A peculiar evening exhumed a quintet of eccentric souls. Somnambulism gingerly brought these living corpses, huddled together at the crossroads of a sinister reverie, under a cancerous miasma.

Amidst the murky and maddening laughter.

Two by two, adjacent sleep walkers were strangely birthed, untimely severed from the umbilical cord of reality that prompted their existence moments before, but still pregnant with deadly arms at their disposal.

A puppet and a paladin.

Then.

A pauper and a pariah.

They soon witnessed in the hazy distance, a dozen men and women, gathering around a crackling bonfire. The gypsies’ barrel-topped wagons were parked at odd angles. Carriages seemingly anchored as if no danger loomed in the whistling forest. Tied to a nearby tree, grazing, six draft horses bore bright coats. Their bangles and tassels audibly shivered in the frigid dusk upon them. The colorful folk appeared ostensibly in good spirits. A few of the prancers crooned and capered gluttonously around the flamboyant conflagration, conjured in preparation for the wayward night. Others searched fervently for beads of happiness in their flasks and wineskins. Wakes were funny that way, in bringing familiarity to strangers.

Mirth to the macabre.

The woods suddenly darkened as branches began to close ranks, their needle-covered arms interlocking to blot out any remnant of the unfriendly moon. The shroud of mist that covered the shifty ground turned into creeping walls of gray fog, silently enveloping, preventing any sight of the source of the twelve’s cackling, ghosts forever lost to the silver air. Eyes, unable to pierce more than a few feet in the glee’s direction, quickly misplaced the disappearing tracks of their impromptu existence, as a herald beckoned them.

"Welcome!"

---

---

Two by two they came, apart from her. She had been thrown our first it seemed, head swimming with strange premonitions and the swirling mire that was her memories, now filled with more unrest than ever before. Every twist and turn that fate and decision had conspired to lead her through hurried through her mind like thieves in the dark.

Most of them were pretty fucking terrible decisions, if she was being honest with herself. Brushing a strand of hair, now matted and dirty, behind her ear, she looked around at what was surrounding her. A thick, foggy haze, clinging to her face like spiderwebs. Her clothes barely kept the chill out of the air around her, leaving the creeping fingers to continue to caress her skin.

In front of her were... Travelers. Gypsies. Colorful, baubled people with horses all tied up and restrained. Her fingers played through the air and she felt the night solidify there, her face contorting into a grim sort of smile. Her patron, it seemed, had decided that his services would continue to be applied even here.

She was startled a little as more people came through. Strange fellows, all of them. Some bore chain, others tattered robes and leathers. Then came the herald's call, and her head whipped towards the source of the noise, even eyes trained to the darkness struggling to eke their way through the fog.

Brushing down the dirt off of her cloak, she took a half-step forward, before her hand instinctively went to her belt. The kiss of cold steel. Just what she always needed there. Adjusting her clothing a little to hide the knives better, she took her first proper step forward, raising a hand to her face. This was no dream. Pale skin stared back at her, each finger distinct and impossible to ignore.

"Welcome to where?"

---

---

The man carrying the puppet on his hand rubbed his eyes with the other. Something had to be clouding his sight. No fog descended and thickened this fast. Not at home in the least. But once the arm was removed from before his eyeballs and he allowed himself another look into the fog, he could only admit that it had done so here. He turned to look at his puppet, nodding after a second. Followed by his face turning quite grumpy. And then back to normal again. "That is more like it George...", those close to him could hear the man mumble.

With... whatever that had been out of the way, the hunched individual began taking slow and shaky steps towards the beckoning figure. The road crunched under his bare feet, his knees bucking perhaps a bit more than a usual person would. The face of the vagabond was difficult to read, the corners of his mouth shifting their alignment all the time. But he had been invited. Summoned. Called. That had not happened often in this land, if at all. And so he followed the summons, quickly peeking behind himself to see if his new friend also followed. It did seem so. Were the other approaching people friendly? Or even those that he moved towards? Betrayal, now that was no stranger to him. But he was willing to give them the benefit of doubt.

The "silence" of noises of merriment was broken again by one of the other approaching ones, a woman no less, asking a question. Welcome to where? "She has a point, George", the puppeteer mentioned to the one sitting on his hand.

---

---

It takes what feels like an eternity of monumental effort to lift his eyelids. For a moment, the man half-entertains the thought of closing them again, allowing himself to sink back into oblivion and away from the clutches of this wretched existence, this laughably futile struggle… But no, that will not do. He is still trying, after all, isn’t he? Besides, if only escape can be that easy…

Movement is like wading through an unholy mixture of lead, mercury, and toxic treacle bled by some flesh-devouring plant found in the depths of the Feydark. As usual. But pretending to be capable of ignoring the omnipresent ennui is also routine. The curious tingling on his skin as he flexes his muscles tell him that the Mage Armor is still intact, at the very least; it should last him quite a few more hours still. And he feels the familiar weight of his owl familiar, perched on his right shoulder, the bird’s pitch-black feathers almost blending into the misty gloom. The rapier, short sword, daggers, piece of carved ebony strapped to his left glove, and the pack of miscellaneous things he somehow manages to lug around despite the feeble strength of this body. They’re all still there. Good. Who knows what mischief the Jester may be up to this time, potentially transporting him without his equipment.

