Session 13 - Argynvostholt

2nd Day of the 4th Quarter of the Moon of Songs, Season of Wines, Year 766.

Days in Barovia: 5. The moon waxes gibbous.

Welcome to the House of Fun

“I must say, I did think Barovia would be far enough to escape her…” Paris sighed, looking upon the corpse of his hated old patron. “What can I say- the ladies love me.”

“Our lifestyle is getting steadily more violent,” said Dickie as he relinquished his hold on the body. “I’m not sure I’m enjoying it.

Cornelius laughed jovially, clapping his manservant on the back. “What a hilarious jape, Dickie! You’re loving it right now!”

Clarence agreed with his brother. “Do you not find it exciting to prove yourself against those lesser than you?  To revel in your victory?”

“Not in the same way it appears you do… But the money’s still good, so it’s all worth it I suppose.”

Clarence suggested they picket the huge black horses harnessed to the black carriage of Ravenloft; the vehicle they arrived in may need to be returned to the monster hunter they sought, and the black carriage would provide them an alternative transport.

Just to the south of the mansion Dickie found the blackened beams of a wooden stable burned to its foundations.  Looming above the wreck was the partially exposed south end of the mansion, all three floors exposed to the elements. When Dickie relayed this information to the party, Cornelius decided to give the damage a quick once-over. The senior Bullingdon’s architectural education allowed him to deduce that the collapse had been caused by siege weapons, but not any time recently; his conclusion was that the structure had been derelict for centuries.

Paris’ suggested that the structure could be… liberated… from destitution, and brought back to its old glory as a Bullingdon residence was well received.

Meanwhile, Dickie approached the huge black horses, with the intention of picketing them somewhere. As he neared, the closer horse eyed him with a certain amount of malice. It shook its mane, snorted, and stamped a hoof.

“I’m beginning to wander if these horses might be happiest left where they are. Undisturbed. At a safe distance. They don’t appear friendly.”

“Come on, give it a go,” Paris urged, “they look like they’ve been well trained.”

“Consider who they’ve been trained by.”

“A discriminating lord who no doubt desires docility and easy temperament in his beasts of burden?” Clarence offered.

Cornelius didn’t care. “Why are we even bothering about these bloody horses anyway when Castle Bullingdon stands before us, ripe for the taking?”

It was decided that, as Dickie didn’t want to risk getting kicked by a horse before going into the house, they would leave the carriage and if push came to shove they could take the magic wagon they had arrived in.

Young Victor Vallakovich did not want to go into the mansion – it looked too spooky, and he was still shaken from the earlier incident with the “illusion” of a giant frog monster. Cornelius, Dickie and Paris were all too happy not to have Clarence’s protégé tagging along, and he was told to wait in the magic wagon.

Flagstone steps flanked by stone railings climbed to a landing in front of a pair of tall wooden doors, knockers carved into the shape of small dragons. Carved into the lintel above the entrance was the word ARGYNVOSTHOLT. The doors were unlocked and Dickie pushed them open to reveal a large foyer. A grand staircase led up to balconies held aloft by stone pillars and arches. From an iron rod above the staircase landing hung a tall, faded tapestry depicting a nobleman in silver armour.

Six sets of double doors led from the foyer. Along the walls, displayed on marble pedestals, were three alabaster busts of handsome men. A fourth bust and its pedestal had been knocked over, the shattered remains strewn across the mosaic floor.

Paris eyed up the statuettes, pondering their value. “A shame those busts are likely to be heavy.”

“Who’s going to buy a statue of a dead guy in a place like this?” Dickie asked.

“I would.”

“You’d buy one of these?”

“They’re very fine!”

“Paris,” Cornelius said kindly, “you understand the kind of difference between this kind of bust and the sort you’re usually interested in?”

“I can appreciate art as well as the natural form, my lord!”

Cornelius prompted his manservant to open the nearest door, the first on the north side of the foyer, and gestured for everyone else to stand back as Dickie approached the door with some trepidation; as far as he could tell, it was unlocked, and led to a ransacked den. Seeing nothing amiss Dickie waved the party in.

Suddenly, a fire erupted from the dead hearth, flames crackled and flickered and took shape in a draconic form, unfurling wings of smoke. The apparition hissed at the party:

“My knights have fallen in to darkness. Save them if you can. Show them the light they have lost!”

And the fire extinguished.

Dickie was somewhat shaken by this, muttering again about bloody wizards and their bloody wizard tricks. Cornelius, however, was pleased that his soon-to-be new home came with some built-in magic. He wasn’t so pleased with the state of the place, and told Dickie to start making a list of what would need buying – the wrecked furniture would all need to be replaced, and the cabinets held only broken wineglasses.

The rest of the ground floor of the north wing held a parlour, pantries, servants quarters, a kitchen, and a wine store (although the wine had all turned to vinegar). As they explored the empty rooms, long left to ruin, they could not help but note the persistent theme in the decorations; dragon murals painted on the ceiling, dragon shaped doorhandles, table legs sculpted into dragons, chairs backed with dragon-wings; dragon imagery placed almost everywhere it could be, to the point of tastelessness.

