This is but another dull tavern in another dull town in some nameless province. It is but another passage of time between the challenges of true adventuring. Such is the doldrum of existence waiting for another opportunity.
Outside the Inn, a fog lies over the town this evening, draping everything in its clammy grasp. The damp cobbled street shines as the light of street lanterns dances across the slick stones. The cold fog chills the bones and shivers the soul of anyone outside. Yet inside these tavern walls the food is hearty and the ale is warm and frothy. A fire blazes in the hearth and the tavern is alive with the tumbling voices of country folk.
Suddenly, a hush falls over the tavern. Even the flagons of ale seem to silence themselves. The tavern door swings open. Framed by the lamp-lit fog, a form strides into the room. His heavy, booted footfalls and the jingle of his coins shatter the silence. His brightly colored clothes are draped in loose folds about him and his hat hangs askew, hiding his eyes in shadows. Without hesitation, he walks directly up to your table and stands proudly in a wide stance with folded arms.
His accented voice speaks, "I have been sent to you to deliver this message! If you be creatures of honor, you will come to my master's aid at first light. It is not advisable to travel the Svalich woods at night!" He pulls from his tunic a sealed letter, addressed to all of you in beautiful flowing script. He drops the letter on the table. "Take the west road from here some five hours march down through the Svalich woods. There you will find my master in Barovia."
Amid the continued silent stares of the patronage, the gypsy strides to the bar and says to the wary barkeeper, "Fill the glasses, one and all. Their throats are obviously parched." He drops a purse heavy with gold on the bar. With that, he leaves.
The babble of tavern voices resumes, although somewhat subdued. The letter is lying before you. Dated yesterday, the ink is still not dry and the parchment is crisp. The seal is of a crest you don't recognize.
Wintermoon was not a regular member of society though his wares had become well known to those seeking remedies. He has not need for much that Nature cannot provide but occasionally he must come to town trading furs and fresh herbs, delivering antitoxin and locally sourced organic healing potions.
Deliveries at night are much easier due to the lack of people about. Easier and safer for everyone. The local tradesmen are not inconvenienced as the years of study give Wintermoon's products superior craftsmanship for the area. He also doesn't ask for much in return, often accepting some nominal credit.
This night as he passes by the tavern, the usual ruckus spills from the door and window panes. Two average looking men are leaving in a drunken stupor. They scoff about something in an incoherent manner. One of them throws a slightly crumpled parchment over his head as they stumble down the road.
Wintermoon stoops to pick up the paper and discovers an invitation. Cowl drawn over head, Wintermoon turns to the tavern. This is not a setting he is comfortable with but he must find out more about this letter. He enters the tavern and looks about while gliding straight to the bar.
"Are you the master of the house? Can you tell me more about this? Who has been asked to travel through the wolf wood to Barovia?"
The barkeep looks at the hooded stranger and then at the letter. Then he chuckles.
"There was a gypsy brought one like this to them there," he says, pointing to the table where the rest of the characters are sitting. "You want my advice, I'd leave it be. Nobody goes to Barovia and comes back out, but the gypsies. The whole place is haunted, nobody lives there but ghosts. Why I remember, must have been fifty years back, when old Basil Rozske lost a goat and followed it down that road. Came back that night so scared he couldn't speak, and was dead before the morning. Never saw the goat again."
Cerin sat in quiet study of the free ale... as if concentration and time might improve the quality. He sipped it again.
Alas... but fair is fair.
He leaned over and retrieved the note left by the stranger. Producing a dagger, he cracked the seal, and unfolded the paper.
Leaning close to the nearest light source, he began to read out-loud, words forming under his breath.
Before he can finish though, he turns at the entrance of the second stranger. After the bartender's words, he grinned.
"It seems to me to be more of a general invitation, though I did not get far into it..." His eyes return to the paper.
"You want my advice, I'd leave it be. Nobody goes to Barovia and comes back out, but the gypsies. The whole place is haunted, nobody lives there but ghosts. Why I remember, must have been fifty years back, when old Basil Rozske lost a goat and followed it down that road. Came back that night so scared he couldn't speak, and was dead before the morning. Never saw the goat again."
