At the base of the Balinoks, nestled within the nook of the farmland surrounding Vallaki and the oppressive ascent of the peak, small tremors riddle the surface. The silt emits its malaise, quaking and rustling the branches and foliage of the dense forest, the echoes of dissonance reverberating through the lands. The cracking of branches underfoot and shambling, labored movements disturb the eerie silence in the forested area. The wildlife that normally is teeming throughout the thick wooded landscape has deserted and wind whistled through desolate flora.
Rumors stir, carried upon hushed whispers in darkened corners of the Grey City of an increased presence of imorţii near the Southern Forest, at the foot of the looming mountain range. With uncertainty of footing and steeling of resolve, many ventured close to return with reports of -something- that thickened the air with dread, stirred in the depths. In its wake, death and decay had taken residency. The macabre remnants of the unfortunate, foresters, woodsmen, and scouts, savagely slain. Their bodies barbarously ravaged by blade, tooth, and claw. Viscera, flesh, and entrails were scattered, sanguine blood suffusing into the grass and underbrush as the snow melted and dulled the vibrant hue a pale pink.
The Barovian elderly wordlessly mouth orisons while warding themselves, spitting warnings of horrors and ancient tales whilst pulling their garments and cloaks closer about their persons. Their auguries are corroborated by those that have ventured near the epicenter of the undulations of silt: the rising of gooseflesh upon even the most intrepid lends credence to the hushed whispers of concerns. A keening resounded from the depths of the mountains, a preternatural lamenting echoing in the ears of those who venture too close, chilling their spines and haunting their dreamscapes.
Still several emerged from the depths, covered in soot, saturated in blood, caked in viscera, and hefted a weighted, armored shell over a weary shoulder. The fetid stench of death clung to their forms and labored their steps. A pyre sparked to life and burned in the nearby hills, billowing smoke and spitting up ash that mingled with the snow in an unusual amalgamation of greyish flecks rising up and voluminous white flakes cascading down. The flames dwindled into embers, glowing briefly before being snuffed out on the horizon – the faint glow silenced as the frigid winds whipped through the foliage.
Silence descended upon the Southern Forest once more as figures disappeared into the distance, segregating and diverging their paths. The white-wash of snow cleansed the grass and flora of any trace of malignancy and all seemed to be as it once was – a distant fading memory, a desiccated tear of grief – the lands marched ever onward with irreverence of loss, the cycle of moon and sun unperturbed by inconsequential trivialities of mortality.
