The woods are quiet this night, and the air grows chill. Your fire sputters as a low mist gathers around the edges of your camp, growing closer as the night wears on. By morning, the fog hangs thick in the air, turning the trees around you into gray ghosts. Then you notice these aren’t the same trees that surrounded you the night before.

You also notice that you are no longer alone...What do you do?

You have all awoken, in a forest of perpetual mist. What light there is is very dim, and the air feels still and close. Wherever you were traveling before, that place is long gone now. Whether you called Faerun or Eberron or even the Astral Plane your home, this feels like none of those places. It's hard to put words to the strange feeling of unease that settles over you as you awaken. You are startled by the fact that there are strangers standing relatively close to you. Everyone is about ten feet apart, and everyone has a similarly surprised look on their faces. Even as you watch, the mist seems to swirl and thicken, and in the distance you hear a very lonely, piercing howl.

The last of the dusk elf maidens, being a Barovian, does not feel at all safe, at the sight of the mists all around...

The voices in her mind don't take long to make themselves heard:
'It's a trap Svetlana! I told you so!'
'You should have stopped before the mists surrounded you...'
'Run, Svetlana! Run past the figure in the mists!'
'No! Stay away from them! Kill them from here!'

Svetlana is used to the cacophony of thoughts that resonate so often inside her skull, but when the Voices are so excited to actually speak all at once, they still have the power to stun her... it's like being in the middle of a crowded square where everyone tries to talk to you. Only, the square is your head.

Gritting her teeth and concentrating on regaining control of her mind, the savage stranger replies to the crowd that shares her skull: 'I didn't stop, because I thought something was following me. And we all agreed that it was best not to be forced to find out what it was. These people, at least, don't seem hostile... They could help me. And you know how much I need help!'

Even without holding it right now, the last of the dusk elf maidens keeps herself ready to draw her bow at any moment. Or to jump on the broom he has with her (without caring too much, at the moment, how bizarre a person who goes around carrying a broom with him might seem). But, in the meantime, she tries to make clear she has no hostile intentions, also considering that she is not wearing any armour, only worn skins to defend herself in some way from the cold and humidity. She appears simply as a woman with particularly chiseled features, with brown hair, now so thick and long to effectively hide her ears, and azure eyes that, at the moment, seem equally determined and scared. Eager to understand who the indistinct figure are, she slowly comes closer: "Greetings, travelers. Are you from Barovia? Or did you come... from the Mists?"

Dressed in the noble finery befitting her station as a noblewoman, Nyssa Taenoaron stood out amidst the mist, her attire a stark contrast to the wilderness that now surrounded her.  Her garments, meticulously crafted from the finest fabrics, bore the unmistakable mark of her noble lineage, while her posture exuded an air of authority and grace.

The noblewoman was mounted.  Her horse — a black steed with a sleek, muscular build and intelligent, expressive eyes — whinnied and stamped one of its hooves against the chill.  

Nyssa shushed and patted the horse's neck reassuringly with a gloved hand.

"Easy, Shadow."

On either side of her saddle, she bore a longsword and shield.  Although none there could know it ... the gear had originally belonged to her late twin brother, Theron.

"Barovia? I cannot say I am familiar with that land."  Nyssa began, answering the elven woman's question while looking around regarding this strange new place. 

"Until just a few moments ago, I was on the Trade Way, making my way back to Waterdeep."

A nod of the head in greeting toward the others.  "I am Nyssa Taenaron."

Mittens peers at the twisted, gnarled trees with trepidation as he tentatively walks under their skeletal boughs. Hmm, I'm definitely not in the right spot, he thinks to himself, annoyance bubbling up within him at the thought. "When I find Rainbringer, I'm going to strangle her," he mutters to himself. Why on earth would you want to host a family reunion in the middle of the forest? Sure, camping was fun and all, but Rainbringer really should have provided better instructions besides "Turn right the the giant oak next to the trail" if she wanted everyone to show up at the campsite. He head turned right when he found a giant oak ages ago, yet he hadn't found the camp next to the lake yet. He probably turned right at the wrong tree, but that didn't explain why the trees around him looked so different than the other ones he had been around earlier. The mysterious mist that filled the air between the withered trunks didn't help him feel much better about being lost. He couldn't be the only one that was lost, right?

Up ahead in a small clearing, he spotted a small group of people. Oh good, maybe they can point me in the right direction, he thinks as he picks up his pace. Those folks up there were either lost travelers like he was, or he was about to interrupt a cult meeting in the middle of the creepy woods. Knowing his luck, it was probably going to be the latter. What were they talking about? Something named Barovia? Definitely sounded cultish.

Mustering what little bravery he had, he steps into the mist-shrouded space where the others stood. Clearing his throat, he says in his tenor voice, "Uh, sorry to interrupt whatever y'all were doing, but do any of you know of a Camp Yarrow around here? I was supposed to meet up with some of my cousins, but I think I took a wrong turn." 

