Pias wasn't in the finest of moods to begin with when the rap of Bucren's knife hilt echoed through the dingy little tavern.  To start with the cards just weren't being kind to him today.  Now it was night in Barovia and the lean gypsy lad already had a full decanter of watered down wine simmering in his belly.  And he was on door duty.  He was always stuck on door duty.  It was part of the price for being the lowest on totem pole.  He got the job no one else wanted, but everyone wanted done right.<br/><br/>So he was right pissed when the game halted and he left to go answer the knock at the door.  Leaving his three comrades from the gypsy camp to sip their equally watered down wine in silence.  Being called a little shit by some outsider that was lucky to still be alive in this hell hole caused his blood to boil.  "Aoi, is tha you Bucren ya fuck and yer infected fuckin arm."  He snapped back as the taunt drew him in towards the viewing slot, just close enough for Bucrens hand to snatch up the loose and thin deep green tunic and vest that covered his compact chest.<br/><br/>Pias grunted spittle into Bucrens wrist when the side of his head smacked into the door as the stronger woodsman on the other side pulled him in.  "Ya know tha deal.  Five gold a head.  Most ya gonna do to me is club my pretty little head against this door.  Lot worse is gonna happen to you, out there."  Pias hissed back into the slat as the sharp tip of a needle thin dirk pressed into the underside of Bucren's wrist.  "Now ya let tha fuck go or ya gonna have anotha wound."  The point of the dagger caused Bucren to relent.<br/><br/>"Tha's better."  Pias composed himself as he took a step back from the door and fixed his ruffled up shirt.  "Now the doors gonna open and your gonna have five gold a head ready or we're gonna boot ya back out into tha night."  Pias said sternly as he began to lift the beams that barricaded the door away.  After he set the slabs of timber aside Pias began to unlock the deadbolts before he swung the door open wide.<br/><br/>The weasel faced gypsy with colorfully beaded long dark hair peered out into the night at the four and with a voice that was full of urgency he grumbled.  "Now get inside and put the gold on tha table and find yaselves a place to sit."  Arik the gaunt looking bartender barely lifted his head to look towards the door as he quietly took a rag to a glass, cleaning it to perfection.  From the looks of it, the glasses that lined the shelf behind the bar were the only things kept in any state of excellence here.  The rest of the interior of what was surely once a fine and favorable establishment had all fallen into disrepair and was left in shoddy shape at best.<br/><br/>But still a modest fire from a hearth off to the corner spread warmth and flickering shadows through out the taverns confines.  The three gypsies from Pias's table watched quietly as the group was hurriedly ushered in by the door warden.  They had seen plenty of things over the years here in Barovia, but still visitors to the Vine after the sun had fallen were a rarity.  A rarity that most often meant visitors had arrived in Barovia.  And visitors meant trouble.  The variety of blades kept in sheathes that the three of them gripped let it be known that they were ready for trouble.  Off in the shadows at the far corner of the inn hall sat a lone and mysterious figure that quietly sipped from a glass of wine.<br/><br/>There were plenty of open tables available, the rest of them in fact were open.  Each with an unlit thick red candles that sat in the center waiting to be lit.  In the shadows towards the far right, near the mysterious gentleman that Bucren recognized as Ismark, the son of the Burgomaster, was a flight of stairs that led upward towards the inns rooms.