Session 20 – Every Mother’s Son

5th Day of the 4th Quarter of the Moon of Songs, Season of Wines, Year 766.

Days in Barovia: 8. The moon waxes gibbous.

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

Paris snapped awake. It was well before dawn, the sky above still dark but… The Golden Bully Hut was gone! And then, there was fire: a burning explosion, unbearable heat, in the midst of their camp. Cornelius and Dickie, barely conscious, were already flinging themselves away as they came too, scrabbling and rolling; Paris threw himself down, minimizing the impact of the blast, but Clarence was engulfed by the inferno.

As Paris recovered, nightclothes smouldering, he saw Strahd von Zarovich stood hand outstretched towards the camp. The devil’s face was a cruel rictus of rage.

Paris cried out in retribution – “That’s not how the Bully Hut’s supposed to work!” and Strahd was briefly engulfed by hellish flames that licked at his cloak and flesh but seemed to do no damage; in Paris’ ears boomed the lub-dub, lub-dub of some enormous heart, as the foppish wizard, never without his wand, flung a ray of frost at the vampire. The ice rippled around Strahd and again the effect seemed mitigated, and the great heart beat once more. Paris gestured, and the Golden Bully Sword appeared; huge and pendulous, it struck at the vampire who brushed it aside to the sound of the heart.

Dickie sprung to his feet. “Attack us in our sleep, will you? You bloody bastard!” He charged toward Strahd, rolling as he passed Van Richten’s sword-cane, thrown towards him in the blast, coming to his feet now with two weapons; dagger in one hand, silver sword in the other. He slashed at the vampire, and as the blades sliced through Strahd’s flesh it reknit immediately, and Dickie now heard the heartbeat boom.

Strahd’s hand, long nails outstretched, lunged at the bare flesh of Dickie’s chest, and came away bloody.

Clarence, skin red raw, eyebrows gone, backed away from the monstrous lord of Barovia desperately casting a protective enchantment that encased him in armour of ice.

“Paris, there’s a fire in the Bully Hut!” Cornelius shouted, then, noticing Strahd engaged with Dickie, “What? You’re supposed to be dead, fiend!” He grasped the Holy Symbol of Ravenkind, hung around his neck- “This time, no fancy tricks will let you escape from the Bullingdon Boys! We have the Morninglord on our side!” He channelled the divine power of the symbol- the power to paralyze vampires- and Strahd slowed, his muscles locking stiff… But then, shuddering the vampire overcame the effect, his flesh tearing from the stress then immediately reknitting to the sound of the great hard. “No! That was lost, forever!” He roared, as Cornelius charged towards him.

“Not anymore,” Paris called, “You’re facing the big boys now, Strahd!” and the Bully Sword swung down, striking Strahd once again. Lub-dub, lub-dub. Van Richten’s sword in Dickie’s hand flashed, skewered Strahd, and lub-dub, lub… the heartbeat stopped, the silver sword came out bloody, and the wound did not immediately heal. Dickie stepped away from the swing of a clawed hand, but Cornelius was not so nimble and Strahd wrapped an iron hand around his throat.

Clarence wove an enchantment to send Strahd away, and the vampire’s form began to flicker and fade, phasing out of existence but Strahd screamed in anger and through sheer force of will overcame the spell; his physical body tearing from the strain of the exertion of will, hand still clamped on Cornelius’ throat.

Cornelius’ fist wrapped around the holy symbol, then pounded into Strahd’s face, bones beneath the dead white skin crunching, the cheekbone collapsing. A ray of frost from Paris went errant and the Bully Sword swung and missed, and Strahd drew Cornelius close, sinking his fangs into his neck. Cornelius shuddered as for a second time, Strahd drank deep of him, drawing forth his very essence.

Dickie’s dagger slammed into Strahd’s side, and the creature released its hold on Cornleius; throwing the elder Bullington into his manservant, Strahd stepped back and threw a fireball at Paris. This time the wizard was too slow and took the full front of the blast. The vampire’s cheekbone pushed itself back out as it slowly started to heal.

