Session 16 - Semper Sic Tyrannis

3rd Day of the 4th Quarter of the Moon of Songs, Season of Wines, Year 766.

Days in Barovia: 6. The moon waxes gibbous.

Home Truths

“I’m really starting the wish we hadn’t given him the ‘executioner’ idea,” Paris said of the baron, squeamishly looking away from the heads on spikes decorating the gate as the Bullingdon Boys passed into Vallaki.

“I’m sure we can give him talking to and get him to give it up quick-sharp,” Cornelius said confidently.

“What are we going to say? Oh, baron, please stop killing people?”

“I think you underrate your persuasive prowess, Paris,” Clarence told his old tutor. “We can all be… very persuasive, if we put our minds to it.”

“What are you referring to? I don’t like your tone.”

Cornelius sighed. “Do you ever like his tone, Paris?”

“I felt he was insinuating something about my moral fibre.”

“I insinuate nothing, Paris,” Clarence drawled, “Only that we have many… capabilities.”

Dickie squinted at the younger Bullingdon brother. “How is it that what sounds like a perfectly good and innocent idea you make sound like a sinister plot. It’s a real talent you’ve got there, you know.”

“It sounds like a personal problem. Of yours.”

“No, I think everyone’s getting it.”

“In which case it is a personal problem with the rest of the universe... One which will soon be remedied.”

Not for the first time and not for the last, Clarence’s companions stared at him strangely.

Ignoring his brother’s strange musings, Cornelius drove the party forward into the town. He was keen to be rid of Victor Vallakovich, and the boy’s father probably had good reason for killing those people and putting their heads on spikes above the gates.

Fog pushed around them as they passed into the gloomy town. The air was thick and heavy, and dark clouds billowed overhead – a storm was brewing. The streets of Vallaki were dead. They didn’t see another soul as they headed along the now almost familiar streets, until they came to the Vallakovich Mansion, where two guardsmen flanked the entrance. They eyed the Bully Boys warily as they approached.

Cornelius hailed them. “Good day sirs. You will of course recognize me. I am here to return the baron’s son from the highly educational field trip he has undertaken with we, the mighty Bullingdon Boys.”

“Heroes of Vallaki,” Clarence added.

“Indeed. I assume you will allow us to enter and speak with the baron? He’s a friend of ours.”

The older of the guards squinted at Cornelius, recognized him from the church of St. Andral and recognized Victor Vallakovich. “The baron will be… keen to talk to you, yes. I expect you’ll find him in the library.”

As they crossed the threshold, Victor gave a disgusted sigh. “Home again.” Shaking his head, he went to the kitchen to get something to eat, as the party went in search of his father.

“Is it just me,” Dickie said once out of earshot of the guards and Victor, “or did that sound more-than-usually ominous?”

Paris glanced in the direction Victor had left. “I think it’s just the Clarence effect.”

“I was talking about what the guard said… everything seems a bit… off, here.”

Cornelius turned to his manservant. “We’ve determined everything is off, Dickie, because the baron has indulged in tyranny and oppression of his people. In any case, if he tried to put our heads on pikes, we’ll give him the old Bullingdon one-two and show him who’s in charge around here, right boys?”

“Yes.”

“Of course.”

“Just as you say, milord.”

The library – which doubled as the baron’s study – was a large, windowless room in the centre of the first floor of the house. Dickie knocked on the closed door, and when the baron’s voice enquired from beyond, Paris introduced them. They were eagerly invited inside, where Vargas Vallakovich, the baron of Vallaki, stood behind his fine wooden desk. The baron’s two large black mastiffs lay upon a rug in front of the desk; as they entered, one lifted its head and began to growl softly.

“Ah, Cornelius, excellent! Good to see you! I hope your little field trip with my son was educational?”

“Yes, it was most productive for everyone involved. But, that is not the only thing we have come to talk to you about, baron…” Cornelius paused, remembering something as the baron waited expectantly. “Oh actually, no, first, if you could pay us he money we are owed?”

The baron frowned. “So you would hold the coffers of Vallaki hostage for doing your civic duty?”

“Only that you fulfil your contractual agreements. We have educated your son, and we have kept him safe – although of course we encountered no danger on our travels.”

The miserly baron pursed his lips. “Where is the boy? Bring him up. I would see if he has learnt anything of value.”

Clarence was dispatched by Cornelius to collect his protégé. Vargas thumbed through a binder on the desk, asking “What was the fee agreed upon? Ah yes. Fifty gold, with a quarter paid in advance.”

