A loud voice booms out over the crowd, “Welcome, one! Welcome, all! Welcome to the short, and welcome to the tall! Welcome angels, welcome fiends, welcome to all from walks between! Welcome to the Carnival!”. The voice belongs to a man, tall, dressed head-to-foot in a purple and yellow jester’s suit, wearing white makeup.
“Step right up and lay your eyes on our menagerie of the macabre, our gathering of the grotesque, our collection of the curious, our festival of freaks!”His voice is fraught with excitement, briefly pausing to ensure the attention was on him. “For a mere pair of copper coins, you can behold wonders beyond your wildest dreams and nightmares! Yes, that’s right folks - just two thin coppers buys you a ticket to thrills and chilling revelations! Step right this way and through the first curtain!”
A number of carnival-goers, their eyes wide open, taking in the spectacle, proceed to enter into the main tent. The strangely dressed man, however, stops and turns to you.“But not you, Stranger.” His hand pops up, held out in a stop motion, “Oh no, you stay here with me”. His large, painted, smile widens as he continues in a whisper, “the Lady Isolde mentioned you would be here. Seems you’d like to disappear for a little while. Oh yes! Now tell me, out of curiosity, what’s your trouble? Try to plant a stake in the wrong fellow’s heart, or are you just running out on some noble’s daughter?”
Shaking his head vigorously, he seems to have a quick change of mind, “On second thought - no - just keep it to yourself. We don’t care what you’re running from, so long as you don’t drag it here to our doorstep. OH, but where are my manners? My name is Tindal. Tindal at your service, sir!”Tindal gives a deep, mocking bow.
“Please, if you will be so kind as to follow me - I am to give you all a tour of this place, or if you would rather, I could show you to the Carnival Mistress - the Lady Isolde.”
Dadeveth is a white and black paint centaur. Her human hair is silvery white, and most of her coat the same. She has several large black patches over her side and flank though. She wears a loose-fitting tunic, with leather armor over it, and carries a rapier. A backpack, likely saddlebags, is lashed over her broad horse back. "What?" She asks at the first words, glancing around and noticing she is no longer standing in the back alley with her enemies closing in on her. Sweat has lathered her silvery white coat, and her hair is a tangled mess. She holds the pamplet in her hand still, glancing from it to the announcer. Her tail swishes in agitation as she stops her feet several times, her hooves clomping solidly against the ground. It still takes her several long moments to realize she is safe.
"As you saved my neck, I'll take the tour if that is what you are suppose to do." Dadeveth informs the man. "After that though I would definitely like to visit this Lady Isolde, if that is not too much to ask." She runs her hands through her silvery white hair, pulling out the tangles and smoothing it down a bit. "Sorry, I was not exactly in a situation that makes me very presentable just here and now..."
Cerio’s feet land at dangerous angles on the uneven cobblestones, each step a gamble. Will he stumble again? His right knee aches painfully, a reminder of his previous fall but a moment ago, when he had hesitated rounding a corner, convinced he'd find himself in a familiar street. But there had only been more mist.
And the face--a terrified face mirroring his own; a nameless shadow flitting through the mist and lights like a shooting star that falls helpless in the void of space. Only to perish alone on an alien shore.
Make a wish. The thought, meaningless and absurd, explodes in his head, catching him off guard. He stumbles and goes flailing, landing hard on his elbows.
"S@%!!" he gasps in pain before scrambling to his feet. Just before him stand these other lost stars.
Cerio is a frail, slight man with whispy, silver-blonde hair. His face is gaunt, his eyes ringed with dark circles.
What in the hells? he thinks, struggling to suppress a feeling of panic that slides up him like frigid water. Is this some work of Lady Mordlaine? But this isn’t her style. This… is something else.
“I--”he opens his mouth to speak and answer Tindal (or try to, anyway), but he’s relieved to be cut off. How could he explain anyway? Where would he begin? Nowadays he isn’t even sure where the story begins.
Rubbing his knee, he nods and glares around at the others suspiciously. He visibly winces at the mention of the “lady”. “L-listen, feller,” he says shakily. “If’n ya plan toslit my throat I’d just as soon you’d do it and get it over with. I reckon there’s worse ways t’go.” The truth is he doesn’t need to reckon. He knows there are much worse ways to die.
But, Tindal’s invitation stands open, and his throat remains ungashed. He takes another look at the strange surroundings. “A-alright, then.” He hobbles along behind Tindal and the centaur. “Let’s take this tour'n talk to this lady, then. But if'n you think yer gonna have me swingin' on some trapeze yer mistaken!"
Dallid is tall, blue, bald and lanky. All slender limbs. His clothes are strange, a sterile green lab coat full of symbols on his chest and collar that indicate… something, surely.
Before the barker is even finished, Dallid has moved uncomfortably close and is taking notes with drawings and diagrams. He follows along, not looking up from his book at first until he sees the others.
“Good morning,” and continues on his way as though nothing had happened. Then he pays his leg a few times, and you see a wolf trot up from behind until it’s walking alongside him. “Good Ferelyon.”
