With a few rubies, you were able to procure a ride to your destination from a kindly yet dour-looking old man and his mule-driven carriage. Not the most elegant, as with every pothole and puddle the dimwitted beasts decided to drag the carriage through, the constant rattling and rocking were enough to nearly jar the teeth from your jaw. Alas, in your case, beggars could not be choosers. So for now, you sat back and endured the ride. You were on your way to Gransylva, the ill-famed Dead Kingdom. You had your reason for venturing into this forsaken realm wrought with peril, and though there may have been protests against such a dangerous journey, you were adamant about taking it.

As you looked around, you noticed others sitting in the carriage with you. "Are they too headed to Gransylva?" You ask yourself. "Why else would they be coming along?"

A while later, you passed through the dense fog, your first reminder that you were entering a land like no other. The old man, out of nowhere, began a fit of coughing and quickly pulled a bandanna over his mouth, urging you and the others to do the same and cover your own. He then produced from the collar of his filthy shirt an odd necklace, some sort of charm you perceived it to be. A few words he whispered, the language incomprehensible to you, and as though by...well...magic, the fog gradually lifted, giving you a clearer glimpse at your grim surroundings.

Moments ago, when you and the others had begun the relatively lengthy journey, the sun was shining at its brightest, the air cool and crisp with the soothing aroma of wildflowers dancing in the verdant meadows, exhibiting such beautiful and frail colors, such wondrous shades and hues against the backdrop of a clear blue sky. But upon nearing the edge of the forgotten kingdom, upon passing through the dense miasma, those colors faded into a drab, ugly, lifeless palette of dull grays and dismal blacks. The trees of the surrounding forest were bare, their naked branches twisted and gnarled with no leaves or foliage to cover their exposed bark from the ill-chilling winds that encompassed you and your fellow travelers.

The skies above were choked with tumultuous, rolling black clouds, the distant sound of thunder growling as lightning flashed and the rain poured down in sheets. No longer was the sweet scent of flowers upon the air but a ghastly, rank odor, a stomach-churning amalgamation of ancient dust and rotting corpses. This place...there was no doubt in your mind that it was evil.

Slowly as the rickety wooden cart, creaking and groaning with every turn of the wheels, continued down the trail, a sudden chill perked your senses. It was...such an unnatural feeling from the typical sense of danger lurking nearby, more or less like the nails of some horrible beast raking down your bare back, clawing at you with such malicious and ravenous fervor. You steadied yourself, a shallow breath you drew while the carriage pressed on through mud and mire.

It would not be long before the carriage arrived at its first stop, the lowly village of Barille. Before that time, you decided it best if you got a bit more acquainted with your fellow travelers. After all, they were going to the same place as you.

And so, with a gruff clearing of your throat, you sat up and introduced yourself."

@Kazemitsu @shadowsaint007 @Zeroth @Vlad Tepes

Valentina Lupo

Valentina was casually sharpening the clawed blade of her gauntlet. Having got on the carriage since she was told was the only one going to Gransylva. She was glad to have bribed the coachman to let her onto the carriage. Having to bribe him with a good amount of money so she could ride to Gransylva. She hoped she would be able to find the nobleman’s daughter before anything bad happened. Without the nobleman's daughter, she will not be able to bring honour to her family’s name. As well as not being able to have the political power that was promised to her.

The hunter finished sharpening her favourite weapon before putting it back on. Her eyes looked out the carriage window. Her mind wanders to what she will encounter in Gransylva. Nothing good she assumed. Hearing tales of people going to Gransylva and never returning. But she felt she was ready because she had been killing monsters ever since she was ten years old. Feeling more than capable of fighting whatever Gransylva has in store.

Her eyes finally rested on the others in the carriage with her. They too are travelling to Gransylva. She didn’t know why they were there, but she had a feeling it was for personal gain. The hunter noticed an inquisitor among them, this caught her interest in why he was there. The only reason was that he was sent by the church to kill the count of Gransylva. Or perhaps it was for a different reason. Personally she thought he should be frolicking with his friends rather then be here. She didn’t know but it filled her with immense curiosity. The dirty looking scoundrel was here to probably find some riches to steal. She would need to keep her coin purse close to her person. The only one whose motives she was perplexed by was the Dragonborn. Valentina was not perturbed by this as she knew she’d find out his motives soon enough. She would keep a very close eye on him. After what seemed like a long bit of silence she spoke.

“My name is Valentina, it is a pleasure to meet you all. May I know the names of my companions on this venture?” Her piercing eyes looked over at everyone inside of the carriage.

---

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---

"I assume you've come to bid farewell?" The tall priest, wearing a plain black cassock despite his rank, did not turn toward Alistair. Instead, he faced the young man's long shadow upon the wall. Head bowed, the youth stood behind him in the open doorway. Bright sunlight spilled around him as the draft disturbed drifting clouds of incense.

"Yes. If I should not return, Master Rafael...Know that I can never repay the debt of gratitude I owe you." Stoic as ever, yet his words trembled with reverence.

