The first thing Soren notices, of course, is the ravens on the roof.

With so much malignancy in this land, his first thought immediately is that they may be spies for Strahd, but he chides himself for such immediate suspicion, wondering if the chill in the air is souring his own demeanor.  Drawing a deep breath, he lingers behind for a moment before entering the Inn.

Speech of the Woods:
You learn to speak, read, and write Sylvan, and beasts can understand your speech, and you gain the ability to decipher their noises and motions.  Soren nods respectfully up at the birds, trying to discern whether their motivations are as simple as food, territory and mating, or something else.

He murmurs quietly, just loud enough for them to hear.  "Fair winds and plentiful food to bolster your black wings, friends.  I am Soren Thornpaw.  The humans in this town seem ensnared in a web of suspicion and false joy of their own making, though we have met one good man up at the cathedral.  The heads of wolves adorn every spike, yet I am not certain that wolves are the true enemies here.  What of you?  Tell me, is there any real hope, not false, to be found in Vallaki?  Or has it unwittingly fallen under the sway of the darklord the townsfolk fear and disavow so strenuously?"

Drawing guidance from Silvanus, Soren attempts to decipher the ravens' sounds, movements and body language, knowing that he cannot directly understand their quorks and caws unless he draws further on his own natural ritual magic.

Insight plus Guidance:  13 + 3 = 16

[Outside...]

Soren:

As Burr and Zefla speak to the bartender, a middle-aged man emerges from the kitchen.  He carries a small platter with several little, gamey-smelling steaks and sets it down in front of the two hunters at the end of the bar.  The cook has the same grey-streaked hair as the woman, his beard almost perfectly striped, though where she is tall and thin, he is of middling height and soft in the midsection.  The hunters cluck approvingly and dig in, still casting side-glances at your troupe.

The woman nods at Burr and then to Zefla.  "Welcome to the Blue Water Inn.  I am Danika and this is my husband Urwin Martikov.  We have the honor of hosting you, travelers."  The husband nods, turning to look at you all.  He continues to walk but his eyes track you all the way until he passes through the kitchen doorway again.

"Of course we can provide rooms," say the woman.  "Two guest rooms, at three nights each, will come to 30 silver.  The lodging comes with hot beet soup and fresh bread for no additional charge.  If something heartier is required, there are fresh wolf steaks thanks to our resident trackers, Szoldar and Yevgeni," she adds with a knowing glance down the bar.  "The steaks are 5 sp, while they last."

She points to a chalkboard behind the bar with the tavern's drink menu.

• Purple Grapemash No. 3 wine:  5 cp
• Red Dragon Crush wine:  2 sp
• (something has been erased)
• Vodka:  5 sp
• Samogon:  5 cp

Non-alcoholic

• Sbiten:  5cp
• Tahn:  1sp
• Fresh Well Water:  1cp

Zefla, the two hunters look over at your question.  The one nearest, in the patchwork wolf-cloak, says "You're a little person."  The tone is almost conspiratorial, as though he is letting you in on a secret.

The other looks at his companion as though he's just said something bizarre, and raises a cup full of purplish liquid.  "The wine is what keeps us coming back.  Get it before its gone."

The one in the cloak nods.  "Before its gone."  Then he raises his own mug.  It looks to be full of a very dark tea, but as he takes a drink you catch an odor of almost pure alcohol.  He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.  "Special recipe."

Giles walks up to the two hunters, behind Zefla, all smiles and looking over her shoulder at the sizzling steaks when they are brought out.  His stomach makes a low rumbling sound as if on cue.  “Delightful, that smells simply delicious, gentlemen!  Did you procure these in preparation for the recent festival?  Jolly good!  I think we should pull a chair up and join you for a sampling of these tasty comestibles and ring in the evening with some of that wine that you mention.  Which one is it, the Purple Grapemash #3 or the Red Dragon crush that will warm up your innards?  Righto!”  Giles takes a seat and indicates for Zefla and Burr to join him, looking backward briefly for Soren.  After determining which, Giles says “One please!” to Urwin, not wanting to order for the others what they might not want.  