Come now, Zaerith. You know as well as I that in here of all places, I will not have you take chances. The words are serious, but the subtly mocking tone makes it impossible to take them seriously.

Pointedly ignoring the voice in his head, Zaerith instead casts his gaze toward those near him, likely other unfortunate souls who have been claimed by the Mists. An unusually pale man in chainmail. A grizzled warrior carrying a longsword on his back. A cloaked elven woman. And a barefoot man, with a strange posture and a… puppet on his hand? No matter. They will all be dust in the end.

A group of gypsies frolic around ahead of Zaerith, their carefree mirth a stark contrast against the misty gloom around him. Something that will no doubt be right at home in the Jester’s domain… But that’s neither here nor there. Cheerily, likely willfully ignorant of the newcomers’ plight, the gypsies bear them welcome.

To which the cloaked woman asks, “Welcome to where?”

“To the Demiplane of Dread, of course! Land of eternal darkness, forsaken by the gods themselves…” Zaerith's voice is raspy and gravelly with the usual bitterness, but the words flow out all too smoothly. Are they his own, or is the Jester speaking through him? He can’t seem to know or care. “I sincerely hope you have no pressing appointments elsewhere, because you’re going to be staying here for a long, long time.”

---

---

He gasped for air. The fighter’s grimy hands clenched the dirt as he rose to a new world. Egil clutched his battle stained war pick and squinted through sweat and his disheveled hair.

Must and fog seemed to swirl in the air, while shadows crept through the forest. It was quite unlike the dank pissed filled streets, he once roamed, with of the sound of slop buckets being splashed on the cobble stone streets, and toothless moans of the disinherited as they held out their hungry hands for coin and bread —This forest had an evil filth even the trees were not innocent.

Egil wiped the sweat from his brow and peered through the fog. In his battle stance, he inched toward the group and having already picked his first possible target, Egil readied his pick and said, “It's either it, or it isn’t. Speak fast or we begin.”

---

---

Sight eluded Talran for a little while, after he'd made friends with the man controlling... "George". He had to admit, the fellow's demeanor was still odd to him, but he was nonetheless charming in his way. Frankly, the fact that he managed to remain in sight of the man in question through this odd mist was all but miraculous, and he thanked Helm for his guidance in such trying times.

Nonetheless, it ultimately faded, revealing unto both Talran and the nameless puppeteer a caroling troupe of travelling folk, the colours of their carts and horses and their unique frolicking almost dazzling compared to the drabness of their surroundings. And as quickly as they were revealed, they vanished with a rustling of tree branches and a blotting of the sky, leaving only the voice of a herald calling to them, and a couple more accompanying the paladin and the puppeteer. The female elf to one side of him asked where exactly they were, and another continued where the herald left off, describing how they were stuck in a land of eternal darkness forever, forsaken by the gods themselves... the new voice seemed oddly familiar, actually. Like that of somebody he'd spoken with a decent while back, though he couldn't quite place whom.

'Oh, come now, surely it's not quite as bad as that,' Talran nonetheless admonished with a slight smile, observing the reaction of the other human and instinctively stepping toward him, the easiest way to help protect others who didn't need the harm. 'No need for a fight, my friend; we surely have time to discover what draws us together, in this place, since we don't appear to be in grave danger.'

---

Accommodating pupils witnessed scattered auburn islets of fervor aeronautically echoing Escheresque cartography and Dali-like landscaping, from the bonfire, fluxing smoke amidst the unraveling mist; reality’s backcloth had quickly dissected into visual pointillism, with the abyssal flames consuming but remnants of radiance and rock, as the herald’s owner, a cachectic elder, evicted from the memorial’s merriment and the sweet agony of martyrdom, approached the five. His right forearm wiped a smiling cheek, dripping a thin trail of blind tears. His conflicting burgundy and jade attire betrayed his sight and fashion, mirroring the absence of distress in his bleached eyes, as the tempter hobbled closer into view to better glean the friendly quibble between Egil and Talran.

'No need for a fight, my friend; we surely have time to discover what draws us together, in this place, since we don't appear to be in grave danger.'

Starovir finally cackled, to the blue-eyed blonde’s piercing miscarriage of an assessment. "Do not fret. Draw near. Be warm. We all have no wish to make enemies of Lady Eva.” His elbows spread wide, stretching out a facsimile of a crucifixion. “I would like to tell you all a story before we go.”