"You owe nothing to me, boy. Give thanks to God." The man chuckled as he shook his wild golden mane of hair. "I, on the other hand, tried everything I know to keep you from this venture." But as his tone sobered, he adjusted a pair of tinted spectacles on the square bridge of his nose. "What you attempt is no less than a crusade, and the Church has no desire at this time for such things. Better, they feel, to do God's work among them as will receive it."

"Yet the Lord has spoken, and I must answer."

"As you've told me." Master Rafael sighed. "That the images of Gransylva, and its Red Dragon, are not mere symbols representing the disorders of your mind, nor parables as the Son taught the Apostles, but a direct order. And you will believe no other interpretation."

"It can be nothing else. Vampires I have slain, but nothing of that kingdom and its accursed history has ever burdened me." The shadow on the wall grew smaller, yet it concentrated darkness into a void that stared, resolute, back at the master. "Nonetheless it appears to me, again and again." Master Rafael did not blink as he folded his hands behind his waist.

"Then go, my son. If you truly do this out of desire to follow the Lord's will above all, then He will guide your course. My prayers go with you."

"Thank you, Master Rafael. And...goodbye." Alistair's shadow withdrew, and the dusky herbal scents clouded the chamber once more as the doors closed.

"...Young fool." sighed the priest. He looked up at the altar, and fingered the cross around his neck. "But...perhaps this is for the best, given how those old farts have been breathing down my neck." He made a gesture with his hands, and focused his mind on an unspoken prayer. "After all...what better prey for a monster to hunt, than another monster?"

---

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---

The priest sat silently, reading his Bible in deep concentration. Every so often, his mouth moved, perhaps in prayer or simple recitation. Yet only his vestments, with their rustling and jingling, produced any sound. As each traveler had stepped into the carriage, he'd taken stock of them as best he could. Their clothes, their weapons--if they spoke, their accents. The movement of their eyes, the way their hands gestured. How the carriage driver spoke to them.

He had only greeted each of them with a nod, perhaps the softest hint of a smile. But it was difficult to see, for he currently wore his white mantle up so as to hide his scarred visage. Two long marks--where something had scraped, or perhaps burned away the flesh--were most noticeable on the bridge of his nose and his forehead. Other smaller, faded scars--including a paper thin duelist's mark along his cheek--peppered what little exposed flesh his robes did not cover. He never made the effort to shake anyone's hands.

For the first time, as they trundled along roads that had long ago turned from civilized cobblestones to mud-rutted dirt trails, someone spoke. A woman wearing coat and breeches rather than a dress, as well armed as Alistair himself. He could sense the blessings on some of her equipment, and more than once had seen the gleam of silver. Hunter, and well prepared. She introduced herself as Valentina. Why did that name sound...somewhat familiar? Vampire hunter, or just monsters in general...and a chain whip? Yes, there was something there in his memory...

"Likewise a pleasure, Miss Valentina." Alistair said in a neutral tone, bowing his head slightly. "I am Alistair Miller." He then looked expectantly at the others.

---

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@Eviledd1984@Kazemitsu@shadowsaint007@Vlad Tepes

---

Chance looks around at the other passengers in the wagon, a strange, assorted lot. One with signs of noble birth, a man of the cloth, probably an Inquisitor by the looks of him, and a dragonborn savage who carried a mighty iron club almost as big as Chance himself. Certainly an interesting assortment of folk to be aboard a wagon, especially alongside a ruffian as himself. Almost sounds like the beginning of a joke, in Chance's mind. A priest, a noblewoman, a dragonborn and a thief get on a wagon... Now if he could only get a good punchline in.

Certainly, they were a more interesting sight than Chance's current companion, best described as an ill-humored brute with a sadist streak wider than the Titanspine mountain range. Chance shot him another glance, one of mixed annoyance and nervousness. The man was certainly not his idea of a companion, but right now, he had no say in the matter. His employer had been quite insistent on him sticking to Chance for the duration of this job...

---

Earlier:

"So... let me get this straight," Chance says, looking in mild disbelief at the elderly gentleman, covered in liver spots and scowling at him with sunken eyes, seated opposite him. Two scarred, hulking brutes sat on either side of the bandit, glaring with malicious intent at Chance, while standing behind the old man was a tall, thin gentleman who looked like a manservant, but a cruel glint in his eyes indicated a hidden martial nature and willingness to engage in it if needs be. The study was illuminated by the orange flames of a fireplace, its flickering light throwing everything in the room into sharp contrast. "You want me to go to the Dragon's Keep. In the heart of fucking Gransylva. Go up to the fucking Great Dragon, one of the most powerful vampire lords in existence. And ask him for what?!"

"You heard me," the man said in gruff annoyance. "I want a vial of his blood, by any means necessary. If you want to walk up to him, that's your choice, but I don't think you'd be that stupid. Not to mention I'd be very upset if you fail to deliver."

"Why not ask me to get the sun and moon while you're at it?!" Chance scoffs. "You seriously think any stay of execution is worth this?! Why don't I just walk down back to the gaol and ask them to get it over with?!"

His response gets him an angry backhand from one of the thugs sitting next to him, a snarling bully with messy blond hair and a small beard.