Turning to see who spoke, you see a short tabaxi male standing warily next to the trees ringing the clearing. Standing at just barely over 4 feet tall, he's probably the shortest tabaxi you've ever seen, and oddly, he seems to be holding an old, battered teddy bear with a single blue-button eye out in front of himself protectively. The short tabaxi has midnight-black fur, but he has white markings around his mouth and down his chest. His muted gray clothing seems scholarly in appearance, and a large tome bound in a thick leather hangs from his side. His forest green eyes watch each of you cautiously, his body tensed to defend himself if needed. 

Hazel Harkness stood apart, her diminutive stature cloaked in the motley garb of destitution—a stark contrast to the other figures emerging from the fog. The layered rags that adorned her spindly frame hung in a myriad of grays and browns, the earthy tones speaking of countless nights spent under open skies. Each threadbare sleeve, each patchwork shred, told a story of survival, of a life cobbled together from the remnants of loss and time. Her leather belt, seemingly too large for her waist, bore the weight of a few meager possessions, cinching the fabric close against the chill that the mists bore. The dual-toned hair, half night and half ghostly white framed a face that was both childlike and etched with the wisdom of ages. Her eyes, clear pools of sorrow and knowing, reflected a soul that danced on the edge of two worlds—one of the living, and one of the realm beyond. It was within this visage of juxtapositions that Hazel, a mere beggar girl, held the gaze of those she now found as potential companions in this uncertain and mist-veiled hour.

The mist, a shroud of enigmas, clung to Hazel like a second skin, befitting the haunted silhouette that she presented amidst the greying trees. As the woodland tableau revealed itself, Hazel's countenance—a canvas of moonlit pallor—regarded the elf maiden with a gaze both hollow and perceptive. The Crawling Claw upon her shoulder, Crawley, was as still as death itself, a silent sentinel to the girl's eerie repose.

With a gesture as languid as the mist, Hazel reached into the recesses of her tattered Hat of Vermin, her slim fingers dancing before producing a plump rodent, its fur glistening like midnight oil. The ragged girl's head tilted curiously, locks of dual-toned hair framing her visage, as she devoured the creature with a serpentine grace that belied her frail form. The rat's tail, a squirming echo of life, disappeared between her stitched lips, the scars stretching in grim testimony to the secrets they sealed.

"My apologies for the savagery of my feast," she murmured her voice a melody of innocence laced with an undercurrent of sorrow. "Elven majesty... Princess is not a sight my eyes—or memories—have been graced with, at least not in this lifetime." Her name, Hazel Harkness, floated on the air like a whisper of autumn leaves. "I know not where 'here' might be but it seems the mists are the weavers of our fates tonight."

Her Wyrwood Broom of Flying, lying dormant at her feet, stirred at her command, rising with obedience that defied natural law to rest in her outstretched hand. She wielded it not as a weapon but as an extension of her own mysterious essence, the air around it quivering with arcane whispers.

Hazel turned then, her attention captured by the regal figure astride the black steed, the noble Nyssa. "Mists and magic have ensnared us all, it seems," Hazel said, a fathomless well of empathy in her youthful tones. "I know not of Waterdeep, but I, too, am far from any home I might claim. If it's answers we seek, perhaps our paths are meant to intertwine."

In the haunted quiet that followed, only the distant howl dared to answer, a lament that seemed to know more than any of them—a harbinger of tales yet to unfold.

It was looking more and more like Uncia wouldn't make it to the next town before night fell. She'd been assured when she set out that morning that there should be enough time for her to make it to the warmth of an inn before the sun went down, but already it was twilight and there was no sign of civilization in sight. It wasn't that Uncia usually minded camping, but the persistent thick mists that had settled in some time back would make starting a fire difficult and also meant that sleeping outside would be uncomfortable, especially for someone of her kin. And there was something beyond that, something that was hard to pin down. The twisted, gnarled trees surrounding her seemed much older and thicker than the recently planted hardwoods she'd been walking among earlier that day. The animals that should be living in the forest were unusually silent, or else absent altogether. And more than anything else, there was a strange, unnerving energy in the air that couldn't help but set her on edge.

Uncia could see a small clearing ahead of her and in it, the outline of a large horse standing in it. Had she finally reached some shelter, if not an inn, at least a cabin whose owners could be persuaded to let her stay the night somewhere dry? But no, as she came closer Uncia could see there was no form of shelter in the clearing, just a human woman on horseback and a handful of others clustered around them, looking lost. Uncia observed the small group from the safety of the darkness until she was reasonably sure that none of those who were present would greet her with violence, and then, knocking her quarterstaff against the ground to announce her presence to the group, stepped forward to introduce herself.

