Following Merrick's lead, Petracleus has also drawn his weapon...the blade of his rapier cutting through air as he swiftly turns this way then that...constantly on the look out for movement. Musing out loud, Petracleus wonders, "How fresh was the 'kill'? Any chance that a wolf pack could still be close by?"
As he talks, his voice quickly turns to song, the opening refrain of a stirring hymn - sung in a dialect that none present can quite understand - that bolsters the spirits of all who hear it.
Damion grips is sword tighter and look about warily, 'Invisible wolves?"
"Or spirit wolves," Countessa suggests, almost too quietly to be heard.
"Some kind of crazy druid, then? But it seemed to affect only Verran...maybe some kind of debilitating mind effect?" The warrior shudders. He didn't mind a solid foe in front of him, no matter the size. He was far less certain of the arcane.
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"I'm...I'm not sure" Verran was still trembling and stuttering as he got the words out. "One moment I was being mauled by wolves and then, they were gone. I don't know what it was, honestly, I don't."
Using the Dwarf for support, Verran works himself to his feet. Picking up his mace, he slowly backs away from the corpse.
”Sometimes the nature of a person’s death – be it violence or some other great suffering - can leave a scar upon the material world. Negative energies or spirits, still somehow crying out for succour, can blight an area…maybe that is what affected Verran here? The nature of his vision, being savaged by wolves, when he attempted to examine the remains would seem to suggest so."
"I suppose the next question is what we should do about this – I have read that these spirits can stay disquieted for an eternity unless the manner of their death is either discovered or somehow avenged. Should we hunt these wolves, as they once hunted this man, or should we return to the trail and the task at hand?”
Petracleus is clearly conflicted by the choice they find before them, ”I hate to leave this man’s spirit in anguish but the wolves are, in all likelihood, long gone… I suggest we return to our horses and keep our appointment”
"I agree Aymehn, it would be a poor thing to allow some other traveller...or worse still, a child...to suffer the same pain that our friend endured. Would leaving some form of a notice or fencing the area suffice?", Petracleus tries to suggest a pragmatic solution.
"I agree with Petracleus. By now, his attackers have moved on. There is little more that we can do. As for children playing in this thick tangle, I can't imagine it happening. I suppose it could, but still, I see no evidence of such."
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I hope this works.
"Everyone stand back. This may not go as planned."
Aymehn digs into his pack, carefully removing a glass flask of acid. Aymehn takes several steps back in the interest of safety, and then tosses the acid, flask and all at the poor man's remains.
The flask safely headed toward its target, Aymehn stretches his hands before him, calling to Mother Earth to provide him aid.
Merick grimaces as the acid starts dissolving the corpse, handing the shovel back to its owner. Seeing that this situation is as solved as it can be, he makes ready to proceed.
The flask of acid breaks open on the back of face-down corpse. Many maggots twitch, wither, and die where the liquid spilled, and a patch of the corpse's leather jerkin fizzes and melts away.
Merrick struggles with the shovel. Even after Aymehn called to the spirits of the earth to loosen and soften the ground, it is still riddled with thick, twisted roots of trees. It takes about half an hour to chop through the roots and dig out enough for a shallow grave that's three feet deep. You pull the man out of the brambles by his clothes, roll him over, and place him in the grave. You can all see that he has been mauled by wild beasts.
As you are about to start shoveling earth back into the grave, you notice a bloodstained envelope sticking out of his jerkin.
You retrieve the envelope before burying him. After the burial is over and Verran speaks a few words, you open the envelope. Inside is a letter, dated one week ago. The letter is penned in a cramped, rushed hand. It reads:
31 Pharast 4709
Hail to thee of might and valor!
I, the Burgomaster of Barovia send you honor—with despair.
My adopted daughter, the fair Ireena, has been these past nights bitten by a creature calling its race “vampyr.” For over 400 years, he has drained the lifeblood of the people of Barovia. Now, my dear Ireena languishes and dies from an unholy wound caused by this vile beast. Yet I fear, too, that the creature has some more cunning plan in mind. He has become too powerful to fight any longer.
So I say to you, give us up for dead, and encircle this valley with the symbols of good. Let holy priests call upon their power that the evil one can be contained within the walls of weeping Barovia. Leave our sorrows to our graves, and save the world from this evil fate of ours.