"FUCK!"

"Oi, mind yer manners," the brute grunts. "Mind yer manners in front o' the elderly, yeah?"

"Beg your pardon," Chance replies acidly, rubbing his stinging cheek. The old man waves it off.

"Now, now, Bert, we were just having a difference of opinion," the old man replies, giving a thin smile tinged with a sneer. "Mr. Blackbriar is entitled to his opinion, is he not?"

'Bert' just snorts derisively at Chance, but doesn't answer.

"Suppose you just have Bert slap me around the head a bit until I'm addled enough to agree without question," Chance grumbles.

"Now, now, I believe that won't be necessary," says the elderly alchemist, a wicked gleam in his grey eyes. He gestures to his servant, who steps forwards and deposits what looks like a broach on the table in front of Chance. "I believe this is familiar to you?"

Chance eyes the thing, warily at first, then his eyes widen in recognition as he sees it. A cold shiver shoots up his spine.

"Used to belong to one Daliah Tanner, wife of one Edward Tanner, of the village of Avasni. Died of consumption last year, poor soul, may she rest in peace," the old man says, a dissonant pity on his visage. "Now it's property of her oldest daughter, one Ynnifer Tanner, who is to be wed to a bright young lad. Funny thing, though; she went to buy some food, then disappeared in broad daylight. Strange, isn't it?"

Chance isn't a fool; he knows he's surrounded and badly outmatched here. Especially since whatever gear or weaponry he hadn't hidden away prior to his arrest had been confiscated by the city watch. However, he's now trembling in a growing, boiling fury, glaring at the old man in front of him, clearly wanting nothing more than to reach out and strangle the skinny bastard. His host, however, was completely unfazed by Chance's impotent fury.

"What have you done with her?!" Chance growls.

"Oh, your darling little sister is perfectly fine," is the reply. "She's a guest at my estate, being treated rather well. Whether it stays that way - and whether she gets her freedom - is entirely dependent on your cooperation, Master 'Chance'.

"See, if you're stupid enough to want to go back to the city watch to be hanged like the common criminal you are, that's your prerogative, I guess. All my efforts to get you pardoned would be wasted. And I'd have to make up for the loss in other ways. But it's clear that even if you're somehow fine with throwing your life away, you still have some feeling for your family, even if you left them without a word.

"But, if you help me here, get me what I want, then you go free, your crimes pardoned, free to do whatever you want, and dear young Ynnifer gets to go back to her beloved betrothed safe and whole. Maybe even a little present to help with the dowry, even. Everyone wins. It depends on you."

"You're asking a common rogue to go in and face one of the most powerful monsters alive, all on his own," Chance says, grinding his teeth in frustration. "You seriously expect me to go in there, alone, and walk out with your precious blood?!"

"Oh come now, Master Blackbriar," the old man says with mock joviality. "You're the infamous Honest Jack, you've certainly done something to earn your bounty and your reputation. Besides, you won't be going alone. Bert here is going to go with you, watch your back. And to keep an eye on you, should you decide you've changed your mind."

The last part was growled in malice, causing Chance to shudder. He looked at Bert in dismay, only for Bert to wave back mockingly and laugh.

---

Chance reflects that perhaps exchanging one sort of warden for another may have been a mercy, but it certainly put an unwanted leash on him. Bert just sneers at him, clearly the amused chuckles at Chance's misfortunes had worn out their novelty. Now he was just sitting down, ill-tempered, giving Chance the occasional glance before going back to brooding in sheer annoyance.

It's then that the noblewoman introduces herself, followed by the priest. Valentina and Alistair Miller.

Interesting names, Chance thinks. Wonder what they're doing here, heading into Gransylva?

"Well, allow me to introduce myself then," Chance speaks up, finding an opportunity to take his mind of his current situation. "I am Chance Blackbriar, and I'll say it's a pleasure to meet you too.

"It looks like it's going to be quite the long trip, so if I may be so bold, may I offer some entertainment for the road?" With a flick of his wrist, a deck of cards appears in his hand as though summoned by magic. He nods to Alistair "No betting, of course, your holiness, just some passtime until we get a chance to stretch our legs."

Bert scowls at Chance and looks away. Now it's Chance's turn to have a little fun at his companion's expense.

"Never mind my companion Bert here," Chance adds. "He's just got the worst luck at cards."

Bert fixes Chance with an annoyed glare.

"Watch it, you," Bert grunts, but just mutters to himself under his breath. "Lookin' for a fat lip, you are."

Chance figures even Bert knew it was a bad idea to start slapping people around in a small wagon with a Dragonborn warrion, a noblewoman and a priest in tight quarters. Not that it'll stop the thug from whatever petty response he'll think up later.

@Eviledd1984 @Kazemitsu @Vlad Tepes @Zeroth

Kharne had been one of the first to arrive, only led by the young looking priestly one. Which means he got second best seat in the rickety carriage with a pair of donkeys for pullers. He was unfamiliar with carriage and equine languages, it was all gobbledegook to him. Still he paid his dues, plonked his ass down, and seemed to be waiting for others. Or a specific time to leave. He was unsure of which, he normally traveled everywhere by foot.