Uncia stood a little over five and a half feet tall, with fur halfway between tan and grey with black spots and eyes that were piercing green. She was wearing battered-looking leather armor with a traveler's cloak over it. "Hello, all," she said somewhat uncertainly to the gathered travelers. "I don't suppose any of you would know of somewhere nearby to spend the night . . .?" Or are you as lost as I am, was the question that was left hanging unanswered in the air.

The last of the Dusk Elf maidens avoids sudden movements and focuses on Nyssa, ignoring Shadow for the moment - it shouldn't take long for the horse to get used to her and take on a less wary attitude: "You were somewhere else. And now you're here" her azure eyes have a sad and resigned look. "The Mists have captured you, it's clear. I've heard that it happens sometimes, that the Mists capture someone from outside and bring them to Barovia. You are not familiar with this land - but unfortunately you will become, since leaving is not possible".

"Pleasure to meet you, Nyssa Taenaron" the savage wanderer holds out her hand. "I am Svetlana Dinteina, a simple wandering woman from Barovia. You, however, judging by your bearing and the quality of your clothes and equipment, are of noble birth? A countess, perhaps?" she raises an eyebrow questioningly "Anyway, despite the differences in rank, it is best that we join forces to reach a less dismal place. This place literally screams 'danger'. Which is not at all unusual, here in Barovia. .. but if we can get out of the thicket of the trees, I should be able to orient myself... at least enough to guide you to a village - a place where the danger, at least, will be a little less".

Svetlana has barely finished speaking when the Voices in her head are already going crazy:
'Yes, of course, well done Svetlana! But what do you think of?! These are the new playthings of the Devil Stradh!'
'Exactly! Who else would have kidnapped them via the Mists? And do you want to be in company with them? The Devil Stradh will find you too!'
'He will find us too!'
'The Devil Stradh will immediately understand who you are! And he will complete his work!'
'It will be the end, Svetlana! The end for us and for you!'
'Shut up!' Svetlana tries to take over her mind again 'Don't you understand that sooner or later the Devil Stradh will find me anyway? It's just a matter of time... Time which he has in abundance. What if instead, with these people, I managed to... fight back? And anyway... I can't abandon them like this, unaware, in his clutches! I can't just let the Devil Stradh do what he wants with them like he did with you! I... I will lead them to a village in the meantime, whether you like it or not!'

The last of the Dusk Elf maidens had narrowed her eyes and frowned, to tame the internal cacophony of the other countless slaugheterd elf females' thoughts; when she reopens her eyes, once again in control, she realizes that Mittens has arrived, asking for information. She gapes at the bizarre cat-like creature: "Are you... A werecat?" the hand was running on its own initiative to the hilt of a silvered shortsword... but it's just a reflex, the fingers relax and the hand falls to the side, without brandishing weapons "Captured by the Mists too, from what you're telling. .. You all are probably really the new pl... new people in this place I meant. The offer I just made to Nyssa also applies to you" she indicates her with a wave of her hand. "Let's join forces and try to get out of this spooky, creepy thicket of trees. If we reach a place with some visibility, I should be able to guide you towards... somewhere a little less unpleasant. My name is Svetlana, anyway".

After that... the savage wanderer is called 'elven majesty'. Starting, she turns around, her eyes wide with terror. Have they already recognized her as an elf? And now? Then, her mind registers what the beggar girl just did -- eating a mouse. And that she has a self-moving dead's hand on the shoulder. But also that the disturbing girl agrees with her that the paths of all of them are meant to intertwine. And by the way, she also has a magic broom... Torn between horror and empathy, she comments: "Yes, you surely come from far away, if you think I'm an elf... Every Barovian knows too well that living elf female don't exist anymore here. Despite my delicate features, I'm just an ordinary human woman. I'm Svetlana, what's your name, dear? I understand that you were in a hurry to treat yourself to your meal, don't worry dear".

Finally, Svetlana hears the sound of someone knocking a quarterstaff against the ground. She turns and sees... "Another werecat?! We've never seen one before in Barovia..." she sighs and approaches to welcome yet another newcomer "My name is Svetlana! You're not sure of Barovia, so it's clear that the Mists have captured you too. And judging by the wolf howl that was just heard, we'd better get moving to get out of this spooky place. As I was explaining to these other people, kidnapped by Mists like you, if we can get out of this here, I should be able to orient myself and, yes, to lead you to a place to spend the night".

"I wonder if there is some path, some animal track, in this wood..." the last of the Dusk Elf maidens begins to examine the terrain, looking for the best way out "In the meantime" she smiles at Hazel "would you like to try flying on the broom a little high, above the trees? Maybe that way you'll be able to identify which direction the forest ends first. But don't go too high..." the azure eyes take on a worried light "If after that you have exceeded the height of the plants the fog will not clear... do not go higher. The fog... is usually not a good thing, here in Barovia".

Svetlana's Survival (looking for the best way out): 19

Mittens watches the little girl, Hazel her name was, with curiosity as she reaches into her hat. She looked kinda funky when compared to the others in the clearing, but Mittens was sure she was harmless. Maybe she was just...

