Enter Freely and Share the Warmth That You Bring: Expedition to Castle Ravenloft

Our adventure begins, as many do, inside of a tavern. This particular tavern was the Weary Horse Inn, a small but cozy roadside establishment near the border of Barovia. A fire has been lit in the hearth, warding off an early autumn chill that encroached as night fell. A man with a fiddle and a woman with a tambourine sat near the fire, playing music which filled the air. The common room was populated mostly by farmers from the surrounding countryside, drinking and joking. A pretty young half-elf with fiery red hair brought drinks around to the patrons, and more than one young man was trying to catch her eye. She flirted with each, but promised them nothing. The proprieter, a portly human with a bald head, cleaned glasses behind the bar while listening to the woes of dwarven fellow who was already well into his cups. At one table, a halfling couple was discussing something with a third man, all three speaking in a foreign tongue. Our adventurers, too, are here, amongst the smoke, the music, and the laughter.

OOC

Sitting at the bar is a mousy haired young woman not paying much attention to what's around her, seeming more focused on the glass in front of her, which happens to be empty, than anything else. If one was to watch closely, they could see that she's floating it into the air, spinning it slowly, and other midair things.

The reason for this is fairly simple; despite her extremely good looks, many people have no wish to interact with a mage. Keeps the men off her, and she can get in a little spellcasting to boot. It's nice not having to worry about men hitting on you, though this didn't stop some of the more adventurous ones. She wears traveling clothes rather than any sort of robe, knowing that wearing a robe is just stupid out on the road when you could have better, more durable clothing.

The door opens, letting the warmth of the bar to escape for a couple of moments when a young man blusters in. He's short- shorter than most, even, and seems to be somewhat clumsy. He's wearing a headband that clashes with his ashy-blonde hair, very well tailored silk clothes, and a signet ring. He looks, quite frankly, like a noble born twit, and the way he's acting- slightly pompous and condescending- doesn't help that. Anyone in the tavern who would be looking for a good mark to steal from later would probably mark him down as a worthy target- until they saw the rapier at his side, perhaps.

Still being quite pompous and blustery, he takes a seat, a short way away from the fire. When asked whether he'd like a drink, he responds with a question about the wine list, and whether they have a specific- and reasonably expensive vintage. The general impression he gives off is of a young nobleman who has no idea what he's walked into, or where.

If anyone is watching him closely, and has a good eye for detail - and it would have to be a VERY good eye - they might notice that he's very attentive, and that his blunders are all calculated to provide maximum effect of making him look stupid while minimising the chances for him to get hurt. And, they might notice that he's listening to the men speaking the foreign language, to see if it's one that he recognises.

But they'd have to be very good- his act is almost perfect, and the disguise that he wears fits the part just as perfectly. He sits, watches, and listens, looking for every opportunity; he came to this bar for a specific purpose.

As the man steps away from the door it's only closed again for a moment before it opens once again.

A figure dressed in a thick fur clothes is revealed standing just outside, seemingly hesitating a moment before stepping over the doorstep.
This wanderer is obviously dressed for a different climate and certainly doesn't seem to be around here.

The fur is white, made from a single animal and is hanging loosely again the body, completed with a hood covering and white fur gloves that seems to have been made from the same animal.

Taking off the hood, it's revealed it's a woman with straight short-cut blond hair. Fair skin which have exposed to much sun with of dark blue eyes which curiously look around the establishment.

She seem new to all this, apparently finding a lot of things to look at, especially the other people who have gathered at the tavern.

"<Outta the way, Tyri. Ya blocking the door.>" Comes a loud, boisterous voice in accented elven. Another woman follows behind the first, trying to give her a nudge out of the way, none too gently either.

Similarly to the first, this woman is dressed in white furs, though one can tell she's shed some of her clothing if Tyri is any indication. Peeking through the furs is a fine suit of silvery chainmail. Mithral to the trained eye. She carries a large pack, some variety of spear, and a bow on her back.

They do have some similarities in appearance. Her hair is very pale blond, long and pulled back into a tight braid that trails down her back. Her eyes are all white, save for two black dots that are her pupils. One trait certainly separates her from Tyri, however, and that is her pointed ears. The elf stands over half a foot shorter than her human companion.