"Fantastic! Fantastic!"Tindal starts in his gregarious manner, you get the sense that he may well have given this tour a great many times. "Trust me, friend,"he chuckles at Cerio, "We do not start folk on the trapeze, no sir! It's lion taming for you!".
Leaving little time for his joke to land, Tindal waves for you to follow. "Come now friends, do not be shy! You may be asking what my role is here at the Carnival?"the question is clearly rhetorical, you are full-sure you are about to get an answer, "I'm the main barker for our acts, well... at least those who could use a little extra drama. Oh, there's Professor Pacali over there past the big tent. He's the barker for the more colourful acts of our show - call 'em freaks, they wear it with honour, call 'em oddities, call 'em what you will. But his cronies, well they are a little skurry, if you ask me. Just stick near me and you'll do alright."
((Insight rolls for those who want to make them, in attempts to discern Tindal's meaning.))
Tindal continues, clearly in his element, "It's my job to take the Georges' coppers - that's what we call non-Carnival folk, you see. I make sure they keep their greasy little hands to themselves, with my silvered tongue. I bring it all to life for them, you see? Well, of course, you see sir! I generally herd each group of Georges around the big ring and generally show off ten of our acts before I drop them off in the Hall of Horrors for the big squeeze; they're like putty in my hand by then you see. The Hall of Horrors is Pacali's crew."
He turns on the spot and smiles at Dadeveth, "Fear not good lady, I shall come to the Lady Isolde momentarily. I think you may well enjoy our shows here, should you spare the time later. In the meantime, walk with me now, soak it all in; it'll do wonders for your spirits. It's a wonderful world we've made for ourselves in the Carnival! Yes ma'am!".
Waving his hands towards some beautifully painted wagons, in a mixture of colours with bespoke carvings running down the sides, Tindal explains, "These belong to the Skurra, our Vistani. They ain't part of the troupe as such, but without their help... well we'd be pretty immobile, ain't that for truths." He clears his throat and delivers the next line with such accuracy that you are aware he must have said it a few thousand times, "Just behold the Skurra's bombastic banners! Each canvas filled with amazing images to entice the imagination, each one a masterpiece!". Nonetheless, the banners do look spectacular as they rise, piercing the mists.
"Now look to your left, towards the centre of the Carnival. Do you see that fairly ordinary-looking wagon? That wagon belongs to the Lady Isolde, our dear Mistress of the Carnival. Holds all us rapscallions together, she does. Have mind though, her right-hand man is likely to be at her side - Hermos the Gaint, they call him." Tindal looks around, "Tell you what, I think it's best you go see her now, probably best not to keep her waiting."
Tindal leads you towards the plain-looking wagon. Sure enough, a giant of a man, standing around 10ft tall, looms next to the wagon, dwarfing it - Hermos. As you approach he crosses his arms and asks in a deep, gruff, mean-sounding voice, "Are these the lot?". Tindal nods, uncharacteristically quiet. "Best ya go on in then, she's expectin' ya," Hermos opens the door leading to the inside of the quite spacious ((you'll all just about fit!)) wagon.
Dadeveth takes in the sights and sounds of the carnival, finding she likes the place. She wonders briefly if she would be safe in a place like this, but quickly puts that out of her mind. She cannot think about staying put just yet, it is too likely those that seek her would be coming. She does not know how they would find her here, but she doesn't know how they managed to track her down back in the city either.
Moving on towards the plain-looking wagon she eyes the massive guardian. Running a hand through her silvery white hair in an anxious gesture, she gives the man a respectful nod, then moves on up into the wagon.
Cerio gives a nervous "Heh" at Tindal's joke, suspecting a sack to be pulled down over his head at any moment. He can't help but get a little bit caught up in the wonders of this strange carnival, though. The "freaks" pique his curiosity the most, and he can't help but wonder if that is where he belongs.
He admires the Vistani wagons, too, wondering what kind of valuables might be hidden inside the cart. Old habits.
He sure wishes his brother Edrick were here to see all this. The reminder of his death sends another shiver down Cerio's spine.
When they come across Hermos, Cerio makes sure to hide behind the centaur, pretending to adjust his boots and ducking down low, ignoring the soreness in his joints that he's sure will only be worse tomorrow. He's learned that the best armor in the whole wide world is to be forgotten, to go unnoticed, or, barring that, to hide behind the taller folk. He also checks that his blades are at hand.
He peers into the wagon, suddenly eager to learn more. He's had enough surprises for one year. So when Hermos urges them inside, he's quick to step up. "Alright folks, let's get this here show on the road." He steps inside.
As far as you are aware Tindal seems to be quite an affable fellow - maybe 'skurry' is a term of endearment? Who knows? As for wanting you to 'stick near him', that is surely to save you from getting lost in the crowds, of which there are many.
You see through Tindal's false demeanour; he may be a decent enough sort, but most of it is talk. 'Skurry'? From what you are able to discern this is not a kind term, but not wholly insulting, likely inferring that the individuals are slightly off-kilter and worth giving a large berth. You would guess that there is little love lost between Tindal and 'Professor Pacali'.
