wasn't unheard of for those who had grown accustomed to eating such bland fare to season it with spicy peppers, if only because there were no other seasonings to be had. Many outsiders believed the native Barovians to be somewhat masochistic in their tastes, unable to understand how anyone could actually enjoy the stinging burn upon one's tongue with every mouthful.
Now he was curious to know what the tiefling might think of the house special...
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"So, no pattern anyone can figure out. But just because we don't know what it is doesn't mean it ain't there."
He did raise an eyebrow at the idea of intense flavor, but why not get a stew? He ordered one and saw what immediately what the other man meant. Just an extra red film on top of greasy stew. Would mixing it altogether mitigate the taste?
Zhulong took a big bite and swallowed. It wasn't the spiciest thing he'd ever eaten but it made his eyes water. "You weren't fuckin' kiddin'."
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"Well, I suppose that there is one tenuous thread that connects all of them..." Joon-gi tapped one finger against the side of his mug, brows furrowed in thought. "They tend to be mercenaries or adventurers with some modicum of skill. But that's the only thing I can think of, at the moment."
He wondered what sort of skills the tiefling might possess, and how they might prove of use to him. Sorcery was one of the few skills that Joon-gi lacked, which is why spellcasters were of particular interest to him.
He watched as the tiefling spooned a heaping bite of stew into his mouth and swallowed. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes, but he didn't appear to be in much discomfort at all.
Joon-gi blinked incredulously, then grinned. "Impressive. I've watched outsiders twice your size cry like babies or vomit from the pain, but you?" He huffed a laugh. "I take it dragon's claw peppers are commonly used in dishes where you're from?"
He felt a familiar weight settle across his shoulders as an invisible arm draped itself companionably against him. A cold breath of air brushed against his ear as a voice only he could hear spoke: I suppose he's stronger than he looks, but I wonder if he'll last longer than our previous companion?
Joon-gi felt his smile falter at his brother's words, and hoped the tiefling wouldn't notice.
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"I'm used to a bit of spicy food. It wouldn't be that bad if there was only a bit of spice for taste. Fuck it. I'm going to have to learn to make this myself. At least it'll taste better."
So what was the play here? This guy was after something, but he hadn't done anything. Yet. Maybe if this place sucked as much as Zhulong had a feeling it did, having an ally wouldn't be a bad thing. At least until he got a better lay of the land. "Name's Zhulong. So what do you for fun while being stuck here?"
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But seeing the tiefling eat with such pleasure awakened some long distant memory, and he could almost recall what it felt like to eat curry seasoned with aromatic spices. He remembered eating together with the other children at the monastery, his twin sitting at his right elbow, spooning portions from his own bowl for him to eat. Joon-gi always balked at the idea of taking more than his fair share, but his brother said that he needed it more.
Because you're small and weak, so you need to eat if you want to grow up strong!
He set his half-finished mug aside just as the tiefling was scraping the last dregs of stew from his bowl. "In that case, I hope you brought your own spices. They're a rare commodity in these parts and only the Vistani can reliably bring goods from beyond our borders. But it won't come cheaply, so be prepared to pay an arm and a leg for it."
So, the tiefling could cook, which was a useful skill to others, but served no purpose for the likes of him. He no longer felt hunger or thirst—such pleasures of the flesh were beyond him, now. All food tasted of bitter ash upon his tongue, and if he forced himself to eat, his body immediately rejected it.
He wondered how much longer he could conceal his true nature from the tiefling...
"Zhulong, is it? You'll have to forgive my poor manners; I should have introduced myself right away."
He raised a gloved hand to rest briefly against his chest, inclining his head slightly in a show of deference.
"You can call me Argent." He smiled amiably, eyes crinkling at the corners. It was the alchemical word for silver—a clever little reference to the silver hair hidden beneath his hood. "As for what I like to do for fun? I read, mostly. Poetry, history, faerie tales, treatises on alchemy and sorcery. You could say I have a wide range of interests, and I'm always looking for new material to peruse."
Which isn't exactly a lie. Joon-gi did often read for pleasure and had done so ever since he was a child. But these days his focus was bent toward research, especially that pertaining to sorcery and spellwork. Of course, such books were a rarity in these parts, and the ones that made their way into Barovia from outside invariably found their way into Castle Ravenloft's vast library.
He wondered if Zhulong might have anything of interest in that little pack he was carrying?
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"So you're a scholar kinda? Or at least it sounds like you're trying to find a solution in books to where we're all trapped."
Which would make sense. A scholar would want to get as much knowledge together from outsiders as possible to form a plan. Except for the way Argent carried himself. Zhulong might not be the Runaway King any longer, but he knew to listen to his senses when they screamed "thief or rogue."
