---

---

'Lady Anala, then. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, and many thanks for your assistance,' Talran greeted her with a smile, even as the muck covering him vanished and he could breath true once more. Thank Helm for that. And for her abilities, too - it was rare that many paladins had access to cantrips of that nature, useful as they doubtless were, and though she was clearly an arcane caster of some sort, it somewhat escaped Talran as to what sort she might be.

Speaking of spellcasters, the elven caster had taken quite serious injuries, had she not? Glancing over Markus to make sure he was in decent health, he had his mount ride up to the sorceress, sheathing his weapon and holstering his shield now that they were free of muck and internals. She seemed in fair shape, but one could never truly tell; placing a hand upon her shoulder, he concentrated for but a moment, the appendage glowing with power as her wounds ravelled back together. And thank goodness, she seemed to be alive and well otherwise... though he was a touch annoyed by now that he had naught to refer to her than as "Elven spellcaster".

'I don't believe I ever got your name, ma'am,' Talran inquired, if only to alleviate his worries, 'though I reckon I may have introduced myself to this group already. If I might ask, what do you call yourself?'

---

---

So that was the newcomer's name. Lady Anala Vishtar Attor, a heiress and a powerful mind. She only winked at the puppeteer, smiling a smile that showed she knew something that not all could be aware of. But what did she mean with it? The man, now back on horseback, blinked a few times, and found that the recently soiled were now cleaner than they had been at the feast of the Vistani. Sometimes one had to wonder if they could trust their eyes at all. This was a land where being wary would be a benefit, and only a raving madman could feel themselves right at home. Or so one would be led to believe.

She shared a connection with these people that had called them to talk with the Lady. Perhaps this lady knew the other? The hand carrying the puppet turned, and George's head rose higher. His eyes scanned the woman, the fresh arrival, all the while the man whose hand it covered followed suit. She was... not as tattooed as one had first thought, no. Lots of it was actually on the surface of her. Shimmering. Shining. Crystalline, even, perhaps. Was it... no, she could not be. That was not what she was. There was absolutely zero chance that was what she was. Only stories told of creatures of the sort. And she was here, not there. It would make no sense.

But it wasn't only so that the eyes in one's head would have lied. There were tattoos just as well, depicting... no, he could not make sense of it. It was a vibrant blue, but beyond that it... wasn't anything. The purple eyes desperately tried to find a meaning from it, but in the end the gaze was torn away, George being risen before the gleaming pair. "It is worrisome George, that you cannot tell. Please George, think it through. It needs to be understood", the man pleaded of his companion.

---

Egil’s stallion, without its previously throned champion, unexpectedly trotted near the unwary ranger, nudging him that the harvested morning still bore an omen of stars and dusk to come. The insects and worms pulsated feverishly, unwavering in its rhythmic delivery of a whinny, a façade generated by the friction of their swarmed and compressed paths within the conglomeration of the steed. The neighing abruptly fleeted out in existence, wading in its berth below the masqueraded Barovian sun. The creepy and crawly premonition soon met a welcomed admonition, sensing the census of birds multiplying in number as the Vistani took to its saddle and sauntered to the mount’s previous owner, encouraging all gathered to ready to ride.

“Apologies for the interruption, everyone.” He cleared his throat and offered a seated arm to the proverbial, now clean undertaker over the corpse. “We must move. The mist is coming.”

As the assembled cabal approached the tarnished gates together, the hinges screeched to accommodate their passage, swinging their tethered portals outward. Once past the blemished Rubicon, the Gallic posterns viciously squawked at the company’s heels, ultimately locking at the apothem of its concluded joined arcs. The resultant sound cemented an insulting dread, as if each had voluntarily ambled into an inescapable prison, whose inner borders carried the anxious vain of foreboding freedom.

Insensible to the noxious catastrophe prior, myriads of ravens conducted song and courtship without mind, as they followed their prey into the foggy ambiance. Some even rummaged the verbal caches hidden within the bleak winter of conversation between the fighter and the spooned gypsy, relishing with tilted ebon beaks their rewards amongst their relatives. The whispering fowl frolicked alongside their silent idols, playfully springing from branch to branch, adjacent to their hallowed trek. Their eyes glimmered from the prancing shadows, thrown upon by reflections off nigh rays of penetrating brightness, which absconded past the curtain of clouds under spread the horrid heavens, as dozens of drops of rain would intermittently descend audibly, risking to douse any conjured fire.

Eventually, the old Svalich road reaped a hazy miscarriage upon the pregnant horizon, as the staccato of marching hinted to a halt, respecting the scent of death so pervasive in the stabbing air. The path underfoot gave birth to slick, wet cobblestones, as towering homes and shops menaced over the ceased lead of Markus. The shuttered windows of each corrosive dwelling stared blankly out from fixed and dilated voids, unable to capture any stray ambient light. No sound amended the barring silence except for a woman’s mournful sobbing that echoed through the streets from a harrowing distance. As the smog occasionally burned off a sliver of transparency, the conception of a castle garnered a dazing graphic, looming over the heartless village, like an unholy stake piercing through into the broken sky.



An encroaching resonance of small, rotten wheels rolling across damp stones suddenly drew ever closer. A hunched figure quickly appeared, bundled in rags, pushing a rickety cart, then soon stopped, leaving her wares to stroll to a burgundy door, whilst ignoring the travelers. With an outstretched fist, a rap beheld the wooden entry, as the kyphotic silhouette lingered, patiently waiting for a tasty retort.

>Two hours later, you are now in the Village of Barovia. An old woman appears to be knocking, about thirty feet from the troupe. Markus appears unobtrusive, in light of this visitation. The moans of a wailing mother can be gleaned. It is faintly raining.

---

---

What was that incessant flapping noise? Surely birds weren't following them so closely? Taking the time to look around her as they road towards the village, Anala noticed at least three Conspiracies of Ravens following them. Narrowing her eyes at them, she studied them for a moment before sending out three quick bolts of fire in an attempt to scare them away. Her first and last attempt managed a scattering, but it was her second attempt that had greatly diminished the group directly behind them. "I don't like being watched," she muttered, Sebastian nodding his approval over his Mistress's actions towards the birds, "You might want to watch out for the Ravens around us. They don't seem completely normal."

---

---

The man with no spoken name had been hanging back after the first moments through the gate, with most of the fellow travellers giving them the silent treatment. Whatever Markus had meant by the mist coming he had not quite understood. Mist was always there, a phenomenon that followed when the amount of humidity in the air got to a certain point. Unpleasant to travel in to be sure, but... well, perhaps he had simply wanted no more difficulties to their journey. The man could not be blamed for that sort of thing, especially not after the fight they had already had to endure outside of the gates guarded by the statues with no heads.