A pair of men soon set up shop, swiftly followed by woman in fancy clothes. Ah fuck everyone was starting to introduce themselves, he didn't really feel like getting all buddy buddy with what was a female hunter judging by her gear, a man of god, a trouble maker, and an enforcer. The barbaric dragonborn was not one for socializing unless he was drinking, and he was very much sober right now. Ah fuck it, why the hell not. It's not like it's going to do any harm giving them a name.

"Kharne." He rumbled out gruffly, his voice uncomfortable to listen to given its incredibly deep nature. It had a touch of something else though, a draconic accent that had a sort of hiss and gutteralness to it. Dragonborn were known for having their own magical language though...

With everyone present and seated the carriage moved, trundling uncomfortably through the countryside of the cursed land. A fog rolled in, toxic apparently judging by the old man motioning for them to covered their faces as well before banishing the rotten smelling air with a talisman and mystical words. Possibly. Or maybe king cheese pulled it back as a game to see how far they could get before dropping? Eh too much thought not enough smash. How much longer until their first destination?

---

Despite the disheveled roads and the eerie atmosphere surrounding you, the trip through the forest was going rather smoothly.

You take a deep breath, momentarily letting your guard down. You still feel a sense of dread in the air, yet you see no signs of danger. For once, your mind is at ease. You decided whether or not you wished to partake in Chance's little card game. What could it hurt, you thought, or possibly you declined because of your religious obligations or simply because you had a mistrust of the dashing rogue and everyone around you.

The hulking thug Bert didn't make it much easier, scowling at you with ill contempt as the old carriage bumped along, the driver humming a rather upbeat folk song, perhaps to keep everyone's spirits lifted, including his. After all, he too was in the throes of this hostile land.

Alas, just as the game was getting good, the carriage suddenly stopped.

"Whoa! Easy there!" The driver calls to his two beasts of burden, the mules undoubtedly spooked by what lay before them. Curious, you peeked your head out the window to see what the commotion was all about. That was when your eyes beheld the village of Barille.

Twas as if no one had lived in this village for ages, the shambled shacks and cottages withering away, the musky odor of rotten wood hanging upon the breeze. Boards creaked and moaned, loose shutters banging in cold, howling winds that were akin...to the laments of the dead. In the distance, the cracked and rusted bell of an abandoned chapel tolled mournfully along with the woeful cackles of a few passing ravens.

The old man, from him you sensed his crippling fear ever growing...unmistakable terror towards whatever awaited four unlucky adventurers who dared to tread upon a land forever corrupted by the wicked and restless. Slowly, he turned towards you, his voice trembling with hesitation, "This is as far as I go, I'm afraid. Ye'll just 'ave to travel on foot from here. The next village isn't too far away, but be warned...old Barille is haunted. The spirits do not take kindly to trespassers."

"Bah!" Grumbled Bert with a hearty laugh and a slap on his knee. "Yer full of it, old man! There's no such thing as ghosts!" Crudely, the brute shoved his way past you and the others, unfortunately dragging poor Chance along, "C'mon ye wiley bastard! Let's get a move on! The sooner we get this over, the better!"

Gradually, albeit with a hint of apprehension, you departed from the carriage as well, taking your first steps on the unhallowed grounds of the Dead Kingdom. The realization had set in quick as a creeping chill inches up your spine, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand erect. The old carriage driver issued a nod of farewell, and with a crack of his riding whip, ushered his mules to hastily turn the carriage around, thundering away down the winding forest trail until his carriage vanished into the fog.

You were alone now, the four of you, left in a derelict hollow that was said to be haunted.

This was the beginning of your journey...and quite possibly...

...it could be your end.

As you followed behind Bert trundling carelessly along, you noticed a stain on the ground. The same stain was also spattered across the fronts of the dilapidated huts and market stalls...blood, dried patches of it everywhere. Something incredibly awful had befallen this place.

---

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---

The next to speak was an olive complected man dressed in dark leathers. He stank of gunpowder, but his scarred face--though perhaps not as disfigured as Alistair's own--said that he had fought up close more than once. Maybe losing those fights was why he relied on firearms now. He had darting, sharp eyes...but spoke frivolously, and with dextrous skill flipped a deck of cards between his fingers.

A smooth talker and opportunist. Possibly with a proclivity for violence. said Alistair's Inquisitive instincts. But he withheld judgement, and when Chance suggested a game the priest simply declined and held up his palm in understanding. The other fellow, however, a burly sort with weapons and armor openly on display, seemed irritated. Chance introduced the man as Bert and teased him. Clearly some sort of mercenary, or perhaps law enforcement. A bit uncouth, perhaps, for the latter. Yet either they're close enough friends to tolerate a bit of ribbing...or Chance knows Bert can't bloody his nose in present company. Their dynamic didn't seem to be a normal one.

The Dragonborn, Kharne by name, said only a single word. Actually, maybe it was an assumption to think that was his name? Maybe "Kharne" meant something in the dragon tongue like sod off you filthy humans? Alistair didn't think that was the case, but it was clear from the big one's body language that he wasn't comfortable being social. However, the warrior had been the second one on the coach, and thus Alistair had observed him the longest.