His thoughts trail off when she pulls out a rat out of  her hat and then proceeds to casually eat it. His jaw drops slightly, and his eyes open in surprise. Oh. My. Gosh. This is definitely a cult of some kind.

He starts backing away ever so slowly, his eyes never leaving the creepy girl that ate the rat, but his retreat is interrupted when Svetlana addresses him. Her words finally manage to shake him from his surprise, and he feels indignance swell within him at the question. "Uh, do I look like a werecat?" he asks sarcastically as he points the teddy bear like a weapon at the elven maiden. What was this 'Barovia' place she kept mentioning? Was that the cult's headquarters or something?

His next sarcastic retort dies in his throat when the elf points out another tabaxi in the clearing. Relief rushes through him at the sight of another fellow tabaxi. Oh good! Maybe she's here for the family reunion too!

He starts edging towards Uncia, his teddy bear still held out in front of him threateningly. "Why on earth should I trust you?" he asks Svetlana. "For all I know, you and that creepy girl with the broom over there are just going to lead us to your lair so you can eat us or something!" He definitely didn't like the vibes this place was giving off. Maybe he... Wait, was that a severed hand on the witch girl's shoulder. Where the freak was he?!

Quote from Painted_Beyond >>

Svetlana's Survival (looking for the best way out): 19

Before dedicating herself to looking for traces, Svetlana replies to Mittens, surprised and embarrassed: "As I already said, in this land there are no creatures like you... I didn't mean to offend you - and if I did I apologize. You have the features of a cat... but you're a humanoid, you walk on your lower legs and manipulate objects with your hands... You look like a hybrid... And that's why I thought of a werecreature. But I didn't want to give it a necessarily negative connotation - here in Barovia we have wereravens, for example, who are generally inclined to help those in need. Not all werecreatures are ruthless predators (although most are)".

"Being suspicious is your right" the last of the Dusk Elf maidens shrugs. "Perhaps it can even be a wise thing - I don't dispute this. But I believe that we can give each other at least a limited amount of trust... We are all together in this! If one of us wanted to harm the others, they would have tried to get closer while the others were sleeping, wouldn't they?"

"Plus," the savage wanderer concludes "I prefer to eat fruit and vegetables rather than meat, believe it or not - especially" she winks "if it's cat meat".

“Ahfven doege!” Shouted the silver dragonborn. The scales of his arms glistened under the rays of the sun as he waved a last goodbye. By his side stood a human woman and a halfling man of middle age. The four of them were a strange bunch.

“Wux kiri! Wux kiri!” The pale elf answered his former teacher, rather comfortable with the tongue of dragons. A language he learned in the last two of his hundred and three years, and what two years had it been. From death’s door to the road south, carrying a pleasantly heavy coin purse and a magical crossbow. The later was a lucky finding, the second he had on those fields. Maybe I should’ve come here earlier, he said with the voice of his mind, knowing full well that he would never choose another place to be but that city. A place of congested streets and buildings strained to capacity, where a woodcarver would always find work and the nobility lived a constant game of power and status, forever seeking ways to show both. The world of performance thrived because of that and so did the most skilled craftsman. A good reputation there was sure to lead to a wealthy patron, to a life of comfort. Confort, he scoffed looking to the horizon, where the forests of the west laid visible. His father used to say that it was there that their ancestors first arrived, years after leaving the domain of their goddess, the Raven Queen. That’s why we are called Dubois, the older man would point. It meant ‘of the woods’ in the old speech of the land.

Three hours had passed when Lorin decided to first stop. He took seat by a large stone and pulled some dried meat and hard cookies from his bag. Enough for ten days remained. More than enough, he knew. Yet he didn’t a single crumble scape his mouth. It was like even the smallest piece of food was too precious to not be eaten. The meal went down with some water and before long the rogue was back on his way. Part of him wished for a horse.

The second stop was the last of the day and with the darkness of the night a strange mist started to swirl around. Winter was still months away and no body of water existed nearby. There should be no fog. I’ve seen stranger things, Lorin decided with a shrug. In the morning the white mantle was thicker and before long he could see the shadow of trees. Before long he noticed they made a forest, and he should be days off any woodland. I don’t know this place the rogue understood moving closer to threes, walking from to the other, trying to stay hidden from any beasts or bandits that could lay hidden in the unfamiliar terrain. He opened his cape, left hand resting over the sheathe of his rapier and right hand ready to pull the heavy crossbow on his back.

Soon he spotted a clearing where strangers convened. A she-elf asked the others if they were from Barovia. She was almost opposite – the strange man and the local woman, his skin ashen and almost corpse-like while hers had the gleam of life, he looked gaunt and sickly while her body was well-toned and clearly strong. How in the sweet Hells did we end here? He questioned as other figures entered the clearing. They all named places he never heard about and had no affinity. His first instinct was to keep hiding, but he didn’t feel that stealthy.