As Clarence summoned his energy to throw at Strahd the vampire sought to quash his magics; but the bronze hand artefact within Clarence’s robes absorbed Strahd’s counter-spell, and a backpedalling Clarence let loose two eldritch blasts. As these narrowly missed the vampire Cornelius rushed in holding up the holy symbol and releasing a radiant blast of divine energy. Searing white light surrounded Strahd and his flesh smoked.

Paris, wheezing, singed, burned, wheezed “A-ha! Two can play at that game!” and hurled a fireball of his own at Strahd, catching the vampire and Cornelius both in the explosion. “Err, sorry, sorry, whoops!” Paris cried as Cornelius barely kept his feet, swaying uncertainly. Paris started towards him, and motioned for the Golden Bully Sword to crash down upon the distracted Strahd.

Dickie flew towards his wobbly master, grabbing his pack from the wreck of their camp as he ran; on the move, he drew out the potion he had pilfered from the abbey, and pressed it into Cornelius’ hands – “Drink this!” – stepping in between him and their foe. His dagger flashed, keeping Strahd at bay.

Strahd was still smouldering from the divine magic, his regenerative powers halted momentarily; His hands flashed, striking at Dickie and Cornelius who would have been slain, if not for the surge of healing energy that filled him as he drank the potion.

More arcane energy leapt from Paris and Clarence, chilling frost and shimmering eldritch power; Cornelius, feeling invigorated, crushed the potion bottle in his hand then threw a flurry of potent punches at the vampire lord. Strahd staggered back- “You cannot kill me! I am eternal!” The Golden Bully Sword smashed into him, and as his guard fell open, Dickie’s dagger plunged up, under jaw, into the skull.

As Dickie pulled the blade back, Strahd toppled… and collapsed into mist as he hit the ground, melding seamlessly with the ankle-high fog. Strahd was gone.

Beauty Sleep

“How many times do we have to kill this man?” Paris asked.

“I think we’re going to have to find a very… Specific way of killing him,” Dickie suggested. “Speaking of which, has anyone got an empty bottle?”

Among the scattered contents of their camp an empty vial was found. Dickie scraped thick, black blood off of sword and dagger and into the vial, as best he could- Van Richten’s plan required blood of the Barovian royal line, and perhaps Strahd’s blood would suffice. “That’s one hell of a way to wake up.”

“So, um. I don’t know what happened with the Bully Hut there,” Paris said sheepishly, “my apologies.”

Cornelius huffed. “Your ‘apologies’, Paris? One of us could have died back there!”

“Strahd must have overpowered your magic,” Clarence said.

“Well, he needs to make his magic more powerful!”

“Some of us could have died, but none of us did, and that’s the important thing,” said Dickie. “And we’ve beaten him again! The bastard’s got nothing on us.”

Clarence winced as his fingers probed reddened flesh. “Still, it was quite unpleasant to wake up to.”

“I for one am growing quite tired of that man clamping his teeth on my neck.” Cornelius was, in the flickering firelight, looking slightly paler than usual.

“If we can drive him off this way, once we’ve got all the tools we’ll make short work of him,” Paris boasted confidently. “We’ve got… two to four victories under our belt already.”

“Undoubtedly he will be much stronger in his place of true power.”

“But we can probably defeat him for good there,” said Dickie, recalling the Tarokka reading.

“I feel we’re getting significantly more battered every time we face him, although maybe this time Strahd wasn’t entirely to blame?” Cornelius looked accusingly at Paris.

“My aim may have been slightly… askew, and for that I apologise.”

“You engulfed him in 20 feet of flame!”

“Admittedly, yes but… Ah… It was all part of my plan,” Paris lied. “I knew if Cornelius was caught in the crossfire, Strahd would immediately turn his attention to Dickie.”

Dickie looked affronted that Paris would try to throw him to the wolves in such a manner, not that he believed the dandyish wizard’s excuse.

“He punched me again straight after!” Cornelius shook his head. “Look, it is not yet dawn, and I need rest. Paris, summon the Bully Hut again, and this time with more security!”