Dickie was told to make note - all of the dragon stuff would have to go.

As they left the wine storage and re-entered the foyer, a great winged shadow swept across the walls and disappeared with a soft, bestial hiss; in wake of this strange sight came… nothing, and now more unnerved the Bully Boys continued their search.

At either side of the stairway at the end of the foyer stood two sets of doors, which led into a large dining room. From the adjoining kitchen the party had seen a small graveyard on the grounds outside, the door to which appeared to be through the dining room: they wanted to investigate this graveyard, as undead had so far been much more troublesome than ghostly dragons.

Beyond the dining room, through leaded glass doors between stained glass windows, was a dark, misty room containing the door to the graveyard. This room appeared to be a chapel. Cracked wooden pillars supported a wooden balcony that overhung the room across three walls. Narrow archways on either side of the room led to spiral staircases connecting to the balcony and beyond, for this was the base of the tallest tower of the ruin. At the east end of the chapel a stone altar was flanked by iron candelabras, the altar carved with a familiar rising sun bas-relief. One of the tall, arching stained-glass windows beyond the altar had been shattered, allowing thick fog to enter and fill the room.

Through the fog, the Bullingdon Boys could see three armoured figures kneeling before the altar.

Wight Knights

As the Bully Boys entered the chapel, the three knights rose and turned as one. Tattered chainmail hung on the pallid flesh of these walking corpses, and three rotten hands went to the hilts of three longswords. “Go away,” one rasped, “You are not welcome here,” and three swords were drawn.

“There will be no squatters in Castle Bullingdon!” roared Cornelius, charging into the midst of the undead knights, fists swinging. He was quickly surrounded by the trio, who hewed at him with their longswords, but Cornelius was nimble enough to avoid any serious injury as his manservant stepped up to support him, the Bullingdon rapier searching for weak points in ancient armour.

From the back of the chapel, Paris and Clarence launched arcane artillery at the knights. This had the consequence of drawing one out of the melee, where Dickie and Cornelius traded blows with the other two revenants. As the knight charged at the foppish wizard, Paris almost fumbled his wand; when the knight caught him a glancing blow, he cried out in pain and somewhat unexpectedly his foe was engulfed in hellish flames. A laughing Paris evoked an incantation that threw the knight- and Clarence- from their feet, then retreated into the doorway to the chapel.

Clarence pushed himself to his feet and called upon his eldritch power to encase himself in armour of ice. The knight pushed itself to its feet and smashed its sword into this armour, which shattered: the enchantment shielded the younger Bullingdon from the worst of the strike, and reciprocated an icy blast at his assailant.

In the centre of the chapel, the combat between Cornelius and Dickie and the two revenant knights was a gruelling, bloody affair. The knights were slow, but clad in ancient armour, wielded heavy swords and their long-dead forms ignored wounds that would slay living men. The master and servant struck hard and fast, nimbly dancing around the knights’ blades, but the pair were lightly armoured and mortal. They struck and dodged and parried and riposted, and in turn were nicked and grazed and scratched and bloodied.

Finally, nimble thrusts of Dickie’s rapier brought one of the knights to its knees and Cornelius, calloused knuckles raw, was able to crush its skull with the powerful blows of his fists.

Clarence fled up one of the spiral staircases to the wooden balcony overhanging the chapel, giving him a commanding position to throw eldritch blasts down into the combat below. One undead knight pursued Paris while the other hacked at Dickie and Cornelius, dogged now by the nobleman and his manservant.

Paris shouted at the creature attacking him and a blast of concussive energy rung out, shattering the stained glass windows flanking the doorway, making the wooden balcony lurch worryingly and knocking the knight to its knees. Steadying himself above, Clarence focussed his eldritch energy and blasted the back of the knight, leaving a gaping hole where its chest had been. The undead knight fell, and did not rise again.

Finally, Cornelius and Dickie, beaten, bloodied and exhausted from the long melee, put down the final foe.

…

“Well, uh, I think you’ll agree we made pretty short work of those fools,” wheezed a winded Paris.

Cornelius, bleeding from a number of cuts and with sweat thick on his brow, agreed. “Of course, of course. Now I’ve taken a couple of scratches, so hand over one of your famous healing tinctures, Paris.”

Paris obtained a mysterious ointment from his pack and applied it to some of Cornelius’ cuts in a seemingly-medical way. “Aha, my tinctures always work a treat!” he lied, as he tended to his employer with the fake medicine. “I think you’ll find that cut will be as right as rain in no time!”

Cornelius beamed at Paris.

Medical duties completed, Paris began to summon the Golden Bully Hut to provide them a safe space in which to recover their energy. In the tense ten minutes it took for him to raise the arcane structure, brick by golden brick, Dicky had a quick investigation of their surroundings. Above the bas-relief of the symbol of the Morninglord, on the stone altar he found a necklace of prayer beads. Among the red-wood beads were four beads of aquamarine, one of black pearl and one of topaz; and the item had the itch of something faintly magical.

