Session 11 - A Tower of Bronze

1st Day of the 4th Quarter of the Moon of Songs, Season of Wines, Year 766.

Days in Barovia: 4. The moon waxes gibbous.

Glory Be

A hush fell through the church as the glow of Strahd’s radiant destruction faded. Beyond the doorway, symbol of the Morninglord upon his chest, stood Cornelius Bullingdon. The rain stopped. The clouds… parted. Sunlight silhouetted Cornelius, and for a moment the church was dappled in kaleidoscope as it blossomed through the stained glass depictions of pious saints.  “A miracle! The Morninglord’s blessing!” came Father Petrovich’s cry.

Then, thunder rumbled; and the clouds closed over; and the rain began to pour anew. Little joy or awe lit the faces of Vallaki’s townsfolk, cowering among the pews; fear was written there, and some confusion, and on many the familiar slack expressionlessness that seemed common among Barovians.

Cornelius raised his fists in triumph as he entered the church, and raised his voice too, singing the Towton Beating Song. Clarence, Paris and Dickie, scattered around the church, joined in enthusiastically, while the townfolk watched in ever growing bemusement.

Vargas Vallakovich, standing at the front of the church where he had retreated from Strahd, clapped his hands enthusiastically as the singing ended. “Yes, yes excellent! My goodness Cornelius, you’ve done it! You killed him! We are all free! Do you hear that everyone? All that I have done has paid off, we-”

Cornelius unceremoniously shoved the baron aside and turned to face the congregation. “Oh, excuse me Cornelius, please, do-“

“Quiet, baron. People of Vallaki! I know what you are all wondering in this moment. You are wondering… Who is this great saviour who defeated the devil Strahd?”

“They don’t need to wonder, Cornelius,” the baron interrupted, “They all know who I am!”

“Not you. Who is this mighty hero who has avenged so many fallen before the devil? Tell me his name, so I may proclaim it from the rooftops, and say to every man I meet, “That man is the finest of men”! I will tell you – his name is Cornelius Pfeffil Bullingdon the third: marquis of Saxonia, saviour of Barovia, mighty servant of the Morninglord!”

Paris, Dickie and Clarence- alone among those within the church excepting Vargas and Victor Vallakovich, who joined in- began to clap but Cornelius held out his hands for quiet.

“But Cornelius Bullingdon does not work alone – oh no. My success is owed to my mighty and powerful friends. My brother, Clarence Bullingdon! Mighty and powerful wizard, master of many magics-” Clarence, still in the frontmost pew, turned to the citizenry and took an elaborate bow- “His teacher, Paris Digby, arch-mage!” Paris waved demurely from the back of the aisle- “And of course, my loyal and faithful manservant, Richard Tah… Tuh… Um, Turner? Richard Turner?” Bren “Dickie” Tanner sighed. “These are the Bullingdon Boys! So cheer for us, citizens of Vallaki! Cheer bully! Bully! Bully!”

“Oi! Oi! Oi!”

“Hooray! Hooray!” the thin cheers of Victor joined the Bullingdon Boys’, but the crowd was looking at this point almost bored; an atmosphere of resignation similar to that among the crowd when the Baron spoke during the Festival of the Blazing Sun.

“For goodness sake!” The baron shouted at the crowd, “Would it behove you to be happy for once? Couldn’t you even crack a smile? What have I been telling you these past years? All will be well! And now, finally, thanks to our friends the Bullingdons, finally! All is well!”

“All is not well, Vargas,” a voice from the crowd responded. It was the burly inkeep with the black streak in his beard; the man who had spoken against the executions earlier in the day. You think if the Devil could be defeated by throwing him into a church some other idiot wouldn’t have done it by now? All you will have done is anger him, and it is the good folk of this town who will pay for it, Vargas. Not you, not your friends. As always.” The innkeeper gathered his family and left the church; townsfolk were starting to trickle out now the excitement was over and the exit was unblocked.

As the other Bullingdon Boys gathered with Cornelius, he delivered a small on how, while they did not expect a payment for defeating Strahd, they would accept any charitable donations; but this bequest fell flat upon the gathered peasantry of Vallaki.

Father Petrovich put his hand on Cornelius’ shoulder. “Truly it was a great victory over the devil, and the Morninglord showed his power. But I do not feel the full radiance of our lord on this land- his light is yet distant. Strahd von Zarovich is tied to this land in ways I cannot explain. If he were truly gone… It would be more apparent.”

This was met by incredulity from Clarence and Paris. They’d seen him get vaporised – he’d disappeared – of course he was dead!

“Wait, Paris, wait,” Cornelius murmured as the Wizard protested; then, raising his voice: “If Strahd is not dead, I promise that the Bullingdon Boys will hunt him down. If Strahd appears again, we will fight him once more. We will travel the length and breadth of Barovia, and spread the light of the Morninglord as we go.”

The baron grasped Cornelius’ arm, glanced lengthways at the crowd, and in a lowered voice asked “But he is dead, isn’t he, Cornelius?”

“I mean, he looked pretty dead?” Cornelius whispered back.

“He’s always looked pretty dead!”

“He looks like he’s been turned into dust and ashes! Some smoke!”

The baron glanced nervously to the spot where Strahd had disappeared, as a voice cut across the church – “Father! Is the feast finished yet? I want to go on my adventure!”

The Bullingdons, Vargas reminded them, had already been paid in part for Victor’s “field trip”. Clarence assured the baron that they would be taking the boy with them. Referencing their recently acquired map, Clarence thought they could reach Lake Baratok before nightfall that evening; and the rest of the party agreed that they shouldn’t tarry in the town any longer.

“Goodbye father! I’m going on an adventure!” cried Victor, and with that, the Bullingdon Boy’s left Vallaki.

…

The Bully Boys left Vallaki by the sunset gate, and followed the road west. After a half-hour of trudging through the rain the road came to a four-way intersection, branching away from the road they were on to the northeast, southwest and southeast. There was a fallen signpost which once correctly aligned indicated that Vallaki and Ravenloft lay behind them; Berez to the southeast, Krezk and Tsolenka Pass to the southwest, and Lake Baratok, their destination, to the northwest.

“’Scuse me lad, you know about this Berez place?” Dickie asked Victor.

“Berez? There was a village there, but it washed away in a flood. What you get for making your village below the waterline in a swamp, that’s what father says. No one lives there anymore.”

The northwest branch climbed gently, becoming a dirt trail through the woods within half a mile. The trees grew closer and roots and foliage covered the path. A few miles further along the path, the sound of voices trickled through the trees, and the Bullingdons saw a group of men approaching the road from the woods to the north.

It was a group of muddy, weary Vistani, who stepped into the road ahead of the Bully Boys. After an initially terse exchange, Victor revealed he was the baron’s son, and the Vistani were suddenly much more interested. They laughed off Cornelius’ claim to have killed Strahd, and told the party they were searching for a little girl called Arabelle. Dickie recalled a Vistani in the village of Barovia who had been doing the same; it turned out the girl was the daughter of the leader of the band of Vistani these belonged to. The party hadn’t seen her, and the Vistani let them be.

The Most Merciful Thing in the World

Some time later, continuing along the path, they came to a cold mountain lake enclosed by the misty woods and rocks bluffs. Thick fog creeped across the dark, still waters. The trail ended where a causeway juts into the lake; at the end of this spit there stood a tower of bronze.

              

The metal gleamed as if new, and the structure appeared seamless; as if the great cylinder had been cast as a single piece, some eighty feet tall. Before the end of a trail, as if someone had drawn a circle centred on the tower, the foliage – grass, shrubs, weeds, flowers – stopped, as if the land beyond has been sown with salt.

Parked just before this terminus was a barrel-topped wagon spattered with mud, similar to the wagons of the Vistani. The lake was very still, very quiet, except for the creak of the trees in the wind and the occasional croaking of frogs.

