03-29-2018, 12:22 AM
(This post was last modified: 03-29-2018, 12:23 AM by Man in Black.)
To a party of seasoned adventurers such as yourselves, this is but another dull tavern in another dull town in some nameless province. It is but another passage of time between the challenges of true adventuring. Such is the doldrum of existence —waiting for another opportunity.
Outside the Inn, a fog lies over the town this evening, draping everything in its clammy grasp. The damp cobbled street shines as the light of street lanterns dances across the slick stones. The cold fog chills the bones and shivers the soul of anyone outside. Yet inside these tavern walls the food is hearty and the ale is warm and frothy. A fire blazes in the hearth and the tavern is alive with the tumbling voices of country folk.
Suddenly, a hush falls over the tavern. Even the flagons of ale seem to silence themselves. The tavern door swings open. Framed by the lamp-lit fog, a form strides into the room. His heavy, booted footfalls and the jingle of his coins shatter the silence. His brightly colored clothes are draped in loose folds about him and his hat hangs askew, hiding his eyes in shadows. Without hesitation, he walks directly up to your table and stands proudly in a wide stance with folded arms.
His accented voice speaks, "I have been sent to you to deliver this message! If you be creatures of honor, you will come to my master's aid at first light. It is not advisable to travel the Svalich woods at night!" He pulls from his tunic a sealed letter, addressed to all of you in beautiful flowing script. He drops the letter on the table. "Take the west road from here some five hours march down through the Svalich woods. There you will find my master in Barovia."
Amid the continued silent stares of the patronage, the gypsy strides to the bar and says to the wary barkeeper, "Fill the glasses, one and all. Their throats are obviously parched." He drops a purse heavy with gold on the bar. With that, he leaves. The babble of tavern voices resumes, although somewhat subdued. The letter is lying before you. Dated yesterday, the ink is still not dry and the parchment is crisp. The seal is of a crest you don't recognize.
Outside the Inn, a fog lies over the town this evening, draping everything in its clammy grasp. The damp cobbled street shines as the light of street lanterns dances across the slick stones. The cold fog chills the bones and shivers the soul of anyone outside. Yet inside these tavern walls the food is hearty and the ale is warm and frothy. A fire blazes in the hearth and the tavern is alive with the tumbling voices of country folk.
Suddenly, a hush falls over the tavern. Even the flagons of ale seem to silence themselves. The tavern door swings open. Framed by the lamp-lit fog, a form strides into the room. His heavy, booted footfalls and the jingle of his coins shatter the silence. His brightly colored clothes are draped in loose folds about him and his hat hangs askew, hiding his eyes in shadows. Without hesitation, he walks directly up to your table and stands proudly in a wide stance with folded arms.
His accented voice speaks, "I have been sent to you to deliver this message! If you be creatures of honor, you will come to my master's aid at first light. It is not advisable to travel the Svalich woods at night!" He pulls from his tunic a sealed letter, addressed to all of you in beautiful flowing script. He drops the letter on the table. "Take the west road from here some five hours march down through the Svalich woods. There you will find my master in Barovia."
Amid the continued silent stares of the patronage, the gypsy strides to the bar and says to the wary barkeeper, "Fill the glasses, one and all. Their throats are obviously parched." He drops a purse heavy with gold on the bar. With that, he leaves. The babble of tavern voices resumes, although somewhat subdued. The letter is lying before you. Dated yesterday, the ink is still not dry and the parchment is crisp. The seal is of a crest you don't recognize.