Shortly the Golden Bully Hut was complete and the party sequestered within. Paris regaled everyone with how the Bully Boys had come up trumps once again. Wounds were patched, muscles stretched; Clarence complained loudly about the small scratch he had obtained; Paris liberally applied “tinctures”, and Dickie sat concentrating on the prayer beads he had found.

Castles in the Sky

“Shall we investigate the cemetary to ensure that if there are any more creatures like that, they remain at rest?” Clarence suggested; that had, after all, been the reason they’d come into the chapel.

“If you insist, Clarence,” his brother replied, “I suppose it can’t do us any harm.”

“If you feel like fighting more of the bloody things,” Dickie muttered, while Paris checked that everyone was feeling fighting fit and didn’t need any tinctures, ointments or other medical ministrations.

Unbarred, the door leading from the chapel opened to a cemetery enclosed by a tall fence of wrought iron. Fog lay thick on the ground. At the far end of the cemetery stood a severe stone mausoleum.

Five graves stood open and empty. Clarence deduced that the corpses buried within had crawled out of the earth; but of those missing corpses there was no sign, and the fence was intact.

“Well. We have taken care of these revenants, but there are two others yet remaining.”

“Oh, good,” came Dickie’s sarcastic drawl, while Paris optimistically said “They shouldn’t be too difficult!”

“Indeed. They shall no doubt pose little obstacle to us. Let’s check the mausoleum before we go back inside.”

“You would want to check the mausoleum, wouldn’t you,” sighed Paris.

“I feel quite anxious about leaving it at our back.”

“A month ago if someone had said to me, ‘let’s check that mausoleum’, I would have said they were mad.”

“Well anyway,” interjected Cornelius, “we’d best go and see what the new Bullingdon mausoleum looks like.”

Tarnished, silver-plated gargoyles shaped like – once again – small dragons, clung to the stone-tiled roof of the structure and caused the party to hang their heads in despair at the tactless décor. The eight foot tall marble door of the tomb was engraved with a name: ARGYNVOST. Realization dawned on Dickie: “Oh, it’s a bloke!”

Cornelius declared that the inscription would be replaced with the Bullingdon family crest. Then, eying the huge, heavy marble door, and looking at the scrawny physique of Clarence; Paris’ winsome but girlish frame; and Dickie’s lean, stringy build, sighed.

“I’ll open the door to the Bulligdon mausoleum. Just this once! In fact, it’s probably better that only I can open it – to ensure that only the best in the family gain entry.”

“There’s only two of you,” Paris noted.

“There will be more of us, Paris,” Cornelius spluttered, “we’re not postmenopausal!”

“You’re going to marry one of these Barovians then?”

“Once I’m king of Bullindon-ovia, women will be flocking to throw themselves at my feet!”

“What, like those horrible old witches?”

“Young and nubile women, Paris-“ Cornelius recalled the Dowager Baroness Rhineheart’s strange relationship with his house wizard- “Not the sort you’re into.”

“That’s unfair,” whined Paris as Dickie and Clarence guffawed, “You don’t know the circumstances.”

“Well you have plenty of time to explain the circumstances while I’m opening this door.”

Paris sighed. “Well, you know how it is. At first it didn’t seem like it would be too much of a bother and, well, it wasn’t so bad, but you know how things progress and it got worse and worse and… It was hard to escape, after the first time.”

“After she tied you to the bed?” Clarence prompted, and a chuckling Dickie asked “Did you get put over her knee much?”

“We don’t need to dwell on the details. Look, just, suffice to say… It wasn’t very long before I became deeply uncomfortable with the whole thing but found it very difficult to extricate myself. It went on a whole lot longer than I would have liked. I’m not proud of it but… she’s dead now, so.”

“Because we killed her, Paris,” Cornelius reminded him.

“Well, you killed her, actually.”

“Only because I wanted to help you!”

“And also she was a vampire and would have killed us all anyway. So, thank you.”

Cornelius wiped the sweat from his brow as he continued shifting the marble door, inch by tedious inch. Dickie suggested that Clarence maybe assist with some of his magic – perhaps he could summon his unseen servant? Which prompted Clarence to give a long and arduous explanation of why that particular magic would not be able to help in this instance, until Cornelius cut him off.

“It doesn’t matter,” he exclaimed, “We have a seen servant. Dickie, come over here and help me pull!”

Dickie did not make a good attempt at helping to pull but made an excellent attempt at appearing to be helping.

“Excellent work Dickie! We’ll show those wizards who’s in charge.”

Eventually a gap was opened wide enough for the barrel-chested Cornelius to squeeze through. He clapped Dickie on the back, telling him to sit down and have a breather. The inside of the mausoleum was lit only by a thin streak of light – Clarence suggested lighting a lantern, but Cornelius waved off the idea.

“We don’t need a lantern, Clarence – we ride with the Morninglord. Money!”

This was close enough to “mané”, and the medallion of the Morninglord around his chest glowed, casting bright light into the dusty mausoleum. Four alcoves with raised floors stood empty, and upon the back wall a verse was enscribed:

Here lie the bones and treasures of Argynvost

Lord of Argynvost and founder of the Order of the Silver Dragon

“More bloody dragons!” Cornelius grumbled, then relayed the verse to his companions.

