Virro, restless, slipped outside of the Madam Eva’s tent to find the storyteller he’d seen earlier: a wiry Vistana with an easy grin and a saber at his hip. The man introduced himself as Laszlo, The Storyteller, and when Veero asked if there was anyone around worth crossing blades with, Laszlo’s grin only widened.
A crowd quickly gathered with the hope of watching a good fight and making some money on the fight. As Laszlo played to them shamelessly by clapping out a rhythm for the onlookers to pick up, milking every parry for a laugh. But midway through the bout, his showmanship dropped away just long enough for him to scratch a quick sigil into the dirt beneath their feet, a magic circle, meant to snare Veero mid-step before he even realized what was happening, Veero resisted this and broke through Laszlo’s guard and before he knew what was happening, a lot of Vistani had lost their wager as Laszlo was knocked to the ground.
The party collected 18 gold, as only Edric Storm had wagered that Veero would win.
Once the duel wound down, the party was pointed toward another wagon at the edge of camp, Arabelle’s mother’s. Inside, they found Norella, a jeweler by trade, though nothing about her wagon that night spoke of a woman in control of her craft. She let Ignacious Teegan in reluctantly, watching him with the wary, unfocused eyes of someone who’d been drinking for a while.
“I can’t pay you” she said, before he’d even asked. She said it again a moment later, as if the words had become a reflex. Then she sank down into a heap of cushions in the corner of the wagon and reached for an open bottle of wine on the floor beside her, drinking straight from it without bothering to look up.
Pressed gently, she admitted that Arabelle had been missing for a full day and that she likely vanished in the night after being told she couldnt go fishing with Krogarov.
The Party set off in search of civilisation in order to ask about Arabelle
On the road they met a wounded hunter with 2 bite marks from the large wolf creatures in the woods. He revealed that his party consisted of two other treasure hunters, Ezmerelda d’Avenir and Oleksi Kurgari and that their party was attacked by wolves. The wounded hunter, whos name is Brinn, told of how he and Oleksi fought as Oleksi tried to abandon him to the wolves. Esmerelda killed one of them and then wasn’t seen since. The party patched Brinn up, he thanked them and went on his way, referencing a Hunters Tower That he had to return to.
The party continued on to Barovia village, where they found a grim sight waiting for them. Fog pressed in thick around crooked rooftops, and the shapes of buildings only resolved into houses once the group was nearly upon them. The dirt track beneath their boots had turned to slick, wet cobblestone, slippery underfoot in the dark. Every window they passed stared back empty and black. No candlelight, no movement, nothing. The only sound was a low, mournful sobbing, drifting somewhere from deeper in the village, impossible to place.
They continued down the street until the fog thinned just enough to reveal a single shaft of light cutting through the haze like a solid pillar, the only real brightness in the square. Above a gaping doorway hung a sign, swinging crooked on its chains, marking the place as the Blood of the Vine Tavern.
Inside, warmth and firelight replaced the cold outside, though the atmosphere was no less heavy. Behind the bar stood Arik, a pudgy, tired-looking man who barely glanced up as they approached. When Virro and Retnuh tried to press him with questions about Arabelle and the town, Arik gave nothing back, just grunted and asked, flatly, whether they wanted a drink. No amount of prodding got more out of him. Eventually they gave up and ordered several pitchers of wine, carrying them to a table near the front where three Vistani women sat.
The women introduced themselves as Mirabelle, Sorvia, and Alenka. Unlike the wary, tight-lipped locals, these three seemed glad for the company and the distraction. Sorvia was tall and broad-shouldered, dirty blonde hair pulled back loosely and cut short, with a voice unusually deep for a woman, low and steady. She carried herself like a hunter: practical, watchful, unbothered by much. Mirabelle was a playful brunette, quick with a smirk and quicker with a comment, clearly the one who steered conversation wherever she wanted it to go. Alenka had black hair and a quieter presence, content to let the other two carry the table while she watched everything happen around her.
Before the game began, Ignacious noticed a man sitting alone near the back, Ismark The Lesser and, unprompted, bought him a drink. Ismark then dragged a chair over to join the party at the Vistani table.
Once everyone had settled and the wine had loosened tongues, Virro leaned into his questions again this time aimed squarely at the three women. Mirabelle just laughed and raised a hand to stop him.
“If you want truths, little rabbit, ask properly. I dont do interrogations and interview” She nodded toward the pitchers between them. “A game. We’ll call it Truths you ask, I answer, but everyone drinks first. Then I may ask you a question. Fair’s fair.”
The game began in earnest, cups refilled again and again as questions passed around the table. Somewhere in the back-and-forth, Sorvia and Retnuh found themselves talking more to each other than to anyone else, something easy and mutual sparking between them despite their different heritage.
What none of the party noticed was the flicker of hesitation that crossed Alenka’s face whenever the conversation drifted too close to Krogarov’s name. She had seen him, more recently than almost anyone in Barovia but she said nothing, and steered her next answer somewhere safer instead.
One of the girls questions seemed to offend Ismark, as he was asked how many times his sister had been visited by a mysterious “He”. Ismark promptly left the table and stormed into the street.