“That Tindal seems to really be quite knowledgeable of this carnival. I hope we see him again, I’d like to see what sorts of ‘freaks’ his friend Professor Pacali has with him.” Dallid turns towards Dadeveth and Cerio. “I study such things, you know. Adaptionist. Fin Clade sometimes... although… I’m not sure that means much to you all. I’ll tell you all about it later, if you’ll tell me about yourselves.”
You all enter into the wagon; it is sparsely furnished save for a number of cushions and rugs dotted around, candles flicker illuminating everything in oranges and reds. Reclining at the far end of the wagon is a woman, dressed primarily in dark clothing, blacks and deep blues - the Lady Isolde.
Isolde stands to meet you. As she walks over you are stuck by her ethereal, other-worldly, grace. "Please," she says offering her hand, "welcome to the Carnival." In the light it is clear to behold Isolde's beauty; she is pale-skinned with a slender frame, has long black hair, and has a dark, penetrating gaze with deep blue eyes. You would guess that she was in her twenties, though she is likely older than that. Hanging from her hip is an ornate looking longsword. "You must be weary," Isolde says questioningly, her voice kind yet firm, "many that arrive here have travelled from far and wide." Her eyes move between the three of you, "From the looks of it, you are all very far from the place you once called 'home'."
She gestures to the cushions, "But please, travellers, rest your weary legs, make yourselves comfortable. I am sure you must have questions." With that, she delicately takes a seat down on one of the cushions near you and makes herself comfortable.
There are so many silent alarms going off in Cerio's brain, he has to take a moment to slow his breath. There are things about this that remind him so much of the Lady Mordlaine and her occult artifacts. But unlike Mordlaine, who emanated an aura of menace, Isolde actually has a calming presence. "Ya ain't there, ya ain't there..." Cerio whispers repeatedly to himself, calming his nerves a little bit.
He claims a cushion, too, a deep blue one embroidered with shiny beads and decorated with yarn tassels. He takes a minute to appreciate the comfort and charm of the wagon, and of course the Lady Isolde. He studies her sword for a minute, trying to decide if it's decorative or...
At length he clears his throat. "Well, uh, yes ma'am. I's Cerio, but I guess you might've knowed that already. Well, uh, how'd you come to know of us, and how'd you get us here? And what for? Tindal said ya know we's in need of, uh, movin' real quick? Speakin' of Tindal, he seems like a nice feller, though I got the idea he don't much like that Pacali. But maybe that's none o' my know-how."
Dadeveth takes in their beautiful host for a long moment, tail swishing nervously. When offered to sit, she moves to a large cushion and, folding her legs under her, settles her horse body onto the provided cushion.
"You likely know this already, but I am Dadeveth Sungroomer." She offers the lady with a respectful bow of her human torso. "I am in your debt for wisking me away from those that sought me." With that said she goes silent, letting the others ask questions first.
"Ahh so well-mannered,"Isolde says, allowing herself a little chuckle, "A pleasure to meet you Cerio and you Dadeveth."
"Tindal had the right of it I am afraid." A sadness enters Isolde's voice, "I wish we had but more time. I am not sure how much Tindal has told you, but I guess I had best start from the beginning."
"I do not know you personally Cerio, but I do know that my pamphlets only appear to those in the most desperate of situations and in the direst of needs. You see that is who I need. That is who I seek. Though I have little idea as to who you are personally Cerio, I have met you in multiple different shapes,"she turns to look at Dallid, "and forms,"she proceeds to turn to Dadeveth.
"You see, you had to be willing." Isolde starts by way of explanation, "It would never have worked otherwise." She reaches out her hand and places it over each of yours in turn, her touch is icy-cold. "I mean to send you on an errand of the utmost importance. To seek out someone that has the ability to..."she speaks quickly but pauses to contemplate her words, "break a long-lasting stalemate. A stalemate that has cost far too many lives, needlessly."
Isolde looks down briefly, you are sure you see the glisten of tears, but you may be mistaken. "You are not the first..."she looks at you directly in the eyes, "Others have been sent, yet I have seen no signs of their success. Do not be convinced that this is a simple errand, for where you go is perpetually on the teetering on the edge of war. Though it is the war of the unseen."
"How did you get here? You are tied to this place, to the great Carnival!" Isolde waves her hand exaggeratedly around the wagon, nothing changes. "Once the invite has been accepted there is no leaving, except in one circumstance... you are able to complete the task I have in mind for you. Choose not to and become permanent members of the Carnival." She sighs deeply, "This is your last chance. After this, there is no turning back. You decline the task - the story ends, your soul becomes eternally entwined with the Carnival and you believe whatever you want to believe. You accept the task - you are taken to a land, a place of perpetual darkness and mist, you have little more than the equipment I provide, no other help other than a name, a contact. But..." She takes a deep breath, breathing heavily, "The good you may achieve is incalculable; freedom, a new start, hope. All I offer you is the truth. Nothing more."
"I would take up this task." Dadeveth says with a frown. "Can you tell us any more about this stalemate we must resolve, or what we may face in this land of darkness and mist?" Her tail swishes restlessly as she speaks. "I, for one, would not mind being worlds away from those who threaten me every day back in the world I come from."