Like knew like.
With a belly full, Zhulong turned toward the other man with a charming smile. He didn't know how it worked, only that it occasionally did. Sometimes if he turned on the charm, people would get less hostile and just be more agreeable to work together. It was possibly part of his tiefling nature, but he'd never had a deep conversation with one of his own kind to know how it worked.
"Well, thanks for the drink and the meal. I'm not sure what I can do for you, but you've been decent so how about this? Let's play a little game. I ask you a question and you answer it honestly and then you can do the same. Simple, yeah?"
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"Something like that," Joon-gi said readily, "though, it might be more accurate to say that I'm an information broker. Clients provide me with inquiries, and I do my best to dig up answers. Sometimes those answers can be found in books, but in my experience, the more valuable the information, the less likely someone is to write it down."
While his answer was truthful, it only encompassed a small portion of his skills and expertise. Joon-gi had cultivated a small information network among the villages to stay apprised of local events, especially those pertaining to the appearance of outsiders.
He leaned back in his seat as he studied Zhulong's face, wondering if he would be satisfied with that answer. The tiefling stared back at him, bright yellow eyes peering from beneath the shadow of his hood as he flashed a disarming smile.
For a moment, Joon-gi was taken aback by that look. He hadn't had enough time to truly appraise the tiefling's features during that brief moment when his hood had been lowered. But now he allowed himself to simply appreciate what little of his face was on display—the soft jawline and plush lips, the carefully groomed facial hair.
Okay, so Zhulong was easy on the eyes, Joon-gi could admit that much to himself. But he found his gaze lingering far longer than it should have on that shapely mouth...
His brother's hand settled against his shoulder—a chilling and familiar weight—and Joon-gi stiffened involuntarily beneath that touch. He reached up, tugging his hood a bit lower, and wrenched his gaze away from that charming smile.
Go on, his brother whispered, play his little game. Let's see what more we can learn from him.
Joon-gi nodded, acknowledging his brother's words and accepting the tiefling's offer at the same time. "Sounds simple enough. I'll allow you to ask the first question." He smiled in return, though there was something a bit over-confident in the look. "It's only proper, seeing as how you're an 'honored guest' in these lands."
It was meant somewhat facetiously, but Joon-gi would extend as much hospitality as he could afford, so long as it got him what he needed.
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Also, given that Argent actually answered his question -- instead of shanking him -- Zhulong might be able to work with the guy.
It was a good start. So far.
"How long have you been stuck in this place?" Best to start simple.
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This answer was also true, and though there was much more that he could say, he purposefully chose not to elaborate. The point of the game was not to answer honestly, but to learn as much as he could about the tiefling without tipping too much of his own hand. Lowering his mask was already a risky gambit, and Joon-gi was not about to reveal anymore about himself than was strictly necessary.
But now he was presented with the perfect opportunity to further test Zhulong's skills. There was a certain cunning look to his eyes, and he sensed that the tiefling was far more clever than he let on.
Joon-gi extended his right hand, flourishing a silver coin seemingly from nowhere. He held it between his first and middle finger, displaying a weathered face against its gleaming surface.
"Do you like magic tricks?" The corner of his mouth pulled into an amused grin.
He pressed his fingers together, flipping the coin onto its side, and began rolling it across his knuckles. It turned nimbly on its edge, from heads to tails and back again, like the moon waxing and waning. Waxing and waning. Waxing and waning.
He was no magician, but he was fairly skilled in sleight-of-hand. Any thief worth his salt knew how to palm a coin, but to truly master the art of pickpocketing, one needed to be skilled in misdirection.
He'd test Zhulong to see if he could follow the coin. A clever thief should have little trouble keeping up with such a simple parlor trick.
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Zhulong drained the last of his alcohol with a little belch. He wiped his mouth but then stopped at the next question of magic tricks. "I like 'em way more now that I can do 'em." Was he going to make a coin disappear? Or no, what was this? He had to get a better look.
Figuring the crowd had calmed down, Zhulong dropped his hood and loosened his robes enough to let his tail be more free. His black hair was shaved on the sides but had grown long enough to loosely braid. His yellow eyes watched the track of the coin while he reached behind his head to fix up his braid.
When invariably the coin seemed to disappear from Argent's hands, he clapped in appreciation. And at the same time, he tapped a portion of the other man's sleeve with his tail, showing where the coin went. Art of misdirection indeed.
"So if you've been here all your life, you know everything about every town, yeah?"
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His eyes sharpened with a tight smile at the tiefling's answer. Was he admitting to being a charlatan, or did he know the true sorcery? Hard to say, but Joon-gi was nothing if not patient.