So, Paris once again conjured the golden dome, reassuring his companions that this time it had “additional security features”. Considering the hallowed of the Church of Saint Andral repelled Strahd, Cornelius decided to bless the Bully Hut for added protection, waving his holy symbol around and calling upon the Morninglord.

Paris, confident in the safety of his conjuration, regardless of the evidence, fell asleep immediately. Cornelius joined him. Clarence began to read the tomes of alchemical and surgical knowledge he had purloined from the abbey, but soon was gently snoring, his head resting on the pages. Dickie did not sleep.

Some hours later, Cornelius was woken by the smell of roasting rabbit, that Dickie had caught, dressed and started cooking while they slept. Clarence joined them for breakfast, and they charitably let Paris sleep. Looking over the map, they determined that to get to Berez, where hopefully they would find some ancient man or ghost or beggar with some treasure for them, would take them the better part of a day. The ruined village was not as far to the east as Vallaki but much further to the south.

Eventually, having somewhat recovered from the predawn assault, the Bullingdon Boys broke camp and headed east along the Old Svalich Road. The morning was damp and cloying and thick with twisting strands of fog; a normal morning in Barovia. The road was muddy from the night’s rain. As they approached the Raven River, the fog rolled heavy off of the waters, and the dirt road abruptly gave way to the slick stones of the bridge.

The air carried a foul stench; the scent of corruption and decay that they had not smelt the last time they came this way. The air was filled by the drone of a thousand tiny wings. As the fog gave way before their progress, a strange silhouette became visible at the far end of the bridge. A misshapen pile, buzzing with vermin, formed by the corpses of half a dozen dead goats.

Something huge and white sat upon the slaughter pile, regarding them with empty eye sockets, teeth like swords in an immortal rictus grin. The Bully Boys felt the hairs on their necks stand on end as their primal instincts told them to RUN from this enormous, predatory, reptilian visage: the gigantic skull of an enormous lizard lost to time… or… a dragon.

“This seems… familiar,” Cornelius said.

The buzzing of the flies rose and fell, and rippled, and converged, coalescing in tone and pitch as a legion talking in a thousand tiny voices.

“My poor boy,” the droning voice buzzed, “my poor sweet Strahd. Do you know what you’ve done to him?”

Cornelius took the voice, emanating from the swarm of flies flittering around the skull and slaughter, to be addressing them. “What we have done to your Strahd is beat him off! That’s what’s happened every time he tries to test us!”

The horrid buzzing carried on over Cornelius. “He was always too good for that slattern, mother knows best, but he would not hear me.”

“Maybe he didn’t hear you because you make no sense, you crazy woman. Now, your pile of goats is in our way.”

“You persist in making him miserable.”

“He started it!”

“You cut him to the bone, you break his body- and his heart!” The buzzing grew in intensity, anger in the voice.

“Well if he stopped trying to kill us we wouldn’t have to!”

“And also if he renounces his claim to the state of Barovia,” Clarence added.

“Yes,” Cornelius joined in his brother’s opportunism, “and confers it to us, the Bullingdon Boys. And… Gives us money!”

The buzzing droned over him, “He’ll thank me for getting rid of you, then he’ll listen to his dear old mother!”

The flies gathered on the skull, forming a humming, shivering pile of thousands upon thousands of fat black bodies, and the pile shifted and took shape, narrowing here, widening there, truncating, branching, until the millions of flies formed the silhouette of a person. And then a person was there, in place of the swarm of writhing insects. A haggard, ancient, hideous woman, masses of wild thick hair held haphazardly in place by long bone pins. She sat in the cranium of the skull, apparently hollowed to allow a seat, and the skulls eyes began to glow with sickly green light as it slowly rose into the air above the pile of goat corpses.                                                

Mother Knows Best

As the skull ascended the Bully Boys saw that two goat corpses trailed it, dangling behind from a length of rope. From his pack, Dickie drew a length of rope of his own, with a grapnel on its end. He twirled it one, twice, and released: the iron hook flew true, landing in the lap of the hag, and as Dickie yanked the rope the grapnel caught on the edge of the skull and the vehicle tipped ponderously towards him.