The line beyond which nothing grew – the terminus – stood Dickie’s hairs on end. He snapped a green twig from the branch of a tree and threw it across; nothing happened. “Well, that’s reassuring,” he said aloud, not really reassured.

“Indeed,” intoned Clarence. “Shall we see if someone’s in that wagon, then perhaps pitch camp for the night before exploring the tower further in the morning?”

No light came from the wagon, which looked well maintained if road-weary. Clarence called out to anyone inside, with no response. Cornelius, never one for subtlety, approached the wagon and threw open the back door. There was a faint tinkling and a whoosh, and he managed to twist in place and dodge as a bottle on a wire swung through the door; the bottle carried on past him and shattered on the lip of the wagon’s roof. The alchemist’s fire within ignited, catching Cornelius with patches of liquid ember.

“A fiendish trap!” Cornelius shouted, patting himself out. “Dickie, I think you should go in first!”

Dickie, who was very much one for subtlety, circled the wagon cautiously. Beneath the mud there was a nice layer of purple paint; the wheels had a golden trim. The driver’s seat was painted with swirling silver patterns that looked mystical. “Something written round the driver’s seat; might be magic but I’m not one to say,” he said in the direction of the wizards.

“Well I’m sure I can tell you either way,” said Paris, taking a closer look at the feature. After a moment, he said “It’s almost certainly unimportant. Just looks like mumbo-jumbo to me, probably done by someone who fancies themselves as a magic user but can’t string an invocation together.”

Within the wagon, which Dickie determined to be free of further traps, were a number of trunks; one covered in claw marks, one embossed with the symbol of the morning lord, another unadorned. A sculpted wooden cage held a chicken; pots and pans hung above a desk on which there lay a pair of scrolls, various tools, some manacles and a lyre with golden strings.

“Best as I can tell it’s safe,” Dickie informed his companions. “Best I can tell it’s… I dunno… wizard shit?”

“Oooh, wizard shit!” Victor exclaimed, climbing into the wagon. With Clarence’s approval, the young man thumbed through his spellbook to find a spell which would detect magic, and cast it. He looked around the room, blinking, and pointed at the scrolls on the desk; at the wooden chest bearing the symbol with the Morninglord; he pointed at Dickie, saying “You’re wearing lots of magic!”, and he pointed to the front of the wagon, to the drivers seat on the other side of the plank wall.

“Now Victor, you’re clearly confused,” said Cornelius, holding up his sun-embossed medallion. “I am the one wearing a magical item, not Dickie.”

Victor squinted at the presented amulet and shrugged. “Eh, magical. A little bit.”

Cornelius laid claim to the chest bearing the symbol of his “great patron”, the Morninglord, but Clarence suggested caution; there appeared to be nothing to stop them looting the wagon after their business in the tower was completed.

Victor was somewhat disappointed to find that neither of the scrolls had the fireball spell; one was necromantic in nature, the other removed curses, both, in his opinion, were boring magic.

Dickie started to set up camp, but Paris stopped him. “No need for tents- I’ve picked up a new trick you might like. Hold on to your hats.”

He waved his hands and a golden, sparkling dome rose out of the ground until it stood a half-sphere ten foot tall. Noticing the lack of any apparent entrance on the structure, Cornelius asked how they were supposed to get in.

“Well,” Paris said smugly, “You simply wave your hands like this-” he flourished extravagantly- “and say the password. Which is ‘Paris’.”  And with that, Paris strolled confidently through the seemingly solid wall.

“Well I suppose it saves us from having to put up a tent,” Clarence said with a hint of jealousy.

Dickie looked glumly at the tents he had been hauling since they reached Barovia. “Indeed.”

The evening light was fading and the party cooked some food, ate, and settled into the golden dome to sleep. After a few hours, Clarence awoke; quietly, he got to his feet, and stepped outside the hut. Despite Clarence’s attempted stealth, the light-sleeping Dickie awoke at his movements. As Clarence rekindled the embers of the fire from their meal, Dickie passed through the wall on the opposite side of the dome, so the structure obscured him from the younger Bullingdon. Clarence returned to the dome, and, not noticing Dickie’s absence, roused Victor.

“Ssh. Come out with me, pupil. There is much that I must tell you,” Clarence whispered into Victor’s mind. They sat before the fire. “There is much that I must tell you before tomorrow, for I believe that you will be called upon to make a decision, and it is one you must make with full knowledge.” Clarence revealed his Tome of Shadows, as Dickie watched from the shadows. “You remember this?” Victor nodded, eyes hungry.

“It was locked with seven chains; bound with seven seals, and warded by seven spirits. For five years I lingered in the mountains, seeking to open the book. I knew it was important to do so but had no idea why.

I dispelled each sigil, killed each spirit, and shattered every chain, until but a single chain remained between me and my prize. Until, at last, exhausted and despairing, I stooped against a chestnut tree behind my hut. The roots of the tree sank into the ground under my bench; but all at once I couldn’t remember it was a root anymore. The words vanished, and with them the significance of things, the methods of use and the feeble points of reference that man has traced upon their surface!”

So Clarence continued, on and on, about how “individuality was a veneer”, “existence was an illusion”, and that there are “many more things that do not exist than ever have been”. He rambled about the limitations of existence and the greater powers that existed beyond the temporal. He cried out to the “Old Ones”, and told a bleary-eyed Victor of his pact with a nameless being who granted him great power- and through service to that being, Victor could obtain the same power.

After a long day of walking, exercise he was not used to, to have his sleep interrupted to listen to Clarence’s esoteric speechifying, Victor was not at his most coherent.

“Yes… and then I can learn the fireball?” he murmured sleepily.

“You shall become a font of arcane power! One who does not need to study each night from some spellbook, but merely to gaze upon and recognize all things to gain power.”

“Like how, ah,” Victor didn’t try to cover his yawn, “Like how master Paris doesn’t need a spellbook?”

Clarence grimaced. “No… Not like Paris.”

Clarence let his sleepy pupil return to sleep, who rubbed his eyes and walked back into the golden dome – forgetting to wave his hands and say ‘Paris’, but passing through nonetheless. Dickie, bemused what he had witnessed, followed shortly, while Clarence sat before the fire and studied his eldritch tome… finding something new within.

The Frog Remains

The party was roused by rain on their faces as Paris’ dome vanished; Dickie cursing the sky as he woke.

“Paris!” Cornelius called, “Paris, why is the dome gone?”

“I removed the dome because it was time for us all to wake up,” Paris said, thinking quickly.

“Couldn’t you have given us some warning?”

“Um… No?”

Rainwater was beginning to drip from the Cornelius’ moustache. “Dickie, towel me down for god’s sake. And next time Paris, give us some warning before you un-summon the dome.”

“Well next time I’ll know when it’s going to- I mean, yes. Next time there will be some warning.”

The Bullingdons gathered at the edge of the boundary where the grass stopped growing to examine the tower. Despite his architectural education in his youth at the University of Jutin, Cornelius made neither heads nor tails of the structure: had it not been stood before him, he would have declared it impossible.

Dickie eyed the ‘death-line’ with suspicion. Cornelius turned to his brother. “Well Clarence, you’re the one who wanted to come here. I suggest you go first.”

“Very well.” Clarence stepped across the terminus… and was hit by the taste of burnt metal in the back of his mouth, and felt a sudden disconnect from his arcane powers. He staggered, and his appearance shifted suddenly; his skin took on a sallow turn, and he appeared a little pudgier, and blemishes became apparent on his face, as the glamour he used to constantly improve his appearance fell. “This is indeed a powerful place,” he sputtered, as Paris looked at him in horror.

Dickie crossed the line, and spat as the bitter copper taste filled his mouth; otherwise he felt normal. Seeing this, Cornelius followed, but Paris hung back.

