You sit across from a woman of indeterminable age. Physically she seems to be on the young side of middle aged, but something about her manner, her voice, and her eyes seems ancient and timeless. You are sitting in her vardo, a sort of house on wheels, popular amongst nomadic peoples and gnomes. She is shuffling a large deck of tarokka cards, while she maintains eye contact with you. Something in her manner is hypnotic and you can't look away. 

The spell is broken as she finishes shuffling and sets the deck in front of her. Looking down, she draws a card and places it face down to her left, your right. Her voice is also of indeterminable age. It could be the voice of a child, or a mother, or an old crone. It has a strange accent, of a land that seems familiar, but one you can't recall. "This card tells of history. Knowledge of the ancient will help you better understand your enemy." She flips the card over. Looking up at you from the deck is a figure that looks suspiciously like the woman sitting across from you. She raises her eyebrows in surprise. "The Diviner. Look to the one who sees all. The treasure is hidden in her camp."

She draws another card and sets it above and to the right of the first card. Closest towards you. "This card tells of a powerful force for good and protection, a holy symbol of great hope." She flips the card over. Looking off to one side is young woman in full plate armor, holding a greatsword, one hand on the hilt, one on the blade. A large gold and ruby ring is visible on her left hand. She looks angry and on the verge of speaking. "The Avenger. The treasure lies in a dragon's house, in hands once clean and now corrupted."

She draws a third card, and sets it to her right, your left, the three cards forming an arc. "This is a card of power and strength. It tells of a weapon of vengeance: a sword of sunlight!" She flips the card. Looking out from the card is a priestly figure, wearing thick, elaborate robes. He appears old, his cheeks sag towards the earth, his expression one of haughty disdain. In one raised hand he holds a golden censer, sacred perfumed smoke wafting out. "The Bishop. What you seek lies in a pile of treasure, beyond a set of amber doors."

She draws a fourth card, setting it closest to herself. The four cards now form a cross. "This card sheds light on one who will help you greatly in the battle against darkness." She flips the card. A raven sits on a beam, outlined by the moon. Its eyes seem to glow in the moon's light. In the background, a gravestone is visible, though the name on it is not. "The Raven," She says in her thick accent. "Find the leader of the feathered ones who live among the vines. Though old, he has one more fight left in him."

She draws a final card and places it in the center of the other four cards. "Your enemy is a creature of darkness, whose powers are beyond mortality. This card will lead you to him!" She flips the card and revealed is a hideous beast. Its bones stick out from its pale white skin. Its claws and muzzle are stained white. Though it has no eyes, it still feels to be peering into your soul. Behind it spreads out an entire gothic city, viewed from a great height. "The Beast sits on his dark throne."

“Werewolves in the mist!” You’ve heard these dreaded words spoken again and again by farmers, merchants, and adventurers alike. The hamlets east of Daggerford have fallen prey to a pack of werewolves that spills out of the Misty Forest on nights of the full moon, cloaked in crawling mist that seems to follow them wherever they go. The beasts spread death and mayhem, slaughtering adults and stealing children before retreating back into the woods. Others have tried to combat the werewolf menace, with little success.

A Harper named Zelraun Roaringhorn knows a metal­smith who will silver your weapons for free. He also provides some helpful magic.
“We strive to protect the powerless,” he says. “If the children kidnapped by the werewolves are still alive, I would see them safely returned.”

The woods darken as the trees begin to close ranks, their needle-covered arms interlocking to blot out the sun. The shroud of mist that covers the ground turns into creeping walls of gray fog that silently envelop you until you can’t see more than a few feet in any direction. Soon, even the werewolf tracks disappear.