Cerio pulls his hand back from Lady Isolde’s ice-cold touch. So, here’s the catch. There’s always a catch. A job. He should’ve known. Choose imprisonment in some magic carnival, or imprisonment in service to Lady Isolde. Cerio is beginning to think that all Ladies are the same, using people for their own mysterious ends.
In this moment Cerio feels, more keenly than any other time in his life, that he is just a pawn on another person’s gameboard, slid around this way and that, with a veil pulled over his eyes. People trying to tell him that the world is a certain way, without letting him see the way it really is. Her comment about an “unseen war” seems appropriate. Thinking about this carnival, and the sort of existence Isolde promises here, Cerio can’t see himself living that way. He’d rather look out past the veil. He’s overcome with a strange feeling, like he’s been waiting to arrive at this moment his whole life.
He thinks about Edrick then, and last time they’d seen each other. What would his twin brother advise him to do?
Go. That voice in his head again. The one that doesn’t seem to be his own.
Dallid smiles a bit. “We are safe here from our troubles, but not free to leave. A sanctuary and a cage. Unless we do as you ask… then we become free. But are we safe once free?” His manner implies intense curiosity of a word puzzle, rather than fear or indignation. “What sort of stalemate? It must surely be challenging if many have attempted this.”
Isolde smiles kindly at your responses, yet it is clear her smile hides a great sadness.
Firstly, to Dadeveth, she answers, "The place I refer to is fraught with horrors, but that was not always the case. Once a verdant valley with warm summer days and mild winter nights, those days have long since left. Mists now roll over the land, magical in nature, a byproduct of a dark bargain that was struck. The land I refer to is known as 'Barovia' - it is a place where goodness struggles to enter and where evil has triumphed."
"Since that foul deal, I have toiled relentlessly to free Barovia from the curse that befell it, yet to no avail. Until recently. Something happened. I am, I am a little fuzzy on the details." Isolde scratches at her forehead. "Not more than 6 days ago, by Barovian time, did an event occur. An event that muddied the waters, obscuring Barovia's future." She shakes her head, confused, "Unfortunately, I do not know what it was or how it happened. But there might be an opening, a chance, to change the course that Barovia is current on."
Secondly, to Cerio, she answers, "The job is both simple and yet highly complex at the same time." Isolde lets out a chuckle, it is not unkind, "I do not mean to speak in riddles. The job is to free the land of Barovia by removing the being that was responsible for its downfall - Strahd Von Zarovich." There is both venom and sadness in her voice as she speaks the name. "However, that is the simple part. I say simple, as the goal is straightforward if not extremely difficult."
"The complex part, well... it is hard to explain,"she says taking a deep breath. "There are powers at work in Barovia. I do not know what faith, belief, ideas, or values you hold or what deities you worship, if any at all. But know this - dark powers stir in Barovia. Dark powers that, through the bargain in place, have managed to take hold and have precedence over the land. I do not know who or what they are, but I know that there will be obstacles placed at every turn in your path. I also..."She pauses, "I also do not know whether they will prevent you completely from getting to Strahd. But I think that the recent muddying of the waters I referred to may have changed things."
Finally, to Dallid, she answers, "You have the right of it I am afraid. Just as the innocent Barovians found themselves trapped within their own lands - for that is what happened to them, they were bound to Barovia and there they remain, victims of a bargain they had no say in - those magically transported to the Carnival are also trapped. That is to say, our very souls are linked, magically, to this place." She smiles to herself. "Wherever the Carnival goes, the troupe will follow... However, there is a way out - the Skurra. They are able to transport you in their wagons through the mists to Barovia. As to guarantees that you will be safe? I am afraid there are none, if anything Barovia will pose more of a risk than the Carnival," she chuckles, "that you can be sure of."
"The only way you can then leave Barovia is to either dispatch of Strahd Von Zarovich and the forces behind him... or attempt to throw your oar in with him, serve him and he may allow you to leave. But you will never truly be free if you side with him, you will be his tool - it is true that some have taken this option before, overwhelmed with the hopelessness of their situations." Isolde sighs deeply.
Leaning in, Isolde lowers her voice a little. "The stalemate," she chuckles a little in self-amusement, "I have mentioned that Barovia is ruled over by the person you are to remove - Strahd Von Zarovich. Yet, though he rules, there was always balance. The powers behind him - and I use the term 'powers' - were in balance. But something has happened - the event I referred to, has put everything out of kilter. For the first time since I can remember there is disunity. There is no balance." She giggles to herself a little, it is unsettling, to say the least, "Why? Don't you get it? What was initially thought to be one, is multiple... There was no single entity behind Strahd as initially believed, or if there was it has somehow been fractured. Now the right-hand does not know what the left is doing. Warring factions, a power grab!" Isolde becomes more animated, "And what happens if the foundation upon which Strahd's power is built starts fracturing? What then? Well..." she says calmly, "Now is the time to strike."
“Hmm. Challenges, the grindstone upon which greatness is sharpened. And where test subjects can be put to their limits.” Dallid gazes at the wolf, with a mixture of disgust and satisfaction.
”When can we begin?”
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Paladin - warforged - orange
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The Call Of Strahd - Carnival!
