Session 6 - All is Not Well

7th Day of the 3rd Quarter of the Moon of Songs, Season of Wines, Year 766.

Days in Barovia: 3. A half-moon rises.

When Morning Gilds the Skies

Clarence and Paris, in the servant’s quarters, were woken by the sound of the nearby kitchen. As they began to rise, a woman’s voice at the door called for Greta, and the doorknob turned. “Go away!” Clarence boomed, slamming the door with magical force as it opened. “Do not disturb those who are your superior in power!”

“Excuse me, but this is my house, and I will not be talked to so by the staff!” came the indignant voice of the woman.

“I am no servant!”

Paris sighed, wrapping himself in a fine dressing gown. “Clarence, just put your trousers on and open the door.”

The door opened to reveal what must be the baroness, who was somewhat surprised to see the two magic users – she apologised, she’d forgotten they had visitors. Her husband had mentioned that he’d found some hedge wizards to teach Victor, and queried if that’s who they were, and when they would begin his lessons if so.

“We will endeavour to teach him some… control,” said Clarence, “although, order is just the imposition of human minds on the raw universe below! POWER!” It was a little early in the morning for the warlock.

This drew a strange look from the baroness but her husband had already vetted the wizards and she trusted his judgement. She chided Clarence and Paris for their morning tardiness, and went off to find the servants.

...

Meanwhile, Dickie and Cornelius awoke in the bedroom of the baron’s son. The room was handsomely appointed, with fine furniture; when they had entered there had been an ornate gilded birdcage on the mantelpiece but that had mysteriously disappeared… likely into Dickie’s bag.

There was a large, soft bed that Cornelius commandeered and slept very well in. His manservant, relegated to sleeping on the floor, had a more restless night. Dickie had left the party to do some investigating during the night; he took the opportunity of being in private with his master to debrief Cornelius.

Having contacted a Vistani in the Blue Water Inn, Dickie learnt that there was good trade in valuable commodities. On a more concerning note, the town had festivals every week; those who aren’t happy about them were dragged off to the stocks, or the baron’s mansion.

              

Cornelius wasn’t too concerned about the festivals. “We can find these relics of Saint Mark or Andrew or whatever, flog them for cash, high-tail it out of here, and take whatever money we get with us.” Dickie told him selling such relics is dangerous in Barovia; even just old bones. “Probably not even human bones, you know these churchy types.”

Dickie had also heard about a “monster hunter”, well regarded by the locals at the Inn, who had been looking for help from local wolf-hunters.

              

“He’s paying well for able bodies to take him to a haunted ruin to the south-west. ‘Ere, when we got our fortune told back with the Vistani, didn’t something get said about a monster hunter?”

“I have absolutely no idea Dickie, I didn’t pay that any bother. As you know Dickie, we kill a hundred wolves for breakfast! I say we find this ‘monster-hunter’ chap, take him to whatever ruin he wants to see, take his money, cut him a couple of times, take his stuff and then scarper with the rest of our winnings.”

“A shrewd plan, milord,” Dickie said sardonically, “you truly have a mind for business.”

“That’s why I’m in charge, Dickie.”

There was a knock on the door. Dickie opened it to find a member of the Vallakovich staff, with a message for Cornelius. Ismark, the brother of Ireena, awaited them outside, here to pay their reward for successfully escorting his sister from Barovia to Vallaki. On their way down the stairs Cornelius and Dickie ran into Clarence and Paris, heading upwards to find Victor. Cornelius informed them of Ismark’s appearance, and they party went to greet the Barovian as a whole.

Ismark awaited them on the road outside of the house, almost exactly as they saw him last, except for a travelling cloak and a burlap sack.

“Greetings Ismark. How was the journey to fair, er…” Dickie helped; “Vallaki, milord.” “Exactly!”

Ismark’s journey had been fine; he told them he’d left almost two days after the Bullingdons, having completed his business in the village, and had been fortunate enough to hitch a ride on a Vistani wagon for most of the way.

He thanked them for bringing Ireena to Vallaki, and threw the sack towards Dickie. “Your reward, as promised.”

