In Har-Thelen, nigh-immortal nobles sigh whispers of recrimination like the hiss of the winds which blow through the leaves of the city's ancient boughs. Few things stir the most noble and ancient Esthi like challenge to the status quo and dalliance with the inferior and short-lived mongrels from beyond Sithicus's ancient borders. Some of the tattered and bedraggled lords, whose lives extend past the founding of the fledgling realm Barovia, are seen in conclave with Lady Speaker Cyriia Mathrund. There is a rot, they say, which dwells in the heart of their unchanging and eternal demesne. More and more among the nobility, when roused from their apathy, demand this rot be cut out root and stem, no matter it the source of corruption lies among vainglorious foreigners who dare to make pronouncements lecturing the highest of castes or if it blooms among the city's own residents. The elves do not move with haste, preferring to let perturbations turn to bone and dust in due course, but act they will to prevent the influence of insolent whelps and interlopers from spreading.