With the lack of attention from others, the puppeteer had fallen to the back ranks of their small entourage and taken out again the letter that had been stashed under one's coat in the aftermath of the combat between them and the wolves. Three pieces of parchment revealed themselves from the grasp of the sealed envelope and had been inspected with relative haste before the three firebolts from the marked woman's fingers flew forth. These items, as well as the puppet, were swiftly pressed against the chest of the man handling them as they ducked lower, protecting them from any harm.

Once the bombardment was over and one dared rise again, a new piece of information entered the game. Ravens were the bats of this realm. That one should keep in mind indeed, spies in service to others did no good to secrecy that would be healthy to maintain. A thankful nod was directed the way of the magic wielding woman and two of the papers were stashed back into the envelope they had come from. The last one George kept within his grasp, and the bug horse carrying it picked up some speed, carrying their burden closer to the center of the group.

"George would like to present the map of the village to you, yes he would. What would you do without him? There are many things he found out that most would have missed, but this is what is most pressing at this time", the puppeteer explained the intent of the gesturing doll, who was waving the one parchment that had been kept in view, though it remained close to the handler at all times.

---

---

The battle was over. Wolves and that... Howler... She shuddered a little in memory of a time when she had had less blades on her own side to fend off those teeth and infernal noises, and shook out her body a little, only realizing something was wrong when she saw the armored non-human... Talran was his name, if she recalled correctly, step over to her.

She had a gash on her leg. Unfortunate. Not a lot of blood, but in the heat of battle she had barely noticed the creature slashing at her until it had been too late. Perhaps worse, it had ruined her clothes somewhat. Oh well. Raising a hand in appreciation of him, she saw a glow of light and the pain fade.

It was an odd experience seeing her own flesh knit itself back together, but when his ministrations were done, she received the question of names. Was it wise to give him her true name? She disguised it so well... Perhaps, and yet perhaps not. In the end, she had to decide, offering as much of a curtsy as one could when mounted. "Call me, Mhyrienne. A scholar of the arcane." A faint smile played across her lips, but it was clear that it was for show even from the short amount of time it was there, her expression changing to one far more neutral in but a minute.

Not only that, but there was the newcomer. Lady Anala. She seemed to be as much of a threat here as any other individual, but a threat that would require monitoring. Especially since she had her own steed, and that... Well, of all places, she was here. Poor omens all around.

With the other man talking to his puppet, and the instruction for them to ride on, ride on, that was exactly what the elf committed herself to. The gates swung open with an awful screech, and she felt like she was passing through a strait as she galloped through them, the doors closing themselves once more with a slight boom.

Truly there was no turning back now.

Road to road, to road to village. She knew where they were, even if she did not wish to be here. Before she could speak, the puppeteer saw fit to open his mouth again and speak to the damned construction- something which she already had nothing but hate for. Still... a map...

---

---

---

Anala moved closer the the man and his strange puppet George, wanting to get a better look at the map that he had. While she had been wandering the region for awhile, she had never bothered to really look at any available maps, thinking that it was something she simply did not need. Of course, that wasn't necessarily true, but hey, she wasn't about to tell anyone that she had a bad habit of getting lost when left to her own devices in a strange area.

"So what do we have here?" she asked with a raised brow, her eyes scanning over the paper. It wasn't all that hard for her to lean closer to do so either, thanks to her choice of mount, it was rather tall compared to the strange insect mounts these people rode right now. Rogath, after all, was a horse originally meant for pulling carriages and plowing fields, but that was the type of horse she wanted. Clydesdale were strong and rather gentle creatures after all. "Where did you find this?"

Anala's eyes flicked away from the man for a moment, focusing on the Warlock, her methods of dispatching the enemy had not gone unnoticed despite her distance. She studied the other magic user with a scrutinizing eye, a small frown starting to pull down the edges of her lips briefly before she went back to her micro-smile. "I forgot to address this earlier, Mhyrienne of the Arcane," she commented as an after thought, "No need of formalities, any of you. Feel free to call me Anala, there is no need for 'Lady' or 'Mistress' in this place. Despite my station we are all equals on the road. After all, we did just fight together."

---

---

'Well-met, Lady Mhyrienne,' Talran greeted, smiling widely. What a nice, polite young woman. Unlike those ravens overhead, raucous as they were, only adding to the shockingly dread atmosphere of Barovia's village - and as he watched them, he couldn't help but notice that some seemed to be moving in a more intelligent fashion than anticipated. They were noticeably further above their group than their brethren, for instance, or at very least further afield. And... it seemed that some were paying special attention to both their guide Markus and the newly-introduced Lady Anala? How strange. And she had greeted him like an old friend earlier, after all.

Not that she didn't notice their presence either. A few blasts of magical power scattered some, and fried others. Indeed, her warnings seemed entirely appropriate; Talran would try to keep close to her, just in case. But first, he had to get everyone else's names... actually, just two, come to think of it. Though the puppeteer who bore George also seemed to have a map, and much as Talran wanted to see what the fuss was about, he knew he'd have time to examine the parchment later. Instead, he first approached the gruff man who had been unfortunate enough to get caught in the dying demon's dreck alongside Talran, he who had refused to imbibe the Heroes' Brew earlier. A suspicious one, that man - that was, suspicious of others, not necessarily suspicious in himself. Still, no use judging without evidence; putting on a grand grin, Talran asked 'Poor luck on our part earlier, I believe. I don't believe we've even introduced ourselves; I am Talran Galelove. And yourself?'

Whether or not he received a useful answer, he found himself moving on from the man to... well, the final figure. The mysterious cloaked chap, the one who he'd been sure he'd met earlier. Who was that? Surely he had some inkling in his mind... perhaps the name would refresh the memory.

'Pardon me, sir,' Talran asked politely, 'but if it's no trouble for me to say so, I'm almost convinced we know each other from somewhere. Perhaps my mind plays tricks on me, but it'd be a grand favor if you might show me your face, to go with your name. I am Talran Galelove, and you are...?' He hoped he wasn't being impolite by asking. Perhaps there were religious reasons to cover his visage from the world? Oh, heavens, perhaps he'd been hideously deformed. He'd certainly apologize greatly if such was the case.

