The uninvited paladin encroached upon the hunched shoulders of the previously filthy man. Peering into the overdrawn hood of the fighter’s face, the affable knight inquired of his specific moniker. Where others historically would have referred to him as the vine of Vaasa, the champion had forgotten his lack of fame here, now drowned by the flooded obscurity plaguing the heroes marching deeper into Barovia. The bitter winds, though, quickly reminded him of the fairness of the query, just before Talran moved onto the tattooed trickster whose memory tended to escape his own trusted scrutiny. 

[color=navajowhite]"Egil."[/color] The reply, simple. 

The name offered a resonant token of appreciation for sharing rain after combat, for spilt blood remained ever thicker than congealed water. The crowded drops from heaven tumbled as viscous wingless angels; the adjudicating precipitation pooled and beaded off the eyebrows, like dangling swords of Damocles waiting to descend from furry ridges upon the chiseled frown formed by relaxed cheeks, each scarred, a myriad over, by close encounters of empty happiness. The doll eerily struck a chord of childhood reminiscence as bolts of fire chauffeured the lingering feathered scouts away whilst the puppeteer distributed and discussed the intricacies of a newly discovered map.

Was the handler, too, a denizen of Ravenloft? Like Markus? Even Anala questioned, [color=thistle]“Where did you find this?”[/color]

He had surely seen George before. Somewhere.

Was it from a disremembered nightmare? Or in person before the meeting with Starovir? The incomplete puzzle fragmented itself further from diagnosis as the haunting forest eventually elapsed into the festering village. Where a few smoldering chimneys, a wailing mother's howl and an old croon's tapping demonstrated signs of vibrancy in the weathered town, all eroded by the sin of jealousy.