Far beyond the Domains of Dread, there lies a citadel, wreathed in mist like ivy. This is no domain. This place has no Darklord, no grand tortured soul who calls it home and prison in equal measure. Instead, it is the sanctuary of several hundred mist-scarred souls, all refugees of Ravenloft's various and sundry nightmares. Those who dwell in the citadel eke out a meager existence, surviving off of what little the have. No trade comes to the Citadel, for those trusted with its location are few indeed. A certain cell of the Keepers of the Feather, a sect of the Church of Ezra, and a single group of close-knit, trusted Vistani are the only travelers in the Mist permitted to know its location and live among its walls. Instead, sustenance and supplies must be gathered from beyond, through daring jaunts into the Domains of Dread themselves. Along with simply recovering supplies, however, those who leave the Citadel have a greater purpose. Their mysterious Benefactor, the exact identity of whom is unknown, though stories range from the deity Ezra to a traitorous Dark Power, delivers signs and prophecies to the Citadel's augurs, informing its inhabitants of opportunities and objectives to further the goal shared by all the Shrouded Citadel's inhabitants. That goal? To escape the Mists and be free of Ravenloft, once and for all.
They who achieve these goals are known as the Mistdrifters. It is they who brave the choking Mists, who dare to travel beyond. It is they who seek, through sword and spell and twisted, indefatigable persistence, some way to free themselves from the only hell they've ever known. They are the Mistdrifters. And for this they will not be left unpunished.
As the shot zooms in on the mist-choked citadel, we get a brief glimpse into life within its walls. It is dreary, hungry, and miserable. It is home. At this moment, where do we find each of your characters? You've spent the last week or so at home, during a rare dry spell in the Benefactor's messages and instructions, and have had a chance to actually live your lives, for a moment. Feel free to make up locations within the Citadel, NPCs to conversate with, etc, and certainly feel free to describe your character's appearance and demeanor.
Dramatis Personae:
Krueglarin - The Hungry One Kyrian Solace - The Sighted Blind Man Trystane Trollblood - The Indefatigable Zania Stonebreaker - The Witchfinder
Gustav "Grouchy Gus" Isakkson - The Scarred Quartermaster Elsi Angström - The Gray-Faced Server Valentin Jovan - The Efficient Bartender Alexandru Jovan - The Senior Keeper Pipilla Thornuck - The Eager Augur
Jed Holyoke - The Hopeful Drifter Dallat Koy - The Inconstant Drifter The Gentleman - A Poorly Disguised Extraction Gimmick
In the heart of the mist-shrouded citadel lies its bustling kitchen, affectionately known simply as The Hearth. Though, Trystane, one of the Mistdrifters, has joked many times that, literally, it is the Heart of the citadel for him even though the kitchen is just another grim reminder of the relentless struggle for survival within its walls. Trystane stands amidst the chaos, his imposing stature a stark contrast to the weary faces around him. With sleeves rolled up and a flour-dusted apron wrapped around his broad frame, Trystane's movements are not graceful, but they are purposeful, driven by the harsh reality of life in the Citadel. Between stirring pots and chopping vegetables, he more than occasionally sneaks a morsel of food for himself, the satisfying taste a brief respite from the relentless toil of his duties and to battle his insatiable appetite.
Amidst the clatter of pots and pans, a serving maid approaches Trystane, her weary eyes betraying the toll of endless toil. "Trystane, the bread needs to go in," she murmurs, her voice weighed down with resignation. Trystane nods curtly, his expression grim as he takes the tray from her trembling hands. "I'll handle it," he replies tersely, his gaze fixed on the task at hand.
As Trystane turns back to his work, his attention is drawn to the Citadel's quartermaster, Gus, a weathered veteran who wears his scars like badges of honor. The quartermaster's steely gaze meets Trystane's, and for a moment, there is a silent acknowledgment of the grim reality they both - no, they all - face. "Your stew does wonders for morale, Trystane," Gus grunts, who is often called Grouchy Gus - though rarely to his face. His voice is tinged with the weight of countless battles, while he adds to his wisdom, "But it won't feed us forever." Trystane's jaw tightens at the reminder, his mind filled with the harsh truth of their existence. "I know, Gus,” he replies solemnly, his thoughts already turning to the next hunt for supplies beyond the Citadel's walls.
Krueglarin is a tall seemingly human male. 6'4' at well built, his strength at times even seems to out weigh his size. Despite this, he moves silently, whether in his robes of the Moon Goddess or in his full plate armor, appearing silently. Much of his time in the Citadel is spent praying to the Moon Goddess, staring at the sky and hoping to see a glimpse of the moon through the mists.
Occasionally he will disappear into the stables or animal pens....the staff now know what he does, puncture marks on the animals are no longer a secret (none are killed, just slightly drained). He is feared if respected, as he has fought for the Citadel for some time now.
Krueglarin silently walks into the kitchen "Hail Trystane and well met." He nods at the troll blood. Looking at the stew, turning away if there is any meat present. He is known not to touch any flesh with what food he takes. He will turn to Gus. "I will take my supper in my room; bread and anything without meat."