Clarence grasped the bronze hand taken from the tower of Exethanter, speaking a word of power and gesturing forwards. The bronze hand expelled some of the magical force it had absorbed since Clarence has acquired it, and a huge hand manifested in the air next to the witch. The fingers on the bronze hand closed, and the huge magic hand bodily plucked the flailing hag from the skull and began to drag her towards the party. But her figure dissolved back into a swarm of flies, screams of protest turning to angry buzzing. The spectral hand shut closed, crushing a few dozen insects, thousands of others swarmed back to the skull, still tethered to Dickie.

The bloated corpses of the goats at the end of the bridge ruptured, releasing the writhing bodies of scores of small snakes which slithered across the wet stones to surround the Bullingdon Boys.

“I say to you what I said to Strahd: you cannot defeat us, for we walk in the light of the Morninglord!” Cornelius yelled, holding the Holy Symbol of Ravenkind aloft. Searing radiance burst forth, pushing back the fog and engulfing the serpents, a great number of which curled up, writhing, and died.

Paris held an imaginary flute to his lips and weaved his head; a dozen snake heads followed his, eyes upon him, then drowsily slumped to the ground in slumber. Dickie heaved on the rope, trying to pull the skull down, but whatever magical force kept it aloft resisted his attempt to move it. As he braced against the rope, Dickie’s dagger scythed around, and he hacked and slashed until no serpents remained within his reach.

The giant spectral hand swatted down among the swarm of flies, splattering hundreds of them against the skull. Clarence scrambled away from the snakes around him and retreated to the far end of the bridge, the direction from which they had come.

The rope in Dickie’s hand slacked as the skull swooped towards him, and the two goat corpses trailing it were dropped down upon the Bullingdon Boys as the flies transformed back into the witch. The goats smashed into the stones of the bridge either side of Paris, Dickie and Cornelius, releasing even more snakes; and up close, the Bullingdons could see the bodies writhed with finger-sized maggots. The skull then began to ascend vertically but Dickie heaved, stopping it from moving away.

Snakes hissed and nipped and writhed and bit, and where their fangs sank into Paris, Dickie and Cornelius’ ankles, the pain of the bite was amplified by venom which burned like fire. Furious, Cornelius lashed around him, punching snakes, snapping their necks, stamping on them with booted feed; tying them into knots, smashing them against the bridge and throwing them into the river as they snapped at him.

Paris waved his wand and to a huge crash of thunder… an underwhelming wave of energy gently buffeted Cornelius, Dickie and the snakes. Embarrassed by this poor showing, the wizard conjured the Golden Bully Sword, swiping at the hag in her dragon skull vehicle.

Dickie was still heaving at the rope and slashing at snakes, and Clarence directed some blasts of eldritch energy into the swarming serpents as the giant hand smashed into the hag. Cowering in the seat, she reached out and touched the spectral hand, and it vanished, the magic dispelled. The skull heaved against the rope but Dickie held fast and actually pulled it closer to the ground. “You think you’re getting away from this?”

Frost crackled from Paris’ wand, freezing serpents solid, and the Golden Bully Sword crashed again into the hag, knocking her down in her seat and causing two blasts of energy from Clarence to go skittering off the skull. “Dispel my magic? I’ll show you!” he cried.

The witch touched the grappling hook and it shrunk to twice its size, reduced by her magic, and lost its purchase; skittering off the skull it fell to the ground, and as she cackled madly the skull sped away upriver, into the fog. “I’ll get you, Bullingdon Boys!” the witch cried as she escaped…

Or would have escaped, had Paris not thought quickly, grabbing Cornelius and then, where one moment they had been stood on the bridge amidst snakes and dead goats, they were now balanced precariously on the front of the dragon’s skull, inches from the witch.

Dickie, suddenly alone on the bridge, rope limp in his hands, looked up; some eighty feet away the skull bobbled ponderously, with two new figures astride it. He began sprinting, flying past Clarence at the end of the bridge and turning up the shoreline, unslinging his longbow and drawing and loosing an as he did; the arrow fell harmlessly into the fog as Clarence started running behind him, unable to match pace but flinging eldritch energy at their enemy.