As the archaic silhouette heedlessly impregnated the silvery smog once more, several fresh garlands burdened over disturbed soil could be deciphered, only for a mere moment, from the puzzling horror, before a bubbling verdant flagon somersaulted, eventually landing afore the feet of the handler and the knight.

“First drink, then listen."

---

---

Most people around chose to respond to words with more of the sort. The question on the nature of the land was debated by a man of grim disposition and his new friend alike, both speaking past the man that had just welcomed them. How rude. But rudest was the man who prepared their weapon and threatened those around. The hunched man took a few careful steps away from the individual and slowly moved his left hand closer to the handle of his mace. Well, "his" as much as any rusted bludgeoning instrument found on the ground. But it was on his person now, and wasn't that what actually mattered here?

The herald joined the attempt of getting the aggressive one under control, assuring the fresh arrivals of those already gathered having no ill will towards them. The purple eyes of the puppeteer met the blank ones of the gypsy, questioning if they were as devoid of sight as they looked like. Yet they would welcome them all amongst them. A blind greeter, most unusual.

These musings were cut short by a flagon striking the ground before him, startling the man who had been too focused on his thoughts to register the approach of the flying object. With his already low stance, he needn't go through much trouble to pick it up in his free hand. The first thing he did was have George help him with the lid and smell the liquid. Was that... mint? More confused than a moment ago, he let it fall closed once more, just as they were all invited to drink. A drink before a story.

---

---

Many fights have gleaned across his eyes as many shouts of war have rung through his ears. This didn't look or sound like a fight. The worn fighter relaxed his grip and his stance. It seemed as though while the others were not lost, it was more than likely they didn't belong either.

Where Egil is from, a smile might as well be a knife in your back; neither heat nor hospitality comforted him. His dingy chain shirt made a dull clank as he carefully moved forward to take a look at the cup and its gift-bearer.

"I wouldn't drink from that."

---

---

Her fellows were already turning out to be a more than a curious bunch. The jester hadn't answered, but instead she had gotten a message from one of the compatriots. The Demiplane of Dread. Forsaken by the Gods. She let out a mirthless laugh. If the Gods didn't come here, she'd be more than happy to stay then. Of course, how her companion had known was a query in and of itself, and she would ask that at a more prudent time.

Then the bickering. The instantly-aggressive fighter, tempered by a man oddly comfortable... No, not a man. Another one of the races along with men. Not an elf, not one like her, certainly not, but for now she couldn't tell.

As the other man spoke, she nodded, cautiously. "True. Fighting would be mighty foolish." Looking at the tossed flagon, she stared at it. That seemed... Suspicious. Very much so. "Worst thing is it's poison. Not that bad."

---

---

Conflicting words rose from those around him. The herald who had welcomed them had implored them to drink and hear his tale, while the others seemed to think something was afoul with all this. In this realm that gods themselves avoided, there could be anything! Tales of treasure, of desperation, of love or perhaps loss? What the tales were mattered little, but he wanted to know them. If all it took to uncover these secrets was a sip from a slightly suspicious flagon that smelled like something he knew, he would take the risk.

Before raising the most unconventional tankard to his lips, he would glance at the suspicious ones from the corner of his eyes. "George would like to remind you that you are standing before the man who offered, criticizing, doubting, blaming", he notified the outspoken ones of their poor manners. And then he raised the pitcher higher, holding it in clear view for everyone to see. "A cup! A cup for thirsty lips who only have a tankard of the most inconvenient sort, please!"

---

"Of course. Ask and you shall receive. Gertrude, be so kind. To our guests."

The reply satiated itself only with service.

Soon, the enveloping mist once again separated its wispy constitution, not for Starovir, nor the feminine moniker's owner, but into an unseen sliver of air, now bearing five empty goblets, stacked and bubbling away from by the fireside to the new friendly puppeteer, in an oscillating stride. The flagon levitated again, to join this instance but without any savory gymnastics, by invisible means, eventually relatively higher than the towering column of cups, a shoulder-width away.

A flick of a latch later accompanied a verdant stream, quickly meeting the brim of covert civility and affording the imperceptible gesture to George's handler, as an ostracized cannikin, permeated with the liqueur of mint and volcanic ash.

The chalice lingered steadily, in the whipped ambiance, with succulent liquid, awaiting for a vise to grasp and possess the drink at hand.

---

---

How, ah... intriguing. Yes, that was likely the word to use, rather than anything more severe, when it came to both the imagery hidden in the smoke and mist and the cackling laughter of the traveller. Indeed, he seemed blind, crying perhaps from some malus associated with that blindness. Well, drat and blast. If only Talran could call upon Helm to bring sight back to this man's eyes, but that would likely require the power of a cleric, not a paladin, and one far more closely aligned with Helm's will than himself.