“Which leaves thirty seven gold yet to be paid,” Cornelius prompted.

“If I find the education to have been worthwhile.”

As Clarence returned with Victor he delivered the boy a warning. “There are many who will not understand the relations such as you and I have with the powers beyond this world. I recommend you keep your true allegiances concealed- even from those who hold ties of familial loyalty.

“I shouldn’t tell my father, then, about the true reality behind all the veils man constructs so that his mortal mind can survive the perils of the greater universe?”

“Of course. For those who are not adept as you and I… it would merely cause their minds to buckle.”

“Well in that case it’s quite tempting. But I will do as you say. I don’t talk to my father anyway.”

Victor, when questioned on the worth of the trip, keenly attested to its value in his magical education, having rendered unto him the knowledge of the fireball. His father sighed, unlocked the large chest behind his desk; removed a purse, counted out thirty seven gold pieces, and locked the purse back in the chest, then reluctantly pushed the coin to Cornelius, which the marquis snatched up.

When Victor saw he was no longer needed he left, saying he would be in the attic. “Now,” Cornelius said to the baron as the door closed, “there are other things we wish to discuss with you.”

“Yes, I do wonder what you’re still doing in Barovia. What are your plans now?”

“We’re not talking about our plans now, baron, we’re talking about your plans.”

“Well I know my plans. I’m interested in your plans.”

“Be quiet!” Cornelius barked. The two mastiffs raised their ugly heads.

“Excuse me?”

“A marquis outranks a baron, as you well know-“

“I will point out, Mister Bullingdon, that you are in my home as my guest, and a marquis of somewhere I have never heard. So I would expect better manners from you.”

“Saxonia is a great and noble nation far outstripping Barovia in both power and virtue, as my rank outstrips yours. Now be quiet while I castigate you!”

The baron’s face was a mask of cold fury. “Castigate me? While you castigate me, you are lining yourself up sir for a castigation as you have never seen! Consider your position before I ask you to leave.”

“We have considered our position very well!” Cornelius persisted. “Now, as we entered the city we noticed four severed heads placed upon pikes on the city gates-“

“And what of it? Would you have another four heads above the city gates?” The baron looked pointedly at Dickie, Paris, Clarence and Cornelius. “Is that why you have come to me? Because that is where this is heading.”

“No, baron. Tell me, what did those people do to deserve such punishment? Paris, now!”

“Zone of truth!” Paris cried, casting the spell as he and Cornelius had secretly planned beforehand.

“So, baron, answer my question,” Cornelius continued, as Dickie placed himself infront of the door. “Why did you kill those people?”

Vargas’ hand rested on the sword at his waist and his eyes flickered nervously from one Bully Boy to another. “You knew why I killed those people, you were there for gods’ sake!”

“Job my memory. Who were those people and what were their crimes?”

“You uncovered a nefarious conspiracy to usurp me! You assisted me in bringing the perpetrators to justice, you were celebrated as heroes for it! You made no complaint when the Wachter conspirators were executed at the festival – in fact, I think one of you suggested it!”

Cornelius… floundered. “Why are the people of Vallaki so subdued? Why did the innkeeper leave? Why is no one on the streets?”

“I don’t need to be questioned by you!”

“Ah, but you, sir, are in the Zone of Truth,” said Paris, “you have no choice.”

“Nobody can lie within the magical zone my mighty mage Paris created in this room.”

“Well I haven’t lied anyway, I wasn’t going to lie, I don’t need to lie. I will run my town as I see fit for the good of all of the people so they may be happy and safe.”

“Some may say that your rule has grown tyrannical, that you oppress the people- that you are no better than Strahd himself!”

“Tell me who’s spreading these rumours, and I shall have them brought to justice.”

Trapped in the zone of truth, Cornelius exclaimed “I’m spreading these rumours! Bring me to justice if you will.”

“Very well then!” The baron moved towards the door.

“Wait,” cried Paris, “we haven’t asked all the questions yet!”

Then everything went wrong.

Getting Away With Murder

The baron tried to push past Cornelius towards the door, but was instead pushed down to the floor. The baron, shocked that Cornelius would have the audacity to lay hands upon his person, was for a moment stunned before crying “Guards! Guards!”

The two mastiffs leapt at Cornelius as he assaulted their master, but Clarence lanced one with eldritch energy, crackling bolts of dark magic slaying it immediately. The other barrelled Cornelius to the floor, huge jaws clamping around his shoulder.