While Dickie hefted the bag, hearing the pleasing clink of coins within, Paris queried “Ismark, if you don’t mind me asking, why did you follow us so quickly?”

“Well, I didn’t. As I said in Barovia, I would have come with you but I had to sort out some things in the village. Once that was done, which took me a couple of days, I left to join you and as I said the Vistani gave me a ride. When did you reach Vallaki?”

“You have taken care of the loose ends left by the unfortunate death of your father?” Clarence confirmed.

Ismark smiled. “Everything in Barovia has been… taken care of.”

The Devil You Know

Dickie took the sack over to Cornelius and opened it for his master to inspect. Among the glitter of copper and electrum and gold, Cornelius saw a slack face with tangled hair and dead eyes; a severed head. The severed head… of Ismark.

Cornelius, aghast, pulled the held the head up for his companions to see. The Ismark stood before them began to laugh, deep and mirthless and chilling. Dickie’s hand went to the Bullingdon rapier as the illusion fell, Ismark’s face dropping away to reveal the cruel and noble features of Strahd Von Zarovich. Paris screamed, and Clarence lecturing about how the difference between death and life were trivialities in the grand scheme of things, which everyone ignored.

Cornelius whipped the head around by the hair – “Fiend! Murderer! Blood-sucking vampire!” and hurled the body part at Strahd. The clumsy missile flew wide, onto the road behind. Dickie dropped the sack of coins and drew his sword, ready to defend himself from the monster. Cornelius closed the gap, and his gnarled fists lashed out, but with almost imperceptible movements Strahd avoided the first blow; the second landed, hitting a body as hard as steel.

“I visited Ireena last night.” The creature ignored Cornelius’ attack. “I crossed the threshold of that church, where I have not trod in generations.” His gaze found Dickie, and the manservant was overwhelmed by a force of will as strong as a gale. The fear of the vampire was replaced by feelings of friendship and trust, to be heeded and protected, as Dickie fell to Strahd’s vampiric charm.

“Aaah, fiend! Keep away from Ireena!” Paris drew his Wand of Illusory Fireballs with a flourish, and a fireball tumbled towards Strahd… who simply waved his hand and dismissed the illusion. “I have been practicing the arcane arts for four hundred years. You cannot fool me.”

Clarence realised this was not a time for lecturing. He made the strategic decision that attacking Strahd was unwise; getting someone else to attack Strahd would be better, and Dickie was stood there sword out not doing anything. He whispered to the thief-turned-servant, “Dickie, get him!” pointing at Strahd, and stepped to put Paris between himself and the monster.

Dickie was now under the influence of conflicting magical motivations. For now, Clarence’s won through, and the rapier was thrust into the torso of Strahd. As the blade withdrew, Dickie felt a suction as the wound seemed to close even as the blade moved away.

Cornelius again struck at the devil, with a flurry of blows. Again, the devil stepped around the blows, as if Cornelius were shadowboxing. A tin whistle pierced the air, and two of Vallaki’s guards came running down the street, one of them shouting “To arms! To arms!”

As Cornelius struck, Strahd spoke. “She called for me. I answered. And now she is… more willing.” The vampire’s open hand lashed out, cracking Cornelius across the jaw. His gaze turned to Dickie – “Stop!” – but Clarence’s suggestion still overpowered the vampire’s charm.

“Come on Cornelius, you’re a vampire slayer!” Paris slapped his employer on the rump, and Cornelius felt the pain in his jaw dim, and his confidence reinvigorated by the words of his employee. Clarence released a small blast of eldritch energy at the vampire, perfectly aimed but completely ineffective.

Strahd laughed mockingly at the party as thunder boomed.  Lightning crashed above them, and the heavens opened, heavy rain pouring upon the fight in the street.

Dickie stabbed the vampire clean through the neck. “I’m so sorry about this!” the manservant cried, under the combined effects of two magical compulsions. As the blade withdrew, the wound closed shut before Dickie’s eyes.

“Fight like a man, you girl!” Cornelius shouted in response to the slap, and landed two clean punches; blows that would have rattled a mortal opponent, even broken bones, but the vampire didn’t seem to notice them.

