This pub is a haven amid the dark and stormy dangers of Barovia, and those inside sing and drink to inure themselves against the horrors of their world. The ringleader of the current song lifts her mug to a bar patron who has caught her eye. The singer is too plump for her average height, a dusting of acne scars making her cheeks craterous in the firelight, but her chestnut curls gleam like treasure. Her grey eyes brim with glee as she leads diners and drunkards through the bawdy tale. The singer’s patched finery and her Paridon accent speak of nobility down on its luck; the woman’s new friend finds his eyes fixed on the large glass pendant hanging against her chest.
He slips an arm around her shoulder, presses a coin into her hand, and whispers a few words into her ear. Like Victor Mordenheim throwing a switch, there is an electric change: her shoulders under his arm stiffen like stone, her grin falls from her face, and the only caress he gets is his gold thrown back into his face. He stumbles, mystified, out into the storm—unaware that the coin told her of the man he had murdered for it.
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