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

Comments

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?

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?

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."

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.

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.

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.