Szoldar indicates it is the Purple Grapemash No 3 he is enjoying.  "Why splurge on more expensive wines?  Am I so fancy?  No.  The Grapemash is good enough."

Yevgeni just grunts in the negative and shakes his head to Giles' question as he continues to eat.  Szoldar elaborates [as Szoldar is in the corner, he is leaning around behind Yevgeni to talk to you], "Nay.  These are this morning's prize from our traplines."

At mention of hot beet soup, Zefla wrinkles up her nose, but keeps her mouth shut.  

She turns her attention to the one with the patchwork wolf cloak as he states the fact she is a little person and her eyes go wide and her mouth drops open.  She looks down at herself as if checking what he said was true, then looks back to the man.  "Why by golly, you're right!  I am!  I wasn't this morning though, I wonder what happened?!"

Hearing that the grapemash is the way to go, Zefla calls over, "Danika, I'd love some purple grapemash and a steak, thanks!"

"Must fight," echoes Soren back to the ravens, spreading his arms wide in solidarity, as if he too could fly up and away from this darkened town.

But as the Unkindness* takes wing and circles above, Soren's thoughts are troubled as he plays the ravens' message back to himself.

Dark druids out in this valley?  Twisted and tormented as the land is?  Vallaki, penning themselves in as sheep do from wolves.  No hope when the darklord rules the night.  No hope in hiding, nowhere is safe, must find friends...  friends...

But who?  We have left two possible friends behind us in Ireena and Father Lucian, and another earlier in Ismark.  The witch Morgantha was no ally.  Some of the Vistani seemed friendly, but many of them work for Strahd.  Vallaki has blinded itself with false joy and the village of Barovia with false rage.

Perhaps the ravens themselves can be friends?  Eyes in the sky?  Perhaps we will find other friends if we continue west

Distracted by dark thoughts, Soren enters the Blue Water Inn absent-mindedly and looks for the three friends he hopes he can be sure of.

(*OOC:  An Unkindness of Ravens is my favorite animal-specific term for a herd or flock, just ahead of a Murder of crows)

Burr counted out the money a little unsurely....his usual bed was a hollow or hayloft but here neither could be trusted.

" I've done some trapping and hunting myself, what is the bounty of these woods?  And what troubles you out there?"

He nodded to Soren as he drew near and turned back towards the owners, " Are you looking forward to the festival then?"

Szoldar goes back to cutting his steak, answering Burr in between bites.  "Wolf and deer, down here in the farm lands... more in the high country, with bear, elk, weasel... goats."

"Mm-hmmn," confirms Yevgeni.

Then Szoldar puts down his fork and takes a long look at Burr.  "What troubles us?"  He chuckles.  

Yevgeni chuckles as well but doesn't look up from his plate.

"Dead knights prowl the roads... the dead crawl forth from their graves, hungry for living flesh... bats, swarming thick as black flies, hunt the twilight... crazed hermits lurk in the forests... the wolves, no matter how many we kill, learn no fear of man."  Szoldar chuckles again.  "But Yevgeni and I?  Nothing troubles us.  This is just the way of the world."

At his question about the festival, Danika Martikov smiles politely.  "Yes of course.  Here in Vallaki, we love our festivals."  Almost as an afterthought, she adds, "All will be well."  When she says this, most of the patrons in the tavern reply 'All will be well,' with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

“All will be well…” Giles kicks in, in a singsongy type voice, echoing the others.  He turns to the questioning looks of Zefla, Soren and Burr, saying “When in Vallaki….”  

He turns back to the hunters.  “Have you found any packs of wolves, nearby?  Where are your main hunting grounds?  Any odd sights that you’ve seen in your travels, of late?”  Giles gives them a smile and holds up a bite of wolf steak on his fork, chewing with gusto (a little chewy) and he raises a glass to them.  