“I don’t think they know each other.” Lorin told the teddy-bear holding feline humanoid while stepping out from the trees. “At the very least most here don’t. Otherwise, if they wanted to either capture or kill you, you would’ve been attacked already.” His voice was not calm as much as flat. His appeal pleaded not for trust as much as calculated opportunism. “There is strength in numbers, specially in a strange land. If nothing else our chances of survival should be better out of here and we can just leave the others if we don’t like the company.”

His eyes, pale green like the veins of emerald on mine, turned towards Svetlana. He definitely looked elvish to him.

“I’m curious about what you said about not being possible to leave this Barovia.” That would frustrate his plan, to say the least. “Is the land besieged by an army?” If it was Lorin was more than willing to take his chances. It had worked before and this time he had strength enough to teleport two times. No more than thirty feet at a time, sure, but it was enough to reposition, to exit optimal enemy range, to find another place to hide. “Or is it because of the mist?”

The thing was clearly magical, capable of transporting people of what he could only assume were different parts of the world. After all, he never heard of Waterdeep or Camp Yarrow. That could only mean both were located so far away anywhere he had been that not even their names could reach his ears. Svetlana had also warned that the fog is not something good in words that suggested harm awaited those that braved its white curtain. It wouldn’t be hard to imagine that if it besieged the land no one would be able to escape.

Lorin considered suggesting to the corpse looking woman it was better to cover the scars on her face. Most often than not villages by forests are not found of differences and those that knew little of wounds could find her appearance haunting. Then he remembered the talk about werebeasts and the mist and decided the commentary was better left unsaid. Barovians seemed to be used to far worse than a couple of stitches.

Notes: The first dialogue is in draconic and means, according to this translator, "take care" and "you too".

Quote from Painted_Beyond >>

After that... the savage wanderer is called 'elven majesty'. Starting, she turns around, her eyes wide with terror. Have they already recognized her as an elf? And now? Then, her mind registers what the beggar girl just did -- eating a mouse. But also that the disturbing girl agrees with her that the paths of all of them are meant to intertwine. And by the way, she also has a magic broom... Torn between horror and empathy, she comments: "Yes, you surely come from far away, if you think I'm an elf... Every Barovian knows too well that living elf female don't exist anymore here. Despite my delicate features, I'm just an ordinary human woman. I'm Svetlana, what's your name, dear? I understand that you were in a hurry to treat yourself to your meal, don't worry dear".

"I wonder if there is some path, some animal track, in this wood..." the last of the Dusk Elf maidens begins to examine the terrain, looking for the best way out "In the meantime" she smiles at Hazel "would you like to try flying on the broom a little high, above the trees? Maybe that way you'll be able to identify which direction the forest ends first. But don't go too high..." the azure eyes take on a worried light "If after that you have exceeded the height of the plants the fog will not clear... do not go higher. The fog... is usually not a good thing, here in Barovia".

Hazel regarded the female with the tranquil passivity of a pond undisturbed by the stone of her words. The notion that living elf females had ceased to exist here in this place called Barovia seemed to be a matter of significance to Svetlana but for the beggar girl... not so much. Hazel tilted her head as she replied with detached courtesy, "Elven majesty or not," Hazel began, her tone holding the neutrality of mist, "titles and lineage weigh little on empty stomachs and hollow thrones of bones." She offered a slight shrug as if the tides of nobility and history were but flotsam upon the shores of her current existence. "But as you wish, m'lady, if you say so," she concluded, the phrase leaving her lips like a leaf upon the wind, without attachment or concern.

In the muted gloom of this foreign wood, Hazel's slender form was a ghostly wisp, her spectral appearance a curious blend with the surrounding mists. Her complexion, like a delicate shroud of ashen porcelain, stood stark against the rags that clung to her as vestiges of a life fraught with desolation. The crawling claw like a beloved pet still clung to her shoulder seemed to mirror the stillness of the woods, a silent arbiter of the peculiarities that wove around them.

Upon receiving Svetlana's directive, a pensive shadow flickered across Hazel's pale girlish features, the faintest crease etching her brow as she pondered the wisdom of flight in such enigmatic confines. The stitched remnants of her mouth betrayed no emotion, yet within the pools of her pale, sorrowful eyes, a tempest of contemplation stirred. "To soar above, yet tethered still to the earth below," she mused inwardly, the notion as much a metaphor for her own existence as it was a physical undertaking.

With a breath that seemed to draw the mist into her lungs, Hazel whispered a silent apology to the earth for her departure. The Wyrwood broom, her constant ally, rose to greet her, as though eager to partake in the clandestine ballet between fog and tree. Grasping it firmly, she cast a last glance at the motley assemblage of strangers fate had deemed her companions. They were an anthology of tales untold, each a closed book she yearned to read.