---

---

Kehehe… This ought to be interesting. The Jester cackles, upon hearing the words of the paladin who has since revealed his name to be Talran Galelove.

…you know something, don’t you? Zaerith frowns.

Perhaps I do; perhaps I don’t. Isn’t life all just one delightfully big mystery? Kehahahaha!

Sighing to himself, Zaerith shakes his head, the motion minuscule enough that none is likely to notice it under his hood. How foolish of him to expect the Jester to be helpful, especially at times like this. He turns his gaze to Talran, and scours his memory for anything resembling the pale-skinned man’s visage. Alas, nothing jumps to mind, at least not for the moment.

“I am Zaerith Dustborn.” His voice is as gravelly as ever as he lowers his hood. Ashen gray skin and incomprehensible sanguine glyphs tattooed upon his bald head are not the most pleasant of sights, to be sure, but Zaerith reckons that they are hardly out of place in the gloomy atmosphere of Barovia's village. “Perhaps we’ve met before, but I cannot be sure, for my memory can sometimes be… unreliable, due to circumstances that I’d rather not disclose.”

Is it a wise idea to inform the others of his memory issues? If they become aware of any memory loss on his part during his journey with them from now on, they may attempt to exploit it by feeding him reminders containing false information on what happened prior. On the other hand, they are not aware of the exact circumstances under which his memories may fray and tear. So if he simply pretends to suffer from a bout of amnesia regarding recent events, and ask his companions to refill the blanks, this may discern which ones among them have plans on deceiving him. In the long run, likely a better course of action than attempting to hide his memory problems from them forever.

As for whether he had actually met Talran before, he should take the paladin’s answer with a grain of salt. Not all paladins are paragons of so-called virtue; perhaps this one is trying to deceive him even now.

---

The uninvited paladin encroached upon the hunched shoulders of the previously filthy man. Peering into the overdrawn hood of the fighter’s face, the affable knight inquired of his specific moniker. Where others historically would have referred to him as the vine of Vaasa, the champion had forgotten his lack of fame here, now drowned by the flooded obscurity plaguing the heroes marching deeper into Barovia. The bitter winds, though, quickly reminded him of the fairness of the query, just before Talran moved onto the tattooed trickster whose memory tended to escape his own trusted scrutiny.

"Egil." The reply, simple.

The name offered a resonant token of appreciation for sharing rain after combat, for spilt blood remained ever thicker than congealed water. The crowded drops from heaven tumbled as viscous wingless angels; the adjudicating precipitation pooled and beaded off the eyebrows, like dangling swords of Damocles waiting to descend from furry ridges upon the chiseled frown formed by relaxed cheeks, each scarred, a myriad over, by close encounters of empty happiness. The doll eerily struck a chord of childhood reminiscence as bolts of fire chauffeured the lingering feathered scouts away whilst the puppeteer distributed and discussed the intricacies of a newly discovered map.

Was the handler, too, a denizen of Ravenloft? Like Markus? Even Anala questioned, “Where did you find this?”

He had surely seen George before. Somewhere.

Was it from a disremembered nightmare? Or in person before the meeting with Starovir? The incomplete puzzle fragmented itself further from diagnosis as the haunting forest eventually elapsed into the festering village. Where a few smoldering chimneys, a wailing mother's howl and an old croon's tapping demonstrated signs of vibrancy in the weathered town, all eroded by the sin of jealousy.

---

---

The man with the puppet puffed in annoyance and sat up remarkably straight as he was asked from where the map had been procured from. Did these people have buttons for eyes? Even George did not, and he was a puppet for goodness' sake! "George spotted this on the ground after one of you nearly stepped on it, that's where! It was in an envelope, sure, one that bore a wax seal, and it was good it was so just as well, unless one considers trying to make out the details out of soiled parchment their specialty!". A short break was taken, the voice returning to a less agitated state before continuing: "The actual scene being that of the fight. George had thought he was not the only one to see it, but no such luck it seems."

With those words spoken, the man hunched again and brought George back towards his chest. "It would help one unfamiliar with these corners of the land if this had more than simply the bat's eye view, but George has spent so long without one that he can surely appreciate the fact there is even this much", the speech continued before George was brought forth again, the map now a little more loosely held in the puppet's hands. "Have a look if you will, but George will want it back after. He made sure the envelope it came from was kept secure, yes he did." The fact Anala had requested no honorifics for herself was an unusual detail, but it would make interaction with her slightly less complicated a procedure, as was already being proven.

---

---

---

Zaerith Dustborn.

Of course, now he remembered - that face, those markings, it all snapped into sharp focus as Talran finally realised who he was talking to. Yet, he acted so differently from before, and claimed he had memory issues... was he truly the same person he'd known?

'Helm almighty,' Talran muttered, eyes wide with a mixture of emotion. 'How did you get here, Zaerith? And... no. No, you have a lot of questions to answer,' he explained, just a little cross, though not sure how to process the matter quite yet, 'and we'ven't enough time to discuss them in full when we've barely arrived at our destination.' He gestured briefly to the gates they had just passed through. 'You've offered me up a great deal of confusion in the past, and I wish to get to the bottom of it as soon as possible.' Gods above, Zaerith had arrived here too. Fate was, after all, humoured by all sorts of coincidences. The question was, once they'd talked again, how would he handle him?

---

---

The silt of time sifted into the bellows of the old woman’s evident grumble, as the rapping yielded no answers, only to be intermittently overshadowed by the distant human howl.

The crone diligently repeated the process, door to door, hoping to solicit, to someone, her veiled dessert of dreams, curtained by an unkempt but flashy embroidery. The frayed tapestry permeated with a few sporadic holes, but predominantly demonstrated sewn foregrounds of stitched and sliced children blandly embossed within the abdomens of colossal, salivating adults. The milieu of its hemmed backdrop exhibited a vibrant garden of lilacs, carnations, poppies, and marigolds, suggesting the quilted panoramas were depicting a coerced but enjoyable picnic.

Eventually, her incessant knocks yielded a riposte.

Markus and the disgusted Egil, together, trotted closer to the oblivious supplier, observing her slighted scowl tumble into a sly sneer as the soft swing of three hinges fully interred inward.

“Yes, yes, open up to Grandmother Morgantha. Jarov…” The monotony of a trawled echo lingered. “I am here for Lucian.”

Easily, a scuffle with a crying child was soon gleaned. After a few more moments, a man produced a seven year old to the patient peddler.

“Papa, please don’t.” The son pleaded. “I don’t want to go to Bonegrinder.”

