" So...who wants to set the cart on fire?", Burr queried taking out some oil.

At the mention of the word "fire", Soren's head snaps around startled and his face goes ashen.

Nettle has to half-flap her wings a few times from her perch to maintain balance on his shoulder as the druid suddenly starts backing, then loping away down the path with surprising alacrity.  Like a fleeing animal.  He mumbles something that might be "Please, I... not f-fire... do not...".  From the way he looks fearfully at the trees, anyone who has been around Soren for a few days might surmise he is remembering his own home of Neverwinter Wood burning.  A vision and memory he will never escape, no matter how fast he runs.

As he leaves line of sight to Burr and any flame he may have lit, Soren calms a little and realizes his folly, rushing off ahead of the party like a reckless pup.  Mentally apologizing to Nettle, he reaches out to Silvanus for guidance and looks around intently for threats, or for the Vistani camp ahead.

Soren's Perception plus Guidance:  26 + 4 = 30 (absolute max with Nat. 20).

[Whether burned or not burned, it sounds like you are definitely not taking the cart.]

The party advances toward the Vistani camp, double time as nightfall approached.  Luckily, in this at least it seems the old woman was truthful.  It is not long before you hear the sound of music over the falling rain.

The road gradually widens and then multiple twisted, muddy paths branch off to the east through the trees. Deep ruts in the earth are evidence of the comings and goings of wagons.

Following the wagon tracks, the canopy of branches suddenly gives way to dark grey clouds boiling far above. There is a clearing here, next to a river that widens to form a small lake several hundred feet across. Five colorful round tents, each ten feet in diameter, are pitched outside a ring of eight barrel-topped wagons. Two of the wagons, you can see, are not on wheels any longer, but have been set up upon makeshift wooden foundations.  A much larger tent stands near the shore of the lake, its sagging form lit from within. Near this tent, twelve unbridled horses drink from the river.

The mournful strains of an accordion masks the voices of a dozen brightly clad figures as they sit and talk in the rain around a roaring bonfire.  The road continues beyond this encampment with a bridge just ahead, and a footpath meandering northeast between the river and the forest’s edge.

As the six of you approach, one of the men at the camp notices you.  He pokes another man to get his attention, causing that man to spill his wine on the woman next to him.  This leads to some shoving and shouting a good bit of laughter, but ultimately the entire group is aware of your presence.  The wave you onward and one calls out, asking you to identify yourselves and to join them for a drink.

Burr looks to Ireena to do the introductions, unsure of the customs here...

(I'm assuming that by this point, Soren has gotten over his fright and rejoined the group, his strong Perception having only accomplished perhaps the feat of noticing the Vistani a minute before the others do.  He returns somewhat sheepishly but clearly looking around for signs of fire or smoke.)

Quietly to the group:
"Were we trying to keep Ireena's identity secret from anyone who might report to Strahd?  The witch, Morgantha, referred to the Vistani as serving the 'darklord Strahd'.  Of course, she could have been lying about that as she did about the girl and the doll.  It might be impossible to keep secrets from Strahd in any case, with the way Morgantha was glancing around and speaking to potential 'watchers'.  Still, it might be better for Ireena not to use her true name?  Either way, we should pay our respect, our pack visiting their pack's territory as we are.  You are good with human words, not-Father?"

He steps forward to greet the Vistani, posture non-threatening and respectful, Nettle the owl still on his shoulder.  "I am Soren Thornpaw and this is Nettle.  My other pack-mates can introduce themselves.  We seek the relative safety of your wagons and would gladly join you for a... drink."

Soren realizes as he says it that 'drink', such as the wine the Vistani are apparently enjoying, is probably the last thing he needs. At least if it tastes as bad at the red vinegar offered at the Blood of the Vine tavern in the town of Barovia, he might stop before he has too much.

