Hey, Cerin, can I get in on that? I say as I drop my bag on the ground and dig around until I've found one of my torches. Then I hold it up for Cerin to light with his torch.
I'll put my pack back on, keep the torch in one hand and get my spear ready with the other.
hey, DM can my spear be an assegai?
"The truth can't be clear until I see the lady myself. With any luck it will be something I can dispel with a simple remedy.
The mist rolls in and it's more than Wintermoon can simply puff away so torches are necessary. As everyone is preparing Wintermoon shoves a torch into a makeshift fastener on the side of the cart. "Bolazio," he whispers and snaps his fingers next to the torch head. A small flame flickers to life and slowly encases the torch head in flame.
"TCHK TCH TCH" he sucks on his front teeth to spurn the horse on. He steers the horse in such a way as to avoid the potentially deepest puddles without deviating from the group.
The light penatrates the gloom to some degree, but the fog continues to obscure things. A thin, cold drizzle starts to fall.
As you slog on, going steadily uphill, though at a gentle slope, the forest seems to press closer and closer around you. The undergrowth is dense, and presses so close that the cart frequently scrapes against both sides at once. Everything seems to have thorns that catch at your clothes, and the cold mud seems to pull at your feet as you push on.
Each of you catches glimpses of horrible creatures in the forest, and each time it is only a shrub, or a swirl of fog, or a shape formed by the branches of a tree.
Morgan walks along quietly, seemingly lost in his thoughts, though he will respond with good cheer if spoken to. When the mist appears however, he calls for a halt, saying "Give me just a moment. I need to pray to Thoth for his sword and shield, as I believe that we are going to be attacked shortly." With that he begins murmuring a prayer. After a few moments, A large being descends, winged and clad in full plate armor. This being says nothing, but then girds Morgan in both sword and shield; the sheathed blade appears to be longsword, and the shield is the size of a heavy steel shield but appears to be a book, fastened and locked closed. As he prays, he doffs his priest's robes, which allow you to see that his arms up to the wrist, his uppoer body, and what part of his legs that you can see are covered in writing, in a myriad of languages, and with what appears to be all kinds of knowledge, from the banal to the benign. Garbed only in a set of leather breeches and so armed, Morgan says "Pray, let us continue." Silently as he appeared, the angelic creature departs.
now there's something you don't see every day, I whisper to Wintermoon.
As we shuffle about on the road to take a defined order, I take a place next to the cart, and hold my torch up as high as I can
Good idea, Anhur
Morgan's predictions seem to be mistaken, as tense minutes stretch into cold, damp hours, plodding through rain and mud, in a forest that seems hostile and threatening. Your best guess is that it is near midday before you encounter anything but a monotony of rain, fog, mud and forest.
Then, jutting from the impenetrable woods on both sides of the road, high stone buttresses loom up gray in the fog. Huge iron gates hang on the stonework. Dew clings with cold tenacity to the rusted bars. Two statues of armed guardians silently flank the gate. Their heads, missing from their shoulders, now lie among the weeds at their feet. They greet you only with silence.
Yes, there is, but my plan is for it to really require multiple viewings to notice that there is something wrong. and yes, mage armor.
"This is a dark omen. Perhaps I should consult The Flame before we continue." Anhur offers, fishing out a set of bones from his belt pouch that appear to be elaborately engraved.
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Dark Omen? I thought it was called a gate?
"Clearly you do not read the signs from the gods. Stone and iron are their ink on this page before us."
"The Gods?" . Cerin scoffs. "Don't be so dramatic. The only sign here is a rather vocal 'Keep Out'". He moves closer, inspecting the gate. "These seem the type to bar the entrance to some lordly estate, though, not a simple village. Perhaps we were lead astray in this thrice-cursed fog."
"Wintermoon, have you any idea where we are, or if we lost our way?" Anhur inquires, hoping the stranger's natural magics might offer some insight.
"Based on our pace and that we were never forced from the path so much as we were forced to stay on it, I'd say we were right where we need to be."
"Let's see what we have here," Wintermoon says as he dismounts the cart. He pulls a small piece of cloth tied in a loop at one end from his hip pouch. He holds the cloth between both hands and threads the ends of his thumbs through the loop. Ymwrthedd, he says and raises his thumbs to his forehead and then places the little cloth back into his pouch.
Wintermoon approaches the gate and begins to search for clues about where it leads, what it guards, why it's been defiled, how long it's been here, and most importantly just if it's locked.
Anhur touches his holy symbol and says a prayer for Wintermoon.
As soon as Cerin approaches the gate, itvslowly begins to swing open with, a shrill screeching sound
Anhur crosses his arms and scoffs at Cerin.
"Omen." he says smugly.
Oh, man, is right, sheesh is that spooky or what?
Wintermoon's investigation reveals little. Whatever lies beyond the gate is out of sight in the fog. The trees seem even more twisted here, and the undergrowth more withered and stunted, so that each bush resembles a hand clawing free of the earth.
The gate is centuries old, and little has been done to maintain it. Only the sheer mass of iron has kept it from rusting away completely. The statues wear armor of an ancient style, and the stone tabards bear the same motif of sun and sword and cliff and castle as the seal on the letter. There is no sign of what might have defaced them.
Cerin takes a step back from the gate. Then another. He turns and looks back at his companions, trying not to appear completely sheepish.
