DnD campaign

That is not dead which can eternal lie,
And with strange aeons even death may die.


The party find themselves huddled around a squat and well worn table, in the dim and smoky interior of the Moon Lily Inn, in the city of Westgate, at the eastern edge of the Dragon Coast. It was to this Inn that you were all directed to by your only common thread, the mysterious Lucien, who sought you each out to aid him in a quest against a darkness which has, of late, swallowed his homeland of Erlkazar. The four of you are some of the only patrons of the Inn tonight, and the others seem accustomed enough to adventurers and mercenary types to keep their eyes to their cups. Through the thin wooden walls, you can hear the throngs milling about in the streets, who, even at this late hour, browse the market stalls and carouse outside of the other brewhouses and casinos. When you first arrived, you noticed a particularly boisterous group swigging jugs of wine around a fire in the midst of several barrel-topped wagons. It is this group that now commands the attention of the Innkeep, a great heap of a man named Dong, who stands absentmindedly cleaning glasses behind the bar while peering nervously out the window at the strangers in the darkness.

Lucien, you recognize these people as Vistani, a group of nomadic folk who travel Erlkazar and other nearby regions in their wagons, bartering fine jewelry, outlandish stories, and fortune tellings for wine, food, and a place to camp. Your noble upbringing also tells you that people in power often dislike them, as their presence is generally thought of as being disruptive to law and order. They have a (perhaps not entirely unearned) reputation for being thieves and swindlers, in addition to their tendencies towards frequent boisterous celebrations.

A well-built Aasimar with dark features sat down at the table, though on top of a chest of his belonging and not a seat at the table. He is obviously scarred and weathered from combat, and not merely in the physiological sense. In the moments you have seen him, he has been reading a from a black leather bound book, reading and quickly jotting notes in it; muttering to himself in intervals of apparent disgust or anger at what he sees in the pages. He keeps a chess piece in his offhand and rubs it like it were a worry-stone - a red knight. He has been particularly ignorant to anyone yet, besides answering to Lucien when addressed.

Replying to Lucien, Darien hits the red knight on the table - the piece has obviously been abused and roughly handled for a long time. He speaks in a rough, distant voice, "I am Darien Mazaev. I fought the devil at Narfell; no one survived. I owe Lucien; I will follow him with the utmost fidelity..." he trails off,
"The Devil -- had he fidelity
Would be the best friend --
Because he has ability --
But Devils cannot mend --
Perfidy is the virtue
That would but he resign
The Devil -- without question
Were thoroughly divine"

Darien, looks at something up above and behind Lucien sitting across from him, he talks, seemingly addressing what he is looking at "Yes... that works, hmmm." He jots something down in his journal.

During a long silence you all eye one another then stare off in different ways. You've become engrossed in the babbling of the nearby Vistanti. Suddenly the droopy melted candle on your table is snuffed out.

Stepping into the shadow of an empty seat at your table is a heavily cloaked but rigid figure. In the darkness his eyes peer at each of you with a yellow  intensity. Shadows fall away from him like a snake sheds its skin.
He leans forward and relights the candle. In the light you see his features differently. The yellow in his eyes fade to gray and the trails of shadow wisps away.
Revealed before you is a gray skinned man of middle age with tiny dark tendrils of hair.
Despite his dark features his voice is firm but tired.
"Hail thee, fine adventurers. I am known as Rasec. I used to be known differently when I lead a mercenary troop. However I dare not face my ilk now reeking of shadow. My quest for power led me to this dark path. Since I cannot return home I seek to atone by ridding your land of blight."
 

As the light shines forth from your palms, illuminating the dim surroundings of the inn, the innkeeper makes his way to your table. He bends low to be level with your seated party, clasps his hands together, and then in a hushed voice thick with Nathlanese accent, he says, "Excuse me fine sirs, but you each appear top adventurers. Normal bouncers away on special business today, but wagonfolk outside seem to scare away customers. They have been camped here many days, and I cannot get them to leave, despite protestations. Perhaps they would listen to powerful travelers such as you? I want no violence, bad for business of course, but will happily compensate your group with free room and board. And bar tab."


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"Folk who arrived in wagons, still camping in them outside my inn many days hence. I am but one man, big, but with meek temperament. You all have dangerous look, much more intimidating. Please, I beg humbly of you. Look around. Business very slow since their arrival. Surely, I will be ruined without intervention."


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"You vill give us room and board and a vagon for travel, dah?"