“Are, ah, are you really sure we need to go?”

Victor shook his hands as he came through, and complained loudly about not being able to cast spells; tentatively, Paris stepped across, grimacing at the feeling of deflation as he was separated from his magics.

They crossed the causeway extending across the lake to the tower, where a large door faced them, seemingly carved out of the metal of the tower itself. It was locked; Dickie got out his lockpicks, but as he began to fiddle he pulled his hands back sharply. A thin needle, a splinter, placed almost as to be invisible within the lock and prick the finger of any picking it, had just scraped the tip of Dickie’s finger but failed to penetrate the flesh. Nervously, the thief-come-manservant removed the offending object and finished picking the lock. The door swung open slowly.

“You go in first, Dickie,” Cornelius instructed.

Within the tower was a cold bronze space bereft of native furnishings, save a staircase spiralling up the wall. However, it appeared that the room had been recently occupied: a bedroll lay next to an unlit lantern and a traveller’s pack.

“Someone’s already here,” Dickie told his companions, unsheathing his sword. “Probably whoever the wagon belongs to.”

“How are we going to defend ourselves?” Paris asked, despairing at his lack of power.

Dickie rolled his eyes. “Swords, Paris. That thing on your belt? That you use to look charismatic? That’s a sword, you can use that to fight. Swords.”

Paris sighed, looking glumly at the sword he carried but very rarely used. “It’s not even sharpened.”

Among the mysterious stranger’s items, Dickie found a moleskin book; mostly empty, but with a few of the first pages filled. It was the diary of “R.v.R”, who had been using the antimagic field surrounding the tower to hide from Strahd’s divination magic – the Bullingdon’s weren’t pleased to learn of this ability of their foe – having been driven from Vallaki by the baron. Dickie deduced that the book – and therefore, presumably, the bedroll, the pack and even the wagon – belonged to the monster hunter they were looking to find in Argynvostholt.

Dickie closed the tower door behind them and they set up the spiral staircase. It climbed almost the entire height of the tower, and ended at another windowless room of bronze. This room had two features: extending out of the wall, a bench top, upon which a number of strange items were scattered; and in the centre of the room, a cube extended upwards from the floor, above which there floated a left hand of filigree and bronze, fingers and thumb in an arcane gesture. The top of the cube, beneath the impossibly floating hand, wove an intricate pattern, a sigil perfectly etched or engraved.

“Be careful,” Dickie warned, examining the desk: a chunk of amber; some parchment and ink, and a bronze-tipped pen; a length of shattered crystal that may once have been shaped as a sword blade, and a small bronze handbell. He muttered words once spoken in portent: “What you seek lies in a pile of treasure, behind a set of amber doors. A sword of sunlight.”

“Why are you reciting poetry, Dickie?” Cornelius asked.

“It just reminds me of something Madam Eva said to us.”

“Tell me you don’t put any stock by the silly ramblings of that card reader?”

Victor reached out to prod the floating hand, but was stopped as Dickie grasped his wrist. “Careful. This place is dangerous, I think.”

The boy sneered. “What do you know about magic? You’re just a servant.”

“I know plenty about traps,” Dickie growled.

Clarence reached past Dickie and Victor, and touched the hand, feeling cold metal. He pushed it, and pulled it, but it did not budge; it remained floating above the ensigiled cube. The pattern on the cube was familiar to Clarence; as with the tower, as with the severed hand, he had foreseen this in his book. As he poured over his tome last night a ritual, a ceremony, had been revealed to him; a ritual pertaining to this tower, this cube, this hand. He suspected that it would deactivate the antimagic field.

He called Victor to him, and asked Paris to go downstairs – he didn’t want the other magic user to see what was to come. Paris didn’t want to go alone, and even when Cornelius joined him, he harboured some doubts about splitting the party. Dickie remained at the top of the stairs. After what he’d seen last night, he wanted to keep an eye on Clarence.

Clarence opened his Tome of Shadow. He and Victor began the ceremony within. Downstairs, Paris waited nervously while Cornelius poked about at the previous inhabitant’s things. From upstairs they could hear Clarence’s low chanting and from outside the mutter of frogs on the lake. Bellow this mutter Paris thought he could hear a deeper tone. As he listened, it grew louder: Buuuuuh. Buuuuuh. The sound grew closer, until it was outside the door. Buuuuuuh.

“Wha, what is that?”

“Stand behind me, Paris!”

“Baaanderhobb,” the tone rumbled as Paris stepped behind Cornelius. The door swung open to reveal a monstrous figure, ten feet tall with huge orange eyes set wide apart above an impossible maw, a cleft that split the head almost in two. Razor sharp teeth were revealed as the mouth opened, and the bulging sack of flesh around the throat swelled. “Banderhobb.” The huge webbed feet made a horrible slapping noise as it stepped into the tower, upright on its two hind legs, long arms ending in taloned hands, a huge bulging belly, like a frog plucked from a nightmare.

The head turned lazily and the monsters gaze swept over Cornelius and Pairs; disinterested, it moved languorously to the stairs.

“Paris,” Cornelius didn’t take his eyes from the creature, “Is your magic working yet?”

“Ah- no,” Paris whimpered, drawing his rapier nervously.

As the slapping of webbed feet and croaking cry of “Banderhobb” came up the stairs, Dickie was drawn back to his nightmare of a few nights previous. “What’s happening?” he called down the stairs, drawing his sword.

“Could do with a little bit of help down here,” came Cornelius replied. The older Bullingdon then turned to Paris. “Hold still, Paris – it’s vision may be based on movement.” Paris didn’t need telling twice as the monster ascended the bronze staircase, rumbling “Baaanderhobb.”

In his travels, Paris had heard stories of how witches may send a banderhobb to eat naughty children whole.

“Those god damned witches again!” cursed Cornelius, remembering the windmill. “This time I think we need to send them a stronger message!”

“No, no – hopefully it’s just here for Clarence!”

“He’s my brother, Paris! We must defend him!” They trailed the creature up the stairs.

Dickie saw the orange eyes ascending the stairwell, followed by the huge-mouthed face and awful body of the creature. “Saints and demons!” He tried to stand his ground but the creature swept him out of it’s way with one of its long arms, moving into the tower room.

The Banderhobb stopped in its tracks. The great orange eyes regarded the two wizards, engrossed in their ritual. It looked from Clarence to Victor. It looked from Victor to Clarence. It paused for a moment, as if unsure. Two words rumbled from its huge throat: “CLAAARENCE BUUULINGDOOON”.

Session 10 - Festivals and Feasts

1st Day of the 4th Quarter of the Moon of Songs, Season of Wines, Year 766.

Days in Barovia: 4. The moon waxes gibbous.

…And Justice For All

As midday approached, the Bullingdon Boys found their way to the town square which was slowly filling with people.  A newly erected scaffold dominated the square, and upon it were seven figures: Izek, and the six prisoners from Wachterhaus. The baron arrived at the edge of the square on horseback and wove his way to the scaffold.

“Fair people of Vallaki! Welcome, to the Festival of the Blazing Sun!” he beamed eagerly at his gloomy audience, as the rain continued to pour. “Now, there has been a little adjustment to the schedule of the festival – our friends and allies from outside Barovia, the Bullingdon Boys-”

“Bully bully bully! Oi oi oi!” The Bully Boys chanted.

“Discovered a malicious plot” the baron continued, “which would have deprived you, the fair people of Vallaki of your glorious leader – me, Vargas Vallakovich! So, in addition to the Festival of the Blazing Sun, we are going to have a public execution!”

The party let out a cheer of “Hooray!” but none of the townsfolk joined them – the atmosphere was one of sullen resignation.

“Dickie, I think we may have misjudged the mood in the room somewhat,” Cornelius whispered to his manservant as he looked at the people around them.

