stonegod's Expedition to Castle Ravenloft: Ch. I [IC]

[stonegod]

"Someone did a bit of redecorating recently." Daellin mentions. "When did the name of the tavern change?"

Ashlyn looks to the elf and then to the sign. She squints her eyes a moment, then seems to see what the elf saw. "I never noticed that before. 'Of' the Vine. But it does not look recent to me."

 

[stonegod]

"Forgive me Ashlyn, I have seen much horror today, though not a fraction of what you have witnessed. Please, I will purify myself and join you to speak to those inside," he says to the paladin, running a hand through his flame-red hair.

Ashlyn waves her hand, dismissing the apologies. "Be not concerned. I will stay out her for now---the dead rarely press the barriers more than once every few hours. However, I may call upon you all to assist watching the barrier later in the night. My wounds will require me to rest."

 

[DEFCON 1]

Jarrith's eyes are drawn to the sign that hangs outside the building, but as the voices and music hit his ears, he drops his gaze to the door, knocks one time, then swings it open to enter the establishment.

He takes a second to view the surroundings inside, catching sight of the people who sit there. The Flamist raises his hand in greeting and his voice is soft but unwavering. "Be at peace. My name is Jarrith Bronns, templar of the Silver Flame. I would speak to Ismark... son of Koylan Indirovich, Burgomaster of Barovia, I believe."

 

[GwydapLlew]

Ashlyn waves her hand, dismissing the apologies. "Be not concerned. I will stay out her for now---the dead rarely press the barriers more than once every few hours. However, I may call upon you all to assist watching the barrier later in the night. My wounds will require me to rest."

"Allow me to heal your wounds. It is the least that can be done for someone who has remained behind to defend these townfolk.:

 

[stonegod]

"Allow me to heal your wounds. It is the least that can be done for someone who has remained behind to defend these townfolk.:

Ashlyn nods gratefully. "At your leave."

[7 charges to heal her up as you are out of laying on hands IIRC]

 

[stonegod]

He takes a second to view the surroundings inside, catching sight of the people who sit there. The Flamist raises his hand in greeting and his voice is soft but unwavering. "Be at peace. My name is Jarrith Bronns, templar of the Silver Flame. I would speak to Ismark... son of Koylan Indirovich, Burgomaster of Barovia, I believe."

As the words spill from Jarrith, his mouth remains open in shock. Only during the Last War had he seen conditions so stark. The inn was old---centuries, at least---and on a good day could hold a score or more people in its common room. But now... Now, every space was taken by families whose life had been torn apart.

In the corner by the fireplace, a girl no more than four stared with haunted eyes at the fire. A girl, most likely her sister, sat by her, a bandaged arm hanging limp at her side. No mother or father comforted either of them.

Under a side table huddled three young tikes, one clutching a sickly looking puppy. The moment the door opens, they duck under it in fear.

On the stairs, three pair of mismatched faces only shared the same numb look. They leaned almost lifeless against the balustrades.

Every corner, every space was occupied by them. The living of Barovia. Perhaps the last of those who had not fallen. The last hold out in the tide of the black zombie plague.

Before anyone can answer Jarrith's question, the two men of dark complex push their was past, muttering something in a thick tongue, and rejoin another of their own sitting at a table. The get back to playing a game of cards, ignoring the sorrow around them. The townspeople give them a wide berth.

The barkeep, mindless wiping glasses that will never be fully clean, looks blankly at the Stalker a moment before answering. The man nods once in the direction of another mostly empty table. There, in a dark corner, sits a pale man of dark hair in what may have been fine fur clothes with rich trimming but are little more than dirty stale clothes now. The man nurses a glass of wine with a thick, red color, and only looks on silently at the newcomers, an inscrutable look on his face.

 

[DEFCON 1]

"I... I..."

Words do not do what he sees here justice. And so, the Shadowbane Stalker closes his mouth and says no more. He doesn't think anything he could say right now could be taken seriously, much less at face value. He'll argue religious dogma one-on-one for hours... but it's the inner light within Sir Khensu that can move men as a group. And so, he nods once to the barkeep in thanks, and makes his way through the throng of refugees.

He moves gracefully around the piles of people sitting, and finally stands before the man sitting at the table holding his glass of wine. Jarrith withdraws the letter that the Six had received on the road outside of town, and unrolls it before the man.

"Ismark Indirovich? My name is Jarrith Bronns. My compatriots received this letter via courier as we were advancing through the mountains. It is a letter from the Burgomaster of Barovia, asking for help in dealing with some witches up in the mountains. We would speak to the Burgomaster, who I've been told is your father. Might you know where we might find him, please?"

 

[stonegod]

"Ismark Indirovich? My name is Jarrith Bronns. My compatriots received this letter via courier as we were advancing through the mountains. It is a letter from the Burgomaster of Barovia, asking for help in dealing with some witches up in the mountains. We would speak to the Burgomaster, who I've been told is your father. Might you know where we might find him, please?"

The noble looks up at Jarrith with weary eyes, disinterested eyes. He looks at the paper a moment, then back at Jarrith, a look of distrust on his face. His words, like the messenger yesterday, are thick, though not as incomprehensible. "You are a sick man, to jest so, stranger. That missive is not of my father's. I would know the handwriting." He makes a dismissive gesture. "Leave me to my drink and play your outsider games elsewhere."

 

[DEFCON 1]

Jarrith shakes his head and takes back the scroll. He snorts in sadness once, then pulls out the opposing chair to sit down at the table. "This is no jest, I'm afraid. Nor any sort of game." He sits down gently and leans in to the young man, his voice full of sympathy. "We were brought here because of this missive, and if it was not of your father's hand... then someone else has done so. And by the look of things, this person misspoke when they talked of witches. It is the walking dead that is the problem."

Jarrith glances around the room, his heart thick with pity for these folks driven from hearth and home. "Am I to understand that because you saw this as a sick joke, that your father is not capable of producing such a letter? If so, my sympathies to you. I would have liked to have spoken with the man." Jarrith then stands up and places his hand flat upon the table. "Whatever the reason we were brought here... the course of my compatriots and I are clear. We will assist you all to combat this threat." He holds up the parchment and says in a loud voice to the rest of the people in the inn. "Would any of you be willing to look at this notice to see if you recognize the hand that wrote it? That answer may be a clue as to who is involved, or even responsible for the curse your town is now under. Please. We wish to help, but our answers have been few and far between."

 

[James Heard]

Great, Janis thought, Selase gets eaten on the way in and the people of the town are cretins.

Since it wasn't his father's hand, perhaps we have no reason to be here and we can safely leave this town and all of its drunk, rude inhabitants to their own devices?

Janis's eyes are cold, and the small snake at her throat hisses at the man's gesture.