Paris, always well prioritized, asked “What was that about treasure?”

“Seems like someone got here before us,” Dickie told him as he squeezed into the tomb. “Or it was upsettingly metaphorical.”

“It was probably the treasure of wisdom or something. Maybe the real treasure was the cooperation between you two to open the door?”

“Maybe the real treasure is somewhere else in the house?”

“That is all shit treasure!” stormed Cornelius. “When this is Castle Bullingdon it will contain a real treasure of gold and gemstones.”

Empty handed, the Bully Boys traipsed back into the chapel, at the base of the tower. Clarence declared that, if there were any powerful items of arcane power, they would lie at the top of the tower. The party followed him as he began to ascend, pontificating.

“Being able to look down upon your surrounds, knowing it is only a metaphor for the way you look down on the petty illusions of reality that others see as truth – THAT is to be a wizard! THAT is to be magi-“

And Clarence tripped over his robes, which Dickie’s foot may or may not have been stood on.

“You should watch these steps, they look a bit uneven,” The manservant suggested, as he stepped past the younger Bullingdon.

“Maybe you should wear shorter robes?” Paris added.

Cornelius nodded at his manservant. “Put it on the list, Dickie – we’ll need a mason, to even out the steps.”

“And a stylist for Clarence!”

So they ascended the stone spiral staircase that stood clung to the north face of the main tower; Paris trying to convince Clarence that maintaining a good image was important, Clarence refusing to conceded that he intentionally made himself look like an evil wizard, Dickie exasperated at both of the “bloody wizards”, Cornelius assessing his soon-to-be new home.

The stairwell took them up beyond the roof of the three-storey tall mansion; through arrow slits they could see that along with the south wing, large sections of the roof itself were partially collapsed. When light from the opening above finally struck them, they must have climbed almost eighty feet.

Dickie, leading the group, was turning back to laugh at Clarence when something stabbed down from the opening in the stairwell above: a blue, translucent arrow protruded from his armour. “Bloody hell! God damn bloody magic!” he exclaimed, and another arrow struck into him from above.

A lone armoured figure stood at the top of the stairwell, with a drawn longbow in hand. Unlike the revenants they had fought in the chapel below, this knight was not a rotting corpse encased in tattered armour: its appearance was whole, the armour and weapons in fine repair, but the creature and its arms were pale blue, translucent and spectral. 

Session 12 - Past Lovers Can't Be Friends

2nd Day of the 4th Quarter of the Moon of Songs, Season of Wines, Year 766.

Days in Barovia: 5. The moon waxes gibbous.

The Banderhobb

The monster leant forward as if gagging, and ejected a huge pink tongue across the room to wrap around Victor, who was then hauled screaming into the creature’s jaws. As those jaws clamped shut Victor was left half-dangling from the Banderhobb’s mouth, his legs and one arm flailing weakly. The monster turned placidly and began to walk back towards the stairwell.

Dickie and Paris (with the tower neutering his magic) drove at the creature with their swords – the manservant with more confidence but, with a writhing Victor in the way – less effect. Paris’ amateur strike was truer but barely seemed to scratch the warty hide. Cornelius stepped up from the stairwell and grabbed Victor’s legs, trying to pull him from the maw of the Banderhobb -“Somebody, come help me pull!” - but the massive creature twisted away, showing tremendous strength, and Cornelius’ hands slipped free.

Dickie struck at the distracted foe and his blade sunk deep into the flesh of its back, but the Banderhobb pulled free, swallowing Victor into its enormous gullet as it did so. It pushed past Cornelius to get further down the stairs, and Dickie’s rapier thrusted into its back again; this time, blood bubbled up from the wound as the Banderhobb wheezed and staggered.

Paris stepped back to let Dickie and Cornelius pursue the creature on the narrow stairwell. “Come on Bully Boys! Defend the child!” he cried, but his comrades were uninspired, as the magic usually lacing his calls to valour failed. Regardless, Cornelius pursued the Banderhobb down the stairwell, fists flying as the monster retreated. The Banderhobb seemed to be struggling, wheezing and slowing.

Dickie took the initiative, remembering the tower door, stepped back, then bodily leapt over the creature to get there first, slamming the door shut.

Clarence, cross-legged before the floating hand, did not seem aware of any of this: his eyes were almost shut and his fingers danced and weaved around the ensigiled cube in front of him. His peripheral vision had pinched down until all he could see was his hands, the cube, the floating gauntlet. He did not react as Victor was heaved away, as his party cried out and attacked, as the Banderhobb retreated. He was mentally engulfed, at the centre of a huge blackness, swept into a great void. His Tome of Shadows lay open next to him as he followed the ritual within automatically now. He was a window between realities. He was a door. On the other side was something… inconceivable, unknowable, ancient yet nascent, hungering, hungering and starved. It reached through the door that was Clarence. It pushed. And the bronze hand, floating in the air above the cube… Tipped.

