Vyktor walked behind the others, his right hand concealed beneath the rosen cloak he wore, assuredly resting upon some weapon or other means of defence. He too was grateful for the light, though the shadows they threw seemed to mock and taunt him, inviting him to explore further but barely hiding what they knew was coming...

A creature of habit and the product of discipline, the former nobleman's eyes swept the hall for tracks, dust disturbed, exits and things which could be leveraged as advantage should the inevitable confrontation the shadows whispered of reach fulfillment sooner rather than later.

Jia's words seemed to echo in the silence. "The shadows cast foretell that which shall become..." If circumstances were any different, he'd commit their words to song. But now was not the time for that.

"So children, what can you tell us of your home?" Vyktor inquired of their strange hosts.

Ceila privately wondered what the children would or could answer.  She was inclined to think that they were shades of some kind-- not truly undead, but echoes of what had been.  Or perhaps illusions, bait in a trap for all of them...

But such a trap should not be allowed to ensnare others.  She'd spring it, if need be, to destroy it.

Drucca stands in the doorway, muttering something about Bahamut when the inky darkness surrounds her. Have you ever heard a dragonborn scream?

You quickly slam the doors shut before the darkness can invade the foyer, feeling bad that you could not save her.

--

Meanwhile the lamps lit, the stained glass doors create a warm and welcome display of color.

"Welcome." You feel the voice rather than hear it, as you push open the stained glass doors.

A wide hall  runs the width of the house, with a black marble fireplace at one end and a sweeping, red marble staircase at the other. Mounted on the wall above the fireplace is a longsword with a windmill cameo worked into the hilt. The wood-paneled walls are ornately sculpted with images of vines, flowers, nymphs, and satyrs. The decorative paneling follows the staircase as it circles upward to the second floor.

There are 4 doors to the north, 1, 2, 3, 4 and 1 door to the south.

“May her ancestors receive her spirit,” Jia said as she softly whispered a quick prayer in her native tongue. “The malignant force in this house will not allow us to tarry. We must keep moving forward if we would live.” She stepped up behind Ceila. “Should we open the door closest to us first?”

"I see no reason to pick one door over another," said Ceila.  "We must take what we find, I suppose, and make the best of it."

She opened door one, but did not step through until her weapon was in her hand.  This place was clearly perilous.

"I fear that her god would not look favorably upon her inaction when investigating the injustice of this place.  Such are the whims of intolerant deities.  But we should focus on the present.  I wonder if the sword above the mantle would have more power here, given the ties to this place.  Celia, it may be a consideration before rushing headlong... oh never mind, carry on."  Caedwen follows Celia, allowing his flame to provide some more vision into whatever room they were about to enter.

“A foolish man grows fat upon his own words,” Jun Jia said pointedly as she stepped around Caedwen. She stood opposite the paladin outside the door. Jia glanced at  the darkened door. Then, she met Ceila’s eyes and nodded, affirming that she would have the other woman’s back.

It is in the light (or what passes for it in this dimly lit house) that you notice Caedwen is not nearly as aged as he first appeared.  He has wrinkles, for sure, but they show a life of hardship and strong emotion rather than age.  There is sun damage and scars, adding greatly to his visual age.  But his eyes are young.

"...I don't trust the sword," said Ceila.  "You may have a point, though  We'll see..."

She looked to see what was on the other side of the door.  That might change things.

The words seemed to stick in Vyktor's throat, somewhere between a warning and a scream as the strange dragon-woman was sucked away! A shiver coursed through his body. "It could have been me..." he murmured to no one in particular.

He stepped into the new room and looked around, shrugging. "Careful Celia..." He too was curious as to what the opened door might reveal.

Vyktor was curious as to the sword as well, often an heirloom would take such a place of honor on display... or it might simply be an item of decoration rather than war.

"It may even bear a curse..." he muttered, for such things were not unheard of, and in this new terrifying reality in which he'd been thrust into by way of exile, it was certainly a probability.

"Only one way to find out." He walked over to inspect the sword, taking care not to touch it, but to observe that it was not the trigger to some trap or danger!

The sword gleams in the firelight, it must be made of silver and has clearly never seen battle, there's narely a scratch on it. It appears sharp.