The father’s face reluctantly shifted his hooked gaze between his own flesh and blood and the covered wares on the broker’s tumbril. Eventually, an entranced mother seemingly joined the addictive conversation, forcefully pushing the youth towards the haggard hawker.

“You must. Our family needs you.” The less aged female offered, her lips dripping with familial hemlock.

With that gesture and bid, the older vendor generated two pastries from beneath the artistic but tattered shroud. With a hurried exchange, the boy screeched as arthritic hands shoved him into a pristine sack filled partly with rose petals, crickets and sand, externally clean, oddly, which contrasted against the kidnapper’s messy belongings.

“Quiet.” She growled, tethering the floppy bag onto a lower rack within the wagon’s underside. After the satchel became motionless, the murky merchant belted her contractual sales pitch before pushing once again her wain, along cobbled stones, ever nearer to the mount of George and its handler.

“Thank you, Nalkainen.” She ignored the doll and the puppeteer, whilst thundering over her shoulder anon, “I can return as early as next week for your daughter. As long as she can laugh for me. That is, if you are still hungry.”

The next juicy pause was deliberate, dodging tendrils of webbing.

“Just heed the hammering on your steps, of course.”

---

>Anala casts Web on Morgantha. Morgantha makes her save.

---

---

A degree of loud rapping drew Talran's attention away from Zaerith. The old woman causing the ruckus was immediately rather concerning - not necessarily for her appearance, but for the nature of the shroud hiding her wares. How vile... yet viler still was what came next. As Talran observed the antics of "Grandmother Morgantha", how she intended to take the young boy to "Bonegrinder", and how the parents did this willingly in exchange for mere pastry... perhaps unseen by Zaerith, perhaps not, Talran's expression steadily shifted from confused annoyance to mere fury at the gruesome spectacle he was observing.

'Pardon me a moment, I have business to take care of,' Talran murmured, riding his steed steadily in the direction of the old woman. The parents were of a gruesome sort, too, being that they were willing to seemingly sacrifice their child for a sweet. But they might have their excuses. He'd heard of magic that could twist a man's mind when it remained otherwise steadfast, of course; succubi were one of the most obvious topics of discussion in that regard. No such explanation existed for the old woman, though - perhaps she was twisted in the mind too. Maybe she was a succubus. Nonetheless, she had to be stopped.

Surprisingly, the first offensive move came from the newest member of their party, Lady Anala. A web of some sort shot out, an effort to ensnare the old woman entirely; yet, despite her obvious skill, the woman was apparently undeterred, though well aware of the nature of events now; spurring his insectile steed onward, Talran made his way into the path she had intended to take, one hand on his blade's handle, staring her down from beyond the webbing's grasp with a great deal of negativity. He had a great desire to deal with her then and there and be done with it, but he had his oaths to think about.

'I suggest you take heed, "grandmother",' he spoke loudly, voice clearly unimpressed, 'for I'll only say this once. The exchange you're partaking in is neither virtuous nor just, and even if I believed the child you intend to abduct has any price that'd be reasonable to pay for him, two pastries would be far below that price. I'll see him freed, or else I'll see you in chains at best; I do not wish to draw my blade upon you, crone, but in Helm's name, I shall do it if it means protecting an innocent life from the likes of you.' And even if he were willing to let her live after her inevitable failure to comply, he could by no means guarantee that his companions would allow her the same courtesy.

---

---

Webs and zealous accusations. All following a scene of a ghastly transaction taking place. The man with the purple eyes steered his mount to the side, away from all the action and procured the envelope from the confines of the worn and torn coat. The map drawn on the parchment was folded and returned to the sleeve of it and its kin, followed by the envelope as a whole sliding back into the pocket it had just received its temporary freedom from. "This looks... wrong, George", the puppet was informed while the mount spun around, now what could be called its eyes once again pointing at the direction of the pastry trader.

Not all was right with this. Urchins being taken advantage of was one thing, but... there was a nervous gulp while George sought comfort against the man's chest. "Worry not George, she will not come for you. She will not come for you. There is no way she will come for you. She will regret if she does, yes she will...", the man mumbled, evidently nervous about the possible future developments. Several beads of sweat raced down the dirty brow, unobstructed by any wiping sleeve. For now, all that could be done was to wait and see.

---

The sticky woman hobbled slowly into a goblet step, while unraveling the visage of a grandparent from beneath her hood, now displaying only one eye, the other sewn seemingly shut with decorative scarlet and cerulean sutures. The peddler stared at the intrusive knight and the accompanying entourage, indulging in a sniff and a snort, at the denouement of Talran's tirade.

"This is solely a family affair. May I ask why do you even care?"

The nursery rhyme bobbed in its prophetic tide, without awaiting a response and ignoring the silk threads all about her wagon.

"Yet, since you dare, Morgantha will relinquish him. All but a single hair."

A sleeve sluggishly shortened, revealing an arthritic hand shrouded with brilliant rings, bangles, and glossy long nails. The fingers shuffled through the bags, eventually loosing a vise. Crickets, sand, and rose petals avalanched onto the ground, as a boy was plucked, head first.

A single tendril of a blonde lock was shorn, by the razor attached to the elder's thumb.

"'Tis only fair. When we all share."

With a sudden swing, Lucian tumbled out from the sack, towards the paladin, awakening and belching, but very much alive and evidently unbroken.

---

---

"What in the world is going on here?" Anala asked with a hint of disgust in her voice as she dismounted her stead and went to check on the boy, "Are you ok? Anything hurt?" She looked the boy over, though she was not particularly spectacular with medicine, she wanted to do her best to ensure that he was ok, hoping that she could at least do that much for him. She hated when people harmed children, what she hated more was when parents sold their children for what appeared little more than a simple pastry.

"Is this something your parents normally do? Have they sold others to that hag for whatever it was she is feeding them?" She inquired as she continued her inspection, he appeared fine, or at least as far as her limited knowledge could tell her. Who knew if something in that bag had actually done any real harm to the boy other than the boy himself.

---

"I am fine."

The boy sputtered, sprinkling a flowered choke with chirping words.

"She only takes kids that have feelings." Another cough granted further evacuation of his airway. "Grandma's cakes give happiness not just to my parents but to everyone here."

Then, a petition with a subsequent kneel evolved into a crying fiasco, before the Grave Jester's vessel.

"But, I don't want to work in Bonegrinder."

Sniff.

"This time. Please. Take me with you!"