The hand clattered to the floor and arcane power filled Clarence and Paris in a rush, leaving them elevated, giddy, euphoric. As Clarence became aware of his surrounds, a strange voice began to emanate from the desk behind him –“Congratulations insect! You have-“ but he ignored it, shouting “Where is the boy?”

“Err… eaten!” Paris replied over the strange voice, prompting Clarence to push him aside and fly down the stairwell.

Cornelius was working punches around the body of the monster, and as he moved from its back to its side he could feel the distention in its stomach where Victor was trapped. He hammered his fists into this section and was rewarded by a grotesque gagging noise as the Banderhobb half-vomited his quarry back up, Victor’s head and arms dangling from its maw, covered in foul mucus.

“Someone grab him, quick!” Cornelius called.

Slobbering and badly wounded, the Banderhobb moved away from the noble pugilist and pushed past Dickie, throwing the door open, intent on escape. However, Paris – chest puffed out with renewed confidence now his magic was back – shouted “Stop right there, villain!” and as the Banderhobb pushed through the doorway it collapsed to the floor in an enchanted slumber.

As Dickie dragged Victor out of the creature’s slack mouth, Clarence strode up to the sleeping monster. Looking down on the Banderhobb with disdain, he pointed both of his hands at it and searing bolts of eldritch light tore its head asunder.

“That is for taking my apprentice.”

“What a hideous creature,” Paris said, “I’m only too pleased I was able to put it to sleep and save poor Victor.”

“Yes, yes, indeed,” Cornelius agreed. “Now quickly, somebody hide the body, and when Victor wakes up we don’t mention this ever happened to him.”

“Ah, don’t you think he might remember?” Paris asked.

“We were in a magical tower, Paris- he will believe that his mind was clouded with magic and he only imagined everything that occurred!” Cornelius beamed, pleased by the cunning of his plan.

In the stories Paris had heard, the witches who sent Banderhobbs after naughty children sometimes used their eyes as magical ingredients; the damage Clarence had done in his fervour had destroyed one eye but the other Dickie was able to salvage, before he and Cornelius hauled the creature into the lake. From the spit on which the tower stood the water was deep; the corpse of the Banderhobb quickly faded from sight, and the disturbed fog settled again over the water, and of the creature there was no trace.

Paris applied his magical ministrations to cleaning the creature’s digestive sludge off of Victor. “So, Clarence, has any of Victor’s behaviour been bad enough to warrant being eaten by a Banderhobb?” he asked; then, remembering the Banderhobb had called for Clarence by name, “have you done anything particularly naughty? It must have something to do with those witches.”

The party gave him some confused looks. “Oh, for those of you who haven’t studied quite as much as I have, it says in all the history books that Banderhobbs are the creation of evil witches. Mothers are known to chastise their children with threat of the Banderhobb if they misbehave, which is why I mention the possibility that Victor or Clarence have misbehaved.”

“You mean to say the mothers are in league with the witches?” Cornelius asked incredulously.

“Well those witches from the windmill undoubtedly sent it after us,” Clarence deduced.

“After you, specifically, Clarence,” Paris told him.

“What?”

“It mentioned your name more than once- which is why we strove so hard to defend you!” Paris had put up no obstruction to the creature as it had entered the tower, in the hope that it would leave him alone.

Cornelius declared that Victor, and by extension his father who was paying them, should never know of the creature, which all agreed to. Paris was keen to leave the vicinity of the tower, but Dickie wanted to make sure they didn’t leave anything of value behind.

Clarence and Paris waited with the unconscious Victor while Cornelius and Dickie went to retrieve anything worthwhile from the tower. Cornelius claimed the bronze hand, which tingled with magical power – “Feels funky. Better give it to Paris to look over later.”

From the desk in the tower room, Dickie claimed the inks, the paper, the bronze-tipped pen; the chunk of amber; the four pieces of broken crystal that had together made the shape of a sword’s blade; and the bronze handbell. As he stuffed these into the various bags, pouches and compartments he kept about his person, the handbell clanged. On the bronze surface of the desk in front of Dickie two lips suddenly took form, and as they moved a voice filled the tower room.

“Congratulations insect! You have bested my challenge. You have deactivated-“

“What in the blazes is this?”

“- the wonderous enchantment placed upon this tower by the master of masters, Exethanter. If you seek me as a student then you have proved your worth as a protégé. Attune to my hand and it will lead you to me. If you seek me as a challenger, I relish the opportunity to scatter your ashes to the four winds, fool! Muahaha-“ and the magical message abruptly stopped, as the lips melted back into the desk which became smooth once more.

Frowning, Dickie stuffed the inside of the handbell with a piece of cloth to quiet it, muttering darkly about wizards.

A Free Ride

Outside the tower, Clarence was trying to convince Paris to magically heal Victor to rouse him into consciousness. However, seeing there were no wounds on the boy, Paris saw no need to expend his arcane energies, to Clarence’s chagrin. Cornelius and Dickie emerged from the tower, satisfied they had found everything worthwhile within. Cornelius told Clarence to show Paris some more respect, as his teacher, and went to investigate the wagon while his brother summoned his floating disk to carry the unconscious Vallakovich.

