The compulsion that drew me seemed strongest here. I looked about very carefully, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Trees, snow, water… and mist. It was very fine at first, but gathering strength even as I watched, growing thicker until a white roiling wall blocked off all sign of the trail.

Midnight, or nearly so.

Then the silence finally broke. I heard the jingling of a bridle, the muffled clop of a horse's hooves in the snow. It came from the direction of the Mists. Rooted in place by this, I eagerly watched to see what would happen. Was I to finally witness one of the invaders entering my land? Might I be able to dart through their portal while it was still open?

Louder came the hoof beats, cantering. Was the rider mad? He must have been so to be going so fast in that white murk. Louder. Faster. A full gallop. Unconscious of the gesture, I reached for my sword. It was not there, of course. I hadn't felt the need to wear one for decades, but old habits linger long.

He was nearly upon me. I stepped out of his way, to the right toward the woods, and barely in time. A dapple gray horse burst out of the Mists, breath smoking, hooves throwing up clods of snow, the rider hooting and shouting like a lunatic as he guided the animal in a great circle about the clearing before reining in. He stopped only a few yards away, facing me. His horse, catching my scent, reared and whinnied in frightened protest, but he snapped a command in a language I did not know and his mount settled again, clearly unhappy with its ears flat to its head, but under control.

The rider, a young man with the face of a cocky devil, regarded me a moment with eyes as black and hard as cut onyx, then nodded.

"Hail, Strahd, Lord of Barovia!" he called.

I was quite thoroughly dumbfounded, but had the self-control not to show it. "Hail, Vistana," I called in return, for that was what he was, a sight I had not beheld in many, many years.

The gypsies-or Vistani as they are called-used to camp here when I first took up my reign. They had vanished with the war that had brought me to Barovia, then slowly began to return when things were at peace. I was never too comfortable about them, since it was their custom to give allegiance to no one but their own tribe. They wandered free, using my roads without paying tax for their upkeep, a source of minor irritation for me. As a soldier, I well understood the occasional appeal of an itinerant life, but could not grasp how anyone would voluntarily embrace its rigors.

The Vistani had no reason to love me because of a past incident when I'd imprisoned one of their own for thievery and spying. Before I had a chance to teach the skulker a proper lesson he had somehow escaped from my dungeon. Strange in itself, but I soon discovered he and all his people had disappeared completely from Barovia. Vanished into the Mists, so the peasants had told me. That had been long ago, even by my reckoning of time.

"I am Bartolome, Lord Strahd," he said, sketching a bow from his saddle as his horse danced uneasily in place.

Still fairly stunned by his appearance and the fact he knew me, I merely gave a brief, regal nod by way of acknowledgment.

"On behalf of my tribe, I beg permission from you that we may camp here as we have of old."

I looked up and noted that it was now true midnight. I had been drawn to this spot and at this time and now knew the reason. "Permission is granted, Bartolome. Bring your people in. Strahd von Zarovich welcomes them."

"Hai!" he shouted, and kicked his horse, charging headlong back into the Mists.

From deep in the white haze I heard the approach of the creaking wheels of their vardos, the small, brightly painted wagons with arched roofs that served as homes for the Vistani. Did the great wheel of the year make such a sound in its endless turnings?

Unexpectedly a flock of tiny gray and white birds shot clear first, cheeping and piping excitedly away as though it were nesting season. They darted past, swooped and swirled into the trees, disappearing, leaving behind only their song. I knew them to be vista-chiri and had not seen them in Barovia since the Vistani last traveled my roads.

Ringing bits, the clop of hooves, unidentifiable rattlings, and voices, many, many voices, women calling, the high-pitched cries of children, the gruff rumbles of the men, all drifted toward me, growing louder as they came near.

The first of the vardos emerged, two strong-looking horses cutting a path through the snow. Bartolome rode next to them and kept them calm as they passed me.

Then one after another they came, a great train of a dozen wagons, the largest grouping of Vistani I'd ever seen in a single gathering before. The vardos differed in color, and many had symbols painted on them. As I studied further, I noticed that some symbols decorated a few vardos while the symbols upon other wagons were completely different. A joining of two or more caravans perhaps? I could not as yet see any harm in allowing them entry, though I didn't wholly trust them. Many were thieves and charlatans yet, in general, they were considerably better company than previous intruders. Furthermore, from Bartolome's words I assumed that they were intentionally entering my realm rather than stumbling in unknowingly as had previous visitors.

As the final vardo rumbled through, the Mists completely dissipated. On the ground, the trail left by their wheels began in the middle of pristine snow, coming out of nowhere. Whatever power they used to get here I wanted to know about.

The last of them plodded along to its place in the circle they made. Those which I took to be of differing caravans camped next to one another, though all mingled freely and shared in the work. I posted myself just within it and watched as they made their preparations for settling in. Older children and youths scattered to pick up fallen wood from the forest and the men somehow managed to get the damp stuff to burn. The women brought forth their cooking pots and for the next hour domestic necessities prevailed as food was prepared and the livestock fed and bedded down.

Despite Bartolome asking permission I knew that his question in regard to their staying had been a formality only. With or without my consent they would have camped here regardless. A few of them shot me dark, uneasy looks that I endured without offense. Let them study and know the rarely seen face of the lord of Barovia; let them all learn my features and beware.

The evening meal done, the men threw more wood on the fires until the flames leapt high. Someone put bow to fiddle and tried a few experimental notes to make sure it was in tune, then struck off with a song I thought I recognized. I have no small amount of musical talent myself, though I had no reason to make music for many decades and was decidedly rusty. The song was almost familiar, but in places the notes were quite different and the rhythm became a constantly changing thing with no apparent pattern to it.

A drum was brought in to aid the fiddle, then more stringed instruments of strange design. Several of the young women stood to dance to the music, long full skirts gilded by the firelight. Their tambourines, streaming bright ribbons, kept time as they were shaken high in the air or slapped against a hand or a rounded hip. But this was no simple dance to entertain; I was conscious that spell work was afoot.

You could see it if you knew where to look. Specks of power swirled around the dancers like cinders rising high from the fires. It was of a quite different kind of magic than I was used to; they seemed to rely less on exotic ingredients and verbal commands than to draw what they needed from themselves and the land about them. Perhaps that was why they needed to move from place to place so often, giving their campsite a chance to lie fallow and replenish itself while they were gone.