Yet, even he found the sudden, dramatic appearance of a flagon from the ground a perplexing and mildly concerning thing, even as it landed before him and the puppeteer. His new friend, and the puppet called George, lifted and smelled the concoction, Talran himself receiving a strong scent of mint even without directly scenting the thing, whilst the more aggressive member of their party bluntly stated how they wouldn't drink from it, and the elf suggested that the worst it could offer was poison in some form. It seemed, nonetheless, that the puppeteer was willing to drink, if only he might receive a cup to do so; promptly, "Gertrude", apparently the name of the mist or its puppeteer, offered up a set of five goblets, filling one with that mint flavored liquid and offering it to his self-perceptually-challenged friend.

'I, ah, I too shall request a cup of this fluid, then,' Talran agreed, smiling even though he still wasn't quite sure what that fluid actually was. Once it was offered to him, he would take the container he was given, but subtly wait to see who else took one for themselves, and indeed who would drink of their goblets and what, if any, effect such a drink had upon them, if he couldn't determine those effects from observation alone. His oath encouraged courage, but it did not then inspire discaution; he could not stop others from simply drinking if they truly wanted to, but could certainly ensure as many as possible remained safe.

A moment later, his worry was quelled. He did recognize this broth and its smell, after all. With a smile, he drank forth, savoring the flavor of a tincture he'd been privy to in the past - a bit of an acquired taste, but entirely beneficial, unless his senses truly were clouded. 'Worry not, fellows, this is a fine brew!' he confirmed, taking another sip, and feeling its invigorating effects take hold already.

---

---

Egil placed his war pick in his belt, observed the cups and shook his head in disbelief that one of the group had drunk from the cup. The fighter stepped back an studied the odd hued being. It was as though he were waiting for either the pale skinned one to die or to transform into something he might have to kill.

With his mind mostly set on the fact that there is no way in the underworld he was going to trust the gift bearer or the cup, Egil turned to the rest of the group.

"I will have my sword ready in the chance he turns." The fighter said while heartily tapping on the handle of his long sword.

---

---

With the example of his new friend, the man with the puppet grabbed another of the filled goblets, the one that he had specifically requested for himself and stared the brash man who had promised to have their blade ready for any transformations. With the eye contact established, he brought the cup to his lips and downed it in only a few gulps, as if accustomed to such moves. Without breaking the intense gaze for a second. "Then prepare for two of the sort, if all you do is seek to insult the generosity of others!" the man barked at the hooded individual. He very much agreed with the other man that had drunk: There was nothing wrong with the offering.

---

---

The warrior gives a signal of obvious aggression. But before Zaerith needs to do anything, the gruff man is stopped by the pale-skinned one in chainmail. That person seems to have an… odd aura about him, and Zaerith feels that he isn’t quite human. But the truth eludes him. The memories… They are fragmented, and of no help to him as of now. Like it almost always does. Such is his existence. But no matter; this need not concern him, not yet.

The tense atmosphere quickly dissipates as the gypsy herald approaches, moving surprisingly well despite his advanced age and the blankness of eyes that indicate an acute lack of vision. He tosses a large bottle of some bubbling green liquid, which somehow manages to perfectly land upright in front of the strange puppet-wielding man. To which the elven lady and the warrior rightfully react with suspicion. But the puppeteer is blithely unconcerned. At his request, five cups float toward the ragtag group, each carried by some invisible force, before the flagon pours itself to fill the chalices as if such a thing is perfectly normal around these parts.

Zaerith frowns, his scarlet eyes gazing intently at the empty air that carries the liquid-filled cups. For once the memories aren’t failing him. He knows what this is… Harmless. No need for concern. At least, as far as he can tell; who knows if it isn’t a front placed by the malevolent powers that fill this accursed place, a devious trap disguised as an innocent little spell, just waiting to claim the lives of those foolish and unsuspecting… But alas, if it can fool Zaerith, what can he do about it? Perhaps it will be interesting to see whose curse is stronger, those of this bleak locale or that which binds him to the Jester…

As one of the cups approaches him, Zaerith takes hold. The scent that drifts into his nostrils is mint, and… volcanic ashes? His eyes narrow. Raising the container and holding it close to his face, he scrutinizes the green fluid, giving the glass a few light taps here and there. Again, the memories are surprisingly reliable this time; he is reasonably sure he knows what the drink is. If this is real… There is no doubt that he should drink it immediately. He steals a glance at the gypsy troupe. Looks can be deceiving, and clearly someone in this whimsical group is capable of producing the drink that he sees before him. His muscles begin to tense. Perhaps this is a ruse to have the newcomers lower their guard? Do they need to resort to such when they are able to produce this feast in the first place?

Worry not, my loyal agent, the voice in Zaerith’s says after a chuckle of cruel mirth. You have my protection, do you not?

Once again ignoring the voice, Zaerith instead wonders if he should share what he gleaned with his newfound companions. On the off-chance that the gypsies mean harm… No, even if he can trust the strangers to fight alongside him for mutual protection, they cannot trust him. Not unless he does something about it.