A voice spoke up from the crowd, saying “Vargas! What are you doing?” but the baron ignored the question.

“These six traitors were discovered plotting in a nefarious  scheme in which they would have killed me! As punishment for this, Izek will now execute them.”

Cornelius started looking for the nearest way out of the square as Izek hefted his axe. Dickie looked around at the folk surrounding him, and muttered a word to activate the magic armour found in Wachterhaus; his clothing shifted and changed to look like the garb of a Barovian peasant.

One after another, the prisoners were brought to a block on the scaffold and Izek brought his axe down. The large man seemed to enjoy the grim task, and a pair of guardsmen dumped the remains of the manservant, the four conspirators and Lady Wachter into the back of a cart unceremoniously. The crowd was silent; the only sounds in the square were the patter of rain and the thud of the axe.

“Excellent! Now the traitors have been removed from our midst, we can carry on with the festival! Tout suite!” Vallakovich clapped his hands, and the crowd awkwardly parted as a parade of unhappy looking children dressed as flowers trudged through the mud, leading a group of men and women carrying a ten-foot diameter ball of wicker. The burgomaster’s wife followed, holding a bouquet of wilting flowers. The ball was taken to the scaffold, where it was hoisted up above the crowd. The ball-carriers started to splash the effigy with oil as thunder rumbled and the rain increased.

“All will be well!” The baron cried, raising a spluttering torch and thrusting it into the orb… just as the torch spluttered out. A singular laugh erupted from the crowd, quickly curtailed as the baron’s eyes whipped to the source. Paris clicked his fingers, and the oil on the ball ignited, surprising the baron who dived out of the way.

“Izek! Arrest that man, he’s a malicious malcontent!” the baron’s finger pointed shakily into the crowd where the laughter had come from, and Izek stormed off the scaffold in that direction. “You see? The glorious blazing sun will keep us all happy and, and, keep the devil away and all will be well!” the baron’s voice quavered as his eyes darted across the faces in the crowd. He had Izek tie the laugher behind his horse and paraded across the cobbles, dragging the man. “You see? If you are happy then all will be well, but if you are a malicious malcontent then you, you will get your just rewards!”

“Should we help that man?” Paris whispered to his party, but Cornelius shot down the motion – the didn’t need to get involved. The crowd began to disperse, and the Bullingdon’s picked up discontented mutterings as the populace returned to their daily chores.

“Well, does anyone else want some ale? Or wine? Or whatever else they have here?” Clarence said.

Paris looked glum. “I for one am a bit bloody depressed, so I could certainly do with a glass of wine.”

…

Dickie had been to the Blue Water Inn without his party a number of times already, when gathering information and pursuing certain less-than-legal activities. A painted sign hanging above the entrance depicted a blue waterfall, and a number of ravens sat upon the building’s roof. Within, the tavern was busy but the mood was gloomy; following the events of the festival, clearly many locals had felt the same way as Paris about getting a drink. Dickie detached himself from the other three, disguised as he was in local garb.

The barman was a burly man with a black streak in his big white beard. “Ah, the heroes of Vallaki,” he greeted the party sarcastically as they entered, “rooting out the traitors in our midst.” They recognised his voice as the one that had tried to stay the baron’s hand before the executions.

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about my good man,” Cornelius lied.

Paris played along. “That wouldn’t be us, that would be those Bullingdons.”

“Yes. We’re completely different individuals. I’m, um… I’m… I’m Edward…. Edwardson. This,” he waved a hand at Paris, “is… London, and this,” he indicated Clarence, “is my brother. Cornelius.”

The barman was not fooled. He gave Cornelius a flat look. “And I am the king of Barovia. What do you want?”

“We’re just here to get a drink, aren’t we, London and Cornelius?”

“Most certainly Edward! Three glasses of your finest wine, if you would.”

“Indeed,” intoned Clarence, “It is a day for celebration, is it not?”

“I actually thought it was very depressing. I didn’t enjoy the festival at all.”

“You ought to be careful saying that, around that oppressive, evil, idiot of a baron!” Cornelius said with a wink at the barman. “Try not to cause any trouble while you’re here. Especially you, raven-killer.” This last was addressed to Clarence.

On the other side of the bar, Dickie had taken an interest in a pair of trappers drinking at a table. Previously he had learned that the monster hunter- probably the ally from their card reading- had been looking for guides before being driven out of town. The smaller of the pair was telling his companion how he preferred the last festival as they got to kill many wolves. The other shrugged and took a long drink from his cup.

Dickie introduced himself, buying both men a drink. The smaller of the pair, Szoldar Szoldarovich, was happy to talk. The other stranger had wanted to hire the pair but they didn’t like the work; he wanted to be taken to Argynvostholt, the haunted ruin, and that was a bad business so they had declined the work. Since he had been driven out of town by the baron, they expected that he had gone to the ruin alone.

Seeing their time in Vallaki drawing near to a close, Paris fancied saying a farewell to Ireena. After their last interaction, Cornelius didn’t relish seeing her again so told Paris to go on his own; he would assist Dickie in his investigations. Clarence had some ‘business’ to attend to at the baron’s mansion.

Cornelius decided to find his manservant among the throng in the tavern. “Dickie!” he shouted through cupped hands, then, remembering they were using pseudonyms, “… Bren!” Dickie decided not to respond immediately. “Bren! Your master, I mean, your friend, Edward Edwardson the itinerant farmer calls for you! Bren!”

The ruckus drew the ire of the female proprietor of the property, who asked Cornelius to stop his shouting. Dickie at this point made himself apparent. “We have to use aliases so to avoid association with the baron,” Cornelius told him, pleased with his ruse. “You’re new name… is Bren! I’m sure you can remember that, I chose a short name for you intentionally.”

Bren “Dickie” Tanner was not impressed. “That is, in fact, my name, sir.”

“You’re catching on immediately, Dickie!”

Recruitment Drive

On his way to Victor’s attic, Clarence ran into the Baron, who praised again his idea for the public executions. The baron reminded Clarence that he was expecting to see them at the Feast of Saint Andral, to be held in the church later that afternoon. “Of course, I shall be there,” Clarence confirmed.

Clarence found Victor hunched over his spellbook in the messy attic room.

“Ah. I have thought more about how you may augment your powers.”

“Good. I have been looking forward to our… further tutelage.”

“Are there any towers in the countryside near this town? Anything like this?” Clarence showed the boy the newest page in his Tome of Shadows, where since last beseeching his patron new information had begun to appear. Victor thought it looked familiar but couldn’t recall; he had probably seen something in his father’s library.

“In which case, we should look for information there. We shall investigate, for I have been guided that by this place of power shall you gain full communion with the powers that exist beyond this word, through this world, and before this world.”

Clarence and a wide-eyed Victor intruded in the baron’s study; Vargas Vallakovich did not mind, and was in fact pleased to see his son outside of the attic for once. After some time browsing the dusty books in the baron’s collection – clearly more there for show than for anything else – Victor found the book they wanted, Gregor Gregorvich’s “Sights and Wonders of Barovia – A Tourists Guide”.

A small half page section described an abandoned tower of bronze on a promontory sticking into Lake Baratok, around which no grass or other fauna grew; the description matched that of the diagram in Clarence’s book. He tore the page out of the guide.

Clarence convinced the baron that a field trip would be good for Victor’s education, and received permission for the boy to accompany the Bullingdons on an expedition.

…

Paris found Father Petrovich broom in hand, sweeping the nave in preparation of the Feast. “Ah,” The old preist said as Paris cleared his thoat to announce himself, “It’s you, um…”

“Paris Digby, mighty wizard.”

“Yes, um, Cornelius’ friend?”

“Paris Digby, yes. I’ve come to see Ireena.” He told Petrovich how the Bullingdons were intending to leave town, and he’d come to say goodbye to Ireena. The priest was upset that they may miss the Feast of Saint Andral, and Paris made the mistake of asking him to explain what the observance actually entailed.