He'd have his answer, in time. And he would savor the challenge of unraveling the mystery of the tiefling's motives.
"It's nice to meet a fellow practitioner," he said mildly. "Please, enjoy the show."
The coin continued to dance across his knuckles, but his eyes were focused on Zhulong's face as the tiefling lowered his hood once more. His gaze locked onto those piercing yellow eyes, watching the way they tracked the coin's movement as he flourished it from one hand to the other. It multiplied into two coins, then four, each of them flitting across his palms and between his fingers in a complicated dance of spinning silver.
There was no magic. None whatsoever. Just multiple coins secreted away in his sleeves and years of practice under his belt. He could easily do this routine blindfolded, if he wished, but that would rob him of the opportunity to study this stranger further.
And study him he would. Appraise him, as one might a marble bust put on display in a private collection. He watched as Zhulong raised his hands to adjust his braid, taking note of the thick, black claws on each of his fingertips as they carded through his hair. Potential weapons, perhaps, but they would pose little threat to the likes of him.
After all, it's rather difficult to kill that which is already dead.
Joon-gi's hands passed across his face, briefly obscuring his view of the tiefling. The coins were quickly palmed with a flourish as he exposed empty hands for inspection. He smiled as Zhulong clapped with appreciation, thinking that he had managed to outwit his opponent.
But Joon-gi had gotten so caught up in his own display of skill that he hadn't noticed the tiefling's tail had slithered up to touch his right arm. He flinched at the unexpected touch, brows arching briefly in a look of surprise.
"Clever. Very clever." With a laugh, he flourished the coin once more and flicked it across the table, where it landed in front of Zhulong. "Keep it. You should always keep a bit of silver close at hand in these parts. To ward off evil."
A bit of Barovian superstition, but one with a degree of practicality. It was a well-known fact that lycanthropes have a strong aversion to silver-forged weapons, and Joon-gi kept a pair of leather gloves studded with silver in case he ever crossed paths with their kind.
He settled back in his seat and made another show of sipping at his beer. "I wouldn't say I know everything, but I know quite a bit about this land and its people. I'll gladly tell you anything you wish to know. Hell, I'll even give you a discount on my going fee because I like you so much."
A joke. Mostly. Rumors, gossip, and hearsay would all be offered free of charge. Anything more substantial than that may require an equal exchange of information in return.
Speaking of which: "You said before that you know a few magic tricks yourself. Care to show me one?"
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And he got a discount on information? How lovely. Maybe hanging around with this guy wouldn't be so bad. It'd be entertaining for a while, anyway, while he got his bearings.
"Do I know any tricks? Sure. Learning more all the time." Zhulong took a quick look around to see if anyone was paying attention. When the coast seemed to be clear, he reached for his magatama under his clothes and focused his power.
He hoped Argent didn't mind having his beer stolen by a spectral hand. It raised the mug with Zhulong and they clinked together. "I find it good for reaching things I can't and triggering traps from a distance." He then let the spectral hand fade away, but still stole some of Argent's beer to drink.
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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?"
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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.
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There is something here. Just beyond the senses of the rest of the villager patrons, slumped over their drinks in stunned and painful silence. He can feel it; it hangs a shade over the pair of them, looming in the high corners of the tavern, gazing down on them. Buzzing through his very core. Chilling the air just a degree. He knows it's there. He does not know what it intends, why it hides, how to reveal it - but it's there. The knowledge of it pulls his jaw tight as the dark bottle is pulled up by its neck and drawn away, leaving Godfrey's eyeline clear to the cloaked stranger at his side.
Strange; some time ago, he'd have been grateful for the outreach. Now, all that lives in the back of his thoughts is the contrast between this man and the rest of the village; how they had walked a careful bubble around him, shied protectively away from his questions. Something kept the rest of them back; why did it have no hold on him?
Godfrey's gauntleted hands take the glass with a metallic ting and bring it, with just a hint of possessive care, nearer to him. Whether he would drink from it remained to be seen.
He speaks after a moment's thought, with warm, careful resonance; "This land seems to be one which does not offer such things freely."
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Though the spirit hovering near his shoulder is invisible to the eyes of the living, Joon-gi has learned over the years that there are those that can sense its presence. His own body had long since grown cold, his heart as still and silent as the grave. No matter how careful he is to shroud his corpse-like pallor from prying eyes, eventually people begin to question the chill that follows on his heels, the scent of death that clings to him.
He wonders if the man seated before him has already begun to guess at the truth. A small line of irritation settles between his silver brows. Joon-gi thought he would at least have a few days to leverage a mutually beneficial arrangement between the two of them before revealing his true nature.
No matter. This isn't a lost cause, as of yet. The man did accept the cup offered to him, after all.