“Stop! Stop fighting in the streets! Er, you’re all under arrest!” The guard called out from a safe distance, his comrade still blowing the whistle.

Strahd stepped back from Cornelius. “Lay off your dogs, Bullingdon, and fight me like a man.” He spread his arms wide. “You claim to be a vampire slayer? Slay me!”

Paris leapt into action. “Ok, I’ll cast… no that won’t work, maybe I can… oh wait, how about I… no, no, come on Paris…damn it! Fear the might of the Bullingdons, Strahd!” The psychic lash of the taunt made Strahd wince.

Clarence wove a glamour to disguise himself as the baron, and in the baron’s voice he shouted at the guards to attack the vampire. The guards didn’t look convinced. Dickie succumbed to his conflicted state and froze, looking from Strahd – “I’m sorry, my lord!” – back to Cornelius – “I’m sorry, my lord!”.

Cornelius told the guards and his comrades to stand back and launched himself again at Strahd. Again, Strahd dodged his blows with ease. “I am the lord and master of Barovia. This land is steeped in the blood of foreign heroes!”

Paris cried out, voice shaking: “We are not just heroes! We are vampire-slaying heroes!” and again the words cut into Strahd’s psyche and the vampire winced. For a briefest moment the party heard the lub-dub, lub-dub of a great beating heart.

Clarence, startled, tried to identify the sound; a direct response to the damage Paris dealt to Strahd, he discerned, and the sound was the result of some enchantment or ward tied to the vampire.

Dickie was still too conflicted to act; Cornelius was not, and his fist caught Strahd square on the jaw but the vampire was barely moved. He grabbed Cornelius around the arms biceps, drawing him close. “No matter what the fortune of the cards foretold; no matter the trinkets you gather, the allies you surround yourself with; no matter if you face me like a man, Cornelius Bullingdon, or run like a dog… You will die here.”

“How about less monologues and more punching!” called Paris, but this time the vampire ignored the barb.

The telepathic voice of Clarence forced its way into Dickie’s skull – “What are you doing, you fool? Stop standing there!” whilst the baron’s voice emitted from Clarence’s mouth – “What am I paying you for! Get in there! Arrest that man!” and the guards saw the baron point at Strahd. At this point, the clamouring of whistles became louder, and another dozen guardsmen came charging in from the top of the street. They were led Izek, monstrous arm holding a huge battleaxe.

“I think you have things wrong, sir! I will defeat you! I will liberate this land from your vile evil!” Cornelius shouted, glancing around to make sure the guards could hear, “and when I am done with you, I shall return and reclaim my homeland, for I intend to die in Saxonia!” And then, arms restrained, the nobleman attempted to head-butted Strahd.

The vampire just lifted Cornelius clean off his feet, then pulled him in close- the devil pushed his mouth against Cornelius’ neck, and there was no warm breath, just dry, cold lips, and the sharp pain of two pinpricks as the vampire’s teeth pushed into the jugular. Cornelius’ eyes managed to roll towards his brother; he croaked out “Tell them… I never surrendered…” and fell limp.

Strahd dropped the body like a ragdoll, and began again laughing, without humour or mirth, at the rest of the Bullingdon Boys. “I am the ancient,” he said, “I am the land!” and as he laughed, lightning flashed, thunder rolled, the rain fell, and the vampire vanished, the laughter fading on the wind.

That Old Black Magic

As the guards approached the party, Paris called out “Now wait just one second! Our leader has just been killed! Everyone needs to calm down and help us take control of the situation.” Izek succumbed to the magic lacing the words, and threw out an arm to halt the guards. He bowed to Clarence, in disguise as the baron, and asked how he could be of assistance.

Clarence approached the unconscious body of his brother, muttering to himself “My declarations of earlier to the contrary… about how there is really no difference between life and death… and it’s all really meaningless, and we are all but sparks in the void… Well, I still feel the flow of life on my brother.” He touched the body and through the slightest magical impulse halted Cornelius’ descent into death.

Dickie ran to the side of his master, checking his pulse, checking for signs of life. His heart still beat, if faintly. “He yet lives! His might is too great, even for the devil himself!”

