The letter was not what Oak had intended to steal--his hand was in the bag, and if he had just /one/ more moment, that shiny, red-jewled amulet would have been his. But then the dragonborn shifted, and Oak flinched, and his hand ended up calsped around the parchment instead. Any prize was better than no prize, and with his luck recently, Oak was willing to take anything. But this--this letter could be something good after all. An invintation. To that castle on the cliffside.
Oak had passed the gates to the castle once before, but he had a different goal then, and they interested him little. Well, perhaps more than a little. But they did not open for him at that time, not like htey did now. The gates truly towered over him, the tips of their black, wrought-iron form almost lost to the mists above him. Oak watched as they swung open slowly before him, hinges creaking soflty. Oak didn't wait for them to open fully--once the gap between the two gates was a few feet wide, Oak was on the move. They continued to open after he passed through them , sparing but one more brief look upwards before returning his gaze to the path sprawling out before him. It wound itself to the right not too far ahead, ande began an incline. Oak continued moving--he wasn't sure how long it would take to reach the castle that was, at this angle, barely visable above the crowns of the evergreens stationed on either side of the path. The noise of the gates behind him came to an end, and the path fell into silence once more. Oak let himself look backwards one more time at the wide-open gates, and was met with a complete absence of movement, except for the fog choosing this moment to bleed onto the path at the mouth of the gates. Oak frowned, turning back to continue his journey ahread. The gates behind him let out an ear-piercing wail as they swung closed with haste, slamming shut almost as soon as Oak had taken his eyes off of them. Oak's hands moved on their own, stifiling the yelp that tore itself loose from his throat. He picked up the pace, accompanied only by the quiet clunk of his boots against the worn path, and the fog that threatened to swallow that too.
The path wore on forever, it seemed, and the castle seemed only to inch closer. Oak's boredom fought against his better judgement--his harmonica rested in the pocket of his cloak and was often a trusted companion in passing time. But Oak didn't trust the fog in its seemingly infinite hunger not to try to swallow both him and the sound whole. So in his pocket it stayed, a rare win for Oak's judgement call. Instead, he pulled out his knife and some of the dried meat stoed in his bag. There was always time for a snack, and at least this way, he'd be at the ready if something happened to pop out at him. Although he wasn't entirely convinced that his knife would be any help against the wolves he had seen terrorizing a group of people traveling the main roads. He wasn't necessarily sure about his crossbow either, but he pushed that thought down. Fighting wasn't usually his go-to option anyway.
It wasn't until Oak reached the long bridge that met the mouth of the castle did he realize that he hadn't seen a single sign of any kind of wildlife along the path, his knife still clutched tight in his hand. Somehow, that wasn;t a comforting thought. And now he just felt foolish holding his knife. No matter. In fact, what awaited Oak at the beginning of the bridge was more than enough to allow himself to forget his temporary embarassment--a beautiful black draft horse, far taller than the halfling who had fully stoppedin his tracks at the sight of it. The horse huffed, releasing a large steamy breath that quickly dissapated in the cool air. It's eyes, half-hidden beneath its long mane, met Oka's for just a moment, before the horse slowly kneeled down in front of him, craining its neck down towards the ground, seemingly inviting him to climb atop its massive back. It wore no saddle or reins, but that wouldn't deter Oak. He approached slowly, making sure not to do anything that could startle it--a kick from a horse of this size would take care of him /very/ easily. The horse did not move a muscle at his approach, and after gently resting a hand against its warm side, Oak climbed on. It waited for him to get settled, or at least as settled as he could get upon its massive back. Even his adapted kneeling riding style was difficult to maintain on a horse of its width, but once he stopped figiting, the draft horse raised up its head, and, righting one leg at a time, returned to its standing position. Oak threaded his fingers into its thick mane, and almost as soon as the horse felt him give a gentle tug, it started to move.
The horse immediately turned itself in the direction of the castle. Just to see what would happen, Oak tried to steer the horse away from the bridge's enterance, but the horse did not respond at all to his prompting. Every other horse Oak had ridden from Reckless, his other half, to [], the most stubborn, obstanant, and bad-tempered horse he has ever had the pleasure (or rather, displeasure) of riding had given some sort of response, wether it was turning in the direction of the command, or just deciding that this was the cue to start trying to disloge Oak from his place on its back through whatever means necessary. Awestruck, Oak slackened his hold as the horse began to ferry him across the bridge.
The man standing on the bridge's other landing didn't look at Oak as the horse approached him. Rather, he held out his hand, and the horse made its way towards it, nuzzling its face into it. There was a moment of silence as the man stroked the horse's face. Oak wasn't entirely sure that the man had seen him perched atop the horse, and so he kept watching, quiet. He could tell that the man had a practiced hand. It looked gentle, but firm in its movements. It looked like the horse couldn't shy away, like he would prevent it from doing so it it felt so inclined.
"Beautiful, isn't she," the man's voice rang out, smooth and clear, making Oak jump in the process. He snapped out of his thoughts as the man continued to speak. "[HORSEY NAME]. I raised her myself. One half of my carrage team. Nothing can startle her." Oak felt his grip tighten once more as the horse lurched beneath him. It began to kneel down once more, and before Oak could slide off of its back, the man reached a hand out to Oak. "Ah, but you must forgive my manners, introducing my horse before I introducecd myself. I am Strahd von Zarovich, and I bid you welcome to Barovia."
Oak hesitantly slipped his hand into the man's--Strahd's--as he dropped down from []'s back, getting his first real look at the man in the process. He was human, dressed in regal-looking clothes that seemed to be well-suited for the weather and his dark hair that fell just past his shoulders. He didn't angle his head down when he met Oak's eyes, instead keeping his posture straight, looking down oven the bridge of his nose.
"[] doesn't kneel like that for just anyone, you know," Strahd mentioned, cocking his head ever-so-slightly to the left. It was at this moment that Oak realized that his hand was still resting atop Strahd's open palm. "You must have some experience with horses."
"Thanks," Oak, mustering as much tact as possible, lifted his hand away from Strahd's. "Never met a horse I couldn't ride. Even if it ain't mine." Strahd allowed a smile at that, which Oak found himself mirroring.
"Ha! How wonderful. You must have many stories to share then." Strahd turned towards the gates of the castle, before looking back at Oak over his shoulder, his sharp features turned upwards. "You will join me for a meal, won't you Oak'lahoma?"