The scents of the Hearth waft through the space, far too few and too thin. Each stew these past days has used more and more water, has boiled for longer and longer in an attempt to try as much nutrients out of the scraps tossed in the pot. Even the scum at the bottom of the stock pot is scraped out and eaten, for whatever it can provide. As much as the break is welcome, without guidance from the Benefactor there is no way to head out into the Mists and find your way back to the Shrouded Citadel with goods in store. Soon, the few animals your fellow Mistdrifters have managed to bring back will have to be slaughtered. All this in more can be seen in the weathered gaze of Gustav "Grouchy Gus" Isakkson and Elsi Angström, the gray-faced serving maid.
Without changing his dour expression, Gus slides a bowl over to Krueglarin. It is meager, watery fare, but the moon worshipper knows that it is the best available. He catches Gustav's eyes flicking over his robes, with an expression he knows well. The people of Ravenloft have little patience for the worship of gods they did not grow up with, with the exception of Ezra, whose worship seems to spread through the Mists unhindered. He has grown used to it.
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"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
Inquisitor Zania is a statuesque woman... standing well over seven feet tall, with pale skin and a number of blue tribal tattoos. But in spite of her size, she moves with grace, and has a physique almost like that of a dancer. She wears the black cloak of an Inquisitor, but her leather garments are adorned with many tribal trinkets.
Zania sits alone at the bar, drinking and wondering what she's going to do with herself if this period of inactivity goes on too much longer. Though she is recognized for providing a valuable service, most of her fellow patrons stay well away from her. Her profession is, after all, not a pleasant one. Her icy blue eyes study the room as she finishes off her beer and then sets the mug on the table, contemplating whether or not there might be any witches hiding here... no, probably not... she really needs to find something to do with herself before she goes completely stir-crazy.
"Hey... bartender! Could I get another round over here?" she asks.
She thanks the bartender as he hands over another frothing mug. The bartender gives her a sidelong glance, but Zania pays him no mind. She is an Inquisitor, a high-ranking member of the Witchfinders... she's well aware that people like her are not especially well liked as they are often seen as mad zealots who kill with little regard for guilt or innocence. And, unfortunately, in the past those accusations were not entirely unfounded. But over the years the Witchfinders have done their absolute best to update their practice and policy to avoid that kind of collateral damage and now it's (almost) a non-issue.
Kyrian is an oddity among the Mistdrifters. At first one might assume that he is new, that he hadn't borne the weight of their burden long enough to bow his back with invisible weight. He is a strange sight as he walks through the infirmary, the kind of image that a painter might make a name for themselves with by putting it to canvas. He walks between the rows of beds smiling and talking to the patients. His tall, slender frame belies the strength of his body, trained as long as he can remember to fight. It has been a couple of days since the last raid, so the infirmary is empty of anyone without debilitating injury, the only ones remaining those who couldn't be moved elsewhere. Eventually he stops and sits down at the foot of one of the beds, next to a Mistdrifter who's bled through the third set of bandages in the last hour. His skin is pallid and clammy, but he weakly returns Kyrian's smile. As he works to replace the bandages, Kyrian addresses him "How do you feel?"The man grunts in response. "Could be worse". Kyrian laughs, a sound that cuts through the infirmary like the peal of a bell. What a strange thought that joy could exist in such a miserable place. "Well, you'd better take it easy. We need you healed properly, then maybe you can get back out there in a few days" The lie comes easily. The man's wound, while small, has defied any attempt to close it by means magical and mundane alike. "Aye, I'd like that well. One last run. It'll be a long one, I think." The man looks at Kyrian's face, and sighs. "Go on, get out of here. You've got precious little time to rest between your own runs that you shouldn't waste time here." Kyrian snorts and stands. "I don't think it's a waste, Jed." He doesn't, either. He reaches up, feeling the blindfold over his eyes. Something about seeing that he is still him after his injury, that he hasn't given up...it gives them something important. Something rare in this place. It gives them hope. Kyrian has seen with his own eyes how a small amount of hope can help men like these find the strength to push through. Perhaps in the future he will see it again with someone else's. Before he leaves, he turns, raising one hand in a gentle salute, knowing it'll likely be the last time he sees them.
Turning, he heads out, taking off towards the kitchen at a jog. As he walks in, he whistles a simple melody. He grins at Elsi, deftly navigating the bustle of the goings-on, then silently drops his pack that contains the bundle of his armor out of the way. He rolls up the sleeves of his threadbare tunic and gets to work helping her with the dishes. "Any news, Gus? I heard a rumor about someone finding a strange doorway in the mist, but...well, I heard it from Dallat, and he's about as reliable as a snake that drugs."
Krueglarin silently walks into the kitchen "Hail Trystane and well met." He nods at the troll blood. Looking at the stew, turning away if there is any meat present. He is known not to touch any flesh with what food he takes. He will turn to Gus. "I will take my supper in my room; bread and anything without meat."
"Krueglarin," Trystane acknowledges him soberly. "There's little else than the stew and bread. I can fish out the meat if it pleases you," he says. He knows there's precious little to look out for in the first place but, if he finds a chunk in Krueglarin's portion, he'll happily help himself to it.