(Before arrival to the camp and after Soren’s warning)

Giles hurriedly says “I agree.  We need to keep Ireena’s identity secret.  She is being hunted and if Ismark was standing right here he would warn us to be cautious around them and keep her hidden.  We can’t really keep her hidden per se, but we can hide her identity.  Ireena, please, come here my dear.  That’s right my child, let me help.  We want you to keep your identity secret.  Instead of Ireena, your name is Rita, ok?  Just a little dab of this here, and some of this there…”. 

Giles uses his disguise kit to alter her appearance slightly, removing any insignia that would identify the burgomaster’s daughter, changing her features, using any scarf or cloak to wrap her head, altering her appearance as much as he can.  

Deception : 18

Giles steps forward when they arrive, saying “Hello, my name is Father Giles, a man of the cloth and a humble servant, and this is my good friend Rita, she is in mourning as she recently lost her father.  She isn’t in a very cheery mood and not much for chatter, but we would welcome your shelter and to listen to your music, hopefully it can serve as a balm to her mood.  We would enjoy sharing some food and drink with you, and the warmth of a fire if you have it.  We are passing through and would welcome the care and company of fellow travelers.”  

Zefla looks over at the child from time to time as they make their way to the camp.  She doesn't know why Ireena took her with them, but at least she doesn't seem to be slowing them down.  As the others mention keeping Ireena's identity secret, she nods in agreement.  "Hey, that's impressive."  she notes as Giles disguises her.

"A drink sounds wonderful after the long travel on the road!  So glad to have run into your cheerful camp, it is such a break from the dreariness of the road.  My name is Zefla and am looking forward to joining you at the warm fire."  She looks to Burr to see if he is going to introduce himself as well.

If they offer a seat by the fire, she gladly takes it.  

" Burr."

" Is me."

He looked around at the Vistani, something about the camp reminded him of back home, though there was more cheer and colour in this camp...

Ireena is completely disguised.  Giles' scarf conceals her entire face below the half-helm and only her eyes are visible poking through.  The cut of the armor and her figure still suggests the feminine, but otherwise she is all but unrecognizable.

She carries the child without complaint, though it must be tiring for her.  She makes small talk with the girl as you walk briskly toward the camp, though much of it is too quiet for you to hear.

'Rita' waves a hand in acknowledgement to the Vistani as Giles introduces her.  Unprompted, the little girl chimes in "And my name is Saskia.  Can I see your gold?"

This raises a few eyebrows among the Vistani at the campfire.  One of them bites.  "What gold would that be, little one?"  

"All of it," she answers matter-of-factly.  "My daddy always said that while we starve, you wandering folk sit on great big piles of gold."  She looks around.  "Is it in your wagons?"

There is long pause, as even the accordian player halts his tune to let the matter hang in the air for a moment.  Then the men around the campfire erupt in laughter.  "Aye," sighs one of them, "T'were once true dear.  But then our wives took it all away from us and now we sit penniless in the rain."  A few get up, and the rest scoot over along the cut logs that surround the large fire, making room to sit.  They pass along wooden cups and bottles.  One of the bottles is a red wine, the label on the bottle printed with flowery script in a language none of you can read.  Another bottle, Zefla recognizes.  It is a Ferguson-Mosiondz whiskey.  One of their 12 year single barrel editions.  The Lizard's Gizzard in Daggerford kept a bottle like this on the top shelf.

Looking around the camp, you see a blacksmith packing up and tying down tarps for the night.  Elsewhere, several children and teens hurriedly gather laundry off of clotheslines to bring them in out of the rain.  One of the wagons [the ones that still have wheels] is decorated with images of clocks and watches, and has a cuckoo clock mounted over the driver's seat.  Another is painted with a sign advertising it as a habberdashery.

One of the men who had stood up from the campfires goes to a wagon and returns with a fiddle, joining in and backing up the accordian player.  They slow the pace and begin playing a softer, sadder melody.  As you introduce yourselves and take a seat by the fire, 'Rita' sets the little girl down next to her, refusing the wine and liquor.  