There is much wealth entrapped in this community. Return for your reward after we are all departed for a better life in the Great Beyond.
Kolyan Indrirovich,
Burgomaster
"So... The same 'Burgomaster' who is offering us wealth beyond comprehension just yesterday writes to someone else not one week ago giving up the valley as lost. There is devilry at play here my friends... All is not as it seems and we must be beyond cautious in our actions and in our dealings with Kolyan Indrirovich... If he yet lives"
Turning on his heel, "Let us leave this poor wretch and find our horses"
"The place sounds more charming by the minute." Merick fills in the shallow grave, saying a quick prayer to Pharasma to quickly guide the man's soul to his afterlife before rising to continue on.
"There is definitely something queer going on, I agree. All the more reason to figure it out. What use is being an adventuring party such as we are if we don't investigate such a dark place?"
"Well, we have his name so I suppose we can notify his kin...if we live."
Damion frowns at Aymehn, "Are you sure?" He looks around in disgust, "This would be easier without all these stupid trees. Very well, lead on."
Petracleus follows his dwarven friend closely, marvelling at his unerring ability to see the route back in such dense foliage - only once does the bard suggest a different direction, "Aymehn, over there...the snapped branch...I caught that on the way following the trail here...we should head that way"
Countessa, uncertain what signs to look for or even whence they came, mutely follows the others.
As you pick your way through the dense, misty forest, the sights seem unfamiliar to you-- as if the forest itself moved after you passed through. Still, with the assistance of Daimon and Petracleus, Aymehn is able to guide you, following your own tracks back.
As you break through the undergrowth onto the lonely road, you hear the howl of a wolf behind you, somewhere in the mist-shrouded forest. While your horses seem none the worse for wear, they visibly tense at the sound of the baying.
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Aymehn spins on his his heels, knuckles white as he grips his sling.
"IF YOU FLEA RIDDEN SCOUNDRELS ARE GOING TO ATTACK, THEN GET ON WITH IT!!"
The combination of the evening's discoveries, including the discovery of the letter on the desiccated corpse, has obviously gotten to the usually calm and collected druid. Tired of being pursued by an unseen stalker, Aymehn accompanies his aggressive shout into the forest with an equally aggressive search of the woods.
Countessa suppresses a shudder. "Can we just get going? Please?"
Agreeing with the lovely wizardess, Merick mounts his horse. He waits patiently for Aymehn to work out his frustration, for the warrior is feeling it, as well. Until or unless the wolf pack made an appearance, it was just wasted energy, though. Once everyone is mounted up, the fighter starts back towards the village they are trying to save from whatever calamity is happening.
Sword to hand, Petracleus brings his horse in line behind Merrick...
...remind me never to pass this way at night...
Verran follows suit with the rest of the group. He, as much as anyone, wanted to put this place far behind him. However, he was getting a distinct feeling it wouldn't be that simple. This whole situation was bearing all the elements of a well planned trap.
Mounting your horses, you ride into the misty gloom. The howl of a wolf calls behind you, followed quickly by a second. The sound fades quickly as you ride down the road.
The road turns to the west, and the trees on either side open up. Through the mist, it's impossible to determine whether the road leads through moors or farmland.
After not quite an hour of riding, the diffuse daylight begins to fade as afternoon turns to evening. Tall shapes loom out of the dense fog, and muddy ground underfoot gives way to slick, wet
cobblestones. You pass a dilapidated wooden signpost that reads, "Welcome to the Village of Barovia." As you draw closer, the tall shapes become recognizable as the dwellings of a village. The windows of each house stare out from pools of black nothingness. Nothing moves nearby, though the mists limit visibility.
You follow the cobbled street west for about 50 yards and come to an intersection. A signpost on the corner indicates that you're on "Main Street," wich continues west, and the cross is "Village Avenue," heading north and south.
The sun must be setting now, as the light of day is fading.
Thinking that any Inns would likely be on the main thoroughfare, Merick continues down Main Street, his eyes open for the telltale lights and smoke from an Inn. His guard relaxes slightly as they canter slowly through the streets, being in civilized lands once again.
