How I came to be in Barovia, I do not rightly know. Vague memories of wine, an elf huntress, and a fire pit in a forest are as sharp as my memory gets. Then there was a season of concern, images of the elf, one Marda, standing up, equipping her long bow, aiming at a tufted fog bank slowly creeping into our camp.
But suddenly, there were others surrounding us. Proud, tanned warriors in garish gear. Marda slew five of them before the lights went out. And how these gypsies found a way into Barovia, along with myself–I’m assuming Marda is dead–I will never know.
They left me on the edge of an enchanting glade. And though the greens and the wild blues of the flowers took me by surprise, by nightfall I would understand how eerie they could become, how lost they would become by nightfall.
Perhaps it was…
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