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

[Halae]

Sasha is almost shocked. The first she does is, for just a moment, stare at the many who just came in, but then her better nature takes effect and she moves over to help him.

Her first response is to move over and see if she can't help him stand. She'll then try to move him to a chair so that he can sit and rest enough to tell the crowd what's wrong.

[Shadowcaller]

Tyri, just having opened her mouth to introduce herself for the second time today freezes and turns in the direction of the door as horses can be heard outside.

As the man enters she makes no move to help him however, partly because Sasha was already doing it and partly since she was held back by her own customs. Drawing attention to yourself among so many strangers? She felt a bit uncomfortable doing it.

She just hoped Skrack hadn't caused any of this, he could be a handful at times, especially in these areas.

Eventually she get's up however, letting the man calm down a bit before she asks, "Can I get you something? What happened?"

[UncleWolf]

Jean looks up suddenly when the newcomer enters and without waiting goes to him to try and guide him to the fireplace. "Come and warm up. This is no place to be out at night." He tells him in a kindly voice.

[Gullara]

Katla is suddenly interrupted from their conversation by the man entering. She raises an eyebrow at the proceedings. "<What do you figure that's all about? Probably outran some bandits.>" Nothing she has personal experience with, but there are some fools in the world that don't know enough to learn to stab someone.

[Shadow of the Sun]

Samuel stands up and draws his rapier. The look on his face is entirely focused, and his movements are precises and lithe- the rapier seems to spin over his knuckles into his grip as he draws it, and he drops into what is an obviously practiced en garde.

<"Perhaps, but it's best to be on your guard. I've killed people in situations like this before.">

Well, there goes the noble twit. Instead there is a focused young man who talks casually about killing.

[Artemis97]

With the help of Sasha and Jean, the man is led over to a chair by the fireplace, and seems grateful for it. Soon enough, he catches his breath. "We... we need help. Will you help us?" He asks, looking up at the group that has surely gathered around him. "Please?"

[UncleWolf]

"Take a couple breaths to calm yourself and start from the beginning." The wandering monk tells the newcomer. "We'll be glad to help but you have to tell us what happened first."

[Gullara]

Katla raises an eyebrow at the supposed twit when it's clear that's no longer what he is. "<Put your sticker away. No one's trying to kill us right now.>" Paranoid much? The elf casually stands and goes to move nearer to the gathering. Might as well see if she's getting dragged into something.

[Shadow of the Sun]

Samuel doesn't put his weapon away, although he does lower it from the en-garde position he had taken up. "<They could be luring us into a surprise attack. It is best to be on guard.>"

To maintain communications, he moves as Katla does, although he keeps his voice low so that only she can hear.

[Artemis97]

The man takes a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself. It seemed to help, a little bit. "There... there were things on the road, when I left the village. Terrified the horse... and me." He admits, swallowing hard. "I was only asked to deliver a letter. The Burgomaster himself asked me. He said I needed to find help. Quickly." He scrambles to search his pockets, pulling out a crumpled letter, sealed with red wax. He shoves it into Jean's hands, almost desperate to be rid of it. "Here. Take it. I was told it was important it got out Barovia, and to someone who can help."

He looks around at the people in the tavern, his eyes lingering most on the scarred visage of Katla and Samuel's drawn blade. "You will help us? Right?"

[TwoBitWriter]

In the back of the tavern, in a corner of seemingly little coincidence, a dark figure stands. He is tall, taller than most men, and broad of shoulder. His cloak is thick wool died black with a trim of burgundy and coated with dried mud. His boots are rawhide but stained with years of travel by foot. He still wore his armor of boiled leather studded with heavy metal rivets to provide extra protection. The armor comes complete with cuirass, greaves, paldrons, and gauntlets.

Across his back rests a massive greatsword resting in a cracked and worn scabbard. Bits of metal adornments long fallen and never replaced. With his movements you can catch glimpses of other implements of war dotting his person, a stout mace at his waist, a dagger in his boot, and a crossbow slung criss-crossed with the greatsword.

The massive figure draws back his hood, revealing a thick-skulled human-like face, only his slight pug-nose, pointed ears, and elongated lower canines belie his orcish heritage. His hair is short, black, and travels down coarse sideburns to meet at his chin in a well-trimmed goatee.

His red eyes fall upon the recent arrival and he strides forward, his steps heavy and causing the wooden floor of the inn to creak in protest.

"These things you saw on the road, were they man, beast, or something else?" he says in a deep bass, made slightly flat by his tusk-like lower teeth. Despite his savage demeanor, he speaks intelligently. He reaches into a small pouch at his belt and withdraws, amazingly, an entire bottle of red wine. He snaps off the cork with his teeth and offers the entire bottle to the frightened man. "For your nerves, friend. A cheap vintage works wonders for those who are troubled in mind, body, and soul."

[UncleWolf]

Jean takes the message gently, giving the man's hand a reassuring pat before he examines the seal carefully, looking to see if it's a sign he recognizes. With a sense of reverence, he slowly breaks the seal before opening the message to read it.

[Shadow of the Sun]

Samuel tries to read over Jean's shoulder. "If you don't mind, I am a diplomat...among other things." His eyes are, however, moving from side to side, never stopping, looking for possible angles of attack.

He is indeed very paranoid.

Oh, and he hasn't sheathed his rapier yet, either.

[TwoBitWriter]

The half-orc glances over at the funny man with the rapier. "Hard to be a diplomat with steel in your hands, friend."