Turning, he heads out, taking off towards the kitchen at a jog. As he walks in, he whistles a simple melody. He grins at Elsi, deftly navigating the bustle of the goings-on, then silently drops his pack that contains the bundle of his armor out of the way. He rolls up the sleeves of his threadbare tunic and gets to work helping her with the dishes. "Any news, Gus? I heard a rumor about someone finding a strange doorway in the mist but...well, I heard it from Dallat, and he's about as reliable as a snake that drugs."
Trystane watches from his place at the hearth, his interest piqued by the conversation unfolding between Kyrian and Gus. He listens intently as they discuss the new rumor, his hands idly stirring the stew in the pot in front of him. As Kyrian mentions the unreliable source, Trystane can't help but smirk knowingly. He's heard his fair share of outlandish tales from the likes of Dallat before, and he knows better than to put too much stock in them. Still, the idea of a possible escape route from Ravenloft stirs something within him—a flicker of hope amidst the despair. Trystane continues to eavesdrop on the conversation, his thoughts consumed by the tantalizing prospect of freedom beyond the Mists.
(I've added an NPC list to the first post, to keep track of people.)
The bartender, Valentin Jovan, is a young man and the son of Alexandru Jovan, leader of the cell of Keepers of the Feather who call the Shrouded Citadel home. He performs his job with an apathetic efficiency, pouring Zania's drink and sliding it over. No one else occupies the bar at the moment. It's where people go to get drunk and forget about their lives, more than it is a social place. The atmosphere is still and choking. Then again, where is it not?
Gus grunts. "Dallat's a punctured windbag, if you ask me. That gormless peck hasn't half of what it takes to be a Mistdrifter, and making up stories ain't going to help him more'n a skink's worth of piddle. He just inhaled too much Mist and now he's seeing things what ain't there. Ain't like that's the weirdest shit cropped up among the Mists anyhow. Boy's lucky he ain't run into one of the Gentleman's types, all the time he spends fiddling about in the Mists like it were his lady."
The Gentleman, or the Jolly Gentleman, Bright Gentleman, Cheery Gentleman, or any other sort of adjective rife with irony is the term used to describe the method by which you all find your way back to the Citadel after a Drift. Somehow, the Benefactor has managed to procure the lasting services of a Mist Ferryman, one of the sadistic, skeletal beings who drift freely through the Mists, moving from Domain to Domain as if their borders were simply political, rather than metaphysical. When you meet up with the Gentleman at the end of your Drift, he rows you through the winding labyrinth of the Mist and deposits you back at the Citadel, a feat impossible for an ordinary being. If one were to miss the Gentleman's call, they would be left stranded in Ravenloft until they either wandered their way back, or died.
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"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
Kyrian chuckles. "Well, Ezra knows we can't all be as perfect as you, Gus. I'd say that if the drifters were all half as disciplined as you, we'd be out of this place by now. Still...they do try. Even Dallat. I think risking your life so much grants you some leeway when it comes to telling tall tales." He sighs, then shakes his head. "It's alright, we're close now. I feel it." The words feel familiar on his tongue - it's something he has been telling himself, and anybody that will listen, most of his life. He bows his head and focuses on the dishes, redoubling his efforts to get them finished.
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“I will take responsibility for what I have done. [...] If must fall, I will rise each time a better man.” ― Brandon Sanderson, Oathbringer.
"The bred alone will be fine for now." Krueglarin prepares to leave when Kyrian shows. Krueglarin absently chews on some bread while he listens to the conversation. Finally, he speaks up. "Has it ever been this long before the benefactor sent us on a mission? Perhaps something has happened?"
"We're always close," grunts Gus. "We're always a five minute walk from freedom, it's just the damn Mists that keep us here."
He looks to Klueglarin. "Week or so, give or take some change. Tough to tell time, you know how it is. Sure as Hells hope nothing's happened, but not much we can do. We don't even know what in the bloody blue blazes the Benefactor is."
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"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
As those in the Hearth eat, the door slams open, shoved with considerable open by a rather inconsiderably-sized halfling woman. Dressed in a neat suit and cravat, with a silver raven symbol hung over her neck, this is Pipilla Thornnuck, one of the Shrouded Citadel's cadre of augurs, which consist of members of the Keepers, Vistani, adherents of Ezra, and other prophetically-gifted individuals. They are few and far between, and since the more seers brought in, the more often and more detailed a task is delivered by the Benefactor, it is always considered beneficial to seek out new seers across the Domains.
"Drifters? You're all one group, yeah? Kyrian, Trystane, Krue... where's Zania? Whatever, I'll contact her in a second. We've got a delivery from the Benefactor. Looks like you're heading out again."
Moments later, Zania hears a message in her mind. Tasks from the Benefactor. Gather at the Stone. The Standing Stone, she knows, is the conduit through which the guidance of the Benefactor is channeled. It exists at the very top of the citadel, exposed to the swirling maelstrom of Mists above.
