your dread lord and master (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alliegiance) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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."