“Worry not, fellows, this is a fine brew!” The pale man says, before taking a sip.

Ah, that makes his job easier. “He’s right,” Zaerith says, his tone even and smooth, as he gestures toward the pale man. “I know what this is. It contains potent restorative magic, able to fortify both body and spirit for a good day or so. Helpful especially in dangerous lands like this.” When he finishes speaking, Zaerith takes a sip from the cup. The taste of mint and ash flows down his throat, and within moments he feels its magic at work, easing the lethargy that perpetually shrouds his being. It will fade in time, but for now it will serve its purpose.

---

The unseen servants of the Vistani quickly verged upon all but one, providing grails, filled with the blessings and curses of exhumed pharaohs. The champion and his pirouetting shadow refused, despite the prods by the encroaching flames. The fog slowly dissipated its beautiful trauma, yawning out its vaporous confabulation to better encompass the five wayward souls, elaborating the dozen surrounding the sightless vizier. The man tilted his head, akin to a lost puppy, towards a teenage redhead, motioning and governing the movement of the full flagon and the dancing demitasses to its final resting place.

With one fell swoop, Starovir crowded his maw with the brew, then suddenly spat its quelled swelter upon the bonfire.


The conflagration jaunted from a callow auburn to a bitter olive green. As the fervent blades of ardor waltzed and flourished, a dark profile materialized from a myriad of nooks within the inferno’s core, coalescing into a knight mounting a dusky horse.

"We herald from an ancient land.” Trees and wagons could be gleaned within the blaze. “Whose name is long forgotten. A land of kings. Our enemies forced us from our homes, and now we wander the lost roads."

A scorching spear suddenly pierced the flank of the blistering shadow. Starovir continued.

"One night, a wounded soldier staggered into our camp and collapsed. Nursing him with wind and wine, he survived. We took him as one of our own. Pledging to return him to his birthplace.” The panorama of the blind seer perfectly pantomimed the unraveling series of events. “His enemies fell upon us like wolves. Howling and salivating: ‘He is a prince.’ Yet, we did not give him up.”

Deep in the fiery beacon, charcoal figures stood with swords drawn, fending off a host of smoky shapes. "We finally bore him. Unharmed to his home. He thanked us. 'I owe you my life. Stay as long as you wish, leave when you choose, and know that you will always be safe here.'"

The theatrical pyrotechnics swiftly dispersed in a hazy cloud of embers, whilst Starovir's face melted into a somber mask.

"A curse has befallen our noble prince. Turning him into a tyrant. We alone have the power to leave his domain. We've traveled far and wide. To find heroes. To end our dread lord's curse and put his troubled soul to rest. Our leader, Lady Eva, knows all. Will you return to Barovia with us and speak with her?"

---

---

And that was that then. The impolite man kept strong their act of refusal, while everyone else did indeed reach for the offerings of the floating goblets. Whatever theatrics had led to that happening, he cared little of. Everyone else had joined in the drinking though, so at least not all of the fresh arrivals were unable to fathom the basic concept of manners. And once the aftertaste of the quite exquisite brew had began washing away, it was time for the promised tale.

The man sat down on the ground to listen, his legs curled up against his upper body and his arms wrapped around them. His free hand ruffled the hair of his puppet, and he let the story flow in through his ears into his head. The flames withering around one another formed imagery befitting to the story, without burning those present or telling it. The loss of an ancient home to a departure rang bells in his head, but he dared not interrupt the telling.

The arrival of a prince, the wounding of such. Healing. Becoming blessed vassals. The only ones ever allowed to leave from the now tyrant's land. It was all very interesting and definitely worth any risks taken in downing the drink. As if there had been any risks in the first place. But now they wanted them to do something about it. Perhaps. But only if there were more secrets to be found behind it... He lowered his knees down to the ground and brushed George's messy hair back into straight locks behind his back. "George would like to ask a few questions, if he may", the man requested permission from the herald.

---

The elder eyed the groomed puppet, curiously feigning a child with ocular recognition and intent.

"An inquisition would be fitting."

He coughed, not to ritualistically clear his throat, but out of frailty of the cancer brooding within. Then, with a sluggish swivel of his chin, surveying the mantle of darkness around the bonfire, he finally proclaimed.

"Verdicts do require counsel and cross examination." Starovir seemed to offer the invitation to all. "Prey away."

---

---

Egil stood barely making out what seemed to be ephemeral entities crowding about the fire. The odd looking human was talking to a cloud, as the fighter looked upon curiously.

---

---

With the permission of the man who had told the story, the puppeteer nodded and raised the puppet into a slightly more prominent position. Despite him claiming it was George who wanted to ask those questions he did not even attempt any tricks, instead speaking directly and visibly through his own mouth. "The first thing is, if this is the land of your prince turned tyrant, where did you meet him? Not your own home, correct?" The puppet's head leaned to the side as the two part question was asked, conveying the feeling of curiosity.

