The forge is older than the Concord, older than the tavern, older than the church’s current altar. It was built when Old Barovia was a mining village and there were three smiths in this valley. Now there is one, and there is Gregor, who is one of the last people in Barovia with a skill worth defending. He silvers weapons — quietly, for a price, for anyone who asks correctly. His son Nikolai went into the Svalich Woods on a Luna night two months ago. Gregor knows why and cannot say why. The forge fire has been burning continuously for over a century, and Gregor is not the only one who tends it. He does not want to know who else does.

The forge fire is burning even now. Gregor Petrov looks up from the anvil, blinks once, and does not stop working. The hammer strikes seven times. Then he sets it down, wipes his forehead, and looks at you properly.

Sensory

• Coal-smoke, hot iron, quenching-water
• Sour smell of stale beer under the smoke
• Hammer on anvil, then a pause too long, then hammer again