“Ah, well, it’s… a very old celebration. Of the bounty of the earth. Saint Andral – you remember Saint Andral? Yes? He was a, a great man, many hundreds of years ago, and he did a huge amount to help the land based economy of Barovia, and we have this small… I think some of the origins are lost in time, but it’s a very… nuanced and powerful ceremony.”

“Yes, it sounds fascinating and I’m really sad we can’t make it. But we have to be moving on!”

Petrovich directed Paris to Ireena. He told her about the bones being returned, and therefore the church being sanctified and safe. She thanked him, and all of the Bullingdon Boys, and told him how she looked forward to them defeating Strahd so she could be truly free, which Paris nervously confirmed. Ireena asked Paris to offer Cornelius her apologies for how she treated him previously- she had not quite been herself- and wished them well on their journey.

…

In the Blue Water Tavern, Dickie told Cornelius what the hunters had told him. Dickie suggested that the rumours of the place being haunted could be a ruse to keep people away from lots of treasure. Suspecting there was more about this haunted ruin to be found out, Cornelius turned back to the man behind the bar.

“Hello there. It’s me, Edward Edwardson, come to speak to you again.”

The barman finished cleaning the glass in his hands, put it down and turned to Cornelius. “What can I do for you, Bullingdon?”

Cornelius looked around, raising his hands. “I don’t see any Bullingdons around here! Only myself, Edward Edwardson! My friends and I want to do a little tourism in the local area, and we heard about a ‘spooky mansion’ nearby – could you tell us anything about it?”

“If you go back about a day and a half’s travel to the East, there is a great big castle where I’m sure you’ll find all sorts of adventures,” the barman replied flatly. Then, his eyes narrowing, he asked why Cornelius was interested in Argynvostholt. “Usually I would tell you exactly where to go, and celebrate your funeral afterwards. But I am a bit suspicious; recently a good friend of mine was looking for that place, and I wonder if you mean him any ill will.”

“Oh, we mean no ill will to anyone! We are friendly sorts.”

“I am sure Lady Wachter found you very friendly.”

“I have no idea who you mean. I’ve never heard of a Lady Wachter in my life.” Cornelius winked at Dickie.

Cornelius kept up his unconvincing charade until finally his persistence won out, and the exhausted barman gave them directions to Argynvostholt.

…

The party reconvened at the mansion, and discussed their plans, consulting a map that Clarence had found in the library. Clarence and Victor argued for the tower at Lake Baratok, which was somewhat of a detour from Argynvostholt. The rest of the party weren’t particularly keen, especially taking Victor.

Clarence attempted to magically blackmail Paris into complying; casting a spell that allows him to read surface thoughts, he sent a telepathic message into Paris’ mind. “What is the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to you?”

Paris tried to repress the memories of being bullied as an orphan and wetting the bed in the orphanage, and Clarence’s lips curled into a smile as he communicated “Support me on this, or Cornelius will know of that incident.”

“Don’t you threaten me, Clarence!” Paris said aloud.

Clarence spoke again into his mind. “Come now, it will be much easier if you help me in this.”

“Cornelius, I need to point out some very poor behaviour on the part of your brother. Clarence has just used a spell that I taught him to-”

“He wet the bed when he was a child,” Clarence interrupted, provoking a “HA!” from Cornelius. “Tell us more, Paris!”

Clarence spoke to Paris. “Do you really wish to continue this?”

“The bed wetting is beside the point!” Paris said, red-faced. “Clarence read my thoughts to find an embarrassing memory and threatened to tell everyone unless I supported him. That is blackmail!”

Clarence denied that he even had the power to read minds, but Cornelius and Dickie were more convinced by Paris’ impassioned embarrassment.

“Rooting around in people’s minds is indecent,” Dickie chastised Clarence, “I would not advise you do that frivolously – the content of my mind is my own.”

“I do not use my power frivolously.”

“Seems pretty frivolous to me.

Cornelius spoke up. “In any case, I’m sure we’ve all done more embarrassing things than pissing the bed when we were kiddies. I don’t think Paris has much to be ashamed of here.”

“Thank you, Cornelius!”

Clarence was not happy that his ploy had failed. “Look. It is very, very important to me that we go to this tower.”

“Well you should have just said that instead of trying to blackmail me!”

Victor, who had been watching this exchange with a degree of boredom, spoke up. “I want to learn the fireball!”

“We’ll have Paris teach you the fireball,” Cornelius told him. “I can do the fireball,” Paris confirmed.

“I saw you do the fireball,” Victor was referring to Paris’ use of his wand of illusory fireballs in the fight against Strahd infront of the mansion, “but you said you wouldn’t teach me.”

“No. No, I won’t. It’s far too advanced for you.”

“Well, that’s a good way to make me look like a fool, Paris,” sighed Cornelius. “Now, Victor, have you ever been in a fight? Can you dodge a punch?”

Victor gave the question some thought. “Yes.”

Cornelius suggested he spar with Victor to determine if he was worthy to accompany them. Victor agreed. As Cornelius threw the first punch, Victor raised his hand and summoned a shield of arcane energy… Which Cornelius’ blow avoided effortlessly, gently bopping Victor on the nose.

“That was an impressive trick! Now, you try and hit me!”

“Alakazoo!” Victor shouted, and three darts of magical force appeared over his head, lancing into a stunned Cornelius. Victor smiled nervously. “Did I win?”

The consensus was that Victor has passed muster, and showed the spirit of a Bully Boy, although Paris still harboured doubts about the young wizard. Victor was excited to go on an adventure; he was sent to pack his things while the Bullingdon Boys discussed whether or not to go to the Feast of Saint Andral.

The plan that they settled on was for the Bullingdon brothers to represent the group at the observance, and for Dickie and Paris to remain and ransack the mansion for goods, then blame the theft on Ernst Larnak. Afterwards, they would go to the tower with Victor, as they didn’t want him dogging their steps through the ruined mansion. Cornelius went to discuss the matter of payment for the boy’s education with the baron. His request for more money did remind the baron of the city taxes the Bullingdons had yet to pay and the fees levied upon them for the ruckus at Wachterhaus, and once these were subtracted from the tuition fee Cornelius ended up with much less gold than he would have liked.

The Spectre At The Feast

The hour of the Feast was nigh and the brothers Bullingdon headed to the church with the baron, his wife and son, and Izek. Left at the mansion, Paris and Dickie decided that they quite wanted to go to the feast as well; their plan to rob the mansion wasn’t very convincing anyway. While the Vallakovich family seated themselves on one of the front pews in the church, and Clarence and Cornelius found themselves sat next to surprised Ireena on the other, Dickie and Paris found seats with the congregation at the back of the church.

The people of Vallaki filled the Church of Saint Andral, almost spilling out of the pews. A half a dozen town guards were spread around the church. Father Petrovich stood by the altar and had to raise his voice over the wind and rain that rattled the stained glass windows of the church.

The Feast, it turned out, began with a sermon – a long, droning affair that soon left a few locals snoring. “I knew it was going to be like this,” Paris muttered, just as thunder boomed through the church. The bells in the belfry rang a clangour and Petrovich had to stop for a moment. As the bells quieted and he was about to resume, there was a much closer crash as the doors to the church burst open. A flash of lightning revealed a silhouette; the candelabras spluttered in the wind now blowing through the door and lit the cruel face of the lord of Barovia, Strahd von Zarovich.

“Forgive the interruption.” Without shouting, his voice reached the far end of the church. “I have come to collect my bride.”

Cornelius and Izek were on their feet, and Cornelius moved into the centre aisle. Strahd stepped forward but flinched back, hissing, as he came to the threshold of the church.