The broom ascended, and with it, Hazel's spirit, albeit anchored by Svetlana's caution and the unspoken laws of this realm. Her ascent was a delicate dance, choreographed by the unseen hands of wariness and wonder. She rose only to brush the fingertips of the treetops, the fog coiling in an eerie embrace as it whispered secrets of its own in a language only the lost understood.

From her aerial vantage, the world below was a tapestry of shadows and silhouettes, the forest a maze of obsidian and silver. Her gaze, sharp as the edge of night, darted from tree to tree, seeking a sign, a break in the continuity of woodland and fog that might herald an end to their confinement. But the mists were jealous guardians, and they clung to their secrets with a tenacity that bordered on the possessive.

As Hazel hovered there, a reluctant sentinel suspended between two realms, she couldn't help but feel the weight of the unknown pressing upon her. The others, each with their own stories and scars, were now woven into the fabric of her own story, an intricate pattern of chance and choice. In the depths of her being, where the faintest ember of hope still smoldered, she could not help but wonder if this strange convergence was a harbinger of doom or a chance for salvation. With the taste of enigma heavy on her tongue, Hazel studied the terrain closely and awaited the land's revelation, ready to descend once more into the embrace of the unknown.

Quote from Makkiu >>

 

“I don’t think they know each other.” Lorin told the teddy-bear holding feline humanoid while stepping out from the trees. “At the very least most here don’t. Otherwise, if they wanted to either capture or kill you, you would’ve been attacked already.” His voice was not calm as much as flat. His appeal pleaded not for trust as much as calculated opportunism. “There is strength in numbers, specially in a strange land. If nothing else our chances of survival should be better out of here and we can just leave the others if we don’t like the company.”

 

Having tentatively made his way over to stand by Uncia's side, Mittens jumps in fright with a slight yelp as an elven stranger steps out from the trees and addresses him. He brandishes his teddy bear threateningly at the newcomer, and you swear you see the battered stuffed toy flex its arms menacingly, its single sky-blue button eye staring down the newcomer with an air of hostility. 

Once Mittens has pushed aside his surprise at the elf appearing, he considers the man's words, a thoughtful expression coming across his furred face. After a tense moment, he shrugs and says, "Guess that makes sense." With that, he drops his teddy bear to the ground, but to some's surprise, instead of falling to the ground in heap, it lands on its feet and folds its arms in a determinedly unfriendly gesture. It glares with its single eye barely hanging on by a few fraying threads at each person in the clearing, clearly as distrusting as its feline master. 

"So let me guess," Mittens says as he too folds his arms, though in less hostile manner than his familiar. "Y'all were going about minding you own business before you were somehow bamfed into this spooked-out forest. Sound about right?" That was just great. What was next? Ghosts popping out of the ground? Ghouls chasing them for their brains? An axe-murderer about to charge out of the trees at them? He's about to say more, but his thoughts trail off as the creepy girl with the extra hand grabs her broom and then just casually flies off into the mist overhead. Was nobody else worried that she just disappeared? He shivers as thoughts of Hazel sneaking around behind them to eat their souls fill his mind. 

Eyes narrowed at each of the strangers in the clearing, he leans in towards Uncia and says in a low, conspiratorial tone, "I don't know cuz. Think we should trust them?"

The last of the Dusk Elf maidens was about to announce the outcome of their examination of the terrain when... yet another newcomer shows up.

'The Mists have been busy lately...' Svetlana thinks.
And immediately the Voices in her head respond: 'This is no time for jokes, Svetlana!'
'It's the Devil Stradh! He sent the Mists to kidnap them to toy with them all! And you are stupidly joining them!'
'You know what the Devil Stradh will do to you, don't you? You will die, as we died!'
'And since at that point there will no longer be any female Dusk Elf, you will have no mind to take refuge in!'
'Hey! We won't have it anymore either!'
'Will we all disappear? Forever?'
'The thought that you could disappear and leave me alone,' Svetlana closes the matter 'doesn't sound too terrifying to me...'

The savage wanderer, once she regains control of her thoughts, realizes that the newcomer - apparently a sort of elf more spooky than a Dusk Elf has ever been - has asked her a question. “You had the correct intuition, stranger...” she replies “The Mists. The Mists surround Barovia. And sometimes they capture... creatures from outside Barovia. But they don't allow anyone to leave. It must be the will of the Dev... of the Count who rules this place. The Mists obey him. In a certain sense... in Barovia it's as if everything (yes, not just everybody, but everything) obeys him. As if he had absolute power here. But this is a problem for later. Let's start by looking for a safe place" she looks up at the disturbing beggar girl - once again unable to help but... care for her, in a way. So battered, so empty of emotions, so different... who knows how much she must have been through? A devastated creature, captured by a devastated land. Yet, she immediately agreed to help, to fly to examine the surroundings... What did she discover?

In response to the list made (sarcastically) by Mittens, Svetlana raises an eyebrow, replying (seriously): "Oh, so you know Barovia!"