She's still arguably more imposing to her companion. Her body, despite her slender frame, is made up primarily of corded muscle. Her face, exposed arms, and presumably much of the rest of her skin is covered in scar after scar after scar. She seems none the worse for wear for her old wounds.

"<They have drink here, right? I could use a couple right now.>" She gins, baring her interesting mouthful of teeth. Many have been pulled out, likely due to poor dental care. She's gotten replacements it seems. Teeth made of ivory that are a tad sharper than her teeth would have been naturally.

"<Patience.>" Tyri reminds her as she gently steps aside for the elvish woman. While she speaks in the same accented elvish, her voice couldn't be more different. Light, feminine and most of all, calm. Something you expect to hear from a scholar or diplomat rather thena fur dressed traveler from distant lands.
"<I told you all the way here, we need to have patience with these people. I'm sure they have plenty to drink if you just ask them.>" She stares at the elf for a moment before adding. "<Politely.>"

"<Politely.>" The elf scoffs. She doesn't put a lot of stock in the value of being polite. She sweeps past Tyri and heads straight for the bar, where she seats herself. Her every move is powerful and fluid. She moves like a warrior, even when at ease like she is now.

"<Get me a drink.>" She calls to the barkeep. If the barkeep doesn't respond, looks confused, or in some other way doesn't appear to understand Elven, she'll repeat herself. "Get me a drink. Something strong." This time it's in the Common tongue. Her speech is harder to understand in common, like she's not well versed in its use.

An older man at a table near the bar ignores the newcomers for now, more intent on brooding over his glass of water for the moment, pondering deeds past. He's average height for a human with a sheet of closely cropped mostly-gray blond hair. His face is scarred, by either beast or blade, making it so any beard he'd try to grow would result in nothing but scraggy ruins. For the most part, he wears nothing better than a gray traveler's robe, but when he raises his left hand from his lap to take a drink from his glass, he reveals a large metal gauntlet with a sapphire eye on the back, marking him as a follower of Helm.

To his side, a small pack sets on the ground and a simple wooden staff rests against the table, within easy reach. When he hears the two Northerners speak though, he can't help but smile. <If you're looking for something strong, I suggest the stout. If you'd rather be able to taste it, go for the brandy.> He tells them in Elven. His accent is likely quite a bit different, much more southern compared to theirs. <I don't drink, but I hear those are the choices.>

The elf turns to the man, a grin spreading across her face. "Make that a stout." She calls to the barkeep before moving to sit across from the man.

"<Don't drink, huh? Why not?>" Her eyes move down to the gauntlet, but there's no recognition there. "<And don't give me some mammoth **** excuse like it's not good for ya.>"

Tryi rolls her eyes as she hears the exchange and takes a seat next to Katla. <"Good tidings to you gäst(guest), it's good to hear someone speaking our tongue in these lands."> She interrupts them before he can answer. <"I'm Tyri and this is Katla."> She introduces them with a smile. <"Who're you? I trust you speak common?">

The fellow who has made rather a twit of himself is looking around, examining various features of the bar and muttering to himself things like "Such rustic decor..." and others. His eyes linger on the newcomers, particularly the rather...brusque...elven woman. His face contorts into what could best be described as polite horror.

The barmaid, a tad confused, explains to the "noble twit" that there is no wine list. Only red wine, or white wine. And he was lucky to get that choice.

The barman doesn't speak Elvish, but knows a drink order when he hears it. He pours a mug full of a good, dark stout and sets it on the bar to be served.

A few patrons look over at the armored woman at her outburst, wondering what was wrong, but soon go back to their drinks and conversations.

<I don't drink, because I simply want to remain clear headed.> The older man explains. <What are you two doing here so far south?> He asks after a moment, looking between the pair with curiosity.

Katla shrugs. "<Tyri can explain if she wants.>" She glances back toward the bar and sees her drink is there. She stands and goes to retrieve it. On her way back she tries to catch the eye of the aptly described twit and give him a mean, pointy toothed grin. She proceeds to return to her seat.

The woman at the bar looks curiously at the two obvious northerners, but continues to do nothing but spin the glass in her hands for now. She has no reason to go over to them and see who they were. Something told her they were important, however.

The noble fellow, who so openly radiates the aura of "twit" looks disappointed upon being told that there is no wine list. He asks for a glass of white wine, and leaves the matter.