The folk around the fire introduce themselves in their own turn.  The men:  Armand; Brinn; Emilian; Giacomo; Petre; Ratka; Tobar.  The women: Annalysnya; Asha; Ilka.  Their clan is the Zarovan, the dominant Vistani family here in Barovia.  This is their Tser Pool Camp, and you shall be their honored guests tonight.  "As is tradition..." says one of the men [Giacomo], "... we should exchange a story with one another.  Shall our guests go first?"

Soren thinks of the Vistani, enjoying the company of their pack. He thinks of the werewolves. Of Strahd, the 'darklord', brooding over it all.  He sits.

"My tale is a true one, I now know.  From my home in Faerun. Neverwinter Wood, though my part of it is now burned and gone."

"It is a story of my friend Lupe and her husband Lyca.  One I did not believe, I admit, until what I witnessed last night."

"Lupe would tell me of Lyca.  Disbelief still in her voice, though she saw it happen.  He was a good husband, a good father.  She didn't understand it.  Could never understand it.  He had always been gentle, playing with the children.  How could there be any bad in someone like that?"

"Lyca had lived with his mother when Lupe first met him.  Walking in the woods he was, coming back from a hunting trip.  He had not caught any game at all, not even a field mouse, but he wasn't down about it.  Enjoying the world around him, he was, and that is what Lupe loved about him.  Never whining or grouchy when things didn't go his way.  Soon enough, the two were inseparable and Lyca had moved out and in with Lupe.  Of course, Lupe's own sister had to move out of their home, but she had always been close with Lupe and never begrudged her, grinning instead."

"Lupe would talk of what a hard worker Lyca was, never lazy.  So big and fine-looking.  Young though he was, on lodge meeting nights, his voice would soar above the others in song.  It brought shivers of joy to Lupe's spine, remembering.  Even when she had to stay home with the babies, hearing her husband's voice, leading off strong with others joining in.  The singing coming through the trees so clear in the moonlit summer night."

"But it was the moon.  That is what she found out.  The moon's fault.  It was in Lyca's blood, his own father's blood.  The change of the moon bringing out the curse. When the moon is dark and the forest is still.  Waiting.  Lyca would go out and Lupe would ask where. He would answer and say he was going to hunt, though Lupe could sense the change in his voice, even then.  But she was too exhausted with the babies to do anything about it.  And when he came back, he would be tired and strange, with strange smells on him too.  He would wash and wash himself when he thought Lupe wasn't looking, but the smells stayed on him and in their bed.  Even the children were scared, wondering about their daddy. Lupe would tell them to hush. But she knew the truth, by then. She knew."

"And one day, when it was time to be sleeping, huddled together as a family, he stayed away.  Because Lyca knew too.  And he knew that she knew.  Lupe awoke, feeling that he wasn't there beside her.  She got up, thinking she could bear it no longer, and went out, with the bright sunlight streaming down.  She saw him standing just outside, in the tall grass by the entrance, head hanging.  Lyca sat down like he was weary, and Lupe knew she should not watch.   She didn't know why she did, but she could not tear her eyes away."

"She saw.  Saw him change.  In his feet, at first.  They got long.  Each foot got longer, toes stretching out and getting fleshy with no hair on them."

"The hair began to come off all over his body.  Like the sunlight was burning it away. Flesh bare to the sky all over, like a worm's skin. Lyca turned his face, but it was changing too. Changing while Lupe looked on aghast.  Flatter and flatter, mouth wide, teeth grinning flat and wide and dull, nose shrunken down to a little knob.  And eyes blue, so blue with white rims all around, staring at her out of that flat, soft, hairless face."

"Then he stood up on two legs, and it was all Lupe could do not to howl in grief. She saw him, her dear love, turn into one of the tall ones with round ears. The ones that cut down the forest and kill for sport.  The Hateful Ones, as Lupe's sister would say."