Characters
Current
DM - The Call of Strahd (CoS); Feyrealm Campaign, Chapter 0 - Bleak Prospect (BP), Chapter 1 - Destination Unknown (DU)
Dadeveth is a white and black paint centaur. Her human hair is silvery white, and most of her coat the same. She has several large black patches over her side and flank though. She wears a loose-fitting tunic, with leather armor over it, and carries a rapier. A backpack, likely saddlebags, is lashed over her broad horse back.
"What?" She asks at the first words, glancing around and noticing she is no longer standing in the back alley with her enemies closing in on her. Sweat has lathered her silvery white coat, and her hair is a tangled mess. She holds the pamplet in her hand still, glancing from it to the announcer. Her tail swishes in agitation as she stops her feet several times, her hooves clomping solidly against the ground. It still takes her several long moments to realize she is safe.
"As you saved my neck, I'll take the tour if that is what you are suppose to do." Dadeveth informs the man. "After that though I would definitely like to visit this Lady Isolde, if that is not too much to ask." She runs her hands through her silvery white hair, pulling out the tangles and smoothing it down a bit. "Sorry, I was not exactly in a situation that makes me very presentable just here and now..."
“Edrick?!”
Cerio’s feet land at dangerous angles on the uneven cobblestones, each step a gamble. Will he stumble again? His right knee aches painfully, a reminder of his previous fall but a moment ago, when he had hesitated rounding a corner, convinced he'd find himself in a familiar street. But there had only been more mist.
And the face--a terrified face mirroring his own; a nameless shadow flitting through the mist and lights like a shooting star that falls helpless in the void of space. Only to perish alone on an alien shore.
Make a wish. The thought, meaningless and absurd, explodes in his head, catching him off guard. He stumbles and goes flailing, landing hard on his elbows.
"S@%!!" he gasps in pain before scrambling to his feet. Just before him stand these other lost stars.
Cerio is a frail, slight man with whispy, silver-blonde hair. His face is gaunt, his eyes ringed with dark circles.
What in the hells? he thinks, struggling to suppress a feeling of panic that slides up him like frigid water. Is this some work of Lady Mordlaine? But this isn’t her style. This… is something else.
“I--” he opens his mouth to speak and answer Tindal (or try to, anyway), but he’s relieved to be cut off. How could he explain anyway? Where would he begin? Nowadays he isn’t even sure where the story begins.
Rubbing his knee, he nods and glares around at the others suspiciously. He visibly winces at the mention of the “lady”. “L-listen, feller,” he says shakily. “If’n ya plan to slit my throat I’d just as soon you’d do it and get it over with. I reckon there’s worse ways t’go.” The truth is he doesn’t need to reckon. He knows there are much worse ways to die.
But, Tindal’s invitation stands open, and his throat remains ungashed. He takes another look at the strange surroundings. “A-alright, then.” He hobbles along behind Tindal and the centaur. “Let’s take this tour'n talk to this lady, then. But if'n you think yer gonna have me swingin' on some trapeze yer mistaken!"
Dallid is tall, blue, bald and lanky. All slender limbs. His clothes are strange, a sterile green lab coat full of symbols on his chest and collar that indicate… something, surely.
Before the barker is even finished, Dallid has moved uncomfortably close and is taking notes with drawings and diagrams. He follows along, not looking up from his book at first until he sees the others.
“Good morning,” and continues on his way as though nothing had happened. Then he pays his leg a few times, and you see a wolf trot up from behind until it’s walking alongside him. “Good Ferelyon.”
Paladin - warforged - orange
"Fantastic! Fantastic!" Tindal starts in his gregarious manner, you get the sense that he may well have given this tour a great many times. "Trust me, friend," he chuckles at Cerio, "We do not start folk on the trapeze, no sir! It's lion taming for you!".
Leaving little time for his joke to land, Tindal waves for you to follow. "Come now friends, do not be shy! You may be asking what my role is here at the Carnival?" the question is clearly rhetorical, you are full-sure you are about to get an answer, "I'm the main barker for our acts, well... at least those who could use a little extra drama. Oh, there's Professor Pacali over there past the big tent. He's the barker for the more colourful acts of our show - call 'em freaks, they wear it with honour, call 'em oddities, call 'em what you will. But his cronies, well they are a little skurry, if you ask me. Just stick near me and you'll do alright."
((Insight rolls for those who want to make them, in attempts to discern Tindal's meaning.))
Tindal continues, clearly in his element, "It's my job to take the Georges' coppers - that's what we call non-Carnival folk, you see. I make sure they keep their greasy little hands to themselves, with my silvered tongue. I bring it all to life for them, you see? Well, of course, you see sir! I generally herd each group of Georges around the big ring and generally show off ten of our acts before I drop them off in the Hall of Horrors for the big squeeze; they're like putty in my hand by then you see. The Hall of Horrors is Pacali's crew."
He turns on the spot and smiles at Dadeveth, "Fear not good lady, I shall come to the Lady Isolde momentarily. I think you may well enjoy our shows here, should you spare the time later. In the meantime, walk with me now, soak it all in; it'll do wonders for your spirits. It's a wonderful world we've made for ourselves in the Carnival! Yes ma'am!".