Wintermoon peers over at the table and then back to the bartender. "The goat fulfilled its purpose in life. Basil could have seen any manner of beast that would render his soul inert. How he escaped such a beast is more important. He was a message to this town. And someone more substantial than ghosts lives there," Wintermoon raised the note, "the master of gypsies."
He turns and heads to the table of adventurers reading an identical letter.
A look at the seal on the letter depicts the sun rising over a tall castle on the edge of a cliff. Superimposed over the sun is the hilt and crossguard of a sword, whose blade becomes one of the rays of the sun.
The letter reads:
Hail to thee of might and valor:
I, a lowly servant of the township of Barovia, send honor to thee. We plead for thy so desperately needed assistance within our community.
The love of my life, Ireena Kolyana, has been afflicted by an evil so deadly that even the good people of our town cannot protect her. She languishes from her wound and I would have her saved from this menace.
There is much wealth in this community. I offer all that might be had to thee and thy fellows if thou shall but answer my desperate plea.
Come quickly for her time is at hand! All that I have
shall be thine!
Kolyan Indrirovich,
Burgomaster
While the letter Wintermoon has reads the same, it is in a much less elegant hand, and lacks the seal.
As you read, the quiet fades, as the patrons resume the business of eating and drinking. The barkeep shrugs at Wintermoon's words, troubled by the idea of what creatures may have done such harm to the old man. He turns to pour another pitcher of ale for a raucous table of farmhands near the fire.
Cerin finishes reading, and folds the letter.
"Barovia? Never heard of it." he glances around. "Any folk here familiar with Barovia?"
"The name sounds familiar, though I can't place it. But the seal is definitely familiar. This is a symbol of The Flame, more often used by crusaders and such. I wonder what business clerics of The Flame would have to the west..." his voice trails off as Anhur looks into the fireplace as though remembering something.
-Posted with Wayfinder
"Barovia?" says a man at the bar. By the standards of this village he might be nobility, in that he's a bit jowly and wears a clean shirt. "Grandfather said the vineyards there were famed once, but not a bottle's been seen from there in my lifetime. Nobody goes there because there's nothing there worth going to."
"Cursed, more like," one of the farmhands says, a big, sour-looking man. "No god-fearing man in his right mind would travel through those woods. The gypsies come and go, but it's known they don't have souls."
"You just say that cause your boy doesn't look a bit like you. Lucky for him, too," another says, and ducks out of the way of a half-hearted swipe. The insults and arguments that start to fly back and forth aer well practiced, and you get the impression that these men have these same arguments every night.
"Hm." Anhur shrugs off the words of the bickering townsfolk, still pondering the seal. He then considers the man who delivered the letter, remembering the encounter.
"You two, we must go there at once to quell this menace. There is a greater evil at work here. Something more sinister is afoot and this woman is just the beginning.
He pulls back the cowl from his head. A weathered middle aged man stands before them. His hair was shaggy but reasonably clean. Skin like leather showed more toughness than aged weariness. "I am Wintermoon. My studies have given me grave insight into a reckoning that is developing. I must face this challenge but I cannot do it alone."
He turns, to the rest of the tavern. "Are there no others that stand with us?!"
"No greater evil than that which chokes off a source of precious wine," Cerin says with a laugh. He indicates his now empty glass to the barkeep. "Nor the evil of unspent wealth... and, of course, those who would prey upon poor, hapless women. And steal goats."
He turns to Wintermoon.
"Let us not be too hasty, yes? Perhaps we wait until the sun makes an appearance before setting off into dark, unfamiliar woods, filled no doubt with terrors both unspeakable and numerous?"
"There is no terror greater than the blight civilization has wrought upon the land. But, these new evils should be dealt with soon."
"Settle yourself stranger, and tell me whether you feel safer tonight here in this civilized Inn, or out in those untamed woods." Anhur responds to the enthusiastic old man before turning his eyes again to the letter. "I think our messenger serves another interest of his own, but I can't be certain."
A man dressing in the Cossack of a travelling priest enters the room, with his hood drawn while it is still reeling from the announcement. Approaching the bar, the man asks for a mug of hot water and then takes a seat with the pint of ale that he is given. Giving it a smell, he wrinkles his face and passes it across the table to the human seated across from him saying "It is quiet in such a crowded inn. Have I missed something of import?"