"Lupe was frozen.  She could not move, the trembling turning into a low growl in her throat. It stared and peered, this thing her husband had turned into. Back towards the den with the children. The babies had woken up, whimpering. The man thing had no shiny metal as many do, but it picked up a branch with a long upper foot that it was no longer standing on. Held the branch in front of it.  Brandishing it as humans do.  Threatening."

"But Lupe's sister was already coming.  Many of her pack were.  Safety in numbers, as among all wolves.  The man thing looked at them, then broke and ran, leaping and weaving on two legs.  Lupe herself was last, for the love she still bore Lyca.  She saw them pull it down.  Her sister's teeth were in its throat.  Lupe got there and it was dead.  The others were drawing back from the kill.  Because of the strange taste of the blood, and the smell.  The younger ones cowering and some crying.  Lupe's sister rubbed her mouth against her fore legs over and over to get rid of the taste."

"Lupe ventured close, thinking if the thing was dead, the spell might be broken and the curse might be gone and her husband might come back.  Lyca who she had loved. If she could only see her love again, in his true wolf form.  So beautiful.  But only a dead human lay there, bare flesh rent and bloody.  The pack drew back from the corpse and ran, back into the deep of the woods, into the shadows and the blessed dark."

((OOC:  reverse werewolf tale adapted from the late, great Ursula K. Leguin, "The Wife's Story"))

Soren pauses.  "Until yesterday, I had never met a werewolf, and I never truly believed Lupe.  Not deep down.  Now I understand.  We all have the ability to love. Beasts and humanoids alike.  Yet we all have the ability to be monsters too. And to be ruled by the worst in all of us, cruel and malign and unfeeling.  Brooding in a dark castle.  Some of us cannot choose, as Lyca couldn't, it seems.  The rest of us should choose, if we have the courage."

Burr also chuckled at the childs bluntness and the nature of the camp was lulling him into a sense of familiarity.

Uncharacteristically he stood, " I have a story."

" My people are outcasts who live in exile due to our undertakings and we tell many tales. This is one of them."

" About 30 years ago,  a svirfneblin woman, Shorty, and her mother, stepfather and family travelled from Lakiki in the Underdark all the way to Lasts Bluff on the surface by foot.

Walking behind them was a skinny old man, their holy man, who the family brought along as their advisor, because he knew everything about everything!  They walked on the surface toward the East which meant walking up and down over the high hills, which ran north and south. 

When they got to Mount Bigleg, they saw their first unknown thing. It was a windmill, built by Daggerford Windmills. At first, the family was frightened but Shorty knew what it was because she had been working with a dwarven engineer during the Feldcleft war. She explained to them that this whirling thing was harmless and was used for making water. So the thanked the tall thing for providing water and walked on.

Later on the old man caught up with them but was so tired from walking that he fell down and went to sleep without seeing the windmill.

When he woke up, it was a different story. He sat up, rubbed his eyes and saw the noisy apparition standing before him. He began shouting that it was a devil spirit, come to kill them. He started throwing his spears at it and but they bounced off with no effect. He then threw some magic stones at it, but nothing happened. The ‘thing’ kept whirling its arms around, making a terrible noise.  The poor old man then fell sobbing to the ground still muttering. Shorty came to his side and told him not to worry that this was a good thing, made by tall folk to get water out of the ground, for animals and people to drink. She showed him the pool of water at the base of the windmill. After a little more talking she got the old man to drink from the pool and finally he understood that this was a good thing."

" Silly old bugger, we gave him a lot of ribbing about that....not too much though....old man had strong magic and he wasn't afraid to use it."

Sometime during the stories, Ireena takes the little girl's hand.  "We'll... go look at those pretty wagons."  Saskia's eyes had been wide at some of the scarier parts of the tales, and the girl gladly takes Ireena's hand and walks off, though they don't wander beyond the glow of the campfire light.