He didn't like the animals, to whom the feeling seemed mutual. He didn't seem to know exactly what the cues were for getting off or onto the carriage, each time the doors had opened to admit another of the party. And when Valentina had introduced herself, there'd been a tiny sigh and twitch that Alistair recognized as a disdain for social activities.

Barbarian, then.

The Inquisitor continued to watch his erstwhile companions as they played or refused to play Chance's game, constantly filing away new information. Whenever the thick fog outside provided any opportunity, though, he also took stock of their surroundings. The dead lands couldn't tell him much...save just how bad things had gotten in the once prosperous lands of Grandsylva.

Soon their ride came to an end. The coach driver was only too happy to leave them behind, but Bert seemed just as eager, if far from joyful, to press ahead. The way he dragged Chance with him suggested the card dealer was not of the same mindset.

"May God speed ye on your return, and keep you safe all your days." he prayed for the driver, as the cart's creaky wheels grew more distant

Here under duress. Bert is a keeper of some sort. Meaning Chance is...needed, somehow? For what?

As they walked the rutted, puddle-spotted road of churned mud and overgrown roots, ravens cried overhead. A chill wind brushed them with wispy, wet fingers. Although most of Alistair's body was covered, his breathing quickened as he felt the clammy air upon his face. He pulled his mantle tighter and pressed his lips in a stony, grim line.

The village of Barille was a wreck. Blood, long dried but moistened just enough by the breeze and soil to smell, stained the streets. And an upturned cart...and a fallen basket of fruit, now rotted and covered in flies. The dirt smelled like gravesoil.

"...It seems this place is in dire want of the Lord's blessing." he finally said, the first to break the silence. He glanced around at the others, and then at the seemingly empty buildings. "What say we search for an inn to get our bearings?" Or perhaps it'd be better to look for survivors. But no. Alistair suspected that, if anyone remained in Barille, they were no longer human. Yet, hope against hope, he wished that his instincts might be mistaken...

---

---

@Eviledd1984@Kazemitsu@shadowsaint007@Vlad Tepes

---

Chance was trying to enjoy his time on the carriage, at least as a way to keep his mind off the crushing atmosphere of the journey. Gransylva certainly lived up to its reputation as a haunted land; any glimpses out the wagon would reveal a dreary, desolate landscape. It was probably for the best to keep one's mind off the monumental task ahead.

Alas, much as he wanted to keep his mind off it, he's forced to confront it as the carriage comes to a halt. As he looks out of the carriage, Chance sees the ruins of a local town, Barille. Already, the sight of the remains sends a shiver up his spine, reminding him of the reason why most people choose to leave Gransylva than enter it.

'Fantastic,' he thinks. 'Just in case I needed reminding what the Great Red Dragon did to his own people - and what he'd do to any trespassers.'

Before he has too much time to ponder things, however, Bert drags him out of the carriage in defiance of the carriage-driver's warnings. It's undignified and humiliating, Chance guessing that Bert is paying him back for the jibes earlier. Chance tries to struggle against the grip, to maintain some dignity, but if Bert was lacking for brains, the brute certainly didn't lack for strength, pulling the unfortunate bandit as though he were a principal dragging a naughty schoolboy along.

"Watch the hands!" Chance grumbles, managing to break free of his warden's grasp. "Look around you! Even if there's no such thing as ghosts, there's plenty of other horrors around. And careful with the cloak; you think I'll be able to find a replacement in these parts?!"

At the priest's mention of an inn, Chance raises a finger in approval.

"I second that," he says. "A roof over our heads, hopefully a warm bed to sleep in, and possibly a door to lock as well. That would sound excellent right now."

Valentina Lupo

Valentina nodded her head glad to know their names. Although again she would be careful around Chance. She assumed he would be very untrustworthy, and would probably sell them out if he had the chance. Her hands were folded on her lap, she was idly still looking out of the window. She wondered if the boy named Allistar would be experienced enough to handle such a daunting task. But if he was with the church then he would have been well trained. She didn’t much like their methods. But she couldn’t deny that they do get things done. As long as no more beast was roaming the world killing innocent people. She could care less for their rather flawed recruiting methods. She covered her nose with a gloved hand as the one named Kharne reeked of blood. Her smell, sight, and hearing were quite good thanks to her curse. It was both a blessing and a curse.

“Sure.” She said curtly while partaking in the card game with Chance. Of course, she wouldn’t play with him if there was money involved. Usually, she would like to gamble when she felt lucky. Although her luck recently has been quite lackluster, so she stops the urge to gamble. Her steely blue eyes focused on Chance because she thought he would try to cheat. Ignoring the man named Bert as he was just a liability to her. Finding some luck when she won a couple of games, but those were buried under many losses.