Finally, the last of the Dusk Elf maidens realizes that the last newcomer (Lorin) has not yet introduced himself: "Svetlana," she holds out her hand "nice to meet you. May I know your name?"

He was somewhat surprised by seeing the bear wielding feline humanoid reaction. Instinct had told the rogue he didn’t hide well and as he pulled the left hand from the rapier he could understand why – its weight tilted the encased blade, making it stand behind his body. The steel at the end of the leather would make finding him an easy job for anyone looking in his direction. But then again, the stuffed animal and its master were turned to other strangers.

There was something incredibly funny on seeing what should be a cute if not battered inanimate object try to act intimidatly. Thanks to the few gods he knew, the elf managed to contain any smile.

“As right as it seems to be to mostly everyone here.” The rogue answered looking at the moving bear. The fourth magic item there. “Lorin Dubois.” He told focusing his attention to Svetlana once more, thinking her words little more than empty courtesy. At least until he noticed that meeting him was definitely nicer than meeting a werebeast, something far from impossible in those woods. “Do know why this count would’ve willed for strangers to appear in his land?” If the man was even remotely like a certain lady, then it wouldn’t be a surprise if they were dragged to serve as game in some twisted hunting game. “The way you spoke makes me think that we aren’t the first he brought and that he can move the mist. Maybe enough to let us pass through?”

Not that he expected the one who forced them there would be inclined to let them go. The important thing was to know it was possible. From there they could try negotiation or, if the means by which the mist was controlled could be taken, stealing from the aristocrat.

“By the way, why are you here, in the middle of nowhere?” The others didn’t have any choice in the matter. Lorin definitely didn’t. But the way spoke suggested she was from Barovia. Are the contraries actually kindred spirits? He pondered thinking about the time and reasons that made him run away from the city.

Svetlana's keen eyes make out what seems like a very old trail, mostly overgrown, winding it's way south into the misty forest. Hovering near the tops of the trees, Hazel sees slate roofs emerging out of the forest to the south. The buildings are close, less than a mile away to the south. 

Uncia's mouth twisted as the elegant-looking woman who seemed to be doing most of the talking called her "werecat." The epithet couldn't help but bring to mind days long past when she'd been forced to be around people who had largely talked about, not to, her, and hadn't cared enough to use the correct word for her species. Tabaxi were well-known enough that most people at least could recognize them in the region Uncia was currently traveling through, and yet this Svetlana seemed oddly genuine in her ignorance of Uncia and the shorter tabaxi's nature. As for her own species, Uncia knew very well that there were valid reasons why someone might need to conceal aspects of their own identity, especially if there weren't supposed to be any elves in a specific region. Best to be courteous and not press the issue. "Thank you," Uncia told Svetlana in response to her offer to lead them somewhere safe to spend the night. "Barovia? I could've sworn there was nowhere nearby with that name . . . "

Uncia leapt up in surprise as yet another newcomer, a pale individual she was 100% sure was an elf, leapt out of a tree behind her and landed next to her, startling her enough that she almost missed Svetlana's explanation of what was going on. A region sealed off from the rest of the world, magic mist that could transport travelers from far away here, and some "Count" at the center of it all. Uncia regarded the shorter tabaxi thoughtfully as he asked her for advice. He seemed to have mistaken her for someone else. "My name is Uncia," she told him kindly. She had no last name. The tribe she had grown up in had not been large enough for that to be necessary. "And well, we can't stay here. Hopefully once we find shelter, we can figure out what to do then." She cast a glance at Svetlana. "As for the native, I don't think she'll hurt us, at least not yet." It wasn't that Uncia trusted Svetlana, at least not fully, but the tabaxi woman could sense an aura of grief and pain deep inside the woman, something that she recognized all too well.

The last of the Dusk Elf maidens points her finger to show everyone what she has managed to locate: a very old trail, mostly overgrown, winding it's way south into the misty forest. "If I had to choose one way to get away from here, this would seem the most promising" she raises her eyes hoping to see the both creepy and welcome figure of Hazel. "Let's wait just a moment for our kind flying girl to return and tell us what she saw..."

While waiting, Svetlana responds to the sagacious elf, who, although he has only been in Barovia for a short time, seems to have already guessed a lot about the desperate land: "Your ready mind promises to be a non-negligible asset, Lorin" she hints at a smile - as far as it is possible to smile in the middle of a disturbing forest with the background of howling beasts. "In fact the Count, if he wants, can allow someone to cross the Mists and leave Barovia... in fact, the Vistani, a community of gypsies loyal to him, manage to do it... But to obtain from the Count to be allowed to leave Barovia is something no one else has ever managed to do".

"I fear that the only way to achieve this," the savage wanderer's azure eyes darken with worry and sadness "is to fight him. An undertaking almost certainly doomed to failure. To tragic and gruesome failure. I shouldn't recommend this way. But I I suspect we have no choice. Because your first hunch was right too, Lorin; you all aren't the first the Mists brought. I haven't met anyone else in person, but I've heard about them often. None of these came to a good end. After all, there is a reason why Count Stradh Von Zarovich is familiarly called (not in his presence, of course) 'Devil Stradh' ".