He then notices he's being smiled at, and smiles back at the elven woman. He then opens his mouth, and she might be surprised to hear that he can speak elven almost perfectly, except for a slight overuse of consonants.

"<Well met, and good luck to you and your family.>"

To be fair, he IS a noble. Family is generally all they think about.

<"We are explorers actually, we come here in search of things to trade and experiences we can share with our by (village)."> She explains while just ordering something to warm her up. She isn't particularly familiar with the menu so she goes with anything the staff recommend.
<"We are looking for njåd's (shamans) and druids in particular if you happen to know any. But enough about us, tell me your name stranger. What is you story?">

Katla's eyebrows shoot up. He can speak elven, eh? She decides to change course. Tryi can handle herself. Not like she was all that interested in the conversation anyway.

"<Well met to yourself.>" She says as she moves over to the nobleman. She isn't exactly familiar with nobles, but she can tell his type from a mile away. He's the type that she'd take great pleasure in introducing to her fist. "<Let me guess, you're a long way from home too?>"

"<Reasonably so, yes. Certainly I'm not familiar with this land.>"

He looks relaxed, entirely relaxed, and completely off his guard.

Looks.

<My story is one involving much sorrow, but for now all that is necessary to know is that I am merely wandering.> The man says before offering his unarmored hand to shake. "Call me Jean."

Tyri looks curiously at his outreached hand until she seem to realize something and gently shakes it. "A common ritual here. The handshake that is." She replies in perfect common.

As she let's go of his hand she turns to the drink which her player assumes have been delivered to her and takes a sip. Looks like they have even more company, people around here were so open.

"So what can you tell me of these lands Jean?"

"<I could tell.>" Katla smiles perfectly innocently... Well, she smiles. "<I heard that most men are expected to buy their female conversation partner's drinks.>" In fact she's heard no such thing, but with any luck she'll get a free drink out of the deal.

"<I'm sure you have. And while I'm not sure if it's the custom here, it certainly is back home.>"

He waves over a bartender, drawing 5 gold pieces from a pocket on his belt.

"<Please get this fine woman anything she wants to drink.>"

He gives Katla a smile.

"Another stout." She calls to the barkeep. She should probably not have too much to drink. Try to tell her that, though.

"<So you got a name? Mine's Katla.>" She says, not even bothering to thank him for the drink. That might not be unexpected, however.

"Not much." Jean admits to the tribeswoman. "We're right outside Barovia, Barovia. Ruled by Count Strahd von Zarovich. About a day away. Other than that, not much. I'm a wandering monk and just pick up a little here and there." He tells her before taking a sip of his water.

"Perhaps he rules the people, but I have yet see a man rule the land itself." Tyri replies as she suddenly glance over to Katla and the newcomer. Hopefully that didn't require her presence, her companion was a troublemaker.

She turns back to Jean however, trying to relax as she takes a sip from the beer she ordered in with a mixed reaction. "An interesting crowd here, I thought we were going to be the odd ones but this entire inn is filled with strange characters." She comments. "I must say that we have been avoiding the people of these lands until now. Strangers aren't as welcome in our lands as they are here."

"The kinds of people in the land are plentiful and myriad," comes a voice from the bar. The young mage, her trade evident by the glass still spinning above her hand, is looking rather amused at being called odd, "I'm somewhat new to these parts myself. Anything more you can share with us, Jean? I'd appreciate it."

"Are strangers really welcome anywhere?" Jean asks hypothetically before turning to the interruption. "As I said before, that's all I know."

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Gulaghar

"<So you got a name? Mine's Katla.>" She says, not even bothering to thank him for the drink. That might not be unexpected, however.

---

He pauses momentarily, although it's not really noticeable. He then smiles, and extends a hand. "Samuel. Samuel Harrow, <in full, of the house> Harrow." His name doesn't translate well into elvish, and he knows it.

He doesn't comment on the lack of thank you, or even to really notice it.

Those inside the tavern may hear the sound of hoofbeats fast approaching. A horse whinnies, almost a scream. There's a heavy thud and a grunt. Scrambling footsteps, approaching the door, which is soon thrown open with a bang that breaks through the sounds of the tavern. The conversations end. The music stops. Everyone stares at the man who just entered the room.

He was a fairly short man with dark hair and eyes, dressed in mail and leather, stained from the trail. He looked exhausted, and terrified. He tries to speak, but is too out of breath to form words.