While the intercession was being contemplated by Zaerith, Morgantha stowed away the golden tendril, walked slowly to her cart, and eventually pulled the tapestry slighty to reveal a bulging mincemeat pie. A few steps and a crouch later, the delicacy was placed on a clean handkerchief, next to the child. She cleared her throat, then attempted to calm her apparent grandson.

"Who will help my sisters and I make all these treats to fester joy amongst all? But Lucian, do not worry; if you do not want to come, I completely understand."

The progeny of Jarov and Nalkainen swiveled and arched his head back, to glance at the old woman.

"Really?" Sniff.

The peddler replied. "Of course."

With a verdant twinkle in her solitary eye, the crone petted the prepubescent Barovian awkwardly, only, for a moment, to return to her wares, with hood now down, pushing the cart slothfully through Anala's webbing, towards the East.

---

---

Anala watched the woman closely as she took a lock of the child's hair and started off with her cart, there was nothing about that woman that did not scream magic. It bled through everything she seemed to do as well as everything she carried, that Grandmother was not normal yet she also seemed to be trying to help the people in this village, even if it was in a rather shady way. This thought alone stopped the woman from simply trying to strike the old woman down with a bolt of fire. The necklace the woman was wearing was also a rather interesting one, though she said nothing about it to the others, same went for the pastries, it was clear that there was an addictive property to them. Out of all the things she had however, the bag was the most interesting. She could sense something about it that made her skin crawl, why would she need such magic and why on earth would she put the child inside of it? That made absolutely no sense to her, while this child may not have been willing, did she put those who were in the bag as well rather than just having them walk with her? Wouldn't it be harder for her to carry a child at her age than just have the child walk beside her?

"Something about all this is a bit fishy," she muttered, mostly to herself.

---

---

Relinquished, indeed. So far as Talran could tell, crone and boy both were telling the truth - Bonegrinder was truly an awful place, and yet the child had just been relinquished from the fate of... making mincemeat pies. How queer, then, that Morgantha insisted upon taking a lock of Lucian's hair... and indeed, if it was so that Morgantha's pastries were such wondrous things, why was it that the streets were clear of people? And... what of that mournful howling in the distance? Did the cries of the far-off woman have anything to do with the grandmother? Could it be that the citizens were avoiding her on purpose, then?

Come to mention it, she was pushing that cart most adroitly for a woman of her age. He'd expect her to be quite weak, and yet despite the size of the hand-pushed vehicle, she wasn't even out of breath. The cart alone ought to be at least a hundred pounds; if any children were furthermore contained within, it'd be that much heavier. And on that note, he grew suspicious all over again. Rather than simply letting her go, he had his steed trot beyond her again, ready to move into her path if she tried anything funny.

'If you wouldn't mind my asking, then, grandmother,' Talran continued to question, assured that Zaerith... may had the child in safe hands, 'what do the children do, exactly, in Bonegrinder? One would imagine skilled, adult hands would be more suited for the process of piemaking?' Not that he knew anything about making pies. He just figured, adults were often more skilled than children simply because they were older. It was common sense.

---

---

The crone stopped dead in her tracks.

"It has been our tradition for centuries."

Morgantha now registered that the assembled cabal were mostly sojourners despite the palatable presence of their Vistani guide and the tattooed heiress from Sithicus. The paladin reeked, though slightly diluted, of another realm's virtue. Oaths were designed to be corrupted, boiled and baked, until the refined ingredients were eventually lost with heat and salt, as was with the von Zarovichian lineage. The warlock, warrior, and trickster were obviously too complex to savor, due to their tongueless expressions. The man and doll, however, both with irritant indigo spiraling about their pupils, intrigued the hag, as the most anachronistic of foreigners between them all.

"They offer blood, sweat and tears. Through their labor." She smiled oddly. "Tiny hands are needed for tiny pies. These very children will become adults to parent the next generation of pâtissiers."



Faint thunder, unfaltering and decisive, adopted a heartier stance after its flashier sister reminded all outdoors, including the hag, a tempest loomed, ever closer, within the mist. The previous gale, which offered the dripping dew from veiled heavens upon their wormy trek on Old Svalich Road, now threatened the troupe with a maddening squall, barking a boded torrent of downpour.

The nearby broker of queer quiches stomped her left foot onto the moist thoroughfare, at the atmospheric interruption riddling the encroaching sky. She scrutinized the still assembled bulk of pastries and cursed the horizon with an enclosed fist.

“Ceithlenn? You promised!”

With the wave of a gouty finger, the wagon’s panels scurried upon the fragrant wares, trapping them within a trundled coffin of spalted and splintered wood, a rectangular ark primed against the coming flood. The same rheumatoid hand revealed a wooden replica of the idle makeshift chest, miraculously duplicating as a facsimile of her interred wagon, but on a bite-size scale. She grazed the more grandiose model with her sleeve, mumbling uncouthly, interchanging between Abyssal and Infernal. Lunacy, which spilled, not from the mouth of Morgantha but from glacial clouds, wept a former fugue of a growling tiger, as the dray and its owner subsequently barely phased into nothingness, whilst the interfering shadow of her twitching pupil dove into the trickster’s soul.

“So little time. Fathom no small dreams, children.”

The meandering sleet promptly drenched the village of Barovia, thereafter, washing another evil from its streets. The whispering precipitation urged for souls to dance to its chaotic tempo, while the moans of a wailing mother competed against the roaring round-about rumble. Unwilling to listen, a knuckled index pointed to the smoldering panorama above several chimneys ahead. Markus bellowed over the pitter-patter.

"Grab Lucian!”

Zaerith followed the order promptly, placing the juvenile on the dissolving steed.

“We need to get inside. Quickly.”

The gypsy’s shoulders quivered, as if quieted by a spiritual frostbite that shattered both confidence and competence, as a flaccid corpse and its belongings slid cursorily off a roof, in the intersecting distance, facedown, unmoving in the drowned, cobbled grounds.

---

>A motionless body lay ahead, as a corrosive shower lurks above.

---

---

This discussion had been... well. If what was being said was to be taken for the truth of the matter, things were all around the place indeed. But George was safe, and was that not what truly mattered here? The strange eyed rider atop a horse of even stranger composition slowly relinquished the two handed grip on the puppet and dared move the mount again, though the crone was still given a wide berth. There were many things that were not quite what they seemed, that much was known to all. And despite the even oddly benevolent disposition, something reeked in this encounter.