Waving his hands towards some beautifully painted wagons, in a mixture of colours with bespoke carvings running down the sides, Tindal explains, "These belong to the Skurra, our Vistani. They ain't part of the troupe as such, but without their help... well we'd be pretty immobile, ain't that for truths." He clears his throat and delivers the next line with such accuracy that you are aware he must have said it a few thousand times, "Just behold the Skurra's bombastic banners! Each canvas filled with amazing images to entice the imagination, each one a masterpiece!". Nonetheless, the banners do look spectacular as they rise, piercing the mists.
"Now look to your left, towards the centre of the Carnival. Do you see that fairly ordinary-looking wagon? That wagon belongs to the Lady Isolde, our dear Mistress of the Carnival. Holds all us rapscallions together, she does. Have mind though, her right-hand man is likely to be at her side - Hermos the Gaint, they call him." Tindal looks around, "Tell you what, I think it's best you go see her now, probably best not to keep her waiting."
Tindal leads you towards the plain-looking wagon. Sure enough, a giant of a man, standing around 10ft tall, looms next to the wagon, dwarfing it - Hermos. As you approach he crosses his arms and asks in a deep, gruff, mean-sounding voice, "Are these the lot?". Tindal nods, uncharacteristically quiet. "Best ya go on in then, she's expectin' ya," Hermos opens the door leading to the inside of the quite spacious ((you'll all just about fit!)) wagon.
((Hermos))
DM - The Call of Strahd (CoS); Feyrealm Campaign, Chapter 0 - Bleak Prospect (BP), Chapter 1 - Destination Unknown (DU)
Dallid insight 6
He turns and follows the barker’s comments with interest, Ferelyon trotting along without any particular eye for the acts.
Dallid politely nods in greeting to Hermos as he passes and walks in eagerly. “This place is so… it’s like the Rakdos, but not. Fascinating.”
Paladin - warforged - orange
Dadeveth takes in the sights and sounds of the carnival, finding she likes the place. She wonders briefly if she would be safe in a place like this, but quickly puts that out of her mind. She cannot think about staying put just yet, it is too likely those that seek her would be coming. She does not know how they would find her here, but she doesn't know how they managed to track her down back in the city either.
Moving on towards the plain-looking wagon she eyes the massive guardian. Running a hand through her silvery white hair in an anxious gesture, she gives the man a respectful nod, then moves on up into the wagon.
Insight: 15
Cerio gives a nervous "Heh" at Tindal's joke, suspecting a sack to be pulled down over his head at any moment. He can't help but get a little bit caught up in the wonders of this strange carnival, though. The "freaks" pique his curiosity the most, and he can't help but wonder if that is where he belongs.
He admires the Vistani wagons, too, wondering what kind of valuables might be hidden inside the cart. Old habits.
He sure wishes his brother Edrick were here to see all this. The reminder of his death sends another shiver down Cerio's spine.
When they come across Hermos, Cerio makes sure to hide behind the centaur, pretending to adjust his boots and ducking down low, ignoring the soreness in his joints that he's sure will only be worse tomorrow. He's learned that the best armor in the whole wide world is to be forgotten, to go unnoticed, or, barring that, to hide behind the taller folk. He also checks that his blades are at hand.
He peers into the wagon, suddenly eager to learn more. He's had enough surprises for one year. So when Hermos urges them inside, he's quick to step up. "Alright folks, let's get this here show on the road." He steps inside.
Dallid's Insight check:
As far as you are aware Tindal seems to be quite an affable fellow - maybe 'skurry' is a term of endearment? Who knows? As for wanting you to 'stick near him', that is surely to save you from getting lost in the crowds, of which there are many.
Cerio's Insight check:
You see through Tindal's false demeanour; he may be a decent enough sort, but most of it is talk. 'Skurry'? From what you are able to discern this is not a kind term, but not wholly insulting, likely inferring that the individuals are slightly off-kilter and worth giving a large berth. You would guess that there is little love lost between Tindal and 'Professor Pacali'.
DM - The Call of Strahd (CoS); Feyrealm Campaign, Chapter 0 - Bleak Prospect (BP), Chapter 1 - Destination Unknown (DU)
Dadeveth insight (sorry I forgot to post that...): 17 Passive is 14.
“That Tindal seems to really be quite knowledgeable of this carnival. I hope we see him again, I’d like to see what sorts of ‘freaks’ his friend Professor Pacali has with him.” Dallid turns towards Dadeveth and Cerio. “I study such things, you know. Adaptionist. Fin Clade sometimes... although… I’m not sure that means much to you all. I’ll tell you all about it later, if you’ll tell me about yourselves.”
Paladin - warforged - orange
You all enter into the wagon; it is sparsely furnished save for a number of cushions and rugs dotted around, candles flicker illuminating everything in oranges and reds. Reclining at the far end of the wagon is a woman, dressed primarily in dark clothing, blacks and deep blues - the Lady Isolde.