Taking door 1, the most northwest door, leads you to a fine banquet room. The details of the room are lost on you, as the candles on the chandelier are lit for the big man sitting at the head of the table tearing into a turkey leg. There is no turkey on the table, only the plates and silverware. There is no food at the table...and that probably isn't a turkey leg...

Frozen in the doorway not out of fear but rather caution, Caedwen whispers to his companions.  "Could this be the beast we were told of?  It may appear as a man, but man alone is a great foe.  I fear it may be some sort of trickery, an illusion of sorts to fool us into letting down our guard."  He eyes the meat being consumed, and attempts to identify it (no small feat with this tricky lighting and distance).

---

08:36, Today: Caedwen rolled 20 using 1d20+5.  Survival.  (Or an 18 for Knowledge: Nature)
This message was last edited by the player at 16:40, Mon 01 Feb 2021.

It is up to chokahr what he is eating.

Your eyes are fixed on the man, but you take in as many details of the room as you can:

The centerpiece of this wood-paneled dining room is a carved mahogany table surrounded by eight high-backed chairs with sculpted armrests and cushioned seats. A crystal chandelier hangs above the table, which is covered with resplendent silverware and crystalware polished to a dazzling shine. Mounted above the marble fireplace is a mahogany-framed painting of an alpine vale.

The wall paneling is carved with elegant images of deer among the trees.

Red silk drapes cover the windows, and a tapestry depicting hunting dogs and horse-mounted aristocrats chasing after a wolf hangs from an iron rod bolted to the south wall.

Rushing through nightly woods, away from the clamor, the fire, the blank steel. The hunter became the prey. Wind wheezing, branches slapping, breath getting short. Pain in his ankle as the foot catches a prominent root. Blows. Screams. Ropes and chains. He tore and struggled and roared as they placed the noose, even bit off the executioner's hand. The horrible pain in his neck as he was strung up, kicking, struggling, fighting and fighting and fighting all over again until his breath turned to a wheeze, and then...

A mist. Thick and heavy and menacing, holding him tight like a burial shroud. His voice had no power here, nor could his claws get a hold of the grey fumes. How much time has passed? He did not remember. He must have escaped the mists at some point, when the hunger became too insistent to bear.  There must have been others, shadows, creatures, some like him, some different. It mattered not. He was fed. Tough, stringy meat, too fresh from the kill - ichor still oozed from every bite. Had it been his prey? He did not care. The blood slaked his thirst, the meat filled his belly. Chewing slowly, his gaze lost in the chandelier's dancing lights before him, Chokahr ran a finger over the scar on his throat. It was still sore, so it must have been fresh - but where did he get it?

A door opening. Figures standing in the dim light, barely visible. They were armed, yet seemed hesitant. Chokahr stopped chewing.He slowly ducked behind the table, his wild, yellow eyes still eyeing the newcomers from above the fine and dusty tablecloth, and retreated behind the chair in a slithery motion, almost too fast for someone his size. His hand clutched the chunk of meat tighter, hiding it slowly behind his back.

"Mine" he growled, blood dripping from his mouth, as menacingly as he could muster. "Find your own."
This message was last edited by the player at 17:00, Mon 01 Feb 2021.

Ceila didn't attack... yet.  She looked the man over carefully, trying to figure out what he was doing.  Could he be the monster that this place contained?  But... he was hiding behind a chair, clutching at his food.

That wasn't the behavior of a monster.  That was the behavior of a starved, frightened child who feared that what they had would be stolen.

It was something that she'd seen many times.  Too many times.  Something she'd done herself, for that matter...

"It's all right," she said, gently.  "We're not going to take your food away.  I'm Ceila.  What's your name?"

She still didn't drop her guard, however.  This was the behavior of a frightened child, but desperation could give even a child dangerous strength, and this was clearly no child-- he was large, strong, and could doubtlessly inflict considerable damage in a fight.

Jun Jia stood beside Ceila, her movements as unthreatening as her size. Her brown eyes cautiously observed the enormous man who moved like a wolf. The comparison seemed reasonable to Jia, as everything about the stranger seemed feral. Particularly the ravenous way he gnawed on the questionable hunk of meat. He hid like a cornered animal, and the growl in his claim reminded Jia of an animal asserting its territory.

“Do you live in this house?” She couldn’t see his face yet to compare it with the portraits in the parlor, so it seemed like a fair question. It followed that such a house of horrors would harbor equally horrific denizens.