The booming thunder would not leave much time for thinking, however. Especially not when the white flakes, or even globs, began their fall. It was again time for the ragged man to hunch over and pull their ever so precious puppet under their coat for protection. There was visible panic in those purple eyes, not the least thanks to the group ranger yelling to seek shelter and the obvious dissolving of the bugs that formed the mounts of the present majority.

But there was a brief inner fight of self-preservation against something quite different. A man lay motionless on the roads, fallen off the roof like a cheap ragdoll. Was there a reason to bother with it? Yes there indeed was. The spontaneously dismantling horse was encouraged to move on faster as its rider sought to sate a burning desire. One to see what this was all about, all the while keeping an eye out for anything that could protect them from the elements.

---

---

Sleep. Not deep. Not dreamless. The infernal thoughts that plagued him when he didn't have enough alcohol in his mind to keep them away. Red and white and black and teeth and steel and blood and vampires and death and pain... They whirled in his mind, plaguing his unguarded grey matter. The dream ended as he found himself falling through the whirl of emotions into the open, fanged mouth of the -

He hit the ground hard, feeling something pop. Pain burst across his right shoulder, but he didn't let out a noise. What in the nine hells was going on right now? The man lay on the ground, feeling the mud squish between him and the cobblestones as he attempted to piece together the previous night. Damage report. His jaw ached from hitting the cobbles. He had done something terribly wrong to his right arm, and all of the ribs on his right side were aching. His legs, surprisingly enough felt fine.

His head did not though. Not just because it had hit the cobbles much like anything else, but because a hangover was clawing its way into his mind. Briefly, concern flashed across his mind- his soju, before he realized that had the bottles shattered, he would be feeling dramatically worse than he was right now.

There was someone approaching him. He supposed he had to take an action, didn't he?

He coughed once, twice, then three times. No blood. Excellent. Not even wet. Pulling himself together, using his staff to assist him, he stared up, first at the strange, disintegrating steed, and then at the man atop it. Never had a stranger fit the idea of being 'queer' more than this man did. "Stranger." The man acknowledged him, then reached for a flask.

Empty. He cursed in a foreign tongue under his breath, and tried another one. Also empty. The third one though, he found gold. The cork popped out with ease, and the smell of good, strong, fine booze filled the air around him. The driving rain, chilling him, seemed dramatically less bad as he took a swig, feeling the fire run through his veins once more.

Not to mention the accursed hangover had been beaten back again. It was always chasing him, like a tiger that didn't know when to break off the hunt. Its claws had come close to snaring him, but every time he had evaded it at the last moment, saved by the clasping of a flask in his hands and a burn down his gullet.

With the stuff in his system, he reached over to the arm where pain still thrummed through his body. He tried to manipulate it- Not enough alcohol. The rest of his flask went down nice and easy, and then he grit his teeth. Hana. Dul. Set... He squeezed his jaw down to the point where he could swear a tooth was going to splinter, and then lifted up his arm.

Crunch.

Gods be fucking damned that had hurt. It would hurt more as he rolled the shoulder around, wincing even through the pleasantness that his head was fogged up in. He needed to make sure that it was moving properly, and that it seemed to be. With that dealt with, he could pick up his staff once more, bracing all his possessions in the little sack.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" His eyes, unlike some, was only enhanced by the alcohol. They sparkled a little with light, and his natural expression- that of a faintly cocky smile, began to seep through his tired facial muscles.

---

---

The gypsy spurned the query of the inebriated man with a glaring directive, as he rode past, heading for the tavern.

“To the Blood of the Vine.”

Jaundiced heavens persisted in its vile retching upon the riders. Tinges of belched bile haphazardly desecrated the unified host of galloping maggots. The mutiny below every jockey’s saddle promised inevitable insubordination, in rebellious compliance to the rainy erosion. Further riot and sedition befell the corporation of insects and larvae, with each disturbing hurtle. Abruptly, the trickster and his young passenger bit the ersatz tarmac, consequences of the puked disassembly of the once adherent steed.

Zaerith beckoned Anala.

“Take the boy!”

---

---

When the supposed corpse came to life the rapidly disassembling horse was the more startled one of the two approaching figures, the rider taking the scene with relative calmness. After all, when one is already panicked regarding the harmful white stuff touching down, what would another odd event add to it, if anything? Indeed, as the mass of insects crumbled under the now streetbound individual once again, they now turned to focus on getting away from the scene. Standing here like an idiot was not going to do anyone any good, George needn't tell that separately.

The drunk who had been roused by the approach took his sweet time before speaking, the puppet wielding man already having taken off after the Vistani that had been leading them thus far. "Shelter is all that matters at this time!" would come the shout over the man's shoulder. There was no time to gawk at the drunk. Were he to melt, so be it. It had been foolish to even diverge in the first place, and George was already scolding his puppeteer for such a decision. "I know George, I know", came the answer as the speaker's shoeless feet rushed along the still not thankfully white street. It was not something one particularly wanted to experience, walking on acid.

The promise of safety in the form of the drinking hole along the street was all that was needed to propel one onward, faux horses or not. One foot in front of the other, let those better equipped deal with whatever else there was. Dying would be awfully inconvenient to say the least, so avoiding that was now the priority. For what good was the wealth of the knowledge stored within one's head if there was no way to utilize it?

---

---

Anala looked at the newcomer with relatively bored interest before her eyes went back to where the old woman had been and she frowned, "A Hag indeed it seems," she muttered to herself as she tilted her head to the side in contemplation. When the man had asked if there was anything that he could do for them, she bit her tongue and said nothing, as the first thing she thought was that he needed to bathe, the man reeked of alcohol and the smell was unpleasant to her. Sure she was known to enjoy a drink or two, but she was never so indulgent in the desire as to smell like she had jumped into a lake of the stuff like this man seemed to be. "You smell like a brewery," she finally said, unable to help herself much before she let out a sigh and shook her head, "What I want to know is what made you ask if there was anything you could do for us when you are the one that fell of the roof. That does not seem a proper question for a man who seemed to potentially dislocate his arm." Sure, the strange man with the puppet had approached him, but it was such a strange question to ask when he was the one who had landed so eloquently on his face.

As she spoke, she mounted her horse and looked for a place where they could shelter their steeds as well as their mounts, the feel of the rain on her skin was not pleasant, acid was an awful thing was it not? She looked up and made a rather displeased look towards the heavens, whoever was up there was clearly not a happy God if he deemed it necessary to dump this atrocity on them after they had stopped a boy from being taken against his will. After a moment, she saw the smoke that was being pointed out by Markus and headed for it, stopping by the male and staring at him. He stank, she really did not want that on her saddle, "You should follow us least the rain decide that it wishes you dead, that is what you can do for us now.