“Come here puppy! Oh your so cute!” Paris said to the dog, lacing the words with psychic energy; it looked up from Cornelius, confused, wincing, and vomited over the older Bullingdon as its eyes rolled back into its head and it collapsed, dead.

“Knock him out, put him in the chest, claim he was abducted,” Dickie said, keeping near the door, as Clarence shifted his appearance to that of the baron.

Cornelius heaved the corpse of the mastiff away, trying to hurl it at Vallakovich as he climbed to his feet, hissing “Be quiet! Call of your guards and we can resolve this peacefully!”

The baron looked up at him wild eyed, clumsily drawing the sword at his hip and continuing to scream “Guards!”

The sword lashed at Cornelius but his holy symbol flashed with bright white light and momentarily blinded Vallakovich. “Guards!”

Paris, thinking quickly, summoned an illusion, an almost perfect apparition with long, greasy hair and shifty eyes – Ernst Larnak, the slippery servant of Lady Wachter. He placed the illusion behind Clarence-as-the-baron, holding a knife to his throat, and shouted “The villain Ernst Larnak is trying to kill the baron! Guards!”

As he shouted, there was a clatter of footfalls and Dickie was thrown forward as the door was forced open. As Dickie threw his weight back against it, a voice called through “My lord, are you alright?”

“They’re trying to kill me!” the real baron cried, and Paris, putting on his best impression of Ernst Larnak, answered “A-ha! I, Ernst Larnak, will kill you now, baron! None of these Bully Boys can stop me! Muahahaha!”

Dickie slammed the door closed against the guards outside and nimble fingers turned the lock before they could push back again. Fake-baron-Clarence, with fake-Ernst-Larnak fake-threatening him, turned his power on the real baron, who was thrown back, unconscious, strewn over the desk.

Cornelius looked around the room. He put his hands together in an expression of worry… and fire leapt from his fingertips as his newly-granted divine power was channelled to ignite the desk, Vargas Vallkovich on the desk, the chair behind the desk, the books in the bookcases lining the walls, the carpet, the ceiling.

“Everyone out of the building!” he shouted, “There is a fire!”

“Dickie, unlock that door! Unlock that fucking door!” Paris shouted, an edge of panic to his voice. Before Dickie could, the door opened behind the weight of a charging guard.

The two guards saw the following: flames starting to engulf the room; Ernst Larnak, with a knife to the baron’s throat; the three Bullingdon Boys – Cornelius, Paris and Dickie – rescuing the baron, delivering a fatal blow to Larnak and casting him into the fire; then, the baron, the three Bully Boys and the two guards pouring out of the room in a wash of heat and smoke, charging down the stairs and out onto the street, coughing and spluttering, eyes red and streaming.

“Curse you Ernst Larnak!” Paris cried.

“I am most glad that you, the Bulligndon Boys, were able to save me, the baron,” Clarence said as the guards checked he was alright. Smoke was beginning to billow out of the windows on the first floor, and they moved away down the street, when Paris cried out “Oh no, Victor’s in the attic!”

“My boy is still in there,” Clarence shouted at the guards, “get him you fools! I’m safe!” The pair shared a look, then the younger ran back into the mansion; but shortly ran back out, coughing and spluttering, unable to push through the smoke and heat.

Dickie, eyeing the façade of the building, called out “I’ll get him!” and took a running leap; caught a window frame, and hauled himself upwards, then leapt again, catching the lip of the attic windowsill; as his head cleared the ledge he was unable to see anything within as a blast of fire and smoke from the attic threw him from the building. Below, Cornelius arrested the fall of his manservant, and began to try and scale the burning building himself.

“Come on Cornelius, the fate of Victor rests in your hands!” Paris encouraged, as Clarence channelled some arcane energy to assist his climb. The elder Bullingdon made it to the lintel from which Dickie had fallen, but now the flames were so hot as to melt the paint; too hot to touch, and Cornelius’ hands twitched back instinctively; more gracefully than Dickie, he dropped and rolled. Coming to his knees, he raised his fists to the sky and shouted “Larnaaak!”

One of the guards put a hand on Clarence-as-the-baron’s shoulder. “I’m… I’m sorry, my lord.” The other guard asked if the baron’s lady wife had been within as well. Clarence didn’t know, but told the guards to check around the building to see if anyone else had escaped, as Paris looked on in horror.