“Aah! He is undead!” cried Paris. “Undead do not have a pulse, Paris. As you yourself taught me!” Clarence remembered he was disguised as the baron. “Ah… As you taught me last night? I remember you telling me.”

At Paris’ command, the charmed Izek lifted Cornelius like a child. Clarence-as-the-baron told him to dismiss the guard, as the Bullingdons had handled everything. As Izek dismissed the guards back to their posts, a voice above called out “Father! Father! Send me that man!” A gangly teenager was leaning out of an attic window, shouting at the baron/Clarence and pointing at Paris. “I saw him do a fireball! I want to learn the fireball!” 

“Yes, yes, of course my sweet fluffykins, I will of course send him to you!” The window slammed shut and the boy withdrew, whilst Paris spluttered.

The ‘baron’ dismissed himself, and shortly Clarence appeared from around a corner. Dickie retrieved the sack of coins that had held Ismark’s head, and Clarence retrieved the head itself as Izek carried Cornelius into the mansion. 

Remembering his restless sleep of the night before, Dickie checked the journal that on the first night in Barovia had recorded his dreams. It held a new entry, again in his own hand writing; describing his pursuit by some mysterious, horrible beast.

As Cornelius rested, Dickie stayed at his side faithfully, while Clarence and Paris went off to discuss matters arcane, find books to read and serving girls to woo. Eventually Cornelius regained consciousness. Bleary eyed, the first thing he saw was his dour manservant.

“Dickie! You… You killed yourself so you could serve your master in heaven?”

Dickie sighed. “You yet live, my lord.”

“Oh. So Strahd is defeated?”

“He fled, sir. Clearly you broke his spirit.”

“Again? He fears we great vampire hunters!” Cornelius gloated. “But never matter. Did you get the sack of money?”  

Dickie confirmed that the money and Ismark’s head had been recovered. Cornelius, when asked, was feeling fit as a fiddle, and declared that they should bring Clarence and Paris the good news.

Clarence was in the smoking room, deeply engrossed in his arcane tome, making a strange gesture with his left hand. Paris was in the kitchen, regaling the female servant with tales of his heroism. As Cornelius and Dickie reached the bottom of the stairs, the real baron came through the front door. His dogs, as ever, trailed his heels.

“What’s going on here, I heard there was some sort of ruckus!”

“Strahd came, my dear friend baron!” Cornelius explained, “And we saw him off! Behold, the vampire slayer remains unslain.”

The baron blinked at Cornelius in amazement, thoroughly convinced. He was amazed that both the devil had come to Vallaki, and that the Bullingdons had driven him off. Paris and Clarence approached at the conversation.

“Oh I wish that I had seen it with my own eyes. I suppose I’ll have to ask Izek to debrief me. Well I sup-“

“Don’t ask Izek to debrief you, he’s been traumatized.” Recalling that Izek and the guards had all seen ‘the baron’ on scene, Paris acted quickly. “In fact, don’t speak to anyone about it. Only speak to us about the event.”

“Izek, traumatized? Ah, is that something to do with this sister of his?” The baron queried, bemused.

“I couldn’t say, but if you mention it to him he starts to cry and runs off. So I’d keep it to yourself for, say, about a year?”

“Ah, I suppose if that’s what you think is best.” The baron retreated to his library, confused by the whole affair but convinced that the Bullingdon Boys were legitimate heroes of the day.

Clarence pursued the baron, seeking to get confirmation of payment for teaching his son, before they begin. Baron Vallakovich was a little surprised at this, as he understood that Paris was the tutor and that payment was to be arranged with the whole party present. Clarence was persistent and managed to coax a pouch of gold, payment for the first lesson, with the caveat that the arrangement for further payment would be negotiated later and openly with the rest of the group.

Paris and Clarence had a small discussion about how they were going to approach the magic lessons.

“Paris, shall we proceed to introduce the young man to the wonders of the arcane arts?”

“Er, yes, but, ah, we’re… not actually going to show him anything, are we?”

“I see no reason why not.”

“What are you going to show him?”