"I.... uh...."
"When a path of The Flame has fallen into disrepair, surely dark times are upon us. Shall we proceed, or should I pray to The Flame for guidance?"
Anhur produces his dragon bones and finds a dryish bit of ground to roll them. As he rolls and meditates, the runes show both the best and the worst signs. As many times as he studies them, weal and woe both appear.
"There is danger ahead, that is certain. But there is also potential for good. Let us continue, but cautiously."
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Morgan draws his sword, the handle and pommel of which are made of platinum and have a swirling theme to them that seems easy to get lost into. the most interesting thing about the sword is the blade, which appears to be glass that contains some sort of smoke within it. Morgan also readies his shield and then says "let us proceed."
I'll be right behind you, Morgan, just lead the way, *gulp* I keep you in the light of my torch as best as I can
Wintermoon returns to the cart and proceeds forth bringing up the rear of the group.
"The good with the bad. A fortuitous prediction!" he says in an oddly optimistic tone.
The group slowly passes through the gate and proceeds along the road. As the gate is swallowed by the mist behind them, they hear it screeching, and clanging shut behind them. The forest is less dense here, and there are ominous rustlings in the undergrowth though the only signs of life are crows which watch the party with hungry eyes.
"I wish you'd do something about these crows, old fellow." Anhur remarks to Wintermoon.
"Leave the birds. It is bad luck to harm crows." Cerin says. "Keep close, though." he states, as he pushes forward.
"I thought you didn't believe in such things." Anhur retorts.
"If men had wings and bore black feathers, few of them would be clever enough to be crows." He looks ahead blankly as he speaks to Anhur, "The crow is a messenger of healing in the Old Faith. These here may simply be hungry and await the slightest morsel to fall in our wake."
"That is half of my concern. There are few things that make a creature so desperate as hunger, and a desperate creature is not to be trusted."
Anhur pauses to shake the accumulation of mud from the end of his staff.
I see two crows on a limb of a twisted tree, and immediately yank on Cerin's sleeve and point saying,
Look, attempted Murder.
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Wintermoon guffaws at the bard's joke and the somber mood has been slain for but a moment.
Morgan continues moving forward, Keen eyes moving about the landscape.
The group proceeds, and after another hour's march, the forest gives way to more open country. Low rock walls define the boundaries between pastures and wheat fields, vineyards and gardens. They are clearly being tended, but in the narrow view allowed by the fog, you see no living creature other than the crows that perch along the walls and flap away, cawing loudly as you approach.
After another hour, tall shapes loom out of the dense fog that surrounds everything. The muddy ground underfoot gives way to slick, wet cobblestones. The tall shapes become recognizable as the dwellings of the village of Barovia. The windows of each house stare out from pools of black nothingness. No sound cuts the silence except for a single mournful sobbing that echoes through the streets from a distance.
Wintermoon listens to distant sobs. "Now we come to something less than natural..." As the hooves and cart wheels toc-t-toc against the cobblestones the sounds echo hollow through the empty streets.
"Caution may be in our favor"
Anhur listens for a moment to the sound in an attempt to identify it.
"That's a woman's cry. I would guess someone has been taken from her. We must take care not to place ourselves in the path of blame for any such event."
Cerin breathes a sigh of relief at the more civilized surroundings.
"Try looking on the bright side.Well at least we know there's someone nearby. Maybe we can find a place to stay until daylight drives off this damnable weather."
Morgan will sheath his blade and re-don his priests garments. Sheathed, the blade becomes indistinct and you have to focus your eyes on it to perceive it, otherwise they just tend to slide off.
Once a prosperous village, Barovia has fallen on hard times. The businesses along the street that you are walking along are abandoned, with nothing but the shell of the structure left behind. Many of the houses are boarded up, the walls covered with claw marks. The sobbing sound persists, leading you further into the village.
After a few minutes walk, you reach a central square. A single shaft of light thrusts into the main square, its brightness like a solid pillar in the heavy fog. Above the gaping doorway, a sign hangs precariously askew proclaiming this the "Blood on the Vine Tavern."
Looks like there is some life left in this place
"Let us find the poor woman who cries and see how we can aid her."
Cerin nods, and walks quickly toward the inn.
"Life, and hopefully wine." He glances around for somewhere to tie off the horses as he approaches.
"These markings are unsettling." Anhur notes of the claw marks in the walls.
There is a hitching rail in front of the tavern.
As you approach, you see that it was called "The Blood of the Vine," but that the sign has been defaced, the F replaced with a crudely written N.
Opening the door, you see a once finely appointed common room turned shabby with age. A man in a greyed apron stands behind the bar, wiping dusty glasses with a grimy rag. There is a fire blazing in the hearth, but it does little to dispel the chill in the air. Other than the barkeep, three gypsies sit at a table to the left of the door, and a lone man sits in a shadowy corner to the right, his hood pulled up, throwing his face into darkness.
The room is silent, except for the occasional sound of one of the patrons sipping wine, and the sobbing that, though muffled here, still seems to find its way in from outside.
"Rest easy boy, and don't be shy if trouble comes calling," Wintermoon strokes the the nose of the horse while loosening the bridle.
Upon entering the tavern, Wintermoon takes note of everyone and approaches the gypsies first. b]"Good evening,"[/b] and he holds out the invitation.