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"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
As Pipilla Thornnuck bursts into the Hearth, Trystane's attention snaps to her with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. The arrival of a delivery from the Benefactor signals another perilous journey beyond the Citadel's walls, another chance to inch closer to the elusive goal of escape. But before he can fully process the implications, his instincts kick in. With a sense of urgency, he hastily finishes Krueglarin's untouched stew, knowing that every scrap of sustenance counts in their harsh reality - and who would waste a good bowlful? Then, with a steely determination, he gathers his pack and strides over to Elsa, "Keep things in order here," he advises in a low voice, his tone tinged with a grim resolve. "We'll be back soon enough, but until then, stay vigilant. Food is still scarce and rationed. I know how they get when I'm not here."
With a curt nod, Trystane leaves the Hearth behind, his mind already racing with thoughts of the impending journey and the mysteries awaiting them at the Standing Stone.
Zania perks up immediately when she gets the message... she's been wanting nothing more than to get out and do something!
"Thanks again, Valentin. Always a pleasure, but it looks like I'm being summoned,"she says with a little smile, tossing a gold piece on the table for her drinks as she stands up to leave. "Keep the change."
She hurries towards the stone at the top of the citadel, looking almost eager as she makes her way through the streets. A bit later, she arrives at the stone.
"Alright, I'm here... what have we got?" she asks no-one in particular.
Kyrian flicks the suds of what passes for soap in the citadel from his hands, drying them quickly with a rag. He scoops up his pack, waving to the kitchen crew as he takes off at a sprint after Trystane. As he catches up he, slows to a trot next to the man. "Think it'll be a difficult run? They've been getting more difficult recently. Surely we're due for a stroke of good luck, right?"
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“I will take responsibility for what I have done. [...] If must fall, I will rise each time a better man.” ― Brandon Sanderson, Oathbringer.
Krueglarin immediately steps into action, and heads to his quarters to gather his armor and weapons. Maybe they would leave now, maybe latter, but he would be ready. Perhaps this time they would hunt an undead monster like the one that had cursed him. He could hope.
"Three, back to back. You can look them over and decide which one you want, we can send other groups on the others once they return."
Pipilla fishes around in her pocket, and pulls out a deck of Tarokka cards. She draws three, and sets them facedown on a table before her. She then draws five more, and sets them in a cross pattern below the three. She flips over the one on the top left. Upon it, a smiling mask cackles. "The Domain of Scaena. Formerly part of Dementlieu, but it broke off sometime after the final performance of the mad playwright Lemot Sediam Juste. Its Darklord. It's fairly easy to locate, and leaves relics behind wherever it travels, so we've multiple talismans that lead to it. We do not, however, have any talismans that lead to Dementlieu. Until now. It seems that Juste is attempting something new with his most recent performance. He wants to show the people of Dementlieu how his art has matured. If the signs of the Benefactor are correct, then his next performance will result in the creation of a talisman keyed to Dementlieu. We want that talisman. Unfortunately, the Mists want to keep him in place, and more likely than not will be sending heroes to foil the Darklord's ambitions. Your mission will be to ensure the play works, even if that means entering the illusory realm of the performance itself. You'll then have to grab the talisman and get out before Juste catches on."
She flips over the card next to it. It shows a blooming flower with a bead of rot at its center. "Ghastria. An island domain, home to Marquis Stezen D’Polarno. It looks like the Benefactor realized that we're low on supplies, so it's sending us here. Once a year, the Darklord of this land drains the life of its people to supplement his own. A horrid practice, but on the plus side... well, I'm sure you all know the "I am the land" business by now. The island bursts with life at this moment, meaning that we'll be able to bring back plenty of supplies. Just watch out for the locals. Your goal in this case will just be looting as much as you can, preferably stuff that lasts."
The final card of the three is flipped, showing a pair of spectacled, slitted eyes, wreathed in darkness. "Markovia. Dr. Frantisek Markov is a horrid, bestial man, whose foul practices have transformed him into the monster he is today. But he's not who you're here for. In order to recover his waning intellect, he's been experimenting on animals, and has succeeded in granting many of his island's inhabitants a sort of twisted sentience. Unfortunately... it seems that he may have succeeded more than usual. Normally the Dark Powers thwart his actions, but it looks like this time he's made something else. Something far more intelligent, and far more evil than the others, and I believe that the Benefactor fears that this will result in a sundering of the realm. No one needs more Darklords. Go out there, kill this thing before it becomes a problem, and get out."
She stands back. "Those are your options. Take a card, and I'll give you more insight into your selected task."
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"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
"I fear the playwright will be complicated. Participating in an illusion of a play? It may not be the best use of our skills. The other two are more straight forward. A supply run or a monster hunt." Krueglarin absently scratches his ear as he speaks, seemingly lost in thought.
Pipilla smiles. "It is neither as complex, nor as simple as you may think. The playhouse is but a single building, but the illusions of its Darklord hold entire worlds. If you head there, you won't be acting. You'll be fighting for your life."