"The other question he has for you is... who is your prince? What is his curse, in particular? You call him a tyrant who oversees all departures and had now blocked them off. This all sounds very powerful", the man added, nudging the head of his puppet back upright. Some of those questions would likely be left for later, for this Lady Eva, but all one could get to know before promising anything was a bonus.

---

---

Gladly, Talran sipped his brew, listening to the tale of the soldier unveiled as a prince, and indeed of the prince-turned-tyrant, if what they said bore true. And why shouldn't it? The Heroes' Feast proved their relatively positive nature, after all. The puppeteer asked if George could ask them some questions, only to ask them himself, where they met the prince, who he was and what his curse inflicted upon him. All perfectly valid questions, frankly, and perhaps worth adding to.

'I reckon it is worth asking, as well,' Talran offered, 'how antagonistic exactly the prince is. Will he be peaceable enough to those who are not strictly his foe? Or will he attack us on sight, maybe even send his soldiers after us the moment word reaches his ear of our quest to find him?' Not that that changed Talran's mind, of course; he felt it was probably worth trying to save this princely figure, at the end of the day, whether or not he found their number to be an upset to his personage.

---

Starovir stared at the puppet and answered the initial query. “We are outcasts from Oryndoll. Led by Lady Eva, our eternal mother. We resurfaced originally upon the Vilholn Reach, before venturing the first of us into the mists of Gulthfere Forest and now here, upon the request of our prince.”

The elder refocused upon the matter of their lord.

“In life. Strahd von Zarovich. Lived as a soldier. Before becoming a tyrant. After the assassination of his father, King Barov, Strahd waged long, bloody wars against his family's enemies. He and his army cornered the last of them in a remote mountain dale before slaying them all. This valley became named Barovia. In honor. Of the recently deceased.”

A sigh pierced the bated inhalation of the man.

“Peace made the new ruler restless. Unwilling to go the way of the previous monarch, Strahd forged a pact with the Dark Powers. In return for the promise of immortality. However, jealousy is known to be a green eyed monster.”

The wreaths around his charcoal pupils, no longer washed out by the sins of an uncontrollable power, suddenly sprouted a jade hue, sparkling with sight, accommodating the lack of light in relation to the shadowy crew about him.

---

---

Ha! The voice in Zaerith’s mind barked out a harsh sound that he alone can hear. And there we have it! There was never a true cause to doubt my capabilities and my promise, my dear vassal, now was there?

For once, Zaerith felt humored enough to respond. Let’s not kid ourselves here, my liege. This was but mere happenstance and we both know it.

Regardless, this is your chance, is it not? The voice beginning to fill with the sadistic glee that was the one thing Zaerith knows all too well.

There was no longer the need to reply, not to the obvious. There was, however, the need to ask further questions of the blind storytelling gypsy.

“You say you are looking for heroes, to end your lord’s curse,” Zaerith began, “but how can you be sure that we are at all even capable of helping?” He raised the goblet in his hand and tapped on it, causing what remains of the green beverage inside to shake. “This drink you gave us, it is powerful magic. Far beyond what I am capable of. If you have the power to produce such magic, yet you cannot win against this prince of yours, what hopes can I possibly have?”

---

“This magic?”

Another empty chalice climbed the palmed atmosphere like an annoying stigmata, as the rhetoric beget a stashed answer.

“Mere parlor tricks. Mystical, but fleeting. Hoarded like leavened manna. Now bursting with worms. Our powers do not reliably endure in this blessed land. Consistency is required to save our lord.”

His outstretched arm clenched the cupped trophy, now bearing several maggots, while he glared into the reincarnated eyes of Zaerith.

“If there are no more questions, we should be off.”

---

---

"You did not answer my question," Zaerith's eyes narrowed. "I asked how you expect the likes of me to help. Somehow I doubt the humbleness regarding the extent of your arcane power will improve my chances, and who is to say my powers can endure in this land any more reliably than yours?" Who knows, perhaps these people don't actually have any solid reasons to place any trust in the abilities of this ragtag group. Perhaps they're grasping at straws, approaching anyone who may remotely have a chance, hoping that one of them will succeed sooner or later. Which isn't very likely, given the track record of this "prince" of theirs...

Of course, there was no reason Zaerith could actually refuse, due to the very nature of this request. But the gypsies did not know that. And nor can Zaerith even trust the words coming out of the blind man's mouth. Unfortunately, there were no other leads to follow.

"Regardless, I happen to know of this prince you speak of." Zaerith's face was a carefully maintained mask of neutrality. "Not much by any means, but enough to tell me that he may have what I am looking for. So at the very least, I will meet with your Lady Eva and listen to what she has to say." Then he turned his face to the others, waiting to see if they have anything else to say.

