[center][h1]The Village of Barovia[/h1][/center]

Eventually, the old Svalich road reaped a hazy miscarriage upon the pregnant horizon, as the staccato of marching hinted to a halt, respecting the scent of death so pervasive in the stabbing air. The path underfoot gave birth to slick, wet cobblestones, as towering homes and shops menaced over the ceased lead of Markus. The shuttered windows of each corrosive dwelling stared blankly out from fixed and dilated voids, unable to capture any stray ambient light. No sound amended the barring silence except for a woman’s mournful sobbing that echoed through the streets from a harrowing distance. As the smog occasionally burned off a sliver of transparency, the conception of a castle garnered a dazing graphic, looming over the heartless village, like an unholy stake piercing through into the broken sky.

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An encroaching resonance of small, rotten wheels rolling across damp stones suddenly drew ever closer. A hunched figure quickly appeared, bundled in rags, pushing a rickety cart, then soon stopped, leaving her wares to stroll to a burgundy door, whilst ignoring the travelers. With an outstretched fist, a rap beheld the wooden entry, as the kyphotic silhouette lingered, patiently waiting for a tasty retort.

>Two hours later, you are now in the Village of Barovia. An old woman appears to be knocking, about thirty feet from the troupe. Markus appears unobtrusive, in light of this visitation. The moans of a wailing mother can be gleaned. It is faintly raining.