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"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
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Far beyond the Domains of Dread, there lies a citadel, wreathed in mist like ivy. This is no domain. This place has no Darklord, no grand tortured soul who calls it home and prison in equal measure. Instead, it is the sanctuary of several hundred mist-scarred souls, all refugees of Ravenloft's various and sundry nightmares. Those who dwell in the citadel eke out a meager existence, surviving off of what little the have. No trade comes to the Citadel, for those trusted with its location are few indeed. A certain cell of the Keepers of the Feather, a sect of the Church of Ezra, and a single group of close-knit, trusted Vistani are the only travelers in the Mist permitted to know its location and live among its walls. Instead, sustenance and supplies must be gathered from beyond, through daring jaunts into the Domains of Dread themselves. Along with simply recovering supplies, however, those who leave the Citadel have a greater purpose. Their mysterious Benefactor, the exact identity of whom is unknown, though stories range from the deity Ezra to a traitorous Dark Power, delivers signs and prophecies to the Citadel's augurs, informing its inhabitants of opportunities and objectives to further the goal shared by all the Shrouded Citadel's inhabitants. That goal? To escape the Mists and be free of Ravenloft, once and for all.
They who achieve these goals are known as the Mistdrifters. It is they who brave the choking Mists, who dare to travel beyond. It is they who seek, through sword and spell and twisted, indefatigable persistence, some way to free themselves from the only hell they've ever known. They are the Mistdrifters. And for this they will not be left unpunished.
As the shot zooms in on the mist-choked citadel, we get a brief glimpse into life within its walls. It is dreary, hungry, and miserable. It is home. At this moment, where do we find each of your characters? You've spent the last week or so at home, during a rare dry spell in the Benefactor's messages and instructions, and have had a chance to actually live your lives, for a moment. Feel free to make up locations within the Citadel, NPCs to conversate with, etc, and certainly feel free to describe your character's appearance and demeanor.
Dramatis Personae:
Krueglarin - The Hungry One
Kyrian Solace - The Sighted Blind Man
Trystane Trollblood - The Indefatigable
Zania Stonebreaker - The Witchfinder
Gustav "Grouchy Gus" Isakkson - The Scarred Quartermaster
Elsi Angström - The Gray-Faced Server
Valentin Jovan - The Efficient Bartender
Alexandru Jovan - The Senior Keeper
Pipilla Thornuck - The Eager Augur
Jed Holyoke - The Hopeful Drifter
Dallat Koy - The Inconstant Drifter
The Gentleman - A Poorly Disguised Extraction Gimmick
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
In the heart of the mist-shrouded citadel lies its bustling kitchen, affectionately known simply as The Hearth. Though, Trystane, one of the Mistdrifters, has joked many times that, literally, it is the Heart of the citadel for him even though the kitchen is just another grim reminder of the relentless struggle for survival within its walls. Trystane stands amidst the chaos, his imposing stature a stark contrast to the weary faces around him. With sleeves rolled up and a flour-dusted apron wrapped around his broad frame, Trystane's movements are not graceful, but they are purposeful, driven by the harsh reality of life in the Citadel. Between stirring pots and chopping vegetables, he more than occasionally sneaks a morsel of food for himself, the satisfying taste a brief respite from the relentless toil of his duties and to battle his insatiable appetite.
Amidst the clatter of pots and pans, a serving maid approaches Trystane, her weary eyes betraying the toll of endless toil. "Trystane, the bread needs to go in," she murmurs, her voice weighed down with resignation. Trystane nods curtly, his expression grim as he takes the tray from her trembling hands. "I'll handle it," he replies tersely, his gaze fixed on the task at hand.
As Trystane turns back to his work, his attention is drawn to the Citadel's quartermaster, Gus, a weathered veteran who wears his scars like badges of honor. The quartermaster's steely gaze meets Trystane's, and for a moment, there is a silent acknowledgment of the grim reality they both - no, they all - face. "Your stew does wonders for morale, Trystane," Gus grunts, who is often called Grouchy Gus - though rarely to his face. His voice is tinged with the weight of countless battles, while he adds to his wisdom, "But it won't feed us forever." Trystane's jaw tightens at the reminder, his mind filled with the harsh truth of their existence. "I know, Gus,” he replies solemnly, his thoughts already turning to the next hunt for supplies beyond the Citadel's walls.
|| Tryncaryn - Halfling Monk/Wizard - Dragon of Icespire Peak || Berry - Fairy Barbarian - Deathworld: Lost Mine of Phandelver || Taya - Mysterious Fighter - Echoes of Empire || Myrla Stardust - Wood Elf Rogue - After the Fall ||
Krueglarin is a tall seemingly human male. 6'4' at well built, his strength at times even seems to out weigh his size. Despite this, he moves silently, whether in his robes of the Moon Goddess or in his full plate armor, appearing silently. Much of his time in the Citadel is spent praying to the Moon Goddess, staring at the sky and hoping to see a glimpse of the moon through the mists.
Occasionally he will disappear into the stables or animal pens....the staff now know what he does, puncture marks on the animals are no longer a secret (none are killed, just slightly drained). He is feared if respected, as he has fought for the Citadel for some time now.
Krueglarin silently walks into the kitchen "Hail Trystane and well met." He nods at the troll blood. Looking at the stew, turning away if there is any meat present. He is known not to touch any flesh with what food he takes. He will turn to Gus. "I will take my supper in my room; bread and anything without meat."
