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Attempt to understand the spirit: 23
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You will handle this the way you know how: diplomacy, just through communion with spirits. You have a vague understanding of ghosts, having learned about the afterlife during your study of the elemental deities. Those who fail to pass after death and become petitioners for their deity often end up in the ethereal plane, a realm that connects physically to the material plane via a middleground known as the border ethereal. Usually there is something that keeps them here, bound to the material world, that prevents them from moving on to another plane.
You know what you have to do. You gesture at Ireena to stop. She looks at you skeptically, but you insist, and she stops backing away. Carefully, you step forward, arms open, careful not to appear threatening to whatever presence is ahead of you. "My name is Aranuel Caniella," you say. "You seem upset. I may be able to help you."
The presence stays put. It takes quite a lot of effort to swallow your fear - the closet you get to it, the stronger you can feel its gaze, watching you with interest from the ethereal plane.
You grasp your holy symbol. As you do, you can feel the presence's hostility rise. You speak quickly: "I am a cleric of Kossuth. It is my understanding that those who fail to move on after life often fear Kossuth, as his flame purifies, and rebukes rot and undeath. But his guiding flame also leads lost souls to salvation, and allows proper rest."
You see the visage of a man 10 feet in front of you, standing in the shade of the forest. His likeness is like looking through frosted glass, blurry and unfocused. He looks as though he should be emitting light, but the forest remains dark - like he is an illusion. He is regarding you silently.
You look back at Ireena. She is staying put, mesmerized by what you are doing.
The presence seems to call out to you. You cannot hear its voice, but you can see images flashing in your mind's eye, like when the undead knight touched your forehead.
You see the sun shining on the valley. Village houses in a marsh. The laughing of children - offspring, two boys and one girl. The touch of a loving wife, cuddling by a fireplace. Visions of friendship: a pudgy man in dark blue robes, sat on a desk and writing on parchment. A strange dark-skinned elf, the likes of which you have never seen. Screaming children. Knights clashing with the undead, the death cry of the wife. Searing pain, houses turned to rubble. An unstoppable blanket of fog.
You look away - you can't bear to witness all of this spirit's memories. But you step closer. The spirit is clearly visible now. You almost feel as though you are entering the border ethereal yourself, the rest of the forest fading away around you.
"What is your name?" you ask.
"Livius," you hear.
"The fog traps you, doesn't it?"
"Yes."
"You are stuck here, in Barovia?"
"Yes."
"Where is Barovia?"
There is no response.
(cont.)
