Traveling to the outskirts of Suzail, they venture through a portal of blue fire. The forest they enter is rather hilly and marshy. In the distance ahead, smoke from a nearby village billows into the sparsely speckled night sky. The dim light illumines a towering castle that overlooks the village on the horizon.
“This is our home,” says Victor, “The Land of Mists. Welcome to Ravenloft.” He chuckles, lighting a pipe. That village is Mordent. Priscilla and myself come from Borca, just north of here. Gil here is from the accursed Odiare. That castle belongs to the descendants of the von Strahd’s. Not that it matters to you now.”
Priscilla sits calmly, holding a deck of Tarot cards. “They do not hold the future, nor do they hold truth. They simply tell a story. They can tell your story, if you only let them. These do not wish to speak right now. This is alarming, since they usually won’t shut up. Something about you has silenced them. Yet they whisper in words I cannot understand.”