Within the wagon, Cornelius immediately went to the chest marked with the symbol of his new god – the rising sun of the Morninglord. Throwing the lid open revealed a sharpened wooden stake, some vials of holy water, a spyglass, rope, vials marked as perfume and antitoxin, and a holy symbol of the Morninglord. Taking the stake and holy water for himself, he passed the perfumes and antitoxin to Paris, and the rest to Dickie, instructing the manservant to don the holy symbol so that they present a more pious appearance.

“We could adopt that as a little party logo,” Paris suggested.

“I have a thought, Bully Boys,” Dickie said as he slipped the amulet around his neck. “This wagon is full of useful items… and is a wagon. Perhaps we should liberate the entire thing?”

The idea excited Paris, who exclaimed “The entire wagon – and paint it with our new symbol!” But Cornelius was less thrilled.

“Dickie, there’s just one problem here. Who do you propose pulls the wagon?” They had seen no horses picketed in the clearing. “Do you want to take up this task yourself? Can Paris and Clarence use their magic to summon up horses? Paris?”

“I could summon the image of a horse, but I could not summon an actual horse, no…”

“How hard can it be to get a horse?” Dickie muttered, remembering that when they first investigated the wagon, Victor had determined that the driver’s seat of the wagon was magical in nature. “Maybe it drives itself!” He went and planted himself in the driver’s seat and tried to focus on the wagon.

Clarence completed the spell, summoning a disk to carry the unconscious form of Victor, and joined his compatriots in the wagon. “So, what have you found so far?”

“Some rope, a spyglass, some other stuff we gave Dickie,” his brother listed, “a holy symbol for him to wear, to enhance the party image; some holy water, which we can splash on our foes; a nice stake, for extra verisimilitude the next time we must face down a vampire, and some perfume and potions for Paris to add to his mighty collection of tinctures.”

“Of course. Has anyone investigated these scrolls?”    

Cornelius had not. “Pff, just pieces of paper Clarence! I wouldn’t bother if I were you. In any case, Dickie reckons we can steal the whole wagon if we find any horses nearby.”

Clarence did look at the scrolls. The first one held a spell that allowed the caster to speak with the dead. “Hold on. This one… It allows one to penetrate the veil, to see beyond life and-“

“Clarence, Clarence, calm down,” Corenlius interrupted, “we already have the only scroll we’ll ever need: my scroll of pedigree.”

“Does your scroll of pedigree allow us to speak with grandfather?”

“Why would you ever want to talk to grandfather? He’s so boring! Always droning on about the bloody war. Oh grandfather, you won the war, oh tell us more again for the thousandth time!”

“While I agree with your sentiment, this scroll would allow us to speak with one who has been dead even for many years.”

“Ooh, like Strahd?” Paris chipped in. “He’s dead.”

“Paris, Strahd has only been dead for mere hours,” Cornelius corrected.

“Is that too recent?”

“In any case,” said an exasperated Clarence, “I shall keep this on hand.” He turned to the other things in the wagon. The wooden trunk covered in claw marks opened to reveal a small armoury: a battleaxe, a flail, a morning star, a crossbow, and a selection of crossbow bolts that appeared to be tipped with silver. From this, the wooden stake and the holy water, and the traps on the wagon and tower door,  Clarence determined that the wagon probably belonged to the monster hunter whom they were seeking; who they believed was investigating the ruined mansion of Argynvostholt.

Cornelius agreed with his brother. “And if we bring the wagon to him at Argyn… Arg… Argon-vest-felt, I’m sure he would be greatly pleased!”

…

The next half an hour passed quietly. Clarence retrieved the bronze hand from his brother, and spent the time studying the strongly magical item. Victor slept. Cornelius and Paris discussed their mighty victories in Barovia so far, making sure the story of the Bullingdon Boys was consistent. Dickie sat in the driver’s chair of the wagon, concentrating on the magic.

“Oh… like that!” he finally exclaimed. “Drovash.” And suddenly two horses appeared, harnessed to the carriage. “Blimey!”

“I didn’t even notice you go out to catch them, Dickie,” Cornelius called over.

“It’s magic, m’lord.”

“Oh. Well I’m sure they’ll be just as good as regular horses!”

From the back of the wagon there came a wailing cry of “Giant horrible frog!” as Victor returned to consciousness. Paris quickly ran over to the boy, and managed to convince him that when they had entered the tower some sort of magical event had occurred, and they had all suffered from horrible nightmares; and any horrible things he had seen or felt had just been a part of that nightmare. Paris’ glib tongue was able to convince Victor that there had been no giant horrible frog.

Everyone boarded the wagon – Clarence and Victor sat up with Dickie, who clicked his tongue and set the vehicle rolling. As they set off to Argynvostholt, Dickie informed Clarence of the message he had heard in the tower; the message of a master wizard, Exethanter, giving instruction to seek him out as a student or challenger. The bronze hand to which Clarence had attuned pulled at him, pulled south.

Ladykillers

The journey to Argynvostholt was unsuccessful. As the day turned past noon, the road began to slope upwards, and eventually the ruin became visible through the shifting fog.