The Vallakovich Mansion was now consumed by fire, pouring heat and smoke into the street. There was a creak followed by a crash as some important timber gave out and a section of the great house sagged into the flaming core.

A group approached from the end of the street – more guards, led by the baron’s huge henchman, Izek Strazni, approaching at a run.

“Oh Izek, thank the gods you’re here!” Paris called, “Ernst Larnak set fire to the building!”

“My son is in there!” wailed Clarence.

Izek came to a halt in front of them, and eyed up the inferno dubiously. “Anyone in there is dead,” he growled. Clarence began sobbing, very convincingly.

Clarence put Izek in charge. “I must mourn for my family, you understand?”

Izek shrugged.

“Ask them what happened,” Clarence gestured to the other Bully Boys, “I will… Find me a house.”

Izek swiftly took control, organizing the guards to make sure the fire did not spread to adjacent buildings, and commanding some of his men to find a family ‘willing’ to give up their house to the baron in this time of need. Cornelius explained the fire was the work of Ernst Larnak, come for revenge against the baron; and fortunately the Bullingdon Boys had been there to save the baron and defeat the villain, but hadn’t been able to stop him setting the fire.

A small group of Vallaki’s citizens had gathered to watch the blaze. As Clarence-as-the-baron followed his escort of guards to his new house, the Barovians stared at him coldly, without sympathy. One spat on the ground as he passed. Clarence was taken to a house where the guardsmen unceremoniously turfed out the occupiers. He told them not to let anyone in until he came out. Two posted themselves at the front of the house while the others returned to Izek.

Cornelius, meanwhile, addressed the surly crowd. He told them that the threat to the town had been dealt with, and while the baron was in mourning he may not be able to govern; but all would be well, as the Bullingdon Boys were there to protect them, with the blessing of the Morninglord. “Liar!” a voice called from the crowd, and another voice, “Murderer!”

Izek barked something at the guards, who began to move menacingly towards the crowd which rapidly dispersed. Paris chastised the guardsmen, who were delayed enough for the crowd to escape unmolested.

Cornelius put an arm around Paris’ shoulders. “You know, I’ve been thinking. As you’re such an excellent orator, Paris, perhaps in future you could take over some of my public speaking duties?”

“Oh of course, I’d be only too happy to help you in any way I can. Back in Saxonia, I was a well-known and much admired public orator-“ Paris began reeling off examples of his public speaking prowess, some of which may even have been true, as Cornelius’ face settled into a mask of boredom. “- therefore I think you’ve shown great wisdom.”

“Of course, wisdom is one of my virtues, Paris – even if pleasing crowds is not.”

“No, no, you did an excellent job! I just think the tone of you voice could be improved – No, I’ll help you.”

“Are you trying to finagle more pay from me, Paris?”

Shortly thereafter, three-quarters of the Bulligndon party found themselves at the house acquired for the ‘baron’. Cornelius approached the guard at the door, saying he wished to offer his condolences to the baron. Clarence told the guard to send them away, but leaning from a window whispered into his brother’s mind that he wanted to maintain his deception.

As Cornelius, Paris and Dickie headed to the church to talk to Ireena, Clarence realized that Victor’s spellbook, full of precious rituals he had wished to transcribe into his Tome of Shadows, was now lost to him forever. The guards at the door heard an anguished cry of “Noooo!”

“He’s really not taking it well,” one said to the other.

“His wife and child are dead! Have a little sympathy,” the other replied.

If You Listen To Fools…

They decided to take an alternate route to the Church of St. Andral so as to avoid the burning mansion, Izek and the guards. Dickie changed the glamour from his magic armour to the attire of a Barovian peasant. As they passed through the town square, they saw the decorations from the Festival of the Blazing Sun still hung, limp and sodden after a few days exposed. The scaffold erected next to the fountain was there still, any trace of the huge wicker sun removed; but the block used in Izek’s enthusiastic execution of the Wachter cult remained. 

On the north side of the square the Blue Water Inn stood quiet, no smoke rising from its chimney. Some ravens fluttered about the rooftiles. A plank of wood had been nailed across the front door, bearing the word “CLOSED” in scrawled red paint.

As they approached the church they were halted by two guardsmen on patrol, who challenged them- but one of them quickly recognized the Bullingdon Boys, and apologised for stopping them, offering their assistance. Cornelius asked them to keep an eye out for Clarence, as he’d been ‘missing’ since the fire.