The hag looked shocked as Paris and Cornelius appeared in front of her, atop the reptilian snout of the skull, but rapidly recovered; she cast her hands out, muttering. Cornelius resisted the enchantment but Paris was ensorcelled; his eyes rolled back and he let out a loud snorting snore, then, fast asleep, tumbled from his perilous perch into the river below.

Paris came to gasping with cold as fetid water rushed into his mouth. Weighed down by his clothing, he began desperately paddling to the shore where Dickie and Clarence were directing missiles at the skull above.

“Well, I guess it’s just you and me now, you old hag,” Cornelius said. Gnarled Bullingdon hands curled into fists and flew at her. Relentless punches crunched into the ancient creature, pounding flesh and cracking bones, until finally he cast the broken corpse of the ancient creature from the skull into the river.

Standing atop the skull, nowhanging ponderously in the air, Cornelius looked down to his party, grinning, and began to sing. “Jolly beating weather…”

Session 19 – To Make The Angels Weep

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

Days in Barovia: 7. The moon waxes gibbous.

Dead Ringer

“Well that was about the most unpleasant experience of my life,” said the voice in Cornelius’ head. “So. Things haven’t quite gone to plan.”

“Yes Dickie, I agree, things haven’t gone to plan,” Cornelius said into empty air.

The manservant, having said nothing, let out a confused “Err, what?” and Van Richten’s voice again spoke into Cornelius’ mind.

“Ah. I forgot you were an idiot. It’s not Dickie. It’s me, Rudolph Van Richten.”

Cornelius scoffed, turning on his brother who with regularity spoke into his mind without moving his mouth. “Clarence, you can stop pretending to be Rudolph now, it’s not very funny- we’ve just killed the man.”

“What do you mean, pretending to be Rudolph?”

“Using the voice-in-the-head thing you do, pretending to be Rudolph, which is very insensitive in light of what has just taken place in this room!”

Clarence reached out telepathically to his older brother… but was rebuffed, his mental intrusion hitting some solid barrier, just as when he had reached out to Van Richten’s mind. He paused, shaking his head.

“The ring must be some sort of… abjuration against divination. I can’t reach your thoughts, brother.”

Cornelius heard Van Richten. “Your brother is correct. In addition, the ring stores my soul and allows me to communicate telepathically with whoever wears it.”

“Oh.” Cornelius frowned. “You know, I’m not really sure I like the idea of having old Rudolph there floating around in my head.”

“Well I don’t really like the idea of being in a ring, to be honest with you. So maybe we can work together to sort this out.”

“Fine.” The rest of the Bullingdon Boys were only hearing half of the conversation.

Paris asked Clarence and Dickie, as they stood by bemused, “What exactly is… Does Cornelius think he’s talking to Van Richten?”

Cornleius waved his apparently ring-less hand in Paris’ face. “Van Richten’s soul is encased on the invisible ring on my finger Paris, you’re a wizard, you should know this stuff.”

As it happens Paris did know about this; he was familiar with stories of spells  and magical items that could store a soul- the Phylactery of the Lich, the Magic Jar ritual, the Imprisonment of Minimus Containment and, in this case, the Ring of Mind Shielding. The ring, invisible when worn, acted as a ward against unwanted mental intrusion, scrying and the like, and also contained a failsafe in which if the wearer were slain their soul would be stored in an empty ring, as had Van Richten’s.

“Ah yes, I’ve made a horcrux of my own,” he lied, “I know precisely what is going on here.”

Cornelius suggested that as Paris was more knowledgeable perhaps he should wear the ring and communicate with Van Richten through the veil of death instead. Paris was more than happy to, and accepted the ring from Cornelius, slipping it over his own finger, where it became invisible once again.

“Heeello? Caaan yooou heeear me?” Paris spoke slowly and clearly.

The voice spoke in his head with some irritation, “Yes, I can hear you. Which one were you again?”