The game ended and the group kept celebrating. At this point Arik had left the bar unattended and Virro attempted to alter the tab sheet, Mirabelle confessed to owning the bar and commented that his attempt was brazen, before writing Virro’s name on the tabs and throwing them in the fire.
After overrhearing that the girls own the bar, Retnuh assumes that Sorvia must have a room upstairs and she offers to show it to him, the two excitedly retire upstairs.
Ignacious slipped outside for some air, glad to escape the noise and the wine-thick heat of the tavern. The fog outside had thickened further, swallowing the street in every direction.
Before he saw anything, he heard a slow, uneven creak of small wooden wheels rolling over wet cobblestone, dragging closer through the mist. He turned toward the sound just as a shape resolved out of the fog: a hunched, ragged figure pushing a rickety wooden cart, its contents hidden beneath old cloth.
The figure straightened as it drew near, and Ignacious found himself looking at an old woman. Stooped, weathered, her eyes catching the faint light strangely as she offered him a crooked smile and a soft brown pastry.
“You look like a man who could use something sweet,” she said, her voice creaking almost like the cart’s wheels. “My sisters, they’ve gone far afield now. Moved on, the both of them. It’s just me these days. I keep to an old mill outside the village, all on my own.” She gestured toward the cart. “Small comfort, but comfort all the same.” Ignacious accepted a pastry from her and then turned her cart and continued on down the street, stopping at the next door to knock and offer her wares again, and the next after that, working her way through Barovia one door at a time.
Back inside the tavern, Ignacious took a bite of the pastry, and the moment he swallowed, everything around him seemed to sharpen. Golden crumbs dusted the front of his surcoat as color bled outward from the candlelight, the amber of the flames deepening into something rich and syrupy, the wine red of Sorvia’s cup glowing like a held ember. Every voice in the room seemed to arrive a half second late and twice as loud, layered and textured in a way he’d never noticed before: the creak of a chair, the low murmur of conversation, the wet slosh of poured wine, all of it suddenly vivid, almost musical. The world had gone soft and saturated at the edges, warm and strange, and for a moment he simply sat there, letting it wash over him.
Edric rose sharply at the sound of raised voices outside.
Through the open tavern door, A pair of Barovians stood by a wagon, hollow eyed, grey faced, their voices flat and heavy with the same dull, joyless weariness that seemed to hang over everyone in this village. They were pleading, in that same worn, resigned tone, for their daughter back.
Before them stood Morgantha, cradling a small swaddled bundle in her arms. The child inside stirred and began to cry, a thin, weak sound, until Morgantha pressed one crooked finger gently to its forehead, and it fell instantly, unnervingly silent.
“She was given to me,” Morgantha said, unbothered by the small crowd of adventurers. “Fair trade, freely offered. I don’t take what isn’t mine to take.”
Edric and Virro pushed forward, trying to reason with her, trying to reason with her, but they had no coin to buy the child from her.
“A favour, then,” he said. “Whatever you ask of me, later, whenever you choose to collect it. In exchange for the child.”
Morgantha’s crooked smile returned, slower this time, almost delighted. “Any favour?”
Edric held her gaze. “Any favour.”
“Done,” she said, and there was something far too pleased in the way she said it. She passed the swaddled child into his arms without another word, gathered her cart, and turned back into the fog, leaving the bargain sealed behind her.
The moment the child left Morgantha’s grip, it began crying again. Edric swore to return if the parents were reckless with their daughter again before the gang split up to search the town.
Ignatious went door-to-door looking for any sign of Arabelle, before finding himself at the shop known as Bildrath’s Mercantile, there, Bildrath Cantomere was standoffish and unhelpful, directing Ignatious to a list of items he could buy at the general goods store. Eventually Bildrath relented and shared the info that Krogarov had arrived with a wagon that needed fixing and a horse that needed to be re-shoed. He shared that his Boy had helped to fix the wagon and shoe the horse, helping him with three large sacks.
Ignatious continued searching around, knocking door-to door until he found a town house with an open door, and saw the sight of someone being dragged inside. Ignatious entered the building and felt the door close behind him.
Retnuh lay in the upstairs in The Blood of the Vine with Sorvia and talked for a while about their lives. Sorvia disclosed that Alenka had seen Arabelle and Krogarov very recently in town, with a wagon and two heavy sacks. Their conversation was interrupted not too long after that by a vision of spectral blue light in the street. Sorvia was unphased by this. As Retnuh rushed out into the street he saw spirits taking the form of knights, adventurers, sorcerers, warriors and townsfolk, they marched in a loose, wandering formation and silently moved through the street in unison, Retnuh attempted to stop them by standing in front of them, only to have several of them pass through him Retnuh bravely followed suit.
Virro and Edric went to visit the Burgomasters manor to find it had been besieged by strahds forces. Ireena Kolyana questioned the duo as she thought them to be agents of the dark lord.
Upon convincing her they meant no harm, they were invited inside, where the body of Kolyan Indirovich lay in state in a coffin.
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