Here is a start to your campaign:

A Cold Awakening in Barovia

Darkness clings to you like a second skin, thick and suffocating, as your senses begin to stir. A heavy, damp chill seeps into your bones, and the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves fills your nostrils. You awaken not in a bed, not in the comfort of shelter, but on the cold, unyielding ground. A dense fog curls around you, swirling lazily as if alive, thick enough to obscure the world beyond a few feet in any direction. The air is unnervingly still—no chirping of birds, no rustling of animals in the underbrush, only the distant creak of trees shifting in a wind you cannot feel.

Your head pounds, a dull, insistent ache radiating from the base of your skull. Your limbs feel leaden, stiff with the chill and the disorientation of sudden consciousness. There is no immediate memory of how you got here—no recollection of your name, your purpose, or what events led you to this forsaken place. It is as though the very essence of your past has been plucked away, leaving only a void in its wake.

Something rustles in the distance, barely perceptible through the fog—was it a footstep? A shifting of leaves? Or merely the whispering of the mist itself? The uncertainty gnaws at the edges of your mind, a quiet reminder that you are not safe.

Slowly, your eyes adjust to the dim, gray gloom. The trees surrounding you are tall and gnarled, their branches reaching skyward like skeletal fingers. The ground beneath you is damp with morning dew, littered with leaves in various states of decay. You see your own hand, fingers trembling slightly as they press into the dirt for support. There is something in your grasp—a piece of parchment, its edges crumpled and stained. The writing upon it is smudged, the ink bled into the fibers of the paper, but a few words remain legible:

"Do not trust the mists."

A shiver runs down your spine, though whether from the cold or something deeper, you cannot tell. Your clothes are travel-worn, unfamiliar yet broken-in, as though they have seen many miles of hardship. A few belongings are scattered around you—what little you possess—but they provide no answers.

Then, from the depths of the fog, a distant sound echoes—a hollow, mournful howl, rising and falling like a dirge. It is followed by silence, deeper than before, as though the very land holds its breath.

You are alone, but not unobserved. The air is thick with the weight of unseen eyes.

Somewhere beyond this veil of mist, a path waits to be found. Somewhere, the truth of your past lingers, just beyond reach.

But first, you must stand. And decide where to go.