---

---

The fighter distrusted magic in almost all of its forms and especially in a forest such as this.

"Enough with this nonsense," Egil stepped forward and looked around at the hooded man. "Who is Lady Eva?"

---

The unseeing gypsy juggled and answered each inquiry.

Simultaneously.

“Lady Eva knows.” He pitched each of the burrowing larvae onto the forest’s topsoil as the goblet hovered. “The seer who has prophesied both deaths of our Prince Von Zarovich. You are not the first to be called upon by Her.” Tremors abruptly inaugurated writhing insects constructing sultry steeds, mostly coalesced by worms. Slowly the squirming institution of six charcoal horses emerged. All equipped with a midnight-black saddle, stirrups and reigns. A quartet of helical extremities constantly shifted under the pugnacious thoraces of the still mounts, swirling like tornadoes born from a nascent thunderstorm. Whilst the ocular orbits were adorned with a pair of crimson beetles whose posterior wings served as scarlet eyelids, that never opened.

“Hopefully, you will be the last. Markus, please escort our friends to the gates.”

The mouthless proprietor of the cup finally materialized in plain sight, shedding his invisibility and hopping swiftly onto the leading mare.

Many of the Vistani began to evaporate once again into the mist, silently in the direction of their wagons. Starovir birthed parting words, before embracing the silvery air.

“Until we meet again.”

As the chaperone trotted forward, towering trees, whose innumerable canopies lost forever in heavy smog, continued to block out all but a death-gray light. The trunks lingered unnaturally close to one another, and the eerie timberland still possessed the silence of a forgotten grave. The collective softened hoof beats exuded the pity of an unvoiced scream. The scent of exhumed tombs frequented the air once fog spewed out of the forest to swallow up the road behind the remnant of the treading cabal.

Ahead, jutting from the impenetrable woods on both sides of the path, stood high mesolithic buttresses looming grim in the hoary haze. Huge iron gates hung like nooses, precariously on the intricate stonework, worthy of dwarven appraisal. Dew clung with cold tenacity to the rusted bars, hoping to hinder another droplet’s inevitable descent to the depths below. Two headless statues of armed guardians flanked the metallic portal, their bald heads tossed now lying among the weeds at their feet.

Their lack of smiles invited all with disappointment.



Markus suddenly galloped onward.

---

---

Both the puppet as well as the man in whose hands it was carried in turned to look at each person that spoke, curiosity reflecting in the more lively pair of the eyes. The answers of the storyteller flowed through the man's ears into the mind, but did not bring up any visible reaction. Other than perhaps a twitching of ears.

With the horses rising off the ground, so did the man, approaching the "animals" with a cautious gait, but once again curious gaze. A hand laid upon the mount's surface relied the knowledge of them being sturdy enough to sit on, and though climbing atop a horse with one hand was not what one often preferred to do, George needn't help his puppeteer in the task. Though now sat atop the horse, a certain modicum of care was still maintained. As if fearful of the swarm collapsing under one's weight.

"Until we meet again", the storyteller found their words repeated back to them by the voice of George upon their departure. These were interesting people. Mayhaps they had still secrets left to tell? Their next encounter would be something to look forward to, to be sure.

The realm around them all and its gloominess were, at this point, no strangers to the puppeteer who kept following their guide. The sounds of the environment did raise the level of alertness in the traveler, but for the time being everything was just fine. Suddenly, new sounds. Ones that gave reason for worry. And as if on cue, the guide took off. The reason was understood, or so the man with the puppet at least hoped as he encouraged his horse to follow at the new brisk pace. No matter the statues now. They could not afford losing their guide to this Lady who led all the Vistani.

---

---

They had arrived.

The gates.

She had read of them, of course. Heard oft them, as one of her possession almost had to do after a certain time. Expect herself to stare at grim-faced statues, wide doors, taller than any being in creation? No, no she had not. Instead she found herself experiencing emotions that, when combined into one singular idea, came out as something along the lines of a mildly concerned 'fuck me.'

Their guide suddenly galloped onward... Well, slowing would be foolish. Her mount was spurred onward, in order to keep up. Losing sight of their prize now would be... Unfortunate, to say the very least.

---

---

The mounts were certainly of a unique sort. Who ever heard of a horse made of worms, after all? Nonetheless, Talran found himself mounting one of the beasts, and wishing the travelers farewell in his own right as they escaped into the shadows. A unique situation, but overall worth the time.

In due course, the party made their pleasant way to the gates, borne by their insectile steeds as readily as any usual horse would. What immense architecture - and so well-fashioned, save whatever stone had failed to deter the decapitation of the ancient guardians on either side of the doorway. Then again, perhaps that had been intentionally performed, and if so... who would take the time? Curious, curious. The elven woman's sentiment summed up the feeling of awe but crudely.