Father Petrovich’s wavering voice cried out “Be gone, foul creature-”

“You can be quiet, Father,” Cornelius interrupted, “I’ll deal with this. Look here Strahd, you’ve had the best of me before. But since last we met, I have become much more powerful!” Cornelius muttered the command word and the amulet around his neck burst into light, filling the nave and drawing gasps from the congregation.

Strahd raised his hand, then lowered it. “Hm. Not true sunlight. Petrovich, you fool, you’ll die for this. Tatanya, come to me!”

Ireena stood and dreamily moved into the aisle.

“The only person who’ll die for this is you!” Cornelius shouted, striding dauntlessly down the aisle. “Clarence!”

 Clarence stood and flung two bolts of eldritch power at the vampire lord, one of which struck him bodily although seemingly for no effect. Izek stepped over the baron, who had fallen to the floor and was crawling away, and grasped Ireena by the shoulder to stop her going to Strahd.

Dickie slipped past the citizens in his pew and moved towards the back of the church. Cornelius continued down the aisle to the doors of the church as Victor, confused, asked Clarence what he should do. Paris wove an enchantment to send Ireena to sleep; Izek caught her as she fell.

“No matter,” Strahd said as his quarry fell into sleep. “My servants will deliver her to me.” There was an awkward pause. “I do not see Lady Wachter among you…”

The pair of guards by the door levelled their spears at Strahd but didn’t move to attack him, as Clarence threw two more errant bolts of eldritch energy at the vampire. Izek laid Ireena gently on the ground and strode down the aisle towards Strahd. Dickie slithered up next to his master and lunged at Strahd with his rapier; his blade struck true but as once again the wound healed instantaneously.

“Glad to see you turned up to help, Dickie!” said Cornelius, throwing punches at Strahd, whose imperceptible movements avoided the blows with ease.

“Well well, this is a little embarrassing, isn’t it, Strahd? No minions to help you and you can’t even enter the church!” mocked Paris, to no seeming effect, as magical darts of energy flew past him to strike the vampire – Victor following his tutor’s example.

“Failure upon failure. Such is my reward for putting my faith in those fools,” the vampire growled as he weaved around Cornelius’ punches. “Fine. This one will have to do.” His finger pointed to Izek. “You. Bring the girl to me, and stop these fools from interfering.”

Izek stopped in his tracks as Strahd dominated him. “Yes, my lord.” He turned at strode back to Ireena, shouting at the guards to arrest the foreigners; then he raised his monstrous right arm, and a ball of flame appeared above his palm. This he flung at Clarence, briefly igniting his robes as Paris mocked “That little hit won’t hurt a Bullingdon!”.

Seeing his sword was still ineffective against the vampire, Dickie turned away from the entrance to put himself in Izek’s path; the guard nearest him shouted for him to stop, and Dickie told him not to get involved. Cornelius turned to the guard, shouting “Who would you rather serve? A devil, or the blessed servant of the Morninglord?” as the medallion shone like a sun on his chest. The guard, overcome, dropped to his knees, crying “the Morninglord!”

Paris distracted Izek with some crude insults about his arm. “Izek, what are you doing?” Victor cried, as his teacher was attacked. He gestured, and a ceremonial plate from the altar was propelled into the baron’s henchman with great force.

The guards responded to Izek’s order – the one by the door not kneeling before Cornelius shouted “You’re under arrest!” at Dickie, and readied to attack him if he tried to resist. One moved to support his captain, thrusting his spear at Clarence but catching the weapon on the pew. Another told Victor to stop interfering, but didn’t want to hurt the baron’s son.

The people of Vallaki were cowering in the pews; with the devil himself at the entrance to the church, and eldritch blasts, magic missiles, balls of flame and plates whipping around from the other end, they had no clear path to escape the battle they were caught up in.

Clarence cast a spell to paralyze Izek, as more guards moved towards Dickie. “We’re trying to protect your town from the devil himself!” he shouted at them, “can’t you see that?” This seemed to give them pause, as they looked from the frozen form of Izek to Cornelius fighting Strahd outside the church’s doors.

“I am not playing, Bullingdon,” Strahd said as he struck Cornelius, “I have come for my bride.”

“I assure you Strahd, I am deadly serious as well.” Cornelius punched one-two, and both blows found their mark. Once again, the beating of a huge heart rang in his ears, and the perfectly placed hits seemed to stun Strahd.

Two of the guards dropped to the ground snoring as Paris put them to sleep. Victor called “Leave him alone!” to the guard attacking Clarence, but was told to be quiet. The guards spear jabbed at Clarence, as the baron emerged behind the altar, brushing himself off. From behind Father Petrovich he shouted “Izek, what is this madness! Guards, leave those men alone! Stand down! I’m the baron, damn it!”

Another blast of energy lashed from Clarence’s hand into Strahd, to more effect than previously. The guards seemed to be obeying the baron’s command, and Dickie took the opportunity to strike again at Strahd; the wound his rapier caused did not immediately close, as it had before.

Cornelius saw his opportunity. He grasped the stunned Strahd by the lapels and hurled him bodily through the doors of Saint Andral’s Church.

As the vampire crossed the threshold, a keening scream escaped his mouth as a glowing nimbus of sunlight surrounded his body; the light shone so brightly that the Bullingdons had to avert their gazes, and when the radiance faded, all that remained was a thin wisp of smoke. Strahd was gone.

Session 9 - Cleaning House

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

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

Not The Lady You Were Expecting

“Another victory for the Bullingdons!” Paris wheezed, still winded, as Clarence started to gag and bind the ‘book club’, tearing long strips from their black cowled robes. Dicky produced a long length of rope with which to tie them all together. Lady Wachter was bound and gagged as well, and a cursory search of her person revealed a wand.

“Clarence, give that to Pairs, he knows how to use them,” Cornelius commanded. Paris stumbled over, wincing excessively. “Wands are indeed my speciality.”

Cornelius asked if it contained any dark magics; Paris applied a quizzical eye to the item, and couldn’t really tell. “There is certainly great power in this artefact. I will need longer to decipher whether or not it is… ‘evil’, per se, but it could certainly be useful to one with magical talent. I’d better take this for now.”

Lady Wachter’s gag was removed. “You don’t know what you are doing!” she said, “You fools!”

“We’re not fools!” Cornelius retorted, “We are the Bullingdon Boys! Bully Bully Bully!”

“Oi! Oi! Oi!” came the cry of his companions. Dickie took a moment to consider that actually, maybe they were fools, as Lady Wachter watched incredulously. “No wonder you are working for that fool of a baron.”

“We work for no men but ourselves!” Cornelius replied.

“And justice!” Clarence added. He was still glazed with a thin sheen of frost as the warding spell he had cast earlier persisted.

“Yes, and justice! And those in need! And you, Lady Wachter, are in need of a good beating if you don’t tell us what’s going on here.”

“When the lord of this land is done with you, you will be dust on the wind, like all the fools who’ve come before you.”

Cornelius declared they had no fear of the villain Strahd, having fought him off numerous times already, but Lady Wachter wasn’t listening; she was clutching at her wound, face twisted in pain. Clarence replaced her gag.

“Where’s Ernst Larnak?” Dickie asked, remembering the last they’d seen the manservant had been in the parlour, unbound and looking thoroughly displeased at the beating he’d received from the Bully Boys.  

Clarence addressed the manservant. “I shall go upstairs and distract Slarnak, you sneak up behind him once I have his attention.” The younger Bullingdon then shifted his appearance to that of Lady Wachter, who’s eyes widened and she cried against the gag. In her guise, Clarence smiled and waved, then he and Dickie headed back through the scattered bones in the cellar and up the stairs into the house.

Ernst Larnak was sat looking bruised and beaten, holding a damp cloth to his face and nursing a glass of wine. “My Lady,” he drawled, as Clarence entered the room looking like Lady Wachter, “Did all go as planned with those fools?”