As Soren and then Burr finish, the Vistani murmur appreciation and approval.  "Two stories, then.  We should offer two in return."  They nod and voice approval.  When no one immediately volunteers, an older man steps forward from near one of the wagons.  He is short and thin, bald on top and wearing a loose outfit that is a just a little drabber in color compared to the rest of the folk here.  He does not sit, but slowly circles around behind those seated at the campfire.  A few of the Vistani shift in their seats and one pokes the fire with a long stick, causing the flames to rise higher and brighter.

You are new to this valley, travelers.  The first advice any Vistani or Barovian should give you is to stick to the roads.  Pay heed to those words.

Many years back, when I was still a young man with a full head of hair, I was to help my cousin Babik find an old gemstone mine in the hills of the Black Forest, near Lake Luna.  He had visited the ruins of Berez with his friends and found a map.  This is an old land, and the hills, mountains and forests hide many secrets, long forgotten.  Babik thought a fortune might be waiting for us out there. The trip was long, and we would be spending days within the woods with no road to guide us, so I thought it best to ask my brothers and sisters to join us. On our first day in the woods we paid no heed to the stories our parents had told us of the mists and the tricks it can play on you. We were young - strong. We thought we would be more than capable of handling everything on our own.

So as the sun went down, we set up our tents and built a campfire for the night. The forest grew dark around us, and drink had made us bold. My brother, Pontius had drank too much and went to relieve himself in the woods. Several minutes passed, then nearly an hour as we sat by the fire, drinking and roasting game.

Pontius never came back.

In the morning as we began to pack and gather our belongings, we noticed that Pontius’ belongings were gone. When I asked our group where he went, one said that they had seen him come back in the middle of the night, shaking like he was laughing without making sound, and that he had gathered his things and left. I assumed that he had simply decided to scout out the path ahead, as Pontius was always one to forge his own way through the world, and figured we would run into him up ahead.

And so we continued into the woods, drinking and laughing and thinking that we were invincible. After several hours of walking though one of the women in our group shouted that someone was following us. I looked back to where she was pointing, and indeed saw that we were being followed. I saw my brother’s head, and his wide playful smile peering out at us from behind a tree. “Oh, it’s just Pontius,” I told her. And I ran over to meet him, but before I could he vanished behind the tree and I could hear him run off into the woods.

I was no stranger to his games like this. Any Vistana can tell you that we pride ourselves on being nimble and stealthy, impossible to catch. I looked forward to this game, even, hoping to prove to my brother that I was the superior one. We saw him many times after that - poking out from behind trees and bushes, all with that same big smile. But I was never fast enough to catch him. 

By the evening, we had all grown worried over Pontius, as he hadn’t been joining us for meals or to refill our waterskins.. His games often lasted long, but never like this before. As the sky darkened and a second night approached, I stared out into the woods at the distant shape of my brother’s head, peering out at me from behind a gnarled tree trunk. This time I did not run to catch him. I sat there for what seemed like hours, watching as his head poked out from different spots in the forest. And as I did, ice grew thick in my veins. Because I noticed that since this game had started, his expression had never changed. And his eyes had never blinked.

I shared my concerns with the others and we decided to press on toward the mine.  Our confidence was shaken and we did not want to spend another night in the open.  The fighters of our group simply loaded our crossbows, and we stumbled on in deepening darkness.

Before long, the old mine came into view, along with a low stone watchtower.  We all ran to the door and barricaded ourselves inside. Once again we felt safe behind the strong walls.  We ate and we drank and laughed, convincing ourselves we had let the silly stories of our mothers get the best of us.  And when the drink ran dry, we waited for Pontius to knock on the door until we all fell asleep.

At some point in the night though, I woke to the sound of the floor creaking beside me. Pontius stood near an open window. I could tell it was him by the way that the moonlight lit up his hair, which he had always prided himself on being able to comb into large spikes. But something about the way he stood seemed wrong. He was too short, too skinny, and he walked with a limp as he shuffled over to where I lay on the floor. I could see him shaking, making that same strange soundless laugh that he had been seen doing last night when his game begun.