“Paris Digby, mighty wizard!”

“Oh.”

 “I have been chosen as the most qualified to bear thing ring and converse with your soul!”

Clarence rolled his eyes at Paris’ one sided conversation. “You do realise undoubtedly he does not require you to speak outl-“

“Shush, Clarence, I can’t hear the soul!” Paris closed his eyes in communion. “Do you have any instructions for us mortals?”

Paris heard a telepathic sigh. “Luckily I believe I have a way out of this,” Van Richten said. “Relay this to your group. You recall I had a plan to kill Strahd, that involv-“

“Oh, everyone, he has a plan to kill Strahd, listen up!” Paris called at his companions.

Cornelius frowned. “I thought we had a plan to kill Strahd!”

“Wait, wait-“ and to the ring, “Carry on.”

“It involved the ancient hag, and I was unwilling to explain further.”

“Yes?”

“Paris,” Cornelius interrupted, “Is there a way you can make it so we can all hear Rudolph speaking?”

“I will relay the information in just a second! We’re having a conversation, don’t interrupt.”

Van Richten continued. “My plan to kill Strahd was to take a hairpin from the witch- in itself a powerful magical artefact- and then, there is a ritual-“

“Is it the Zone of Truth?”

“What? No it wasn’t… Gods help me. The ritual is to imbue the needle with the blood of the Barovian royal line. Then, I would use the needle, enhanced by Strahd’s own bloodline, to trap his soul in the ring. That was my plan.”

“Right?”

“But obviously that’s not going to work now. Because I’m in the ring.”

“Did you not intend to get in the ring?”

Van Richten’s thought-speak dripped sardonically. “I did not intend to be turned into a horrible half-man, half-beast creature and be forced to kill myself to escape that form and be trapped in the ring, no, that was not originally part of my plan.”

“But you seemed so put together.”

“Well. The Abbot took me apart, and I didn’t like what he put back.”

Paris relayed the half of the conversation unheard- Van Richten’s plan- to his companions.

“Could somebody explain to me why it seems so impossible just to stake Strahd like we did with that other woman?” Cornelius asked, frustrated at hearing yet another overly-complex, not-enough-staking plan to defeat the vampire.

“And, who are the monarchs of Barovia?” Dickie asked- Van Richten’s plan required royal blood.

“Hold your horses!” Paris said, “all will be revealed. I am the container of all knowledge!” Clarence raised an eyebrow. Speaking to the ring, Paris asked, “So, what’s the new plan?”

“It’s the same plan, in reverse. We take the hairpin, imbue it with the blood, but rather than trapping Strahd’s soul in the ring with it… we find a suitable host, and push my soul out of the ring, into the host. Then I have a body again!”

Paris asked hesitantly, “Wouldn’t that be a little unfair on the host?”

“Well, that depends on the host.”

“Wouldn’t you be happy just to… Die? Peacefully?”

Van Richten said, “No. No I wouldn’t be happy just to die! No! My work isn’t finished. I have to slay the vampire, and take revenge for my son. So I would not be happy just to die! All you need to do is find the witch, get her needle, complete the blood ritual, and use the needle on a suitable host! Then I’ll have a body and we can kill Strahd.”

“I don’t mean to be rude but why do we need you to kill Strahd?”

“You think you can do it without me?”

“Cornelius thinks we can just stake him in the heart.”

Van Richten responded to this suggestion with a mental harrumph.

Paris repeated the conversation to the others, and then pulled the ring off. In a hushed whisper, he said “I don’t think he can hear me when I’ve got the ring off. Sounds like the poor chap’s gone mad. I’m very happy to help up to a point but I don’t like the idea of putting his soul into the body of an unwilling host. Isn’t that just what this Abbot’s been doing?”

Clarence shrugged. “The Abbot has been combining human and animal forms through alchemy. It’s very different.”

“If we put Rudolph’s soul in the body of the wife the Abbot was making,” said Cornelius, a gleam of intrigue in his eye, “he won’t be able to talk to us! That could be advantageous.”