"All will be well," mouths Soren, not believing a word of it.  Dark wings, dark eyes, dark words.  Ravens and hunters both, speaking of undead and relentless wolves.  Are the crazed forest hermits these two hunters speak of the same as the twisted and tormented druids the Ravens have seen?

He sits at the bar with the hunters, but at a respectable distance, giving them and his friends room.  Ordering some Purple Grapemash #3 and paying out five copper, Soren's thoughts catch on something he thought he heard on his way in the door.  "Get it before it's gone.  Where is the wine going?"

Yevgeni nods without further comment at Zefla's remark about her diminishing size.  It is hard to say if this guy suffered a closed head injury, or if he just has a strange sense of humor.

Szoldar leans back around Yevgeni again to answer Giles.

"Wolves are everywhere.  Best trapping right now is along the Old Svallich Road, west of town.  Or north, along the west side of the lake."

"We used to run a line down to the old swamp to the south... but the scarecrows got too aggressive and we quit.  Wolves started shying away from that place, anyhow."

Danika Martikov smiles painfully at Soren.  "Oh, they are just being dramatic.  This week's shipment is late, that is all.  It has some of the regulars growing anxious but I am sure everything will be alright.  The wagon will probably arrive before nightfall."

" Where does the wine come from?"

" Wait............scarecrows, aggresive? What?"

Soren looks at Szoldar and Yevgeni.  The wolf hunters.  Every creature in this land ruthlessly and relentlessly at each other's throats.  Resigned to it, even.  And the undead and other abominations terrorizing everyone, led by the undead lord in the castle.

Quietly, he asks the two hunters, "Is it all wolves, or werewolves among them as well?"

Yevgeni takes a long, deep drink from his mug of alcohol when Burr asks about the scarecrows.  He mumbles something into his glass that sounds like, 'Yeah, big jolly bastards.'

The salt and pepper haired man - Urwin Martikov - comes back out of the kitchen.  "The wine comes from my father.  He manages the largest winery in the valley.  And it will be here soon."  He sets down more wolf steaks for those who have ordered them.  The meat is welcome after so much walking these last few days on rations and gruel.  For those unfamiliar with eating canine, it has a powerful, gamey odor but its texture isn't too far off from overcooked pork.

Szoldar laughs at first at Soren's question.  "No werewolf steaks... we charge extra for those."  He laughs again, but Yevgeni doesn't join him, drinking again from his mug instead.  As the laughter dies, Szoldar takes a bit of wine.  "We don't hunt werewolves.  You need silver," he says when he finishes his glass.  "When we see them, we withdraw.  Otherwise we would be killed."

“So, wolves north as well, near the lake?  Good fishing there, at the lake?  Any wolves dens you’ve seen around there?  We’re just trying to get the lay of the land, you see.”  Giles keeps chewing away, making little “Mmm” sounds, the harder, and harder he has to chew.  “Do you have any sauce or seasoning for this steak?  A little pepper or salt?  It’s delicious!”  He smiles at Urwin, saying “We would like to hear more about your fine establishment, how long you’ve been here, and so forth.  Has your family lived here long?”  Chewing, and chewing, and chewing.  A hearty sip of wine helps the food bolus down the gullet.  

After all the questions, Szoldar orders another glass of wine.  "Perhaps you will buy my friend and I a drink, yes?  You have so many questions for us."  Yevgeni offers a hrmmph in agreement.

[His implication is 'either buy us drinks, or stop grilling us with questions.']

Danika and Urwin make polite conversation with the party at the bar.  Urwin took over handling the tavern 15 years ago when he and Danika were wed.  It has been in the family for several generations.  His older brother preferred to work with their father at the winery and thus the inn passed to Urwin.  He is happy with that arrangement, as he says he enjoys cooking for and entertaining the local population.  They have added a few of their own touches to the decor.   They point out and are quite proud of the bar top; there are a collection of medals, coins, arrowheads and other shiny metal items set into the bar top under a thin layer of translucent amber.

