The Weary Horse Inn
To seasoned adventurers such as yourselves, 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 souls 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. The local customers keep their voices low, and the even the clinks of the mugs seem subdued as the fog gathers outside.
When the door opens, every head in the tavern turns. Even the flagons of ale 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 the shadows. Without hesitation, he walks to the center of the room and stands proudly in a wide stance with folded arms.
His accented voice speaks, “I have been sent to deliver this message to the heroes amongst you. If you have honor, you will travel to my master’s aid at first light. It is not advisable to travel the Svalich woods at night, the dark forests of Barovia are filled with wolves.”
He pulls from his tunic a sealed letter, addressed to “Saviors.” He drops the letter on the table. “Take the west road from here some thirty miles through the Svalich woods. There you will find my master in Barovia.”
Amid the continued stares, he strides to the bar and says to the wary barkeep, “Fill the glasses, one and all. Their throats are obviously parched.”
He drops a purse heavy with gold on the counter and leaves.
The babble of tavern voices resumes, although somewhat subdued. The letter is lying on the table before you. Dated yesterday, the ink is still not dry and the parchment is crisp. The seal is of a crest you do not recognize.
Barovia. The worms creep beneath our floors and our streets, they feast on the flesh of our dead. High in the castle, the once lord is no longer, the new lord is not yet, without form, void. All is void and vanity.
Ireena, Ireena, Ireena! Long have I kept you at my side, long will I keep you close to my heart! Save my Ireena!
I am the Burgomaster. The Master! Kolyan am I! Soon the worms will feast on me!
Come! Do not tarry!