Squinting through the half-darkness, Chokahr tried to assess the situation. He wasn't satiated yet. The women spoke soothing words, but they looked so... proper, and neat. Civilization and sweet talk evoked conflicted feelings in his gut. He knew something was off, but it was impossible to pinpoint the sensation, much less link it to any clear memory. This place was definitely odd. His gaze switched between the half-elf and the foreign-looking girl. There were others too, hidden somewhere, he could hear them, smell them. Foes? Pack-mates? Prey? Too early to tell.

He took a slow step back, felt the hilt of his hammer brushing against his thigh. He hesitated. How on Earth did it get there? But then again, he could see his backpack below the table, folded in the fashion Father showed him. Could this be home, after all? Had he really forgotten that much?

"No," he said finally, with a hint of hesitation. Then, more confidently, he added: "No house is home to me. Who brought me here? Was it you? What do you want?"

The menacing tone was gone; only caution and confusion remained.
This message was last edited by the player at 15:55, Tue 02 Feb 2021.

“No.” Jia slowly shook her head. “This is not our home nor is it our country. We were brought here by the Mists.” Jia watched the fur-garbed brute with calm brown eyes. “A vampire who claims to be Lord of this domain identified this land as ‘Barovia’.

We entered this house because dark forces led us here. We want to defeat whatever Evil lurks in this house. You may join us until we vanquish it, or go your own way in peace.”

"I think those forces brought you here, as well," Ceila added.  "And I fear that this is a perilous land indeed-- one ally of ours has already fallen.  Will you join us?  We'll be safer together."

That male might be child-like in some ways, but he appeared to be strong, and... any tool at hand was very much a part of her oath.  Besides, he'd be safer with them.

Upon further observation of this stranger, Caedwen shrugs and lets down his guard.  "Well met, friend.  As you seem to be one in touch with your primal nature, I have trust in you.  I am Caedwen of the Adri Forest, which I believe to be far from here.  Who are you, and from where do you hail?"

Upon noticing Caedwenn, the large man straightened up slowly from behind the chair, a look of puzzlement on his face. Taking an absent-minded bite from the gruesome chunk of meat in his hand, he moved slowly towards the druid, his eyes running him up and down. Then he pointed at him with the blood-dripping fragment.

"You... you are Forest-Soul, I can smell it. One of you ran with our pack, long ago."

Chokahr tossed the bone over his shoulder and raised both hands, palms facing the druid, and slowly closed them to fists.

"I hide my claws from you, Caedwenn of the Adri Forest, and from your friends. I am Chokahr. I give my woods no name. The townfolk nearby call them the Archwood, but they know nothing. This forest of yours I do not know either. Must be far away."

Dropping his hands, Chokahr turned back towards the table, all the while attempting to dislodge something from between his teeth with a fingernail. He grabbed the backpack below and slung it over his broad shoulders, glancing at the two women.

"You look like you can fight, Celia. Good. What about you, strange girl?"

“These fists and feet are all the weapons I need.” Jia held up her fists in emphasis, then clasped her hands and gave a half-bow. “My name is Jun Jia. I was born in the land of Kara-Tur.”

Jia stood straight and appraised the stranger with a look. “Your hammer undoubtedly has drawn blood. Have you slain monsters with it? Have you ever faced the undead? We met a vampire earlier tonight, and were led to this house by ghosts. The very shadows of this unholy place claimed the life of one of our companions, and to kill a Dragonborn is no easy task for mortals.”

Vyktor snorted as the word Vampire was thrown about. "A jester with questionable taste in music," he grumbled.

From where the former knight stood, this new fellow seemed every bit as savage as the creatures Vyktor suspected lurked at the edges of these cursed mists. "If we allow him to join us, how will we keep him fed?" This wasn't entirely rhetorical nor jest.

"You seem sturdy enough, friend," Vyktor began, "just don't get any ideas about gnawing on anything of mine..."

He nodded slightly and then introduced himself.

"I am Vyktor of Rosewylde, an exile."

His stomach snarled in response.

"I'm sure he can hunt," said Ceila.  It was a practical question, granted, and one that might cause them no end of trouble in the future... but first, they had to get through their current crisis.  There would be time to worry about who and what was going to be hunting what... and who... after they dealt with this house.