“On your guard now,” Dickie warned as he caught site of the mansion. He banged on the wagon’s wall, shouting “We’re almost there!”

High above the river valley there jutted a quiet promontory on which the sepulchral mansion loomed, its turrets capped with fairytale cones, its towers lines with sculpted battlements. A third of the structure had collapsed, as had part of the roof. A dark octagonal tower rose above the surrounding architecture.

Out of the fog came a distant peal of thunder, soon accompanied by the howling of wolves from the woods below; but the house stood silent, like the fossilized remains of some long-dead thing smote on the mountainside.

A great unkempt lawn spread before the mansion, a carriageway cutting through the overgrown grass. At the far end of this drive sat a familiar black carriage, and a number of waiting figures. Some hundred feet away, Dickie halted the wagon and pulled out his recently acquired spyglass.

A strange sight greeted him. Beside the black carriage a woman in a long-skirted tea dress sat at a small table, waited on by a man in livery who shielded her with a parasol – unnecessarily, given Barovia’s climate. The carriage Dickie recognized as belonging to Strahd von Zarovich.

The Bulligndon Boys disembarked from their recently acquired wagon. Cornelius’ keen eye for architecture determined that while the structure had the appearance of a fairy-tale folly, if not half a ruin it would make a practical and defensible ruin, holding a commanding position over the valley stretching southwards.

They approached the waiting group on foot.

The woman was dressed in rare finery, festooned in jewellery. She could be a septuagenarian, but time has not been unkind to her. The footman to her side had also seen better days: he was a walking corpse, the flesh on his face rotten and falling away. From the top of the black carriage there came a hissing noise, and the Bullingdons saw another man in livery with a tricorn hat, crouched on all fours, hairless face drawn into a snarl showing sharp teeth, his long tongue flickering over bloodless lips. As they closed, a translucent figure could be vaguely discerned floating inches off the ground next to the woman; this spectre impeccably presented in the same livery as the other two.

With shock, Paris recognized the figure in front of him and as she exclaimed “Paris? Paris Digby? Oh surely not, no no no, it cannot be!” his heart sank, for it was none other than the patron from whose tyrannical clutches he had escaped before joining the Bullingdons: The Dowager Baroness Rhineheart.

“Oh, what benevolent circumstance has returned you to me!”

“Ah, err, um,” Paris sputtered, disbelieving, “Um, B-baroness, sorry if it sounds rude but… What are you doing in Barovia?”

“What are YOU doing in Barovia, darling? I live here!”

Cornelius elbowed Paris in the ribs, hissing “Are you going to introduce us?”

“Ah, this is the Baroness Rhineheart, my former… patron, of sorts. What do you mean you live in Barovia, madam?”

“Well, well. After you left me,” she pouted at Paris, “I was of course heartbroken. Heartbroken, Paris, you don’t know- you don’t know what you did to me, you killed me dear, you killed me, you were vicious. But, well… I wasn’t a young woman anymore and father time waits for no man, or woman, nor even a baroness! And as I started to feel the aching of my bones and with the heavy wearying of my heart… I decided to go on one last adventure. A grand tour to say goodbye to all the fine things I had enjoyed in life! I had Twelvetrees pack the bags, and DeVilliers ready the carriage and Stevens worked out all of the logistics,” she waved lazily at the livery-clad footmen, and the ghost at her side made a formal bow.

“And what a tour it was, you wouldn’t believe what I got up to!” she winked lewdly at Paris, and continued, “But then DeVilliers the fool took a wrong turn in some fog and we ended up in this strange land. I met a prince, darling! For many weeks he entertained me and, despite the age difference, he very much took to me. Alas, he wouldn’t take me for his bride, but he offered me a gift like no other- an escape from the clutches of time! It’s like a fairytale darling, there’s even a castle, and so I find myself here on some of the prince’s business. There’s a man inside the ruin he’s awfully keen to speak with.”

The blood had drained from Paris’ face. “Am I… is this a nightmare?” He saw now the baroness’ face was deathly pale, the blue tint to her lips not cosmetic; within her mouth was the hint of long, sharp teeth. “This prince- Strahd von Zarovich, I presume?”

“Mm, the very one! Have you met him? He’s such a dear. I tell you what Paris, I’ll put in a good word for you, maybe he’ll give you his gift too, and we could be together- forever!”

“I’m afraid I must speak up, baroness!” Cornelius interrupted. “I’m afraid Strahd von Zarovich will be giving no more gifts. For I, Cornelius Pfeffil Bullingdon the third, marquis of Saxonia and prophet of the Morninglord, did slay him in the town of Vallaki! Strahd is dead, old woman!”

“Paris, you were always such a joker,” Rhineheart giggled, “You could always make me laugh, and your friends are so funny. Now come, do be serious!”

“This is no joke! With one might punch of my fist I did throw Strahd through the walls of the church of Saint Andrew! And in the holy light of the Morninglord, he shrivelled and burned until there was naught left but smoke and steam!”

“I just can’t let you talk about that I’m afraid, it’s really quite detestable. He’s not dead.”