“You know? I once saw a child playing with some insects, Lorin” the last of the Dusk Elf maidens reports. "He had put them in a box and he enjoyed seeing them massacre each other or try in vain to escape. When one of the insects approached the edge of the box, the child would knock it back down by hitting it with a stick. I have the distinct impression that the Devil Stradh does the same to the inhabitants of Barovia. With the difference that he is eternal. His game never ends. And in the course of this endless game, I think that most of the insects in the box, we Barovians, are becoming accustomed to our condition and we are convincing of the futility of trying to escape. And, for this reason, we are less funny. And, for this reason..." she hesitates, torn between the desire not to tear down, not to hurt the other... and the desire to be honest "And for this reason, I believe, he has new creatures kidnapped from the Mists. To have less disillusioned insects. Insects with more fighting spirit. Insects that are more fun to squash".

"This is why" Svetlana concludes "I believe we will have to join forces... not just now, but potentially in the longer term... and fight our near-impossible battle against the Devil Stradh. Certainly not by confronting it openly. We will need to look for allies - another almost impossible task. But almost. You, after all, found me. Perhaps we will also find other creatures crazy enough or desperate enough to oppose the Devil Stradh".

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Svetlana's keen eyes make out what seems like a very old trail, mostly overgrown, winding it's way south into the misty forest. Hovering near the tops of the trees, Hazel sees slate roofs emerging out of the forest to the south. The buildings are close, less than a mile away to the south. 

Hazel descended from her aerial surveillance, the broom gliding through the mist with the silence of a shadow chasing dusk. Her return to the earth was as graceful as her departure, the ground accepting her touch with the softness of a whispered secret. The mist clung to her garments like a lover reluctant to part, swirling around her boots as if to anchor her to this mysterious realm.

"The forest holds its breath to the south," Hazel began, her voice low and carrying the weight of discovery. "Less than a mile through these whispering woods, slate roofs rise like slumbering giants caught in the embrace of ivy and time. A village, perhaps, or a bastion of the past, awaits us there."

Her gaze shifted to Svetlana, acknowledging the trail the elf who is not an elf had spotted with a nod of respect. "The path you've found, veiled as it is by the hands of time, leads directly towards these silent sentinels of civilization. It seems our journey weaves through the heart of these woods to the secrets they guard."

Her fingers brushed lightly over the handle of her broom, the wood still humming with the echo of the flight. "Whatever lies ahead, it beckons not just with the promise of shelter, but perhaps with answers to the riddle of this mist-shrouded land."

As Hazel relayed her findings, there was a depth to her pale eyes, a reflection of the skies she had soared beneath and the mysteries she had grazed with her sight. The stillness of the air around them seemed to listen, the very atmosphere pregnant with the anticipation of their next move.

"Shall we follow the trail and uncover the stories these roofs might tell?" she asked, her voice a blend of curiosity and caution, inviting her companions to take the next steps on a path fraught with as much potential for revelation as for peril.

Silent like a shadow the rogue listened her answers. He nodded somewhat awkwardly in response to the praising words, leaving quite clearly that he was not used to dealing with compliments. The second feline humanoid, clearly a woman, shared her name. What a strange bunch, he said to himself remembered the three left behind. Maybe those strangers too would become his friends.

Lorin understood Svetlana’s analogy before he finished telling the story of the boy and his insects. He was more familiar with that kind of situation than most. Certainly more than he ever wanted to be. Sadistic noble, tyrannical rule. Just like home. He sighed, tired of his bad luck but resigned to the facts. They painted a second reason – the Count needed folk to tend to fields and cattle. If the man was of a long-lived race then it was possible his games demand more people than he could afford killing. Either way, insects were imported.

“How loyal are the Vistani actually?” In all his years the rogue only knew of a single troop beyond bribery and coercion. Hopefully the gypsies were not a second.  “No chance one can leave with them, provided they are convinced to act like guides?”

He had to ask. If nothing else, getting the Vistani to help seemed easier than fighting this Strahd. Hells, if the Mists didn’t approach the group then it should be possible to exit Barovia by simply hiding in a cart.

 “Also, I noticed you didn’t say why you were here just now.” Normally the pale elf would not pry, but since they were dragged into being the playthings in a deadly spectacle for a clearly unhinged individual he couldn’t help but to question her presence there. For all that he knew she could be acting under the orders of Zarovich, maybe as a guide or maybe as a traitor to show her true colors later in the game. “That and that the battle is near impossible. You know of a way, don’t you?”

Before she could answer Hazel returned bearing rather good news.

“Following the trail seems to be our best choice right now.” Lorin said looking each and everyone of his companions, the teddy-bear wielder in special.