[UncleWolf]

Jean stops himself from opening the letter and looks up to give the man a glare. "Don't. Touch. Me." He says with annoyance and a hint of anger, eyes flashing. "Put your blade away before its done for you."

[Gullara]

"Funny, I find it easiest to be a diplomat when I have a weapon." Katla grins at the half-orc. She turns her attention back to the man briefly, but soon shifts it over to Tyri. "<What do you think? I say we see if anything needs to be killed.>" She shifts back to the more comfortable elven tongue.

[Shadow of the Sun]

"Mmm...no, I won't, if you don't mind." The rapier is pointed at the floor, and he's not gesturing with it or doing anything threatening.

"Perhaps, and I may be the only one thinking this, but perhaps this could be an ambush? A set up? As someone who was trained as a diplomat from a young age, I was reading the letter to see if it was genuine. Then- and only then- will I put my rapier away. Because this is how people die, you understand? They walk into a situation that appears to be one thing but is really something else, let their guard down, and then they are dead."

He's not being threatening, or not like he is intent on violence. He is merely giving what he considers to be the best council.

"So my apologies for touching you, friend..." and he tugs his forelock at Jean, "...but give me the damned letter, okay?"

[UncleWolf]

"And the priest won't be able to tell?" Jean asks with a raised eyebrow. "No offense, but I don't trust those who refuse to put away blades in a tavern." Jean says as he backs away from the sword-wielder to open the letter. Once open, he'll read it out loud.

[Artemis97]

Barovia. The worms creep beneath our floors and our streets, they feast on the flesh of our dead. High in the castle, the once lord is no longer, the new lord is not yet, without form, void. All is void and vanity.

Ireena, Ireena, Ireena! Long have I kept you at my side, long will I keep you close to my heart! Save my Ireena!

I am the Burgomaster. The Master! Kolyan am I! Soon the worms will feast on me.

Come! Do not tarry!

There is no signature.

[Shadowcaller]

<"It could be worth investigating."> Tyri replies, <"A perfect opportunity to create a diplomatic contact in these lands."> She tells the elf before giving her a light bump on the shoulder. <"And that means no walking around with your weapon pulled.>

[Shadow of the Sun]

Samuel grinds his teeth- in fact, so hard that it's audible throughout the bar- and continues looking around for possible angles of attack, routes of escape, and the like.

[Gullara]

Katla replies only with a short laugh and a shake of her head. Whether or not she intends to follow Tyri's advice is yet to be seen. But hey, at least she isn't being hostile yet. For now she'll just wait to see what exactly is going on.

[UncleWolf]

Jean frowns at the words and looks at the messenger. "Where did you say this came from exactly?"

[Artemis97]

"The Burgomaster." The man says, looking confused. He didn't understand why he'd been asked to deliver such a garbled message.

[TwoBitWriter]

The Half Orc looks over the assembled group. "Well, the way I see it, people are asking for help. I suppose it's only right to check and see what the problem is."

[Shadow of the Sun]

"I'll go with you. My skills are...broader...than your typical diplomat, and you might need me.

He still seems to be waiting for an ambush, looking at windows, doors, and shadows in the corners.

"But I would prefer that we go soon."

[Sophistemon]

While the newcomers debate amongst themselves, a five-year regular of the Weary Horse Inn finishes his drink in a long, slow pull. The alcohol flows over his tongue and down his throat to fuel the fire that already burns his belly. The smoke of those internal flames waft up to cloud his mind, helping to blur the line between what's real and what isn't, what was and what wasn't, but it isn't quite enough to stop the voices in his head. They just scream even louder, forcing him to remember. He's about to raise his hand to order another drink, thinking to drown the voices in wine, this time, when the Diplomat says something about preferring to go soon. Something about the 'soon' resonates with him, partially restoring a tattered shred of mnemonic tapestry. Who was it that had said 'We need to go soon, or it'll be too late!'?

He can't recall, but the surge of remembrance forces him up and out of his seat so quickly that the stool topples, with a clatter, to the ground. "I'm coming with you!" he states, his speech slurred and his voice a little too loud for comfort. His rheumy, drink-reddened eyes stare out at the newcomers from beneath the hood of a well-worn traveling cloak, and his face is gaunt and rough with unshaved beard. He suddenly deflates. "I... I want to go."

[Gullara]

"I looks like we will go too." Katla says. She may be trying to come across as unconcerned about the whole thing, but she can't hide a certain eagerness. Finally, something to do.

The scarred woman peers at the newest arrival for only a moment, and proceeds to immediately dismiss him. She won't protest to him coming along if he really wishes to. It's not her concern.

[UncleWolf]

Jean looks at the others and gives a bit of a sigh as he folds the paper and puts it in his pack before grabbing his walking stick. "It'd be safer for us to move in the morning, but I have the feeling that time is of the essence, and it'd be a dereliction of my duties if I didn't go."

[Sophistemon]

"Yes!" says Zane, now nearly thrumming with excitement. He darts towards them and stumbles, nearly dropping to the ground, only avoiding a nasty fall by catching himself at the last second. His eyes are wide and slightly glazed as he stares at each of them in turn, almost plaintively, with a crooked smile on his dry and cracking lips. The scent of alcohol pours off him like miasma, strong enough to crinkle the nose, and he reels on his feet. "We need to go soon," he pleads, liking the feel of the words in his mouth, as though they belonged there, but he couldn't be sure. "Or it'll be too late!" The last two words echo in his head, pounding loudly, like harshly-beaten drums, against the inside of his skull: too late, too late, too late...