Soon, everyone else's mounts began to fall apart, though not Anala's as hers was the only of flesh and bones and it soon fell to her to give the boy a lift. Of course, Sebastian had offered to do it himself but even she knew a pony would be slowed far too much to even consider it and she did not mind a child riding upon Rogath's back. They would have to move quickly and if they were lucky, maybe she would go back for them once she dropped the boy off... if they were too far behind. For now, she wasn't even sure if she wanted to even risk going back out into that retched abomination of acid, rain was supposed to be refreshing, not deadly.

---

>All lose their horse save Anala. Everyone, roll another 1d2 for acid rain damage.

“What the?”

The question foreshadowed a collided haymaker, spilling the fighter and ranger from their dancing saddles; the mounts finally dissipated from its respective swarms. The towering mass of evil hung above them, salivating blood from its maw. The surrounding flesh decomposed slowly and absolutely, in lieu of the caustic precipitation. Rotting boots belonged to an eroded giant, sleeping in death, but possessed with a famine only the wandering cabal before him could quell. Two other zombies avalanched into the cobbled path, resurrected from a flecked abandonment as groans of hunger beheld their battered and exposed brains. The lash spoilt upon the duo lingered unvitiated, the vine of Vaasa slighted in maniacal annoyance. The gypsy became discolored by the gore translated through the prior fretful impact.

>Markus and Egil are prone.

The sword of Markus remained sheathed, unable to slither its electricity from the noose of the shackled scabbard, as a pair of frantic swipes slashed across the gypsy's torso. The undead behemoth panted with hidden excitement. The corpus of yet another Vistani fell before its glazed eyes. With the broken posture of the troll's meal tumbling to the cobbled ground, the rabid monstrosity leapt eagerly upon the flaccid body, quickly nibbling away at the hide, clothing the left upper extremity. The teethy vise soon easily punctured the untethered gauntlet, then frantically to the barren neck. Scarlet blood hurriedly escaped and stained the surrounding blanche glacial flakes now accumulating over the duo, almost almagamating into a frenetic rosy womb for two. The hunched mass with the expired guide, substantiated into a proverbial chorion untimely ripped, bearing disproportionate twins, where one feverishly consumed the other.

>Markus dies. The Troll is grappling and chewing his lifeless corpse.

---

---

Infuriated by the death of her long time friend, Anala thrust a bolt of fire at the Troll Zombie, ushering Lucian to get on the pony with Sebastian so the two could gallop away to the place of safety they had intended on going before the Zombies had decided to grace them with their putrid presence. While the Firebolt struck the zombie, a mixture of Anala's anger and the rain that fell caused her next spell to fizzle out, enraging the woman even further. Who dare send these creatures of the undead after them? Was it not bad enough that they had to deal with burning rain from the sky, but now they had to deal with the disgusting life that was the Zombies before them? "Vile creatures!" she shouted in fury.

>Anala does 3 dmg from the firebolt, misses with Chromatic Orb and now has 1 SP left.

---

---

The man had died... Very fast. Startlingly, dangerously fast. Yet, she was tired of slinging spells from a 'safe' distance, relying only on the luck of the dice and the hasty aiming that one could carry out against an enraged beast. With her mount long since gone, she raised up her hand. This was no war cry or fist of triumph though, she was grasping for something up in the air.

She found it.

The darkness coalesced around her, and she could feel it solidifying, hardening. It was smooth and cold, glass-like around her hands, the obsidian shards finding themselves in a shape both foreign and familiar. Held in her hands was a terrible looking weapon. It held the elements of a whip in it, but was far from just a mere cattle-prod. Along the length were spaced leaf-like blades, sharper than the daggers she carried, and she let the strange weapon crack as she spun it through the air.

She suspected that this fight would be the last one in the day. She was to pour everything into it in order to give herself the most advantage. She would not end up like the torn-apart wretch the troll was now feasting upon! Pointing a finger at the troll, she let out a scream in a tongue that she wasn't even sure she herself knew.

"TAV IUMMORIN IESSE ORANT!"

A cry of death. Of Hunting. Of tearing the bastard to shreds.

>Mhyrienne reaches out and summons a totally not longsword scourge into her hands. She then uses her Hex Warrior ability to allow her to use her charisma modifier instead of strength, and then finally casts Hexblade's Curse onto the zombie troll, giving her a whole host of abilities that I won't detail here.

---

---

A loud toll rung with a whimper. The levy extreme, as the gypsy forfeited unto a negligent tax.

Kehahahaha.

A host of reverberating cackles echoed within the desecrated sanctuary of the trickster’s mind, as his eyes witnessed the destruction of their Stygian guide. The Grave Jester enjoyed reiterating the futility of fighting an ocean, in which a marathon of ships could barely traverse. His master’s voice always plagued his will, whether to sink or swim, toying with his amnestic soul as he flailed in the tossed waves of despair. Through the resurrections, it not only forged an insensitivity to death abroad, but a skittering weakness to care for himself. He too desired to be banished, like Markus, as light afore darkness.

The price of peace is paved with the prior privileged.

Yet, this persistent plea to overcome remained faint, but bright, kindled from a previous life.

Preferring to recklessly dive against the ravenous tide, elvish glyphs began to smolder with a crimson ferocity upon the scalp of the wizard, as a graceful hand extracted thunder from its metal sleeve. Zaerith would again play the role of the lambent torch, quivering with a glistening iridescence. His reluctant arm impulsively churned the blade against the voracious hulk, caressing the blood from the monster’s flesh as the steel sang a delicate incantation of stealth and supremacy.

Kehahahaha.

>Zaerith will employ Bladesong as a Bonus Action, raising his AC to 18. He will then employ Booming Blade alongside Sneak Attack due to Flanking Advantage, for 18 Piercing damage.

---

---

It all began so very fast.

At one moment, they had all been there, rushing along the street for safety in the form of the tavern both their guide and the drunkard had suggested they head, and the next dead men and their gigantic compatriot had marched in to do their dirty deeds. Having lost their interest in their old bloodied catch, the giant had moved in and crushed their guide to the street, ripping at their flesh with their teeth. It was likely too late for anything to be done at this time. But that only concerned the already dead man.

For all those that still stood, there were many things that could be done. The puppeteer took a few measured steps backwards as the purple eyes bounced between the many targets and a wandering hand reached for a tool of physical punishment under the coat. From the opposite side of the envelope, a sturdy metal reinforced cudgel was produced, one with a chipped metal ornament at the tip. But it was not yet time for it to meet the drooping flesh of these beings.