As they conversed, a twisted crown of jagged black iron appeared around Cornelius’ head; inky blackness spread across the whites of his eyes and his pupil’s burned red. He turned and launched a punch at Dickie but the manservant had already been stepping back, and the blow only glanced his shoulder. “What the hell’s going on? Bloody wizards again!” and the crown disappeared from Cornelius’ head, who blinked, his eyes clearing.

“Dickie, I, I apologise. I don’t know what came over me, I just felt like you needed a bloody good punch in the face.”

Dickie’s attention was elsewhere- “Over there! Bloody over there!” he shouted as he saw movement at the mouth of an alleyway between two squat houses. He drew his sword and flew to the alley, the guards, somewhat confused, on his heels. He reached the alley, stepped forward and saw… Nothing. A dead end; a bare brick wall.

“Hells, I could’ve sworn…” Dickie muttered.

“Well someone has cast something strange on Cornelius, in any case.” Paris racked his memory but whatever the enchantment was, he was unfamiliar with it. “A wizard cast a spell, I’m very familiar with it, it makes you want to punch people.”

“Do you know who?” asked Cornelius. “What kind of wizard? Was it Strahd? Was it his influence again?”

“There’s definitely… some, some magic at work here,” Paris said, helpfully.

Dickie determined that Strahd was not lurking in the alley, and somewhat shaken by the mysterious magical assault, they dismissed the guards and continued to the church. The close, heavy air and threatening clouds roiling above did not calm their nerves. Dickie kept an eye to the sky, in case any dragon-skull chariots went flying by.

They reached the familiar house of the Morninglord without further incident. They stepped beyond the wrought iron fence and past the fog-strewn graves to find the door open; they pushed their way in and in the nave saw Ireena, sat upon a pew, book in hand, and back at the altar Father Petrovich with one arm in a sling.

“I hope no one’s stolen the bloody bones again,” Dickie muttered darkly, as Paris called out a greeting to Ireena. She was surprised to see them.

Paris told her, “We’d like to take you to Krezk to be healed by the magical healing waters.”

“The waters of the cathedral of Krezk,” Cornelius added.

She looked at them with confusion. “Why do you want to take me to Krezk?”

Paris hesitated, then turned to his companions. “Err, didn’t her brother say to take her or something?”

Dickie stepped in, reminding Ireena of Madam Eva’s fortune, and telling her how they had come to believe that the fortunes held some potency. “I hear it can help with even the most… unusual injuries,” Dickie said, touching his neck pointedly.

“Besides,” Cornelius said “I believe Vallaki may become quite… unstable soon. It would be best if we all left.”

“And you too, Father,” Paris called to Petrovich, who was yet to notice them. A look of panic was on the old man’s face as he saw them. “Oh Bullingdon Boys! Thank the Morninglord you’re here! Someone… has stolen the bones!”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Paris muttered, as Petrovich’s panic turned to mirth and he began to laugh.

“Eh, heh, heh, no, they’re fine. You should have seen your face!”

“Oh, a joke!” Cornelius said through gritted teeth, fists clenched.

Ireena smiled at the old priest’s antics, but she was serious when she told the Bullingdon Boys that she didn’t see the sense in leaving. Her brother had died to get her safely away from Strahd; and they know that she is safe from him in the church- he cannot touch her there. She didn’t see the logic in her taking to the road, unprotected, where Strahd could strike at any moment, just to go to Krezk to see a pool the powers of which they had no real understanding of. Could they not defeat Strahd while she remained safe in the Church of St. Andral?

However, Paris managed to persuade her that the looming chaos in Vallaki – insurgents having just burned down the baron’s mansion – put her at as much risk here as on the road to Krezk where at least she would be protected by the mighty Bullingdon Boys.

Persuaded but not pleased, Ireena gathered her things to travel once again. “If you’re really sure it’s for the best, I’ll go with you to Krezk, but I’m not happy to be leaving somewhere I know I’m safe.”

“Well, Paris assured you you’d be safe,” Cornelius said, “and it’s on Paris’ word that we will make sure you are safe. Like Paris said.”

Paris smiled reassuringly. “Everyone knows my word is worth its weight in gold.”

…

As Ireena was collected and convinced, Clarence spent his time poring over his eldritch tome, laying out an intricate ritual that would allow him to beseech his Patron. Should he look for Victor Vallakovich? He studied the signs, processed the divination, but all he could determine was – woe.