And then he reached up and grabbed at something just underneath the collar of his shirt. I couldn’t tell what he was doing at first, but slowly I realized that he was lifting something off of himself. Bit by bit the skin of his neck peeled back like leather. His face, still stuck in that unblinking smile, began to deform, wrinkling and falling in on itself until I could see the mask come off entirely. And I am thankful that it was too dark for me to see whatever was underneath. To see whatever laughed silently, watching my fear, and to see whatever it was that slinked back out the open window with my brother’s face in it’s hands.

It’s been many years since then, but even now when I look out into the woods I can still see my brother’s face behind the trees, shaking as whatever’s beneath it laughs. *

His story complete, the old man doesn't linger and returns to his wagon.  Despite poking and prodding, the fire doesn't seem to want to get any brighter.  Shadows hang low over the camp. 

A woman steps forward now.  Her dark hair is pulled up high and tight, and one of her ears is studded with at least a dozen earrings, tracing the whole edge from lobe to hairline.  She slips gracefully between the seated Vistani until she is near the fire.  She reaches into her dress and then waves her hand over the fire... the flames erupt with orange light.

You are not the first strangers to visit our camp.  Many have been drawn through the mists to the call of adventure and danger that Barovia represents.  Many choose to take up arms against the darklord.  Others meet less grand fates, succumbing to the many dangers of this valley.  But the last stanger to visit us was something different.  Something special. 

A mighty wizard came to this land over a year ago. I remember him like it was yesterday. He sat exactly where you’re sitting, now. A very charismatic man, he was. Bold, and possessed with knowledge beyond most mortals.  Alone among all the adventures I had ever met, he did not seem surprised to be here.  Though we was... put out?  Irritated?  He took to counseling the others who had been drawn here with him, aware of some of the lands dangers even before we could offer warnings.

As she narrates, the fire begins to take form.  A band of fire figures appears, with one, cowled and caped, standing above them.

After leaving us, he led his little band from one end of the valley to the other, from Krezk to Immol and back.  He thought he could rally the people of Barovia against the devil Strahd. He stirred them with thoughts of revolt and freedom.  He convinced them that it was Strahd who controlled the mists; Strahd who ensured they would live their entire lives within the grey borders of this valley.  Before long, the wizard and his adventurers were followed by a ragtag band of dozens, armed with field implements and torches, unarmored by anything more than the zeal that the mage had stirred in their hearts. 

Again, the fire takes form.  Now, the band of five is surrounded by many smaller forms... they dance and twist in the flames and follow along behind the larger figures like goslings trailing a mother goose.

He bore them to the castle en masse.  Whether he truly believed they could help overthrow Strahd, or he merely intended them as human shields for his companions, I cannot say.  He was an enigmatic man.

When the Darklord appeared at the gates of Castle Raveloft, the wizard’s peasant army dropped their weapons and fled in terror. A few stood their ground and were never seen again.

Now the fire shifts again.  A shape looms above the tiny figures, not bright flame but darkness, the absence of light outlined in the fire.  Great wings like a bat frame the shape, and it crashes down upon the little figures, extinguishing them.

The wizard and the Darklord cast spells at each other.  They soon left the rest of the combatants behind them, locked in mortal combat.  Their battle flew from the gates of Ravenloft to the high bridge, to the cliffs, past the Old Svallich Road, to a precipice overlooking the Tser Falls. I saw the battle with my own eyes.

Pyrotechnics slowly rise from the fire and burst overhead of those assembled around the campfire.  Some of the Vistani point and whisper among themselves.  The storyteller points now behind her, up past the trees.  The clouds above you have parted, revealing a starry sky and a cresent moon.  Soren, all of this dancing flame has likely put you on edge, but the realization that there is a moon in the sky is a relief enough to make your heart flutter.  Now, looking back, it gives you cause to wonder if your earlier concerns about the sun may have just been stress or confusion.