“But, if we want to put him in a body surely it’ll be to help us?” asked Paris.

Dickie spoke up. “Before we put his soul in a body anywhere, I’ve still got questions about his plan. What is a witch’s hairpin? Where do we find it? What’s the royal line of Barovia? What’s the ritual? There’s lots of missing information.”

“Look,” Cornelius said sternly, “I think we’ve had enough success defeating Strahd on our own, without the help of Rudolph or anybody else, and without this stupid needle nonsense. So I say we chuck the ring in a ditch and carry with what we were doing before without anybody’s help, as we’ve been doing well enough on our own.”

“Well, we can decide whether to keep the ring or not once we’re out of this frankly horrendous abbey,” suggested Paris.

This was generally agreed upon. The mind-shielding powers of the ring may be useful as many of the vampires they had encountered had exhibited mind altering powers, and they were under no compulsion to follow Van Richten’s plan if they didn’t want to. Paris put the ring back on and reassured Van Richten he’d have a new body just as soon as they could get him one.

…Where Angels Fear To Tread

Meanwhile, looking about the operating theatre, beyond the corpse of Van Richten’s man-monster form and the surgical implements, Dickie found the monster hunter’s things piled neatly in a corner- clothes, jacket and sword cane. Paris, ever the fashionista, took the coat and cane.

On a side table Clarence found what he had been looking for- tomes of alchemical secrets, placed where the Abbot could reference them while operating. The contents were too complex and obtuse for Clarence to comprehend initially, but he put them in his pack for later study, cackling quietly.

The Bullingdon Boys left Van Richten’s mutilated body on the slab, and checked the rest of the floor- the nursery held only broken cribs, and the morgue was bare except for a raven at the window, who cawed and flapped away when disturbed.

They discussed what to do next. Dickie was all for getting away from the Abbey as quickly as possible. Paris didn’t want to leave Vasilika, and Cornelius demanded revenge for Van Richten. Clarence thought for a moment, and decided that if he were going to steal the books it would be better not to have their owner hounding him; he backed revenge.

With revenge decided, what remained was how they would enact it. Cornelius suggested they get the Abbot alone, where he could not summon hordes of ravenous Belviews to descend on them. Or maybe they poison the pot of gruel. Clarence suggested Paris and he had many magical methods for dealing with large mobs; Paris, however, was not so keen to throw fireballs at the innocent, even if they were insane. Maybe they could turn the creatures against him; although they would have to contend with the flesh golem guardian. The Belview’s were, for the most part, locked up, and Cornelius recalled that causing bedlam had not gone particularly well for the Bully Boys in Vallaki.

Paris asked Van Richten’s advice, which was not to test the Abbot, and certainly not to release the Belviews from their internment. “Rudolph says he has every confidence in us,” Paris told his companions.

Cornelius decided he could challenge the Abbot to a duel. “A battle of the sword. One man against the other, no magical tricks, no assistance. A straight-up good-old honest fight, and of course I will easily defeat him.”

“But if things did go wrong, we could always back you up,” offered Paris.

“Of course! We’d cheat. Like in all my duels at university. I remember the motto of my old society- ‘Never Challenge Anyone To A Fight Unless You’ve Got Boris Hiding In The Bushes With A Crossbow’.”

Straight faced Dickie said “My lord, it’s good to see that you have been constant through all your days.”

Decided on their plan, they rested in the hospital room briefly; Clarence, under his constant glamour, still held wounds from the lightning strike at the pool that needed treating. Cornelius put in a little practice with the Bullingdon rapier, practice he sorely needed if he were ever going to wield it in anger. Dickie discussed some of the finer points of swordsmanship in Cornelius’ earshot, without going so far as to give him advice directly. Paris rambled a half-conversation where he feigned modesty at Van Richten’s unheard praise; from the monster hunter in the ring came only sulky silence.

With an errant swish of the blade, the ancestral rapier went flying from Cornelius’ fingers, skidding across the room. He turned to his companions and made sure it was very clear that if it looked like he was losing, they should not hesitate to leap to his rescue.