Meanwhile a crowd was gathering outside the baron’s emergency residence. Clarence finally became aware of their presence as their chanting and singing interrupted his concentration. He peeked out of the curtains, to see the two guards outside the house lying slain at their posts, impaled with long, black feathered arrows. Packing the street was a mob of dozens of Barovian peasants, holding lit torches, sticks, some carried half bricks, some had farming tools, knives, an exotic array of improvised weapons.

Clarence heard chants: “No more murder!” and “Death to the tyrant!” as he ducked back behind the curtain. Dickie, Paris, Cornelius and Ireena heard the crowd from streets away as they came to collect Clarence. They found themselves at the back of the mob of more than a hundred Vallkians. Someone shouted something, and some two dozen angry Barovians began to move towards the house; Paris wove an illusion of Vargas Vallakovich running from the house, and shouted “There he goes!”

The mob roared, and the vanguard veered after the illusory baron, who fled, screaming very convincingly. Clarence clambered out of a back window, jumping down to the ground below and dropping his glamour of the dead baron, taking up the guise of a Barovian peasant. Paris, Dickie and Cornelius, with Ireena in tow, began to push their way through the crowd; Paris’ voice boomed out, magically amplified, trying to drive the mob after the baron illusion. The crowd parted, but as Paris drew the attention of the mob mutterings of “That’s them!” and “Dogs of the baron!” could be heard.

Ireena clutched to Cornelius in terror. “This is all starting to feel very familiar, isn’t it, Paris?” the marquis said jovially.

“We probably should’ve learnt from last time.”

As a voice shouted “They’re murderers!” Cornelius gave the familiar Bullingdon hand gesture for “lets get the hell out of here”; threw Ireena over his shoulder, and began to run. Paris began to jog gently backwards, addressing the crowd.

“Your oppressor is dead, or very soon will be; we’re going to leave Vallaki now, and never return; please don’t kill us-“

A half brick came arcing out of the crowd and slammed into his midriff. “Ooof- off we go, have a good year!” Paris wheezed as he turned his backwards jog into a full-fledged retreat.

Dickie let Paris and the Clarence-as-a-peasant (who identified himself telepathically) pass him before untying a small bag, and scattering its contents on the road between the Bullingdon Boys and the peasant mob beginning to chase after them.

On the dark street, the locals could not see the slippery metal spheres and those hottest in pursuit were comically felled as their feet went out from under them. Cornelius, Ireena over his shoulder, Paris, wheezing from the brick, and Dickie and Clarence in the guise of local peasantry flew in the direction of the nearest gate.

They fled the mob into the path of another host, charging in the other direction: Izek, huge axe gleaming in his monstrous hand, a vicious grin on his face, a phalanx of the town guard, spears levelled, charging with him.

As the Bullingdon Boys turned the corner the blowing of tin whistles and shouts of the mob disintegrated into the sounds of a one-sided melee, horrific screams and the monstrous laughter of Izek Strazni.

To the Bully Boys’ experience, the gates of Vallaki were always kept closed, especially at night when they were barred and chained. So it was a surprise for them to see the Sunset Gate wide open. In the shadow of the archway they saw two men struggling with each other: one raised the other bodily in the air, and brought them bodily down upon its knee, spine breaking with a sickening crunch.

The killer stepped forward and they saw it armoured head to toe in vicious spiked leather-and-plate. Wicked metal spines protruded from helmet, pauldrons, elbow, knee, toe, knuckle, along the arms and along the legs, around the torso. It very deliberately placed itself in the gateway to obstruct the Bullingdons.

From a shadow they could have sworn was empty, a second figure stepped out, in a wide brimmed hat and black cloak which rippled gently in the evening air. This one carried a long ebony bow and over one shoulder they could see the shafts of long black arrows.

“We’re not so different, you and I.” The voice came from behind them. They turned and saw an intelligent face: piercing eyes framed with high cheekbones sat below a towering forehead upon which there perked a flat-topped, visored cap. A reddish moustache and goatee decorated an otherwise hairless face.

"I came to this land with thoughts of slaying Strahd. My comrades here, too. For power, for glory; for profit, or just for… good. So I’m sympathetic. You’ve done quite well. To destroy the master’s body even once is more than most adventurers achieve. But it’s not enough. It’s never enough. He cannot be overcome.” In the flickering light of the torches upon the wall they caught a glimpse of long, sharp teeth. “All you can do it join him, or die. So I give you this invitation: Take the dark gift. Join us.”