As she points, you can see that in the moonlight a distant precipice is visible.  A stream breaks over the side of the cliffs, tumbling down in a long waterfall.  Eventually this must become the same water that the bridge just past the camp crosses.

It was just up there.  Their battle lit up the heavens.  Thunder shook the mountainside, and great rocks tumbled down upon the darklord, yet by his will he survived. Lightning from above struck the wizard, yet he stood his ground, his magic protecting him from the worst of it.  On and on they hurled spells, ice and flame, acid and lightning, without either prevailing.  Their voices were like the thunder, echoing on the wind as they warped the land and weave themselves in their battle.  We wondered, down here, if perhaps the darklord had at last met a foe he could not conquer.  But when the devil Strahd fell upon him, the wizard’s magic couldn’t save him. I saw him cast down by Strahd, a thousand feet to smash upon the rocks and rapids.  In the aftermath, I climbed down to the river to search for the wizard’s body, to see if... you know... he had anything of value.  But the River Ivlis had already spirited him away.

The peasants who fled from the battle were rounded up and sent to the gallows, but it was the darklord's servants who did the work.  Of Strahd himself, its said he was not seen traveling the land for months afterward.  Some guess that he nursed grave injuries, but there are none who know for certain.

With her story complete, she snatches a bottle from one of the men and steals a seat by the fire.

*

" Oh.", said Burr flatly.

" Give me some of that wine.  This place will be the death of all of us."

Zefla silently passes the wine to Burr.  She has heard her share of stories working at the Lizard's Gizzard, but nothing compared to what these Vistani have shared and it chills her right to the spine.  

"I'm not much of a story teller myself, and wow, after those doozies, I sure don't have anything to add.  But I do know this... yes, we'll stick to the roads."

She pulls out the sweet loaf that she grabbed from the woman, "Anyone want some of this?  Also, what do you know of the woman that calls herself Morgantha?"

Zefla, make a CON save please.

Lol uh oh.

CON save 13

The wine is good.  Perhaps not fit for the tables of nobility - but really, it's not as though your band would know the difference.  For more contemporary reference, compared to the swill served in the tavern back in the Village of Barovia, this is sweet ambrosia.

Zefla:

The Vistana [since my last post I have decided this is the appropriate term.  The culture, the People (as a whole) and an individual are 'Vistani'... a group of individuals are 'Vistana'] politely decline Zefla's offer.  A few look like they may have been interested, but they are silently waved off by the woman who told the wizard's tale.  "No," she says.  "We don't know her story, not in full.  But Madame Eva has warned us not to traffic or barter with that woman, nor to harass her if we meet her on the roads."

"Which reminds me," she adds, pointedly.  "You must all go present yourselves to Madame Eva.  She leads our happy clan, and makes it her business to meet any travelers from beyond the mists."  She points to the large tent near the water's edge.  "When you have rested your tired feet and sufficiently warmed yourselves at our fire, go and speak with her.  We insist."

Giles has been sitting and listening, an odd look on his face.  At first he smiles and laughs, taking a few good sips of wine.  As the stories continue, his smile starts to fade a little bit, then a lot.  He looks on grimly in a dazed manner, staring into the fire, watching the dancing flickers and he starts to tell a tale, starting it by saying, “I’ve got one.  One more that you might fancy.”  He looks up and casts his voice, but his eyes keep staring at the flames.  

“Long ago, there was a small hamlet on a hill called Amity.  Its people were friendly, hard-working, and they loved to throw parties and have dances with all of their neighbors. Every year at harvest, they would throw the biggest party anyone had ever seen.  All the townsfolk would bring their best vegetables and their healthiest calves and everyone would pitch in to make a giant pot of harvest stew.

One year, a few of the children had eaten their fill, but didn't want to stay around and clean up. Instead, once their parents were busy dancing and laughing with their neighbors, the kids snuck away. As they ran through the dark streets of Amity, they heard a voice whisper from down an alleyway.