Isolde stands to meet you. As she walks over you are stuck by her ethereal, other-worldly, grace. "Please," she says offering her hand, "welcome to the Carnival." In the light it is clear to behold Isolde's beauty; she is pale-skinned with a slender frame, has long black hair, and has a dark, penetrating gaze with deep blue eyes. You would guess that she was in her twenties, though she is likely older than that. Hanging from her hip is an ornate looking longsword. "You must be weary," Isolde says questioningly, her voice kind yet firm, "many that arrive here have travelled from far and wide." Her eyes move between the three of you, "From the looks of it, you are all very far from the place you once called 'home'."
She gestures to the cushions, "But please, travellers, rest your weary legs, make yourselves comfortable. I am sure you must have questions." With that, she delicately takes a seat down on one of the cushions near you and makes herself comfortable.
((The Lady Isolde - Carnival Mistress))
DM - The Call of Strahd (CoS); Feyrealm Campaign, Chapter 0 - Bleak Prospect (BP), Chapter 1 - Destination Unknown (DU)
There are so many silent alarms going off in Cerio's brain, he has to take a moment to slow his breath. There are things about this that remind him so much of the Lady Mordlaine and her occult artifacts. But unlike Mordlaine, who emanated an aura of menace, Isolde actually has a calming presence. "Ya ain't there, ya ain't there..." Cerio whispers repeatedly to himself, calming his nerves a little bit.
He claims a cushion, too, a deep blue one embroidered with shiny beads and decorated with yarn tassels. He takes a minute to appreciate the comfort and charm of the wagon, and of course the Lady Isolde. He studies her sword for a minute, trying to decide if it's decorative or...
At length he clears his throat. "Well, uh, yes ma'am. I's Cerio, but I guess you might've knowed that already. Well, uh, how'd you come to know of us, and how'd you get us here? And what for? Tindal said ya know we's in need of, uh, movin' real quick? Speakin' of Tindal, he seems like a nice feller, though I got the idea he don't much like that Pacali. But maybe that's none o' my know-how."
Dadeveth takes in their beautiful host for a long moment, tail swishing nervously. When offered to sit, she moves to a large cushion and, folding her legs under her, settles her horse body onto the provided cushion.
"You likely know this already, but I am Dadeveth Sungroomer." She offers the lady with a respectful bow of her human torso. "I am in your debt for wisking me away from those that sought me." With that said she goes silent, letting the others ask questions first.
"Ahh so well-mannered," Isolde says, allowing herself a little chuckle, "A pleasure to meet you Cerio and you Dadeveth."
"Tindal had the right of it I am afraid." A sadness enters Isolde's voice, "I wish we had but more time. I am not sure how much Tindal has told you, but I guess I had best start from the beginning."
"I do not know you personally Cerio, but I do know that my pamphlets only appear to those in the most desperate of situations and in the direst of needs. You see that is who I need. That is who I seek. Though I have little idea as to who you are personally Cerio, I have met you in multiple different shapes," she turns to look at Dallid, "and forms," she proceeds to turn to Dadeveth.
"You see, you had to be willing." Isolde starts by way of explanation, "It would never have worked otherwise." She reaches out her hand and places it over each of yours in turn, her touch is icy-cold. "I mean to send you on an errand of the utmost importance. To seek out someone that has the ability to..." she speaks quickly but pauses to contemplate her words, "break a long-lasting stalemate. A stalemate that has cost far too many lives, needlessly."
Isolde looks down briefly, you are sure you see the glisten of tears, but you may be mistaken. "You are not the first..." she looks at you directly in the eyes, "Others have been sent, yet I have seen no signs of their success. Do not be convinced that this is a simple errand, for where you go is perpetually on the teetering on the edge of war. Though it is the war of the unseen."
"How did you get here? You are tied to this place, to the great Carnival!" Isolde waves her hand exaggeratedly around the wagon, nothing changes. "Once the invite has been accepted there is no leaving, except in one circumstance... you are able to complete the task I have in mind for you. Choose not to and become permanent members of the Carnival." She sighs deeply, "This is your last chance. After this, there is no turning back. You decline the task - the story ends, your soul becomes eternally entwined with the Carnival and you believe whatever you want to believe. You accept the task - you are taken to a land, a place of perpetual darkness and mist, you have little more than the equipment I provide, no other help other than a name, a contact. But..." She takes a deep breath, breathing heavily, "The good you may achieve is incalculable; freedom, a new start, hope. All I offer you is the truth. Nothing more."
((I think we posted at the same time!))
DM - The Call of Strahd (CoS); Feyrealm Campaign, Chapter 0 - Bleak Prospect (BP), Chapter 1 - Destination Unknown (DU)
"I would take up this task." Dadeveth says with a frown. "Can you tell us any more about this stalemate we must resolve, or what we may face in this land of darkness and mist?" Her tail swishes restlessly as she speaks. "I, for one, would not mind being worlds away from those who threaten me every day back in the world I come from."
Cerio pulls his hand back from Lady Isolde’s ice-cold touch. So, here’s the catch. There’s always a catch. A job. He should’ve known. Choose imprisonment in some magic carnival, or imprisonment in service to Lady Isolde. Cerio is beginning to think that all Ladies are the same, using people for their own mysterious ends.