As time passes, more folk come in.  A few more peasants enter and sit at a table together.  Another pair enter, two tall blonde men.  They are dressed in tailored shirts and breeches, by far the nicest dressed persons in the tavern.  Both have a stylized crest of a heron rampant on a red field with stars, grasping a serpent in its beak.  They take a table near the door and immediately clap their hands and ask for two glasses of Red Dragon Crush.  You notice that as the people around you continue to drink, the Martikovs gently encourage them toward samogon, but do not refuse anyone who insists on wine.  Two boys, around 10 years of age by the looks of it, come downstairs and begin bussing tables and helping with the dinner rush.

At what must be close to 'sunset' - or whatever passes for sunset in this grey land - a strangely dressed figure comes down the interior staircase.  

He is a half-elf, dressed in the manner of one who is trying to attract attention to himself.  He collects a bundle from Urwin, slides a gold piece across the counter, and departs out the front door into the gathering darkness.   From outside, there is a rumble of thunder.

[It is now evening.]

Burr is becoming more than a little ill at the smell of the canine meat and moves over towards the far wall, he keeps a close eye on the men in the heron crest nudging one of the poorer looking locals and asking who they are.  When the elf-looking figure comes downstairs he indicates to Soren that he should approach him.

Soren does not know what to make of the patrons or owners of the Blue Water Inn, though Dannika and Urwin seem pleasant enough.  Why do the ravens choose this place to gather on the roof?  Is it merely in the hopes of left-over wolf meat, or something else?

As the flamboyantly-dressed half-elf makes his brief appearance and Burr indicates that Soren should approach him, the druid's eyes go wide and his face seems to first entreat, then acquiesce.  Me?  Why me?  Oh... because I am a half-elf?  Right, but, but... well, all right...

Reaching out for Silvanus' Guidance, Soren ambles out the door behind the colorful, hatted figure.

"Ah... pardon me, ah... sir.  My companions and I are... new to this land, just arrived inadvertently two nights ago.  Through the mists while fighting werewolves near the city of Daggerford in our land.  My name is Soren Thornpaw, druid of Neverwinter Wood.  During our brief time here, we have not seen anyone garbed in any way similar to how you are.  Nor have I seen any half-elves other than me.  Are you an outlander from through the mists too?"

Soren's jaw snaps shut as he realizes that he probably sounds like a prattling fool.  Nevertheless, he continues to look at the other half-elf hopefully.  He cannot help also sneaking a peak back at the roof of the Inn to see whether he can spot the ravens still there.

The peasants are reluctant to discuss the two men with Burr, though whether this is unease with this stranger (Burr) or fear of the two men, you can't say.  

[Burr, make a Persuasion check please?]

The mysterious figure wheels when Soren approaches.  The sky has turned dark and the winds are picking up.  Thunder rumbles almost constantly, though there is no lightning yet, or rain.  He listens to Soren's monologue without reaction, watching him closely.  

Then he bows politely, a finger on his hat to keep it from spilling off his head.  "Fair travels to you, Soren Thornpaw, of Neverwinter Wood.  Indeed, you've pegged me right.  Rictavio is my name, entertainer, roguish wit and collector of tall tales.  Most recently master of the Phantasmagorical Flights of Fancy, a traveling circus which I have had to disband under circumstances most dire.  I find myself in these somber lands, and hope to bring a bit of whimsy and joy to it whilst I am here."

"The Martikovs have been kind enough to put me up for an extended stay.  I'd be more than pleased to swap stories with you later this evening over a cup of wine, but I fear I must depart with haste... I carry dinner for a friend and mustn't be late."

He offers another polite nod, less than a bow this time, and turns and departs at a brisk walk.

Around you, the storm continues to gather....