The scents of the Hearth waft through the space, far too few and too thin. Each stew these past days has used more and more water, has boiled for longer and longer in an attempt to try as much nutrients out of the scraps tossed in the pot. Even the scum at the bottom of the stock pot is scraped out and eaten, for whatever it can provide. As much as the break is welcome, without guidance from the Benefactor there is no way to head out into the Mists and find your way back to the Shrouded Citadel with goods in store. Soon, the few animals your fellow Mistdrifters have managed to bring back will have to be slaughtered. All this in more can be seen in the weathered gaze of Gustav "Grouchy Gus" Isakkson and Elsi Angström, the gray-faced serving maid.
Without changing his dour expression, Gus slides a bowl over to Krueglarin. It is meager, watery fare, but the moon worshipper knows that it is the best available. He catches Gustav's eyes flicking over his robes, with an expression he knows well. The people of Ravenloft have little patience for the worship of gods they did not grow up with, with the exception of Ezra, whose worship seems to spread through the Mists unhindered. He has grown used to it.
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
Inquisitor Zania is a statuesque woman... standing well over seven feet tall, with pale skin and a number of blue tribal tattoos. But in spite of her size, she moves with grace, and has a physique almost like that of a dancer. She wears the black cloak of an Inquisitor, but her leather garments are adorned with many tribal trinkets.
Zania sits alone at the bar, drinking and wondering what she's going to do with herself if this period of inactivity goes on too much longer. Though she is recognized for providing a valuable service, most of her fellow patrons stay well away from her. Her profession is, after all, not a pleasant one. Her icy blue eyes study the room as she finishes off her beer and then sets the mug on the table, contemplating whether or not there might be any witches hiding here... no, probably not... she really needs to find something to do with herself before she goes completely stir-crazy.
"Hey... bartender! Could I get another round over here?" she asks.
She thanks the bartender as he hands over another frothing mug. The bartender gives her a sidelong glance, but Zania pays him no mind. She is an Inquisitor, a high-ranking member of the Witchfinders... she's well aware that people like her are not especially well liked as they are often seen as mad zealots who kill with little regard for guilt or innocence. And, unfortunately, in the past those accusations were not entirely unfounded. But over the years the Witchfinders have done their absolute best to update their practice and policy to avoid that kind of collateral damage and now it's (almost) a non-issue.
Kyrian is an oddity among the Mistdrifters. At first one might assume that he is new, that he hadn't borne the weight of their burden long enough to bow his back with invisible weight. He is a strange sight as he walks through the infirmary, the kind of image that a painter might make a name for themselves with by putting it to canvas. He walks between the rows of beds smiling and talking to the patients. His tall, slender frame belies the strength of his body, trained as long as he can remember to fight. It has been a couple of days since the last raid, so the infirmary is empty of anyone without debilitating injury, the only ones remaining those who couldn't be moved elsewhere. Eventually he stops and sits down at the foot of one of the beds, next to a Mistdrifter who's bled through the third set of bandages in the last hour. His skin is pallid and clammy, but he weakly returns Kyrian's smile. As he works to replace the bandages, Kyrian addresses him "How do you feel?" The man grunts in response. "Could be worse". Kyrian laughs, a sound that cuts through the infirmary like the peal of a bell. What a strange thought that joy could exist in such a miserable place. "Well, you'd better take it easy. We need you healed properly, then maybe you can get back out there in a few days" The lie comes easily. The man's wound, while small, has defied any attempt to close it by means magical and mundane alike. "Aye, I'd like that well. One last run. It'll be a long one, I think." The man looks at Kyrian's face, and sighs. "Go on, get out of here. You've got precious little time to rest between your own runs that you shouldn't waste time here." Kyrian snorts and stands. "I don't think it's a waste, Jed." He doesn't, either. He reaches up, feeling the blindfold over his eyes. Something about seeing that he is still him after his injury, that he hasn't given up...it gives them something important. Something rare in this place. It gives them hope. Kyrian has seen with his own eyes how a small amount of hope can help men like these find the strength to push through. Perhaps in the future he will see it again with someone else's. Before he leaves, he turns, raising one hand in a gentle salute, knowing it'll likely be the last time he sees them.
Turning, he heads out, taking off towards the kitchen at a jog. As he walks in, he whistles a simple melody. He grins at Elsi, deftly navigating the bustle of the goings-on, then silently drops his pack that contains the bundle of his armor out of the way. He rolls up the sleeves of his threadbare tunic and gets to work helping her with the dishes. "Any news, Gus? I heard a rumor about someone finding a strange doorway in the mist, but...well, I heard it from Dallat, and he's about as reliable as a snake that drugs."
“I will take responsibility for what I have done. [...] If must fall, I will rise each time a better man.” ― Brandon Sanderson, Oathbringer.
"Krueglarin," Trystane acknowledges him soberly. "There's little else than the stew and bread. I can fish out the meat if it pleases you," he says. He knows there's precious little to look out for in the first place but, if he finds a chunk in Krueglarin's portion, he'll happily help himself to it.