But he has yet to drink.
Joon-gi closes his eyes briefly, gaze softening once more beneath a hidden smile. "That's rather astute of you."
He folds his hands upon the table, fingers interlacing. He wears soft, supple gloves made of black doeskin, favored among those that need a full range of motion and minimal loss of tactile sensation. It's well-suited for those in a rogue's line of work. His upper arms are wrapped in layers of black gauze, to keep the loose fabric of his sleeves bound, so as not to catch on anything. There is not a trace of metal to be found on his person, save for the silver glint of a buckle here or there, revealed only briefly when he leans forward in his seat.
"You have likely begun to guess already, but this land is poor and miserable, much like its people. Without the blessing of the sun to coax forth green and growing things, it is a struggle merely to eat, and people are loathe to part with that which is necessary for survival, let alone those small pleasures which might inure them to the horrors which plague them daily."
His dark eyes narrow beneath his hood, his gaze fixing briefly upon the symbol emblazoned upon Godfrey's breastplate—the symbol of the Morninglord, though slightly altered from the one depicted in most Barovian houses of worship.
"And so I offer this wine to you as a token of goodwill, to welcome you to the land of Barovia."
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He pays his ancient glass - and the ruby red token contained within - a thin, sidelong glance. He knows little of this land, and he thinks, less of what plagues it. What he's seen in this short time has shown him shades of it, slanted like sunbeams through trees in the valley's people. Hard-hearted and wary, all. On their toes like spry and frightened cats, ready to jump away at a moment's notice. The only source could be repeated, extended turmoil; the people of this land surely had reason to drink in excess. Godfrey's seen a certain unpleasantness on the Coast, and he's seen this particular shine in certain individuals. He's never seen an entire population afflicted by it.
The reply the stranger gives feels less alike to a proper response and more like an evasion. As though he had seen his words, spied the meaning and mistrust he laced them with, and decided to cover his eyes to it completely. Godfrey would keep his eyes on him.
Where the stranger swallows light, Godfrey beams it - he may as well be the sun itself, for how the people of this place (Barovia?) have averted their eyes at his very presence. Nearly all facets of himself shine as though they'd stored the sun's light for this very purpose, just to expel it here.
And, apparently, it was quite needed.
"What do you mean?" One golden-shelled hand plays around the neck of his glass, as destitute drunks around him lift their heads and begin appraising his impressive carapace, "It is daytime. The sun is surely above us."
Godfrey had hoped that, perhaps, it had merely been kept at a distance by the treacherous mist.
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Joon-gi closes his eyes briefly, drawing in a breath that he does not truly need, and exhales softly. Gaining this stranger's trust will prove challenging, that much is certain. This is no naïve squire, lost and alone, desperate for a guiding hand to lead him out of the darkness.
No, this stranger isn't like those poor fools who have come before—eager little lambs that they were—ripe for the slaughter.
Joon-gi feels those invisible fingers digging painfully into his shoulder; icy claws cutting through his flesh straight to the bone. He can all too easily imagine the hungry look on his brother's face, the skinning back of lips against sharpened teeth.
There is something different about this one, they both know it. Something that burns brighter than the gleaming weapon strapped to his back. A pure and radiant soul that will make him enticing prey for all the dark and creeping things that roam this godforsaken land.
They need to find some means of shielding that light, before it attracts the attention of more powerful predators...
Joon-gi leans back in his seat, the worm-eaten wood creaking precariously with the movement. He crosses his arms loosely, watching as Godfrey idly toys with his glass, perhaps trying to distract from the fact that he will not accept their humble offering. Not yet, at any rate.
"You speak with such confidence, surely a testament to the strength of your own faith in these blighted lands."
He smiles once more, but there is no mirth to the look. His dark eyes have narrowed to sharpened pieces of obsidian, his shrewd gaze cutting straight through the man seated before him.
"But these people can no longer place their faith in that which cannot be seen with their own eyes. The sun was stolen long ago, when the Morninglord abandoned the land and its people. And now you arrive in your holy raiment with that relic strapped to your back, and you wonder why these people cower before you?" He huffs a soft, pitying laugh. "It's because no one has seen the sun in over four hundred years. The light that you bear is too bright for their feeble eyes..."
He leans forward in his seat, trying not to squint against the brightness radiating from Godfrey's weapon. His voice lowers to a conspiratorial whisper: "And they are afraid of you."
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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."
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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.
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She exhales, furrowing her brow slightly as she collects her thoughts.
"I had just awakened at camp," she confesses after a moment. "I was traveling from Waterdeep with friends. When I awoke, my companions were nowhere to be found, but there was mist everywhere— so thick, I could barely see an inch in front of my face."