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As you approach the camp of the wagon-folk (who, again, Lucien would know as Vistani), you discern a little more detail about the goings on there than your cursory inspection upon arrival at the inn a few hours earlier. A dozen men and women are gathered around a crackling bonfire that sends embers and smoke high into the starry sky. The folk are in good spirits: a few of them sing and dance around the fire to the wild tones of a solitary fiddle, while others find happiness in their flasks and wineskins. Three barrel-topped wagons are parked at odd angles, with clothes, food, and revelers spilling out of their doors. Tied to a nearby post, grazing on the odd weeds that burst from the ground by the side of the road and near the side of the Inn, are half a dozen draft horses wearing bright coats with bangles and tassels.

The music quiets as Darien grasps his sword, and the Vistani look to you with bright eyes full of uncertainty, but also of excitement. They do not seem particularly frightened by your threats, perhaps because they outnumber you, but they at least are now giving you their full attention. Just then, and old man with bushy brows, a gray, pointed beard, and a green robe with red vest, stands up from his seat by the fire and comes towards you, his arms wide and his palms up.

"Please, no need for violence!" The old man smiles as he speaks in a low, raspy voice, tinged with an accent not at all dissimilar from Darien's. "I am called Stanimir, and I lead this group. The Innkeep sent you, I imagine. We do not wish to cause the poor fellow any trouble. But we have a story to tell you, noble adventurers. First you listen, then we go. You have my word."

*I'm going to assume the rest of the group is here and agrees to listen to the tale as well*

Stanimir smiles at Darien's accession, and invites him and the rest of the party to gather around the fire. He takes a great swig of wine from a wineskin on his belt, and the spews it into the fire. The flames flicker and change from orange to green, and as they flutter and curl around the logs, dark shapes begin to appear in the fire's core.

"We come from an ancient land, whose name is long forgotten— a land of kings. Our enemies forced us from our homes, and now we wander the lost roads."

The dark shapes in the fire take the form of a man being knocked from his horse, a spear piercing his side.

Stanimir continues. "One night, a wounded soldier staggered into our camp and collapsed. We nursed his terrible injury and quenched his thirst with wine. He survived. When we asked him who he was, he wouldn't say. All he wanted was to return home, but we were deep in the land of his enemies. We took him as one of our own and followed him back toward his homeland. His enemies hunted him. They said he was a prince, yet we didn't give him up, even when their assassins fell upon us like wolves."

Deep in the bonfire, you see the dark figure standing with sword drawn, fighting off a host of shadowy shapes.

"This man of royal blood fought to protect us, as we protected him. We bore him safely to his home, and he thanked us. He said, "I owe you my life. Stay as long as you wish, leave when you choose, and know that you will always be safe here."

The figure in the dancing fire vanquishes its final foe, then disperses in a cloud of smoke and embers.

Stanimir's face becomes a somber mask, the lines across his brow and hollows of his cheeks picked out by the shadows of the fire. "A curse has befallen our noble prince, turning him into a tyrant. We've traveled far and wide to find heroes such as yourselves to end our dread lord's curse and put his troubled soul to rest. Our leader, Madam Eva, knows all, and told us to seek you out in this town, for she knows that the curse is now felt even outside our land," He turns his eyes slowly to Lucien, and then continues, "Will you return to Barovia with us and speak with her?"

While Stanimir tells his story, Arscene is busy studying the movements of Stanimir's hands as he presumably manipulates his Minor Illusion (?) spell. With quill in hand he hastily copies some details into a wine-stained leather bound book. However when Stanimir mentions a "curse" Arscene's eyebrow would have been raised, if he had one. Once Stanimir finishes talking Arscene walks up to him, slowly.

"My name is Arscene, Professor Enchanter, Member of the College of St Catherine, Order of the Sparrow, seeker of the Lordvessel and co-author of The Treatise on Defined Magical States, and I'm pleased to make your acquaintance fellow seeker of magical truths! We are most appreciative for you to expend one of your, presumably limited magical resources, in order to give us a visual aide. I always benefit from studying how other magus perform their magics.

If you don't mind, I'd like to enquire about this long-lost Kingdom of yours. As I understand it, a Kingdom only becomes long-lost when illiteracy grips a population that then becomes displaced." Arscene looks around, presumably finding very few books. He would frown if he could. "But surely you as the flaminis must have some geographical knowledge of your Kingdom? We can quite possibly deduce the name of this Kingdom within a mere few months... now if only I had the some books from the Archive with me..." Arscene places his leather-gloved hand to his chin.

"I also wished to inquire about this 'curse'. The best way to combat curses, you see, is through eduction and preventative magics."

"Fascinating." The gauntleted mage hand closes the book Arscene is holding. "I look forward to meeting this font of knowledge Madam Eva."