In this moment Cerio feels, more keenly than any other time in his life, that he is just a pawn on another person’s gameboard, slid around this way and that, with a veil pulled over his eyes. People trying to tell him that the world is a certain way, without letting him see the way it really is. Her comment about an “unseen war” seems appropriate. Thinking about this carnival, and the sort of existence Isolde promises here, Cerio can’t see himself living that way. He’d rather look out past the veil. He’s overcome with a strange feeling, like he’s been waiting to arrive at this moment his whole life.
He thinks about Edrick then, and last time they’d seen each other. What would his twin brother advise him to do?
Go. That voice in his head again. The one that doesn’t seem to be his own.
“I’m in,” he says with a shrug. “What’s th’ job?”
Dallid smiles a bit. “We are safe here from our troubles, but not free to leave. A sanctuary and a cage. Unless we do as you ask… then we become free. But are we safe once free?” His manner implies intense curiosity of a word puzzle, rather than fear or indignation. “What sort of stalemate? It must surely be challenging if many have attempted this.”
Paladin - warforged - orange
Isolde smiles kindly at your responses, yet it is clear her smile hides a great sadness.
Firstly, to Dadeveth, she answers, "The place I refer to is fraught with horrors, but that was not always the case. Once a verdant valley with warm summer days and mild winter nights, those days have long since left. Mists now roll over the land, magical in nature, a byproduct of a dark bargain that was struck. The land I refer to is known as 'Barovia' - it is a place where goodness struggles to enter and where evil has triumphed."
"Since that foul deal, I have toiled relentlessly to free Barovia from the curse that befell it, yet to no avail. Until recently. Something happened. I am, I am a little fuzzy on the details." Isolde scratches at her forehead. "Not more than 6 days ago, by Barovian time, did an event occur. An event that muddied the waters, obscuring Barovia's future." She shakes her head, confused, "Unfortunately, I do not know what it was or how it happened. But there might be an opening, a chance, to change the course that Barovia is current on."
Secondly, to Cerio, she answers, "The job is both simple and yet highly complex at the same time." Isolde lets out a chuckle, it is not unkind, "I do not mean to speak in riddles. The job is to free the land of Barovia by removing the being that was responsible for its downfall - Strahd Von Zarovich." There is both venom and sadness in her voice as she speaks the name. "However, that is the simple part. I say simple, as the goal is straightforward if not extremely difficult."
"The complex part, well... it is hard to explain," she says taking a deep breath. "There are powers at work in Barovia. I do not know what faith, belief, ideas, or values you hold or what deities you worship, if any at all. But know this - dark powers stir in Barovia. Dark powers that, through the bargain in place, have managed to take hold and have precedence over the land. I do not know who or what they are, but I know that there will be obstacles placed at every turn in your path. I also..." She pauses, "I also do not know whether they will prevent you completely from getting to Strahd. But I think that the recent muddying of the waters I referred to may have changed things."
Finally, to Dallid, she answers, "You have the right of it I am afraid. Just as the innocent Barovians found themselves trapped within their own lands - for that is what happened to them, they were bound to Barovia and there they remain, victims of a bargain they had no say in - those magically transported to the Carnival are also trapped. That is to say, our very souls are linked, magically, to this place." She smiles to herself. "Wherever the Carnival goes, the troupe will follow... However, there is a way out - the Skurra. They are able to transport you in their wagons through the mists to Barovia. As to guarantees that you will be safe? I am afraid there are none, if anything Barovia will pose more of a risk than the Carnival," she chuckles, "that you can be sure of."
"The only way you can then leave Barovia is to either dispatch of Strahd Von Zarovich and the forces behind him... or attempt to throw your oar in with him, serve him and he may allow you to leave. But you will never truly be free if you side with him, you will be his tool - it is true that some have taken this option before, overwhelmed with the hopelessness of their situations." Isolde sighs deeply.
Leaning in, Isolde lowers her voice a little. "The stalemate," she chuckles a little in self-amusement, "I have mentioned that Barovia is ruled over by the person you are to remove - Strahd Von Zarovich. Yet, though he rules, there was always balance. The powers behind him - and I use the term 'powers' - were in balance. But something has happened - the event I referred to, has put everything out of kilter. For the first time since I can remember there is disunity. There is no balance." She giggles to herself a little, it is unsettling, to say the least, "Why? Don't you get it? What was initially thought to be one, is multiple... There was no single entity behind Strahd as initially believed, or if there was it has somehow been fractured. Now the right-hand does not know what the left is doing. Warring factions, a power grab!" Isolde becomes more animated, "And what happens if the foundation upon which Strahd's power is built starts fracturing? What then? Well..." she says calmly, "Now is the time to strike."
DM - The Call of Strahd (CoS); Feyrealm Campaign, Chapter 0 - Bleak Prospect (BP), Chapter 1 - Destination Unknown (DU)
“Hmm. Challenges, the grindstone upon which greatness is sharpened. And where test subjects can be put to their limits.” Dallid gazes at the wolf, with a mixture of disgust and satisfaction.
”When can we begin?”
Paladin - warforged - orange