“He is dead!”

“No, he’s not.”

“He has been dead for more than three hundred years,” Clarence interjected, “but furthermore he is now… incorporeal.”

The baroness was not convinced. “He’s incorporeal all the time! I don’t think you know him very well. Now I’m going to have to ask you to stop saying all these horrible things or I’ll- I’ll have to put you over my knee! Paris, tell your friends to behave.”

“Trust me,” Paris warned his companions, “you don’t want to be put over her knee.”

“Look Paris, I think that, having defeated the mighty vampire Strahd von Zarovich, an old woman and her tea party will be no trouble at all for the Bullingdon Boys!”

“No, no Cornelius, listen, you don’t know her.”

Cornelius ignored Paris, continuing to address Rhineheart. “Now, we will leave you to deal with this news, as we have business to attend to within the mansion.”

“Well. Well. That’s awfully rude when we’ve only just been introduced. And Paris… you don’t think now you’ve fallen into my lap again I’m going to let you get away?”

“No. Paris works for me now!” Cornelius put his arm around Paris’ shoulders and pulled him close. Dickie, who had been holding back laughter for this whole exchange, had to put his hand over his mouth to stifle his guffaws. The baroness gave a wry smile.

“You boys are very cute. So, Paris, what would it take for you to change your employment?”

“Nothing, and I mean nothing, madam, will return me to your employment. I escaped you once and I will escape you again!”

“Oh but Paris, you will work for me again… You’ll have to if you find yourself trapped alone in Barovia with no employer.” She looked hungrily at Cornelius, and stood.

Through all of this Clarence had been fumbling inside his robe; now he dropped to his feet, and started dragging his wrist along the ground. Victor, looking down, could see a trail of blood left where Clarence’s arm passed.

The baroness backed away from the party, said “You teach them some manners, Twelvetrees!” and gestured at the undead footman stood next to her. The parasol dropped from his rotten hands and he swelled to an enormous size.

Cornelius scoffed at the huge zombie. “You’ve only made yourself twice as easy to hit!” His proud Bullingdon fists flew: the first blow connected with mouldering jaw, snapping the head back with such force that the decaying spinal column sheared and the head detached completely. The second punch crushed Twelvetrees’ hip, the leg crumpling and toppling the headless corpse, which Cornelius pummelled again as it fell, before his fourth blow caught the falling head, crushing the skull: and the zombie footman moved no more.

Dickie jauntily mounted the roof of the black carriage and thrust his blade at the ghoulish coachman. A horrible stench emanated from the creature, distracting enough to throw Dickie’s thrust off its mark. The manservant pulled the tricorn hat down over DeVilliers’ eyes, and distracted in turn the slash of its clawed hand caught only air.

Victor gesticulated and the table at which the baroness had been sat was flung up at Dickie’s opponent; the furniture clipped DeVilliers but the coachman kept his balance on top of the carriage.

The spectre, Stevens, moaned “Leave the lady be!” and mimicking Victor animated a piece of furniture – the chair – and directed it at Cornelius, bludgeoning the nobleman.

“Won’t you ever die!” Paris shouted, and a thunderous blast of magical energy caught Baroness Rhineheart and the spectre, flattening the grass around them. “Paris, is that all you’ve learnt since we’ve been apart?” Rhineheart mocked.

Clarence continued dragging his bleeding arm along the ground, forming a circle around Victor, Paris and himself. He opened up the diabolist's grimoire taken from Lady Wachter’s hidden room, then realising that he would not be able to control whatever he summoned forward, gave up with that plan and flung a pair of eldritch blasts at the ghost: the arcane energy crackled over the figure which moaned “I’m sorry…” as it faded away.

“This is- it’s just- it’s simply unacceptable!” the baroness cried, and promptly turned invisible. Cornelius joined his manservant on the carriage roof, and they swiftly dispatched of the coachman. Dickie caught a glimpse of movement and dashed towards it, calling to his companions.

Paris followed Dickie, shouting “It’s just as well you’re invisible, baroness- you’re frightfully unattractive!” Unseen cold hands grabbed him and a voice whispered “Just give in, darling,” but Paris writhed free of the grasp; however, Rhineheart’s position was now clearer to Cornelius and Dickie, who managed to catch her amongst punches and wild sword thrusts and break her concentration on the spell. “You beasts,” she cried, reappearing.

“You’ll have to try harder than that, you hag,” Dickie spat, as Paris flourished his wand and lanced a ray of frost at the Baroness. Clarence joined the arcane assault, and battered by magical energy the baroness threw up her hands and cried “Oh, I submit! Paris, you savage… Don’t ravage me!”

Dickie grabbed her arms from behind; she flung her head back, thrusted out her bosom and closed her eyes, crying “Oh no, no, please, you big strong men!” Cornelius drew out the wooden stake, and asked Paris “Shall I?”

“I had hoped that she could be saved, but… She’s given away her soul. She must be destroyed.”

As Cornelius pressed the stake against her breast, her eyes opened and her head snapped forward – “Oh, wait, you’re serious-“ and Cornelius hammered the stake into her heart.