Being thankful that the carriage finally stopped as they arrived at an isolated village. She said nothing to the driver. Scanning the area they were in with her eyes. It was quite obvious the place was abandoned. She moved towards the dried puddles of the blood. A gloved hand touching the pile, she wondered if she could find a scent to follow. Her back was turned when she suddenly licked the dried blood, in hopes of getting the taste of whose blood it could be. And more information. Valentina stood up and looked over towards the abandoned cathedral. “There may be survivors there, I will check to see if anyone is hiding inside. Perhaps Alistar would like to accompany me?” She turned to the young inquisitor. She was sure the young man would want to go since it was a holy place. And she wanted to go because that is where she assumed most of the survivors would be. “The two of you can follow us as well, or you can check the homes and shops for any survivors.” Her train of thought was interrupted by Alistair mentioning resting at an inn. Resting would be preferable because of the long trip, however, she needed information. The information she could find if she could find any survivors.

“You three can stay in the inn, I will stay and search for any clues on what happened here.” She started walking in the abandoned streets of the town, armed with her whip. Slowly moving house to house looking for any signs of suriviors.

Whenever they went over a rut or pothole he tensed his legs and core. Preventing himself from being thrown around and potentially bludgeoning the other passengers with his bulky body. His eyes narrowed, flashing dangerously whenever Bert decided to scowl at him. The big reptilian mans arm looked as thick as Bert's leg, the dragonborn barbarian was not one to be fucked with by common human muscle.

Soon the carriage ride came to an end and they all piled out of the rickety thing. Kharne stepped down into the mud and shifted away from the group before stretching himself out. His joints crackled and snapped loudly as he twisted and moved. "Going by foot is fine, a little exercise never hurt anyone." He rumbled to the old man. A haunted village? Well his language could potentially banish spirits. Hell, could spirits even do anything beyond attempting to scare you?

After getting his kinks worked out he looked around slowly. Looking at the chimneys of the buildings that made up the village. It was clammy, cool because of the fog and humidity. But he didn't really smell any smoke nearby. Instead his nostrils flared, hunting for any odd scents that might be in the air. Blood was familiar, the smell of fog and bog, mud, water, old rotting wood. He bled those smells out, his nose up in the air a bit for anything on an errant breeze.

While using his snoz he was listening to the others. Some wanting an inn, some wanting to look for potential survivors, Bert and Chance seemed ready to get going deeper into the territory. Well, Bert did, Chance was going to get dragged along.

---

"Well, I suppose we better go find the local inn, tavern, or whatever this place had," Chance says, straightening his clothes. "Let's see if we can't rustle up a decent place to stay the night."

Chance goes forwards, with Bert following close behind, his now familiar scowl directed at the dark and dreary ruins of the town. However, it's clear he's not liking the place any more than Chance is; to quote a familiar watchword, it's quiet - too quiet. The cobblestones are still mostly even, indicating that whatever happened here wasn't that long ago, but it's clear that there hasn't been any traffic or maintenance along this path for a good while now. For a basic hallmark of civilization to be so neglected left Chance uneasy.

It doesn't take him long to find the inn, but part of him wonders if this might not have been a good idea.


As he stares at the forsaken building, looming large in the darkness of twilight, he finds himself wondering if it wouldn't have been better to go to the chapel. At least there would have been safety in numbers. He is then forced to pull back his foot as it had sunk in a pothole full of mud and brackish water. He grumbles as he kicks the slime off his boot. Using his lantern, he notices the rather patched terrain surrounding the inn.

No wait, that's not potholes, it's water; there seems to be a small stream besides the inn, judging by the reflections of the light. Was there even a bridge, or had that rotted away since the town had been attacked?

"Don't tell me the great Chance Blackbriar is afraid of a li'l water?" Bert scoffs, chewing on something from a pouch, then spitting it out.

"Doesn't look that deep," Chance comments. "Could be a trick of the light, though... And in case you're thinking it, no, I probably won't make a good bridge; water could be hip-deep, and it's too wide for me to reach the other side with my fingertips."

He grabs a fallen branch and tries to ascertain the depths of the water. He better get going, the look on Bert's face indicates he doesn't have an abundance of patience.

The toll of the bell grew louder as you both resumed your search throughout the village. Much to your chagrin, you found no survivors, nor any signs of life. It was as though this village was never inhabited in the first place, yet there was evidence abound that people once lived here: larders stocked with food and supplies, still fresh by all accounts, beds neatly made albeit the sheets and fabrics worn with age. There was even food left on the table, as if whole meals were prepared by families, now rotting and discarded after so many years, the scent putrid and foul as leftover meats and vegetables buzzed with flies and writhed with maggots.

"Where is everyone?" You wondered as you continued your search. Something terrible, given the amount of blood found shed across the village, but oddly no corpses.

Eventually, your path led you towards the chapel standing at the end of the haunted hamlet like an ever-watchful sentinel. Its solitary steeple rose high into the air, adorned with a faded iron cross. Bats scattered from the belfry as another resounding gong echoed amidst the contrary winds. The stained glass windows were caked over with layer upon layer of dust and cobwebs, so much that they had lost their shimmer and were nothing more than mute, drab colors. All around the chapel were gravestones covered in moss and flecked with cracks and fissures, a sizeable cemetery it was. The engravings were so worn with time, there was no way to tell whom these earthly tombs belonged to.