And even more curious, the decision of their guide Markus to suddenly charge ahead. Was that usual? No, perhaps not, if Talran's puppeteering ally and samesaid elf began to gallop after him. Perhaps wise, then, to ensure Talran himself kept up; he in turn took off after his allies, spurring his steed to a gallop as well. What might have triggered Markus' flight, he wondered?

---

---

Hearing the howling in the background, the fighter scanned the ominous gates and turned to the group, "There's something coming. Hope you all know how to fight."

Shaking his head as the others took off, Egil drew his long sword and dug in his heels.

---

---

Zaerith focuses his gaze on the horse composed of writhing insects, another strange thing offered to him by this strange group. Interesting… From what he can tell, the steed is not unlike his own familiar in nature, though powered by forces more druidic than wizardly. Like the verdant brew he consumed earlier, the mount does not seem intent to bear him any harm. He should probably trust the Vistani to not suddenly turn on him, at least for now.

Besides… They can’t kill him anyways. And if it turns out they can, won’t that simply be the release he’s been looking for this whole time?

The mass of chittering bugs is not the most pleasant of things to look at, but he’s seen far more gruesome things. Without a word of complaint, he mounts the grotesque construct, finding it to be far sturdier than its appearance suggests. Yes, this will do.

…

As they come upon the decapitated statues guarding the gates into Barovia, Zaerith resists the urge to grimly chuckle. How fitting, if nothing else.

But before he has the opportunity to take in the scenery more carefully, the group’s guide suddenly gallops on ahead for reasons unknown. This… Could this be a trap after all? No, he should not jump to conclusions; there may well be other circumstances. And it appears that most of his other companions agree. In such a case, there is little else to do other than to follow.

---

Notes of defiance, beheld by the galloping ears above the worms, almost of contempt, rang in approaching howls, as if beckoned by the hissing forest to welcome their quarry to Barovia. The marching faction’s guide halted, peering into the whistling brush, as a once distracted mongrel, dire for blood and gore, masticated sinew off aged flesh, now wailing, in between bites, to hail his brethren.

Growls, then fanged fur, disrespectfully and quickly surrounded the quintet, besieged by the promise of stifled sport. Several murders of crows soon flocked to the enveloped trees, lingering on faded sycamore branches in hopes to not only spectate the potential massacre but secure any taxed carrion.

Markus barked, “To arms. To the gates.”

A shimmering sword emerged from a hidden scabbard as the insects beneath him accelerated their sprinting rumble.

---

---

To the gates. Yes. Getting surrounded was no good, that much anyone could tell. With the guide showing clear intention of moving in accordance to their own suggestion, George's handler encouraged his horse to run as fast as it could. Middle of the enemy was no location to be in. The hoof-beats of the horse diverged to the left as its rider sought the path of least resistance. Be it there was a tree, trees did not bite like large wolves did.

But only moving onward was not the plan here. They needed to give the enemy something to discourage them from following, be it the wild animals could well be rabid enough to not understand what was good for them if it introduced itself politely. No, the first thing they would do was likely an attempt at eating it. But a generous application of a blunt instrument often made the beast conduct itself in a civilised manner. Now the tool of harm might be different, but the message would remain.

A superior mind would meet that of the lesser creature, as the rider upon the swarming puppet of an animal would focus on the act of harming the wolf through force of will alone. The mental might crashed against that of the dire beast, knowledge alien to its simple mind forcing itself into its thoughts. He had acted. It was now the time for others to do the same.


Round 1 - The Unnamable

The ravens’ cackling amidst the leaves reached a chattering frenzy, where only those dead and deaf enough could harbor in silence against the unintelligible rants. Their charcoal eyes witnessed the nameless man, whom cradled the puppet, mystically injure the pack’s alpha. The cur’s scarlet eyes dripped with tears of pain and fiery ire, barely glimpsing the sprint to the gates as the mutt’s mind burst aflame.

The rage bellowed a reckoning though.

And…

Markus’ proximity hailed the impending storm.

The fulminant claws erupted first on the foal of maggots, wreaking havoc and dissipating the ranger’s steed into the mouth of the seething beast. Now prone, Markus coughed blood, while beholding afar two wolves upon polar crags, attempting to descend the flanking precipices. Both were graceless tumbles; one suffered a myriad of lush bayonets composed of thorns and branches, piercing fur, while the other stomached an early but unanticipated slumber.

Leaning on the hilt of his blade, and gleaning over his shoulder, he stood and appreciated the skillful polish of Egil, dodging the nips of another hoary hound. The Vistani then span, swiping the humming steel one handedly against the pair of mutts, missing his intended target, but sheathing its edge into the hide of the adjacent predator. Once married with the dog’s flesh, electricity hissed more boisterously than the surrounding fowl’s incessant hoots, hushing the birds into an intermission.


Round 1 - Dire Wolves and Markus