No, for now the eccentric individual had something completely different in mind. A mind wracked with many burdens formed itself to a lashing serpent and struck out against the hulking adversary's spiritual self, driving doubts and insecurities into the brutal foe's head. It would find making an attack beyond its own capability, were the ingenious plan of George to succeed.

>The Unnamable retreats ten feet towards the back of the party and draws out his Mace, wielding it in his free hand. Following that, he employs the Discipline of Psychic Assault in the form of Ego Whip (costing him 3 psi). The Troll has to make an INT save against his save DC of 13, or suffer 15 psychic damage and be rendered incapable of taking any actions other than Dodge, Disengage or Hide. On a successful save, the enemy suffers halved damage. In addition to all this, he employs his Mystical Recovery feature as a Bonus Action, restoring an amount of HP equal to the Psi Points spent on the Discipline.

---

---

The child gripped the manservant reverently, underhooking his scalded arms around Sebastian's abdominal girth and not releasing its interlocking tether, as screams of pain escaped his agape lips. The fleeting fleece of gentle corrosion, falling like plucked feathers off a melting peacock, reminded him that work under his Grandmother may have been the lesser of the two evils. He would nonetheless stay with these adults, as his parents no longer bore his nor his sister's best interest at heart.

>Lucian takes the Dodge Action.

---

---

It wasn't clear what had just taken place immediately. One minute, the party was rushing to escape the hellish acidic sleet, Talran's own steed discorporating along with everyone else's save their newfound caster companion; the next, Egil and Markus were knocked down by a charging troll; and the moment after that, Markus was dead, rent asunder and devoured in a heartbeat by the undead monster that had smashed him away. All before Talran could truly recognize the threat.

What he felt then wasn't sorrow, not exactly. He hadn't known Markus for more than a few hours, so aside from the typical shock of watching somebody pass so hideously, he wasn't quite sad. Nor was he particularly disturbed by the vile scene. He'd seen worse. No, the prime emotion that struck Talran in that moment was fury. How dare this creature and its fellows come to destroy them so cruelly, and in so public a place?

A familiar message made itself known to him in memory. The voice that carried it had been light, ethereal, friendly. And yet merciless, too, as it described the subject: Destroy them. They seek rest, risen as they are; and so they must be quelled.

Teeth gritted, Talran looked to the manservant, calling 'Take the boy to cover from this rain!' before he gritted his teeth and charged. His allies formed a wall of bodies for now; and so he rushed round them, all but leaping Egil's prone form as his weapon glowed with holy fury, his shield imposing still between the downed man and the undead. This oversized freak, the groaning minions beneath it, none would see the end of this storm, he vowed, swinging his blade towards its disgusting bulk with a scream of incensed hatred.

>The zombified troll has invoked Talran's divine fury. He rushes round to Egil's left and strikes at it, rolling a 23 to hit, then expends a spell slot to Smite the troll for an extra 2d8 damage plus another 1d8 due to its undead nature, dealing a total of 25 damage to the troll if he hits. His reaction will be used to ensure Egil is not wounded, imposing disadvantage on the first claw attack the troll makes toward him, if any, or the first instance of any other attack if the troll does not attempt to claw Egil.

---

---

... Well that had not been what he expected in the slightest.

One minute Orhvin had been looking at a rather strange man, still trying to get the pain from his shoulder out, and the next he had realised that accursed sleet was coming down, and then there were zombies. One man was already down, people were shouting and screaming, calling down the gods, and probably a bunch of other things. Cracking his neck a little, he realized that these people could help him just as much as he could help them.

He should probably fight on their side then.

Stepping up, he jogged into the fray. Yes, jogged. He was pacing himself, there was no need for him to get involved too quickly. There was a man he hadn't seen that had made himself startlingly useful in fighting the troll, but that wasn't what he cared about. There was a zombie next to him. Firmly planting his quarterstaff in the ground, the monk swayed back, then to the side, and then suddenly lashed out. Using the pole for support, his sandaled feet went flying towards the face of the zombie.

It made contact with a satisfying crunching noise, but whilst the face of the beast was now even more deformed than it had been previously, there was no real damage beyond the superficial. Twisting away from a groping claw, he turned his attention to the titan of the undead, standing firm next to the cloaked figure.

Even the undead must have kidneys, and so that was where his next blow landed. As soon as his fist made contact however, he knew he made a grave mistake. His recently relocated arm screamed out in pain, and his kiai, supposed to be a controlled release of energy instead turned into a curse under his breath. His final hit did nothing- the humongous creature barely even registering his foot making contact with it.

>Orhvin moves to attack the zombie that Zaerith is handily standing next to in order to flank it, and lands an attack for one damage, plus three thanks to his dexterity modifier. Then, using Flurry of Blows, he buggers off from that zombie, not provoking an AOO thanks to his Drunken Mastery, and goes for two failed attacks against the Zombie Troll, also flanking it.

---

The crash stunned the champion.

Woozy, he stood haphazardly out of reflex, as a sorceress’ fire simultaneously consumed the towering wretch. Soon, the vertiginous landscape around his head stilled, to fully appreciate the flesh-renting mammoth suffering another consequential onslaught from the poised paladin, the agile trickster and the inebriated monk. The resultant carnage sprayed upon Egil’s hilt, reminding the vine of Vaasa of his sword. The unsheathed razor edge quickly met the epigastrium of the titan, twice, spilling further gore onto the cobbled streets of Barovia.

The head servant of the Sithican obeisance, loyal to the Attor ancestry, garnered this opportunity, riding with disowned child in tow, towards the closest canopy. As their pony galloped ever nearer, the moaning sob of a mother became more articulate in the wind over the ashen, peppered road, coloring Anala’s custodian with thoughts of grief and gloom. The origin of sound flowed from the desired destination, as sleet continued its icy scorch upon the dead, living and undead.

The zombies and troll returned the vicious favor of combat, upon the closest prey: Zaerith, Orhvin, and Egil. Their exacting retorts lacked vigor, missing or barely forcing a retreat, with the fighter burdened with worst of a claw that pierced his chain shirt.

>Egil strikes with 2 criticals, landing 27 damage due to Improved Critical and Dueling. Sebastian and Lucian ride on, for cover. The acid sleet accumulates its singe upon all below its demesne. The Zombies and Troll retaliate, but are unable to fell any of their targets.