Slowly and cautiously, you drew near the weathered sanctuary, as if called to it by some unseen force...or perhaps the continuous ringing of the iron bell. A small flickering light sprang up from the darkness, filling one of the windows with a soft amber glow. "There's somebody in there!" You thought. At last, another living person. However...could you have been certain they were friend or foe? After all...there was something terribly off about this place. Why did it feel less like a house of the holy...

...and more like a den of demons?

---

While Valentina and Kharne split away from the rest of your group, you decided you would search the nearby inn. All the while, you couldn't shake the feeling as though you were being watched from a distance, as if hundreds of invisible eyes fell upon you, constantly leering at the back of your heads. The chilling sensation persisted, even as you trudged through muck and mire, pushing your way towards a dilapidated, two-story structure flanked by several dead, twisted trees. A small wooden placard hung from the doorway, the chipped and faded paint barely readable. However, you could discern at least one word from the eroded message: Inn.

A small, steady stream trickled beside the building, curving around the back and flowing towards the front as a sort of moat. Alas, there was no bridge to cross it. None to be found at least.

Bert grumbled impatiently, his big arms crossed with his fingers drumming on his flexed bicep, a constant scowl aimed towards the bumbling thief as Chance searched for a fallen branch.

Meanwhile, something stirred beneath the black, inky water, perturbed by Chance's earlier blundering.

Awaiting in the cemetery around the Chapel, was no one. At first it looked like no one that is. Further inspection revealed, near the door, a couple rows in, sat a woman. She hadn't seemed to notice new people, but they would notice her. She was speaking softly to a gravestone. One of the few still intact after the carnage of the town. The language was unknown, until with a turn of her head and a flash of pointed ears, revealed it to be Elvish.

She turned back to the gravestone, speaking softly and standing. She dusted her trousers off and moved closer as Valentina and Kharne approached the Chapel. The first noticeable thing would be the fact that she was an elf; the second was the obvious blindfold sitting across her eyes. She didn't say anything for a moment, head turned down a little before lifting back up. "Are you here to investigate the Chapel as well?"

Her voice was on the softer side, almost soft enough to be missed. Not only was it soft though, it was heavy with an accent. She probably didn't speak English often. Her head turned towards the Chapel, up towards the bell, but it could also be towards the flicker of light in the window. She turned her head back to them and offered a small smile, then gestured with her hand towards the Chapel. "Best to not wait, yes?"

---

---

---

---

Chance was for the inn, but Valentina wanted to investigate the chapel. This caused Alistair to raise an eyebrow--he hadn't been sure Barille would still have any holy ground. Small rural settlements sometimes didn't have an actual church building, and when he'd searched the old maps and travel routes to find a way out here he had seen that the former parishes of Gransylva had been abandoned.

Mayhaps other brothers survived out here, somehow, someway, but even so...Alistair felt he was probably the first holy man to step foot over the Vampire King's borders in a long, long time.

The large dragonborn indicated that he wanted to investigate along with Valentina--was he anticipating conflict? Moreover, relishing in the idea of it?

"Miss Valentina, you and our large friend seem quite capable." He said with a nod. "I'm sure you'll be safe--" Then he turned to Bert and Chance, "But I don't believe the two of you have any form of holy protections, or experience with...the supernatural, correct?" Valentina clearly had an artifact or two on her person and had stated she was a hunter by profession. Kharne, of course, was the size of an outhouse of the brick variety. "I believe it's best if I stick with you for the moment."

The group thus split up, and Alistair walked a pace or two behind Bert and Chance as they looked through the derelict village to find an inn. Following a faded sign and rutted tracks from one of the broken carts, they soon found themselves standing in what could've passed for a swamp had the two story building not dared to defy the dead, grasping canopy of the trees around it.

Bert retrieved something from a pouch and put it in his mouth while he taunted Chance's caution. Alistair's mouth quirked in a frown--was the man chewing tobacco? Perhaps there were worse vices, and if anything the stimulant might sharpen his senses rather than dull them, but the priest still found it uncouth.

As the flighty man bantered with the mercenary, the Inquisitor took a good look at their surroundings. This stream had likely flooded in the storms brought on by the Vampire King's shroud of everlasting clouds; and without villagers and travelers, the inn had no doubt fallen into disrepair. Yet, aside from the signs of clear abandonment...

There were no bloodstains here, as there had been in the village. Aside from some birds in the distance, barely visible over the roof in the cloudy sky, no animals frequented the woods around them. There was a well---if it still had a working bucket and hadn't filled in with silt or debris, they might be able to get a water sample to purify.

Chance poked at the stream with a stick. The murky surface bubbled as he dug into the mud, and Alistair's eyes scanned lower to the ground--

A cross, near the roots of a tree.

The dark water churned.

"There is a grave there!" shouted Alistair suddenly, sweeping his mantle out as his hands rose in a series of sudden gestures! Oro, allevero, protego!