"Heeeeeeeeeere, kiddies," the voice would say.

The children stopped, wondering who that was.

"Who's there?" they would call back.

But all they would get in return was, "Heeeeeeeeeere, kiddies."

Some of the children were afraid, and urged the others to leave. But the rest were curious, and walked down the alleyway to see who was calling them. Those children were never seen again.

The following year, there was another group of children in Amity who were out playing. Their parents called them to come home and finish their chores, but instead they just ran and played out in the woods where their parents wouldn't find them. While climbing trees and having fun, one of them heard a voice.

"Heeeeeeeeeere, kiddies."

Those children never came home.

Terrified at the disappearance of several of their children, the people of Amity insisted that the mayor find a solution. That's when Verminthax arrived. He wore long robes that dragged along the ground, his clothes covered in leaves and smelling of harvest stew.  He smiled a broken-toothed grin, and proudly proclaimed that he would find the children if the town agreed to pay him what he needed. The parents, of course, offered everything they had, and more.  Verminthax’s grin got wider.  He walked out into the street, through the dark alleyways, and out into the forest. In barely a moment's time, he walked out of the trees, where the parents had crowded around.

"Heeeeeeeeeere, kiddies," he said.

From the trees walked several children, their skin grey, their eyes yellow, their gait slow and clumsy.  The parents looked at their children, dead but walking, and cried out in horror as their filthy, dried hands began to claw at flesh and snap bone. The few that could escape tried, but as the parents were killed by their own children, they rose again and dragged their neighbors back to Verminthax, who scolded them for walking away on a deal.  They had agreed to give him everything he wanted - and more.

He wanted their souls. And their souls he would have.

Today, Amity is no more- simply a collection of empty houses up on a hill.  But they say that if you wander the streets at night, past the dark alleyways, or if you go out into the woods where your parents don't want you to, you can hear a voice call out.

"Heeeeeeeeeere, kiddies."

Giles looks up at the eyes across from him, around the fire.  He looks from face to face, his jaw set tight.  He brings out the coin from his pouch and starts flipping it like mad back and forth across his hand.  He says quietly, “Never heard it myself.  Friends dared me to check out that dried up, dead town.  I did it.  On a dare.  Those of the sort of things your do.  When you’re young.”  He looks back at the fire, his expression going blank.  “And stupid.”  

Burr regarded Giles with a raised eyebrow, then shook his head and drank more.

After telling his own story, Soren sits brooding, well away from the fire.  Listening to the other tales, by Burr, the Vistana and Giles.  He manages not to flinch at the pyrotechnics, though only barely.  Comforted by the crescent moon clearly visible and unshrouded in the sky.

Not dark, as it had been on Lyca and Lupe at the end.  Perhaps there is hope, despite the darkness ever-present in our tales.  I wonder if the great mage was the one who accompanied Raquon of Greyhawk to Strahd's castle.  They never found his body.  But who knows with wizards like that.

"Madame Eva is your pack leader?  We meet you in your territory, so I will agree to pay her a visit if she requests it, out of respect.  Though could you tell me why she herself does not join us by your... fires?"  Soren pauses and gulps at the last word, but manages not to stutter.

"I do think Madame Eva is right about Morgantha, the witch.  There was dark magic to her and she is far from the harmless woman she appears to be.  As for not harassing, bartering or trading with her, we may already have done some of those things.  She seemed to change shape into something sinister and evil when she felt confronted.  It seemed only the fear of some greater power kept her from unleashing her full magic on us."

And yet there sits Zefla eating Morgantha's pastries, just like the heedless child that the witch first mistook her for.  Perhaps thinking to abduct her, willingly or not, as she had with Saskia.  Soren shakes his head, thinking that it is Zefla's free will after all, but worry creeps up his spine nonetheless.

He stands, ready to make for Madame Eva's large tent.  Nettle's eyes blink once slowly, dawning again to stare at the others from his shoulder.