Clarence began to cackle. “That which lies beyond the borders of the universe that man can ever comprehend!”

“Ok, ok, but just don’t tell him my fireballs are illusions, ok?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t let him use the wand.”

“Of course.”

“Ok. Fine.”

The pair headed upstairs, then up again, to the door that lead to the attic. Upon the door, someone had carved a large skull, and from the handle hung a sign that read All is NOT well!

Clarence approached the door cautiously and summoned a spectral hand to knock. As the mage-hand touched the door, a glyph on the door lit up and emitted a bolt of lightning at the hand… to no effect.

From within, a voice shouted “Go away!”

“I am Clarence Bullingdon, and this is my companion Par-“

“I am Paris Digby, mighty wizard!” Paris interrupted.

The door was heaved open and the gangly Victor Vallakovich stood infront of them. “Are you going to teach me the fireball?”

Paris replied “Err, I can certainly show you fireball. And I can show you everything I know, but this talent isn’t something everyone possesses.”

The teenager insisted he was talented; he’d been teaching himself, he could do advanced spells. He invited them in to his attic workroom. On top of a pine box, there was the animated skeleton of a cat stretching lazily; a couple more cat skeletons wandered around.

“Don’t mind the cats, they’re something I’ve been testing on. You see, I can do the magics!”

Victor explained how he had found an old spellbook in his father’s library and had been teaching himself from it. He held it out for them to see; an old leatherbound tome, full of arcane writing. He enquired as to where Paris’ spellbook was.

“Who needs a spellbook when it’s all up here?” Paris said, tapping his temple. “Only the best wizards have no need of spellbooks!”

Clarence disagreed. “A spellbook can be most helpful in forcing a semblance of order on the raw mitigated power that lurks just beneath the surface of reality!”

“Oh, for some folk, certainly.”

“It provides a conduit! Behind which your will is expressed on the fabric of the universe itself!”

Victor was staring wide-eyed at Clarence. He silently mouthed the word yes.

As Paris didn’t have a spellbook, Victor was convinced that he wasn’t a real wizard, as real wizards all had spellbooks. He asked the pair if they knew how to make a teleportation circle.

“Of course,” lied Paris, “elementary.”

“Oh, good.” Victor pulled away a large rug on the floor, revealing a circle scrawled on to the floor, surrounded with arcane runes, decorated with candles, cat skulls and strange patches of dried fluid. “I think I’m almost done.” He flipped his spellbook open to reveal a diagram very similar to that chalked on the ground. “You’ll help me finish this spell and I can be free of this horrible place!”

“Now, you’ve made a very basic error here,” Paris said smugly as he desperately tried to recall everything he knew of the Teleportation Circle spell. “There needs to be a second circle elsewhere.”

“I know.” Victor showed them again the book, and indicated the sigils that linked to three different locations, outside of Barovia.

“You’re trying to get out of Barovia?” Paris asked.

“Of course I’m trying to get out of Barovia! Why would anybody stay here?”

Paris paused. “Good point.”

Clarence asked to examine the book. Victor acquiesced, but only on the condition that while Clarence inspected Victor’s book, Victor could examine Clarence’s; cautiously, they exchanged books.

Victor’s spell book must have belonged to a powerful Wizard; it contained spells Clarence had never heard of, the purpose of which he could not discern.

Clarence’s book was a forbidden tome that he had stolen; bound with seven sigils, locked with seven chains, and warded by seven spirits, it contained knowledge not meant for the feeble minds of men, written in a forgotten language from beyond time. Clarence was not concerned that this boy would find anything useful within.

“What language is this? It’s all just, it’s gobbledegook, it’s… nonsense… Is this even. Hmm.” Victor became engrossed in the book, holding it close to his face, drawing his fingers down the pages.

“Do you-“ Victor waved a hand at Clarence to shush him. He looked up from the book, towards the pair. “This… This is power.”

“Oh dear,” thought Clarence, “I may have made a mistake…”

...

Meanwhile, Cornelius and Dickie had left for the Church of St. Andral, to see if Strahd had spoken true about Ireena and to deliver her brother’s head to her...