Cerin slides the envelop and letter across the bar to Morgan.
"Read, and be enlightened."
Hello friend Wintermoon, I say and then dip my head and give him a wink as I go on, Love the name by the way, evocative, tranquil, and spooky. Sounds like someone needs help, and aren't we in the business of helping people? Does anyone know how far away this place is? Is it like just a short walk?
"Settle yourself stranger, and tell me whether you feel safer tonight here in this civilized Inn, or out in those untamed woods."
"Yes I would feel more comfortable in any woods before an establishment such as this. I am a man of simple means who prefers the company of none for reasons you may yet find disturbing."
"I'm afraid you would find company in those woods, man, though much rougher company than merely the brawling drunk." Anhur retorts as he waves at the room full of raucous men. "Man's devices serve both good and evil, but no city is so pure as the hand of a just god, nor any port so vile as the born, hatched, or raised scourges that roam our world. You needn't trouble yourself with men, stranger; there is plenty unnatural beyond the hewn walls of 'civilized' towns."
"And yet there is nothing natural within them..." Wintermoon turns and heads toward the nearest window. He peers out into the night scanning the sky. From a pouch about his waist he produces a single berry and begins chewing on it.
I mutter, as quietly as I can
Poets, sheesh,
Anhur shrugs. "Be as you will. As for me, I will be in my room until dawn or so. I'll see you two at breakfast-" he says, gesturing to Cerin and Jake, "-with whatever rabble you pick up from here to come with us. That is, if you're coming with me. I intend to go either way."
After reading the letter, Morgan says "I pledge on my honor and my life that this poor woman shall be saved, or I should be killed in the attempt. Should any of you be headed in the direction of this..." reads the letter again, "Barovia, I would be glad to join your crusade; But I am being rude. My name is Morgan Il'fayne, and I am a priest and holy knight in the service of my god, Thoth. When we gird ourselves for war, Thoth's servant shall bring me my armaments, and we shall lay these villains low."
Eventually, the group finds their way to their rooms. The beds are no more infested than any other inn, and certainly no less. The night passes uneventfully, and a rooster announces the approaching dawn when it is just a whisper of light on the eastern horizon.
Wintermoon is up before dawn. He slept out in the open on the edge of town and has now come back to the tavern. This lot seems strong. It would likely be less stressful to take on this endeavor together, he ponders to himself sitting on a stump out front of the tavern.
As dawn breaks so do several saplings blossom along the base of the stump.
Not long after the sun rises, Cerin awakens and dresses, donning his armor and belting on his sword.
He exits the tavern, and finds a suitable space out front. Drawing his blade, he begins his daily ritual. he levels sword at arms length, holding for a moment, and then dives into a sweeping routine. The blade sings through the air as the dance increases in speed and complexity.
A few moments later he pauses, again, blade leveled in front of him. He exhales, and sheathes the sword. Cerin turns, and spots Wintermoon, deep in his own meditation.
"We did not meet the night past. I am Cerin Etherstrom. It was Wintermoon, yes?" he extends his hand.
I'm ready to leave. When I wake, I am anxious, and excited and when I am packed I go outside and wait for someone to tell me when we are going, where we are going, and who is going to lead the way
Wintermoon rises as he steps down off the stump. "Yes I am the one called Wintermoon. Your swordsmanship is encouraging Cerin Etherstrom. I have a horse and cart prepared for the journey if you would like to stow your pack."
He takes the hand of the swordsman and with the other he directs Cerin's gaze to the cart off to the side. "Are there any others to be joining us?" he says as Jocelyn exits the tavern.
Wintermoon rubs both hands together, cups them as if forming a ball and opens them as if unfolding paper. Precito he whispers.
"I've a horse, but thank you. And I'm sure Anhur and the Il'Fayne fellow will be along shortly. They seemed... motivated enough."
Cerin then wanders over to the stables to prepare his horse.
A few half-hours into the morning, a robe figure strides out from the inn carrying a large pack. Several spear tips are visible over one shoulder while the sound of bolts rattling in their case accompanies every step. A crossbow shifts in and out of sight as it bumps along at his side, and a simple necklace bearing a symbol of fire dangles from his neck.