Lady Wachter’s voice came from Clarence’s lips. “The interlopers have all been dealt with, and forced to bow before the power of our gracious lord!”

Larnak didn’t bat an eye. “Good. I’m glad. That Cornelius was a brute! Not to mention the disrespect they showed to you, my lady.”

“Can you imagine them sneaking around my home like that?”

“It is disgusting.”

“Anyway. Slarnak, is everything in place for the ritual?”

“Yes my lady, come, I was just preparing the final piece when they interrupted me.” Larnak stood and led Clarence through to the den, making no mention of the fact that his long term employer and confident had just addressed him by the wrong name. Clarence used his telepathy to instruct Dickie to follow into the parlour.

“Come my lady, look!” Larnak pointed Clarence to a book open on the table in front of the fireplace in the den. Clarence told Ernst to tell him of his work to measure his understanding, while Dicky, seeing Larnak’s back to the door, slipped into the room with sword in hand.

Larnak pointed to the book – “Well, if you look here-“ then in a swift motion drew the long knife at his belt and lunged at the false-Wachter. Dickie’s blade was faster, but only nicked Larnak, failing to stop his strike at Clarence. The long dagger sliced into Clarence’s side, slicing through the long robe; but Clarence’s protective enchantment was still active, and his blade struck Larnak went rigid, frost spreading up his arm from the blade, his mouth opened for a scream that never came as he froze solidly then shattered, falling to the ground in icy chunks.

“Argh! By the outer darkness!” Clarence whined, dropping the glamour and tentatively prodding at the cut on his side. “That’s a nasty little wound. Did you see that? He managed to stab me.”

“Well, it doesn’t seem to have gone to well for him.” Dickie replied, feeling queezy at the sight of frozen meat chunks starting to defrost on the carpet. “He’s in… a lot of pieces.”

“Yes,” Clarence said, dressing his wound with great care, “It is a powerful spell. A most useful spell. And quite effective at reducing one’s foes into tiny pieces.”

“It’s a lot more traumatic than when it happens to skeletons.”

“It is all the same to the magic.”

“Well, it’s not all the same to my stomach. If you’ll excuse me...” Dickie almost ran to be away from the gruesome remains.

Captive Audience

Meanwhile, in the secret room in the cellar, Cornelius clapped Paris on the shoulder. “I feel I maybe lost my temper with you earlier. This is understandable as there aren’t many times in my life when I’ve been attacked by the living undead.”

“Forgiven already my old chap.”

“Good. In the future, perhaps display a bit more vigilance when dealing with people who are potentially our enemies.”

Paris admitted his fault, blaming it on Lady Wachter’s ‘womanly wiles’. This settled, the pair decided to go and see what Clarence and Dickie were about, as they should’ve come back by now. Cornelius got the prisoners to their feet, and tied in a line, marched them up out of the cellar and into the parlour, where Dickie waited looking paler than usual.

“Now everybody take a seat!” Cornelius commanded, gesturing to one of the elegant couches, which Lady Wachter and her four allies managed to awkwardly squeeze onto. “Now, none of you move. Dickie, You look ill. Did you manage to capture that dastardly villain Larnak?”

Dickie brought his master into the den to discuss the matter, where Clarence was investigating the bookshelves for any interesting material. The manservant gestured to the now defrosted chunks of Ernst Larnak on the carpet and explained what had transpired.

“The idiot failed to realise my defensive abjurations were still at full power!” Clarence gloated. While a shocked Paris chastised his pupil for this excessive use of force, Dickie took the shovel and poker from the fire and started to move pieces of Larnak into the flames. The flesh started to sizzle and pop.

“The Bullingdons have blood on their hands, Clarence!”

“Well, not on anyone’s hands, per se,” Dickie contributed.

Clarence was had no remorse. “I suppose it has ruined the carpet.”

“And to do it in such a brutal fashion! Where is the magical elegance I’ve come to expect from you?”

Some concerned noises leaked into the den from the parlour, with which the double-sided hearth was shared, as the stink of burning flesh began to infuse the rooms. Dickie quickly stopped his activity.

Cornelius and Paris were concerned that there may be legal repercussions for freezing a man to death and shattering him into chunks, even if the man was a suspected villain. Clarence was unrepentant – Larnak shouldn’t have attacked him! And he was injured – he showed his fellows the small nick on his side. “It is quite painful!”

Cornelius finally threw his hands up in frustration. “Look, I know how to deal with this.” He stepped into the parlour, where four of the prisoners stared at him wide-eyed. Lady Wachter’s eyes were unfocussed, and her dress was soaked in blood from the untreated wound dealt by Dickie.

“You may have noted an unusual smell coming from the fireplace. Ernst Larnak stepped in accidently while we were asking him some questions. He’s absolutely fine, but just this moment he bolted through the window and I’m afraid we’ll never be able to catch him, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you never see or hear from him ever again.” The conscious prisoners looked absolutely terrified. “But you, you’re all going to the baron! Lady Wachter, why are you lolling around over there?”

Dickie, ever trailing Cornelius, moved over to Lady Wachter and attempted to staunch her bleeding. Medicine is not his forte, and Cornelius shouting “Dickie, that’s not how you do it!” then trying to get involved as well did not help matters for Lady Wachter. While they fumbled at the best way to tie improvised bandages, the lady slipped into unconsciousness. Finally, Clarence wandered over and placed his hand on her head. There was a soft glow of magic and her bleeding stopped; her shallow breathing becoming more regular.

Dickie was sent ahead of the party to inform the Baron. As he left, the Wachter’s dour servant came into the parlour, announcing “My lady, your dinner will be ready shortly – ah.” He seemed unfazed by the sight of his mistress unconscious, bound and gagged with half of her guests. Cornelius leapt over to him, throwing him to the floor and clamping a hand over his mouth. “Who is he?”

“Just a servant,” Paris reminded him.

“Well, he could still be involved. Is he involved?”

Given the man’s unemotional responses through the evening, Clarence suspected the servant may be undead. “I suspect, brother, hat he has no will of his own.”

“Yes, I can see he’s a peasant, Clarence.”

“Insofar as I mean I believe him to be a necromantic construct created by the Lady Wachter.”

“Are you a necromantic construct?” Cornelius shouted at the servant, lifting his hand so he could respond.

“No, my lord,” he replied calmly, “What is a necromantic construct?”

“Clarence, what IS a necromantic construct?”

Clarence explained the concept – using the example of the skeletons Lady Wachter had summoned forth earlier. Cornelius continued his interrogation:

“Are you like one of Lady Wachter’s skeletal minions?”

“I am a servant of Lady Wachter, and I have a skeleton?”

“But were you summoned from the ground?”

“I was summoned from the kitchen.”

“How many times have you died before?”

“I don’t think any?”

“Paris, we need that Zone of Truth.”

Paris did not have the capacity to cast that spell currently, and was dubious of any guilt on the servant’s part. Cornelius and Clarence decided he should be bound and gagged with the others. Clarence went back into the den and dumped the chunks of Larnak out of the window, and magically removed the stains on the carpet.

…

Dickie swiftly found his way back to the Vallakovich mansion, and found the baron in his study. Upon being informed that Lady Wachter was planning a coup, the baron was very concerned. He was not thrilled that the Bullingdon’s had answered her dinner invitation, but Dickie convinced him that it had all worked out for the best as they had foiled her plans and found evidence of her guilt.

Vallakovich summoned his monstrous henchman, Izek, and sent him with Dickie and the guard to put Lady Wachter and her allies under house arrest.

While Dickie was away, Clarence began to study the treatise that they had found among the treasure in the hidden room in Lady Wachter’s library – the Grimoire of Four Quarters. Shortly those in the parlour – Paris, Cornelius and their prisoners – heard mutterings of “Yes, of course! Yes, well, most interesting!” and the occasional cackle.

