The mists swirl around …

They encompass all, grasping and concealing everything. Each needle on the pine trees, each cone underfoot, every star in the sky is prey to the mists. Soon, even your hands are gone, until you are alone in an underworld of intangible mist.

Where did you come from? It is almost hard to remember the great cities you’ve seen, the great spires of Waterdeep and the impenetrable fortitude of Neverwinter. The memories are reticent to come out in this fog that grasps for everything so tightly. Even the slosh of beer and creak of well-worn tavern floorboards seem distant in this primal mist. There is no civilization here.

Only once it has taken everything does the mist give back. In this formless prison, you see shapes, ghosts, spectres. Are they people or beasts? Are they souls or memories? Are they real or imaginary? What does it matter, when your whole world has been reduced to shadows on a puppet-screen of mist?

Within the mists forms the shadow of a road. It is not well-used, and were it not for the deep, old cart-ruts on either side you would probably have called it a game trail. Near this road, the mists form trees. There is a path through this wood without a name.

Without any choice but to follow the path before you, soon you emerge upon a sight both great and terrible. A magnificent wall has been erected before you, stretching at least 100 metres high, with a pair of iron gates set in them. Flanking these gates are two gigantic statues of armoured figures, their heads long since lost to the ages of time.

There are few options left. The mists will not let you go. When you are ready…

The Mists of Ravenloft

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