As he approaches Cerin and Wintermoon, he speaks. "Another day's greeting to you, stranger." He turns to Cerin, asking "Is this fellow to come with us then?"
Should I use my powers of invisibility for good or for evil?
Good morning Anhur, so it's just the four of us then? Or is that other fellow going to join us, I assume he is after that speech he made last night.
Wintermoon, excuse me, I don't want to seem rude, and if I am prying just tell me to bugger off, but what is it that you are doing? Are you a disciple of the wild, one of those people that some call, Druids? I've never met a real, actual practicing Druid before.
Wintermoon, excuse me, I don't want to seem rude, and if I am prying just tell me to bugger off, but what is it that you are doing? Are you a disciple of the wild, one of those people that some call, Druids? I've never met a real, actual practicing Druid before.
"It's no bother young lady. And yes, I am a student of the Old Faith. What you see here in my hand is the promise Nature will bring to us today." He holds out his hand and a shows her the puff of mist that slowly rises to form a cloud higher up.
"She says it'll be foggy this morning with potential rain later on." He closes his hand and the forecast dissipates. "The magic only foretells the day which is enough notice for me to prepare accordingly."
Up before the dawn, Morgan makes his daily devotions to Thoth, reading and praying with fervor before joining his companions for a simple breakfast.
Well I'll be go to heck. I've never seen anyone cast a spell like that before. Can you teach me how to do that?
Well I'll be go to heck. I've never seen anyone cast a spell like that before. Can you teach me how to do that?
"My... 'abilities' are a derivation of my stalwart devotion. The Old Faith requires a balance in all things. The lesson you seek is a different one than I can teach you for our connections to the Weave travel different paths."
Wintermoon reaches down to touch a budding weed in the ground at their feet. The bud blossoms into a bright yellow flower before them.
"I believe that fellow Morgan is just finishing up his breakfast. We should go ahead and prepare to leave. I'm sure he'll only be a moment." Anhur taps his staff on the cart. "Is this yours, old fellow?"
The west road is little more than an overgrown wagon track that cuts through the fields that surrounds the village. A few hundred yards on, where it enters the woods, a little search reveals a sign carved in wood that has been almost completely covered over with tangles of ivy.
"Svalich Road," the sign says, in elegant letters. Below, an elegant B started another word, but the rest of the letters have been scratched out. It now reads, "Beware."
"Hrm... Welcoming, isn't it?" Cerin says, before spurring his mount forward.
"I suppose we should do as the sign says. Such cryptic warnings are not wont to lie..."
Nobody tells me what to do! I say with a laugh. I then pick up a stone and scratch out the word Beware, and scratch the word "Welcome" above it.
Hey! Cerin, wait up I call out as hold my gear close to my body and run down the road to catch up with the mounted warrior when I realize he has moved on.
When I am again walking at a comfortable pace, I begin to get bored, and curious about the situation and I ask Wintermoon, So, Wintermoon, right, you think this woman is sick with some kind of plague, or are you thinking something supernatural is going on I then move closer and lower my voice, Do you think it could be some kind of demon possession, or a strange monster? I once heard a story of a kind of monster that can take your place and everyone thinks that the monster is actually you, but you get sick and start to slowly die, until someone drives the monster out of the disguise it's wearing, or something like that, haha, I really don't remember how it worked in that story, but it was a really scary story.
Anhur pauses for a moment as he has a flashback of the sign, almost as though he'd seen it before. His concentration is broken as Jocelyn changes the message and starts jabbering again. He continues silently, staff in hand.
Black pools of water stand like dark mirrors about the muddy roadway. Thick, cold mists spread a pallor over the road. Giant tree trunks stand on both sides of the road, their branches clawing into the mists. In every direction the mists grow thicker and the forest grows more oppressive
"Do you still have the road, Cerin?"
Cerin sneers at the change of weather. "Hardly." Cerin reigns in the horse to a stop, and then dismounts. "Light torches, and stay close."
He roots around in the saddlebag before producing a torch. A moment's scraping of flint and steel and it sparks to life. He then takes the horse by the reigns and leads it deeper into the mists, torch raised to ward off the gathering mist, weathered boots splashing in the mud.
Anhur offers torches to the others, but for his own part casts a spell upon his staff, causing the end to be wrapped in a glowing light.