“My lord!” Dickie cried as he arrived back at the house, “I’ve come with the guard!” Izek swept brusquely past him into the room, snarled at the unconscious Lady Wachter, then looked at the rest of the prisoners, the huge hand on his monstrous arm thumbing the axe on a loop at his belt. “I’m going to chop all of your heads off,” he growled.

Paris pointed out the manservant was potentially innocent, but Izek did not care. “If he works for the traitor, he’s probably a traitor.”

“Clarence reckons he’s a necrophilic constant!” Cornelius contributed.

“I don’t know what those words mean.”

“Well, nor do I,” Cornelius admitted, and Paris again explained the concept of a necromantic construct. Izek lifted the manservant by the throat to inspect him, and after a moment said “He is clearly alive.”

“Of course, of course. Shall we, ah, show you some of the evidence we’ve found?”

Izek looked at Cornelius flatly. “I don’t need to be convinced.” Dickie reminded the henchman that the baron was pleased that there was evidence, and that wanted to see it. Izek said it could wait until the morning, and made it clear that now he was in control of the situation the Bullingdon Boys weren’t needed.

“Well then, we should get the bones back to the-” Paris blustered, realizing Izek and the baron didn’t know about the stolen bones of Saint Andral. “I mean, we should rest our weary bones. TAKE our BONES BACK, to, ah, bed. Yes.”

“And we can go and see our good friend Ireena!” Cornelius added. This drew Izek’s attention. “How is my sister?”

Cornelius recalled the distressed state in which he had left Ireena when last he saw her. “She’s perfectly fine!”

Law and Order

“Oh, shit!” Paris said a short while later, as the approached the church, “We need to free Lady Wachter’s daughter!”

“We’ll do it in the morning!” Cornelius said.

After hammering on the door of the squat church for a few minutes, the thick wooden door finally creaked open to reveal Father Lucien Petrovich illuminated by the dim light of a single candle.

“We have found the bones!” Cornelius bellowed. Clarence propelled the chest forward on his floating disc. “Behold, your relics! For what worth they are in this uncaring universe.”

Petrovich was clearly overwhelmed with relief, and struggled to find the words to thank the Bullingdons. He ushered them into the church, to get the bones back where they belong. Once they were interred the old man turned to Cornelius.

“Thank you! How can I ever repay you?”

“Financially, of course.” Cornelius didn’t skip a beat; the Bullingdon’s had demanded an undetermined payment upon accepting the task from the priest.

“My good man,” Paris interjected, “We don’t need any monetary recompense – just remember to tell everyone you meet how brilliant the Bullingdon Boys are.”

“That is very kind of you. I was worried – I do not have much money to give… But maybe there is something I can give you.” The priest of the Morninglord lifted the heavy chain from his neck, on which there hung a large sun medallion. He softly brushed his fingers across the sun and murmured “Mané”, and the sun began to glow with a soft yellow light. He passed it to Cornelius. “With this, the Morninglord will guide you in dark places.”

Cornelius turned to Dickie and said under his breath, “This is worth… bloody loads!” He fell to his knees. “No thanks is enough for a prize this great! I shall wear it proudly, this medallion of… the…”

“The Morninglord,” Petrovich reminded him.

“Yes, the Morninglord! Praise be to him!”

…

As they returned to baron’s mansion to sleep, Clarence informed his fellows “If at any time I inscribe a circle of blood on the floor… try to stay within it.” They did not sleep well.

…

As Clarence awoke he turned to Paris, with whom he shared a room. “I heard the most beautiful song last night.”

“Yep?” replied Paris, mostly ignoring his tutee while he precisely arranged his hair.

“A song of piercing beauty. One that echoed from the highest heaven to the lowest sea. It would have broken your heart to hear it, Paris.”

“I’m sure it would’ve old chap, I’ve always had a delicate sensitivity towards music. I think if I’d have learnt I would have been an aficionado.”

“I can feel myself throbbing with arcane power!

Paris gave Clarence a stern look. “We need to have a talk about keeping your throbbing power to yourself.”

Upstairs, the baron knocked on the door to Cornelius’ Room. He was greeted by Cornelius –“Baron!” ­– wearing only a pair of trousers, medallion of the Morninglord glowing proudly upon the sculpted musculature of his chest.

“Goodness me! Cornelius. I was just heading to Wachterhaus to see about this business with Lady Wachter. Do you wish to join me?”

The baron was wearing a thick raincoat and his two dogs, as ever, trailed on his heels. Cornelius and Dickie put on their coats as well; Cornelius refusing to put on a shirt, and Dickie donning the armour found in Wachterhaus. They joined Paris and Clarence downstairs. Vallakovich was in a jovial mood as they trod through the rain, chattering to the Bully Boys eagerly.

“I’m very excited about the festival today! I think it will do the town a great deal of good, especially when we can tell them that these nefarious malcontents have been brought to justice.”

“And what exactly does this festival consist of, sir?” Paris asked.

“Ah, you’ll see, you’ll see! It will be very impressive, even for a magician, such as yourself.”

…

Two guardsmen stood at the front of Wachterhause, and graced the baron with an inexpert salute as he arrived. The not-undead servant, the four members of the ‘book club’ and Lady Wachter were all still tied together on a couch in the parlour, with Izek straddling one of the chairs from the dinner table backwards. One arm rested on the back of the chair, the other on the head of his axe.

“Good morning Izek!” chirped the baron. He turned to Cornelius. “Now, your manservant said you had evidence of a plot?”

“I have this letter,” Paris said, offering the baron the note that they had found on the desk in Lady Wachter’s library. The baron’s lips moved as he read it. “What is this, a nursery rhyme? Oh. Oh I see. Where did you find this?”

“In her library,” Clarence told him. “I think it is some sort of spell to overthrow you. We can also show you the pit from whence she summoned skeletons to attack us.”

“Skeletons and spells! Is this true, Lady Wachter?” the baron waved the note in her face. The woman stared and cursed something through her gag.

“It’s true,” Cornelius said, “skeletons savaged me and my men!”

“Well, that’s all I needed to hear.” The baron waved a hand at the prisoners. “Izek, kill them.”

“Just one moment here baron, there’s one more thing I should mention,” Cornelius went on. “Lady Wachter had a servant – someone called Ernest LaMarc. He too was involved in this scheme. He lunged for my dear brother Clarence-”

“He attempted to murder me most foul-”

“And in the resulting scuffle, he escaped from this property-”

“And from this mortal coil.”

“The house, Clarence means, he escaped from the house. Now if you ask me, you’ll probably never see or hear from Ernest LaMarc ever again, but I’d have your men be on the lookout as this dangerous criminal may well be loose.”

The baron nodded his understanding. “You hear that, Izek? Make sure to keep an eye out for that Larnak fellow. I never trusted him! If you see him, arrest him immediately.”

Clarence, to Paris’ dismay, suggested the baron hold the executions in public at the festival. Vallakovich thought it was an excellent idea, and instructed Izek to make the arrangements. Cornelius managed to wrangle some gold out of Lady Wachter’s stash, found by the guards, as payment for uncovering the conspiracy and saving the baron’s life.

Finally, the Bullingdons wanted to look in on the Lady’s daughter. The baron advised against it, telling them the girl was insane and thought she was a cat. Cornelius was interested at the prospect of a rich heiress in need of a ward, so they went to the girl’s room; however, she appeared to be beyond their help and they abandoned her as a lost cause.

The festival did not begin until noon. Clarence left his companions to visit Victor; the rest of the party were somewhat concerned about their blooming relationship. Dickie snuck away to fence some of the items he had picked up in Wachterhaus, while Cornelius did some promotion of the Festival, wandering the streets of Vallaki with his medallion blazing on his chest.