Join the adventure with Curse of Strahd Unchained

In the eerie depths of winter, when the world is shrouded in darkness and the frigid winds howl through barren trees, there comes a night that chills the very soul. It is the Winter Solstice, a time when the sun, weakened and feeble, abandons the world to the clutches of the longest night. On this sinister night, the boundaries between the living and the dead blur, and ancient forces awaken from their slumber.

The old and wizened say dark magics are at their most potent during the Winter’s Solstice. It is for this reason that everyone with sense in Daggerford is indoors, candles lit, fireplaces burning, lamps illuminated, any and every attempt to brighten the home has been taken.

To a party of seasoned adventurers such as yourself this is just another town to stay in until you find another adventure. You find yourself in another dull tavern. Outside the tavern, a fog lies over the town. The damp, cobbled pavement glistens as the light of street lanterns dance across the slick stones. The mist chills the bones and shrivels the soul of anyone outside in the winter cold. Yet inside the tavern walls the food is hearty, and the drink is warm. A fire blazes in the hearth, and the tavern is alive with tumbling voices of country folk.

Suddenly, the tavern door swing open, and a hush falls over the room. Framed by the lamp-lit mist, a form strides through the doorway. His heavy, booted footfalls and the jingle of his coins shatter the silence. His brightly colored clothes are draped in loose folds about him, and his hat hangs askew, hiding his eyes in shadow. Without hesitation, he walks up to your table and stands proudly in a wide stance with folded arms.

In an accented voice he says, “I have been sent to you to deliver this message. If you are creatures of honor, you will come to my master’s aid at first light. It is not advisable to travel the Svalich Woods at night!”

He pulls from his tunic a sealed letter, addressed to all of you in a beautiful flowing script. He drops the letter on the table.

“Take the west road from here for a five hour march down through the Svalich Woods. There you will find my master in Barovia.” Amid the silent stares of the tavern patrones, the gypsy strides to the bar and says to the wary tavernkeep, “Fill the glasses, one and all. Their throats are obviously parched.” He drops a purse heavy with gold on the bar. With that, he leaves. The babble of tavern voices resume, although somewhat subdued. The letter is lying before you. The seal is in the shape of a crest you don’t recognize.

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