A chill runs down Petracleus’ spine as his horse slowly walks along “Main Street”, keeping a watch for any movement or sign of life, he leans towards Aymehn, ”Not the most welcoming of places my friend…tell me, does your renowned sense of direction suggest where the nearest hostelry may be? This journey has taken far longer than expected and our horses could use a rest”
…we’ve left the wolves behind us…but what have we walked ourselves into?
The bard leans forward and whispers soothing words to his horse…
Countessa is not so relaxed, remaining vigilant.
A wry smile flicks across Petracleus' face... Aymehn's light-hearted observation lightening the oppressive mood that seemed to pervade Barovia
The 'clop-clop' of your horses' hooves on the cobblestones is the only sound you hear as you slowly make your way down this somber town's street. Still, you see a few signs of life as a few of the windows of buildings you pass light up with a candle or lamp.
Main Street ends in a circular plaza in the middle of town. A marble fountain stands in the center of the plaza. The marble statue appears to have spouts for water to flow into the basin, but none comes out.
From here, you can make out two larger buildings adjoining the plaza. To the south, thee sparse light from a building spills out from behind drawn heavy curtains. A sign over the door creaks on its hinges, proclaiming this to be "Bildrath's Mercantile."
To the north, a single shaft of light thrusts into the main plaza, its brightness like a solid pillar in the heavy fog. Above the gaping doorway, a sign hangs precariously askew proclaiming this the "Blood on the Vine Tavern."
Merick chuckles grimly as he reads the sign for the tavern. He shouldn't be surprised, but he is a bit relieved to find that he still has a sense of humor, even if it is a bit dark. He dismounts, leading his horse to a beam to tie it to outside of the tavern.
He waits for everyone to get dismounted and settled, then proceeds inside, wondering what the inhabitants of such a place might be like.
Damion gives Marick an odd look, "Why is that funny? It seems pretty bloody ominous to me."
Petracleus, tethering his horse, raises an eyebrow at Merick’s chuckle…
…what’s so funny?
…and then, carrying his wrapped violin beneath his arm, follows the soldier into the tavern.
Countessa follows the others, somewhat more subdued. "I agree with Damion. It seems more sinister than amusing."
"Oh please! You all lighten up...it's just some painted words on a sign. The day I shrink in fear from graffiti is the day I hang up my adventuring boots." The warrior enters the tavern with the others, looking for a place to sit.
Entering the tavern, you can tell that it was once finely-appointed, but has grown shoddy over the years. A fire blazes in the hearth, providing some warmth against the damp chill of the evening. Dust and cobwebs drape the antlers of a stag's head mounted over the hearth. Four sturdy-looking but worn round tables stand in the barroom, each with a few shabby-looking wooden chairs or benches.
Just five people are in the tavern. Behind the bar stands an overweight man in an apron, cleaning glasses with a rag. At the the table nearest the fireplace sit two women and a man. All three are dark-haired and wear traditional Varisian garb of loose-fitting, brightly-colored clothing. In a back corner sits a brown-haired man of about 25 years, drinking wine from a large goblet. The bottle in front of him seems only about a quarter full.
All of the people in the room look up at you as you enter, all of them with a somewhat surprised look on their faces.
The man behind the bar suddenly remembers his manners. "Well, hello, strangers. Come in, have a seat." The three Varisians look at you closely, then return to their game of cards. The man in the corner raises his glass to you, but does not get up.
Merick strides in, sitting at one of the many empty tables. "Hello to you, good sir. A drink and a bite to eat would be much appreciated."
Countessa finds a seat near the fire and sits down.
"Some wine, perhaps, would be soothing. Thank you."
...there's a fire burning in the hearth - first good bit of news since we came down into the valley...
Petracleus smiles at the barkeeper, nods at the folk near the fire and, as soon as he has a wine in his hand...raises his glass to the man sat on his own.
...you're drinking alone and, by the looks, you've made it through the lion's share of the bottle already... what's your story I wonder...
Settling himself on a stool near the bar, Petracleus introduces himself to the barkeeper as one of a group of travellers to the area, "It seems that we will be staying for, at least, tonight... I wonder, do you have rooms and stabling?"
Absent-mindedly, Petracleus sings a pair of Varisian wandering tunes to himself... occasionally whistling or humming the lines he can't quite remember.
While he gently sings, he looks around the bar area...