You spend the rest of the evening discussing your strength and abilities, coming up with some sort of battle plan for such and such scenario as the sun slowly dwindles towards the horizon.
With the dying of daylight, a fog creeps across the land,clutching everything in its clammy grasp. Inside the Weary Horse Inn, though, the fire is warm enough, and if the few patrons are sullen and stare at you a little boldly, at least the food and drink are good.
For an inn’s common room, it’s quiet. It holds no more than a handful of customers. They keep their voices low, and even the clink of their mugs seems subdued as the fog gathers outside. When the door swings open, every head turns to see who has arrived.
This new arrival, a man with exotic, some would be tempted to say gypsie-like features, loudly stamps the mud off his boots in the doorway. He scans the common room with his eyes and then strides confidently over,
throwing a letter on the table in front of you.
"The village of Barovia is in need of heroes," he says in a thick accent. "You’ll do as well as any." Without another word, he turns to leave.