Trystane watches from his place at the hearth, his interest piqued by the conversation unfolding between Kyrian and Gus. He listens intently as they discuss the new rumor, his hands idly stirring the stew in the pot in front of him. As Kyrian mentions the unreliable source, Trystane can't help but smirk knowingly. He's heard his fair share of outlandish tales from the likes of Dallat before, and he knows better than to put too much stock in them. Still, the idea of a possible escape route from Ravenloft stirs something within him—a flicker of hope amidst the despair. Trystane continues to eavesdrop on the conversation, his thoughts consumed by the tantalizing prospect of freedom beyond the Mists.
Edit:
You're right! Corrected this.
|| Tryncaryn - Halfling Monk/Wizard - Dragon of Icespire Peak || Berry - Fairy Barbarian - Deathworld: Lost Mine of Phandelver || Taya - Mysterious Fighter - Echoes of Empire || Myrla Stardust - Wood Elf Rogue - After the Fall ||
((OOC: I think you've mixed up some names there))
“I will take responsibility for what I have done. [...] If must fall, I will rise each time a better man.” ― Brandon Sanderson, Oathbringer.
(I've added an NPC list to the first post, to keep track of people.)
The bartender, Valentin Jovan, is a young man and the son of Alexandru Jovan, leader of the cell of Keepers of the Feather who call the Shrouded Citadel home. He performs his job with an apathetic efficiency, pouring Zania's drink and sliding it over. No one else occupies the bar at the moment. It's where people go to get drunk and forget about their lives, more than it is a social place. The atmosphere is still and choking. Then again, where is it not?
Gus grunts. "Dallat's a punctured windbag, if you ask me. That gormless peck hasn't half of what it takes to be a Mistdrifter, and making up stories ain't going to help him more'n a skink's worth of piddle. He just inhaled too much Mist and now he's seeing things what ain't there. Ain't like that's the weirdest shit cropped up among the Mists anyhow. Boy's lucky he ain't run into one of the Gentleman's types, all the time he spends fiddling about in the Mists like it were his lady."
The Gentleman, or the Jolly Gentleman, Bright Gentleman, Cheery Gentleman, or any other sort of adjective rife with irony is the term used to describe the method by which you all find your way back to the Citadel after a Drift. Somehow, the Benefactor has managed to procure the lasting services of a Mist Ferryman, one of the sadistic, skeletal beings who drift freely through the Mists, moving from Domain to Domain as if their borders were simply political, rather than metaphysical. When you meet up with the Gentleman at the end of your Drift, he rows you through the winding labyrinth of the Mist and deposits you back at the Citadel, a feat impossible for an ordinary being. If one were to miss the Gentleman's call, they would be left stranded in Ravenloft until they either wandered their way back, or died.
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
Kyrian chuckles. "Well, Ezra knows we can't all be as perfect as you, Gus. I'd say that if the drifters were all half as disciplined as you, we'd be out of this place by now. Still...they do try. Even Dallat. I think risking your life so much grants you some leeway when it comes to telling tall tales." He sighs, then shakes his head. "It's alright, we're close now. I feel it." The words feel familiar on his tongue - it's something he has been telling himself, and anybody that will listen, most of his life. He bows his head and focuses on the dishes, redoubling his efforts to get them finished.
“I will take responsibility for what I have done. [...] If must fall, I will rise each time a better man.” ― Brandon Sanderson, Oathbringer.
"The bred alone will be fine for now." Krueglarin prepares to leave when Kyrian shows. Krueglarin absently chews on some bread while he listens to the conversation. Finally, he speaks up. "Has it ever been this long before the benefactor sent us on a mission? Perhaps something has happened?"
"We're always close," grunts Gus. "We're always a five minute walk from freedom, it's just the damn Mists that keep us here."
He looks to Klueglarin. "Week or so, give or take some change. Tough to tell time, you know how it is. Sure as Hells hope nothing's happened, but not much we can do. We don't even know what in the bloody blue blazes the Benefactor is."
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
As those in the Hearth eat, the door slams open, shoved with considerable open by a rather inconsiderably-sized halfling woman. Dressed in a neat suit and cravat, with a silver raven symbol hung over her neck, this is Pipilla Thornnuck, one of the Shrouded Citadel's cadre of augurs, which consist of members of the Keepers, Vistani, adherents of Ezra, and other prophetically-gifted individuals. They are few and far between, and since the more seers brought in, the more often and more detailed a task is delivered by the Benefactor, it is always considered beneficial to seek out new seers across the Domains.
"Drifters? You're all one group, yeah? Kyrian, Trystane, Krue... where's Zania? Whatever, I'll contact her in a second. We've got a delivery from the Benefactor. Looks like you're heading out again."
Moments later, Zania hears a message in her mind. Tasks from the Benefactor. Gather at the Stone. The Standing Stone, she knows, is the conduit through which the guidance of the Benefactor is channeled. It exists at the very top of the citadel, exposed to the swirling maelstrom of Mists above.