In the blink of an eye, a cube made of ethereal blue light expanded in front of Alistair's palm. As it grew in the space of another blink, it swallowed the Inquisitor, Chance, and Bert before freezing in place with a sound like crunching ice. The shallow water around their feet had been pushed back to the structure's edge, and the dead, blackened grass had been flattened under them. If not for the translucent glow, one might have thought they'd been encased in a glass prism somehow.

"This is a Holy Barrier." Alistair said, his voice tight. "If we are attacked, do not leave its light." Had he overreacted? For all he knew, the thing in the water was a jumping polliwog or a garter snake.

But people typically weren't buried right outside the front door of an inn. And in Gransylva, people had a habit of not staying buried at all.

---

Then he turned to Bert and Chance, "But I don't believe the two of you have any form of holy protections, or experience with...the supernatural, correct?" Valentina clearly had an artifact or two on her person and had stated she was a hunter by profession. Kharne, of course, was the size of an outhouse of the brick variety. "I believe it's best if I stick with you for the moment."

Bert seems annoyed.

"Don't trouble yerself none, father," he says. "All got me all the protection I need riiiiight 'ere..."

He pats the large axe on his belt.

Chance looks at the Inquisitor, then at Bert. Bert was being an arrogant bell-end again, and around these parts, Chance would gladly take any help he could. Not against Bert (though that certainly was a factor), but against whatever horrors lay here.

"Actually, we could use the company," he says charmingly. "I might not have been wholly virtuous in my time, but anyone can recognize the value of a divine blessing. Besides, the more the merrier, eh?"

Bert scowls. Chance could see he didn't like company, aside from the usual ruffians he hung out with, but Chance wasn't taking any, well, chances, especially in Gransylva. People may call brigands cowards, but in fact brigands - at least the smart ones - preferred to take gold without a fight. For one, less chance of getting killed, and for another, less chance of someone getting caught in the crossfire, which then results in a bounty for brigandry being turned into one for murder, with much nastier consequences.

Even putting aside his oxymoronic caution, Chance could feel the place in his bones; this was an accursed place. He may not have the mystic eyes of a finger-wagger, or the divine senses of a priest, but it was easy to see that the land itself was... wrong somehow.

The dark water churned.

"There is a grave there!" shouted Alistair suddenly, sweeping his mantle out as his hands rose in a series of sudden gestures! Oro, allevero, protego!

In the blink of an eye, a cube made of ethereal blue light expanded in front of Alistair's palm. As it grew in the space of another blink, it swallowed the Inquisitor, Chance, and Bert before freezing in place with a sound like crunching ice. The shallow water around their feet had been pushed back to the structure's edge, and the dead, blackened grass had been flattened under them. If not for the translucent glow, one might have thought they'd been encased in a glass prism somehow.

"This is a Holy Barrier." Alistair said, his voice tight. "If we are attacked, do not leave its light." Had he overreacted? For all he knew, the thing in the water was a jumping polliwog or a garter snake.

But people typically weren't buried right outside the front door of an inn. And in Gransylva, people had a habit of not staying buried at all.

The priest's actions nearly caused Bert and Chance to jump out of their skins. Looking around in bewilderment, they could see the grave Alistair was pointing at. Bert's grip as around his axe, almost pulling it out of his belt.

Bert starts grumbling under his breath, though even his usual uncouthness seems to unwilling to start insulting a priest - at least not yet - and Chance looks around, trying to see what else was there. Bert slowly slides his axe back into his belt, but does not let go of it. Chance checks to see if his pistols were still where they were.

"Least you could have seen is somethin' worth it," Bert mutters in annoyance under his breath.

"Well, better look for a better spot to cross, I guess," he says, carefully letting go of the stick, taking his lamp, and checking for a shorter or at least shallower crossing spot. He holds his lantern aloft with one hand, while keeping the other on his bandolier with pistols on it.

@Visyn@Vlad Tepes@Kazemitsu

Valentina Lupo

Valentina’s eyes scanned the area having a feeling that something was watching them. The hunter had her crossbow at the ready As the two got closer to the cathedral she noticed a woman moving towards them. Squinting her eyes her nose was filled with the pungent smell of death. “That is close enough elf.” She studied the elf with her eyes. Gripping the handle of her whip before continuing to speak. “We might be, why are you here in Barille?” She assumed she was here to collect more dead bodies for her undead army. Her eyes looked over at Kharne as if she was talking to him telepathically. “Perhaps you can prove yourself to be useful elf, but know this if you try to betray us, then I will personally bury you in a grave with your minions.” Pointing her chained whip at the elf. It would be strange to her that Valentina was hinting she knew she was a necromancer.

“Let’s go.” Speaking in a command as she made her way inside of the chapel. Inside of the chapel she walked over towards the ruined statute in at the alter. Kneeling in front of it while making the sign of the cross. The statue was of a well-known saint. Standing up and starting to investigate the chapel. The boots she was wearing were breaking the broken glass of the window panes. She felt disgusted that someone would abandon and discrete such a holy place. Her sharp eyes caught the sight of a light source. She motioned for the others to follow her as she took the lead. “Hello, is there anyone there? We are not here to harm you. Do you know what happens to your village?” Valentina moved closer while her whip was out ready for action.