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
As Pipilla Thornnuck bursts into the Hearth, Trystane's attention snaps to her with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. The arrival of a delivery from the Benefactor signals another perilous journey beyond the Citadel's walls, another chance to inch closer to the elusive goal of escape. But before he can fully process the implications, his instincts kick in. With a sense of urgency, he hastily finishes Krueglarin's untouched stew, knowing that every scrap of sustenance counts in their harsh reality - and who would waste a good bowlful? Then, with a steely determination, he gathers his pack and strides over to Elsa, "Keep things in order here," he advises in a low voice, his tone tinged with a grim resolve. "We'll be back soon enough, but until then, stay vigilant. Food is still scarce and rationed. I know how they get when I'm not here."
With a curt nod, Trystane leaves the Hearth behind, his mind already racing with thoughts of the impending journey and the mysteries awaiting them at the Standing Stone.
|| Tryncaryn - Halfling Monk/Wizard - Dragon of Icespire Peak || Berry - Fairy Barbarian - Deathworld: Lost Mine of Phandelver || Taya - Mysterious Fighter - Echoes of Empire || Myrla Stardust - Wood Elf Rogue - After the Fall ||
Zania perks up immediately when she gets the message... she's been wanting nothing more than to get out and do something!
"Thanks again, Valentin. Always a pleasure, but it looks like I'm being summoned," she says with a little smile, tossing a gold piece on the table for her drinks as she stands up to leave. "Keep the change."
She hurries towards the stone at the top of the citadel, looking almost eager as she makes her way through the streets. A bit later, she arrives at the stone.
"Alright, I'm here... what have we got?" she asks no-one in particular.
Kyrian flicks the suds of what passes for soap in the citadel from his hands, drying them quickly with a rag. He scoops up his pack, waving to the kitchen crew as he takes off at a sprint after Trystane. As he catches up he, slows to a trot next to the man. "Think it'll be a difficult run? They've been getting more difficult recently. Surely we're due for a stroke of good luck, right?"
“I will take responsibility for what I have done. [...] If must fall, I will rise each time a better man.” ― Brandon Sanderson, Oathbringer.
Krueglarin immediately steps into action, and heads to his quarters to gather his armor and weapons. Maybe they would leave now, maybe latter, but he would be ready. Perhaps this time they would hunt an undead monster like the one that had cursed him. He could hope.
"Three, back to back. You can look them over and decide which one you want, we can send other groups on the others once they return."
Pipilla fishes around in her pocket, and pulls out a deck of Tarokka cards. She draws three, and sets them facedown on a table before her. She then draws five more, and sets them in a cross pattern below the three. She flips over the one on the top left. Upon it, a smiling mask cackles. "The Domain of Scaena. Formerly part of Dementlieu, but it broke off sometime after the final performance of the mad playwright Lemot Sediam Juste. Its Darklord. It's fairly easy to locate, and leaves relics behind wherever it travels, so we've multiple talismans that lead to it. We do not, however, have any talismans that lead to Dementlieu. Until now. It seems that Juste is attempting something new with his most recent performance. He wants to show the people of Dementlieu how his art has matured. If the signs of the Benefactor are correct, then his next performance will result in the creation of a talisman keyed to Dementlieu. We want that talisman. Unfortunately, the Mists want to keep him in place, and more likely than not will be sending heroes to foil the Darklord's ambitions. Your mission will be to ensure the play works, even if that means entering the illusory realm of the performance itself. You'll then have to grab the talisman and get out before Juste catches on."
She flips over the card next to it. It shows a blooming flower with a bead of rot at its center. "Ghastria. An island domain, home to Marquis Stezen D’Polarno. It looks like the Benefactor realized that we're low on supplies, so it's sending us here. Once a year, the Darklord of this land drains the life of its people to supplement his own. A horrid practice, but on the plus side... well, I'm sure you all know the "I am the land" business by now. The island bursts with life at this moment, meaning that we'll be able to bring back plenty of supplies. Just watch out for the locals. Your goal in this case will just be looting as much as you can, preferably stuff that lasts."
The final card of the three is flipped, showing a pair of spectacled, slitted eyes, wreathed in darkness. "Markovia. Dr. Frantisek Markov is a horrid, bestial man, whose foul practices have transformed him into the monster he is today. But he's not who you're here for. In order to recover his waning intellect, he's been experimenting on animals, and has succeeded in granting many of his island's inhabitants a sort of twisted sentience. Unfortunately... it seems that he may have succeeded more than usual. Normally the Dark Powers thwart his actions, but it looks like this time he's made something else. Something far more intelligent, and far more evil than the others, and I believe that the Benefactor fears that this will result in a sundering of the realm. No one needs more Darklords. Go out there, kill this thing before it becomes a problem, and get out."
She stands back. "Those are your options. Take a card, and I'll give you more insight into your selected task."
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."
"I fear the playwright will be complicated. Participating in an illusion of a play? It may not be the best use of our skills. The other two are more straight forward. A supply run or a monster hunt." Krueglarin absently scratches his ear as he speaks, seemingly lost in thought.
Pipilla smiles. "It is neither as complex, nor as simple as you may think. The playhouse is but a single building, but the illusions of its Darklord hold entire worlds. If you head there, you won't be acting. You'll be fighting for your life."
"Ignorance is bliss, and you look absolutely miserable."