The Bullingdon Boys left the residential wing and passed back along the curtain wall, avoiding the inmates below. In the belfry room, the horned and two-headed manservant of the Abbot, Clovin Belview, was playing a soft and gentle song on his viol. He made it clear he did not want to be disturbed, as his other head was sleeping. They headed downstairs.

The Abbot, young, handsome, clothed in a simple homespun habit of brown wool, stood with hands clasped behind his back, staring out of the west window. At the far end of the long wooden table, the corpse-bride Vasilika sat patiently.

Cornelius, with a glove borrowed from his servant in hand, strode down the stairs towards the Abbot. “Abbot! I wish to speak to you.”

The Abbot turned, an eyebrow raised. “Ah, Cornelius. You’re still here?”

“Yes. We are still here. We investigated your abbey, and found you had performed heinous experiments on one of our friends, Rudolph Van Richten. What say you?”

The Abbot frowned apologetically. “Ah. Yes… Perhaps my anger was a little misplaced, and perhaps there was some pride in it as well. I thought the man could be taught some… Humility.”

“Well, if you want to see what misplaced anger, and pride, and teaching humility looks like, I’ll teach you! I challenge you to a duel!”

Cornelius swung the glove at the Abbot’s face, but was arrested as the Abbot’s hand moved lightning fast from behind his back to clasp the wrist of the assailant. “Now, now,” the Abbot murmured, and in Cornelius’ head the Abbot’s voice said “You can still turn back from this path, Cornelius Bullingdon.” Cornelius glanced over his shoulder at his party, a look of some regret on his face.

Paris reacted first as the plan fell at the first hurdle. His spiritual weapon appeared, as Paris called down “Threaten our leader and feel the wrath of the Golden Bully Sword!” and the huge blade clumsily buffeted the Abbot.

The Abbot released Cornelius’ wrist, taking a half step back. “You DARE?!” he cried, and threw his hands forward; pure white light began to shine from his flesh, and the back of his robe billowed and buckled. As the light grew painfully bright, the robe fell away, revealing a pair of enormous snow-white feathery wings; and the abbot stood transformed in the glow, a huge Adonis, a perfect form, beautiful and terrible to behold. This angel’s eyes were of solid radiant light, the wooden holy-symbol shone as gold or platinum upon his chest, and in his hand he held an enormous golden mace.

“YOU DARE!” he roared. The mace flashed towards Cornelius, but in a flash of his own Holy Light the Bullingdon deflected the blow; but the backswing caught him in the midriff, and where the mace struck Corenlius’ clothing was left singed and glowing white.

The gentleman pugilist replied in the manner he knew best: striking with his fists, landing a flurry of blows and throwing the angel to the ground. As the Abbot fell, Dickie was upon him, leaping from the stairs, the blade of his dagger black with poison. Where the blade struck, darkness crept over the Abbot’s alabaster skin. The angel cried out in pain, and slammed the butt of its mace on the ground.

Blinding radiance erupted from the mace, engulfing the Bullingdon Boys, searing their clothes and flesh. As the great wings beat, buffeting Cornelius and Dickie, the Abbot rose into the air as Paris and Clarence threw errant rays of frost and eldritch energy where he had lain. The angel swept down on Clarence on the stair, reaching for him with one perfect hand- but the grasp faltered as a shock of pain from the poison ran through the Abbot’s body. But Clarence couldn’t avoid the mace, a falling star that struck a devastating blow.

“Fleeing to the air won’t save you from the Bullingdon Boys!” Cornelius cried, directing a bolt of holy light at this foe. But the light eschewed the angel, diverging around the figure as Cornelius scrambled up the stairs to put himself between his brother and the Abbot. Dickie rushed to join Cornelius but wasn’t able to get an angle on the abbot as he pushed past Paris, and then the mace lit up again, releasing a blast of light once more.

Seared by holy energy, Paris screamed, pointing his finger- flames erupted about the Abbot and singed and burning feathers fell from the great wings. One hand clutched the blackened wound on its side, and as it sagged forward Clarence, flesh raw from the holy light and only on the brink of consciousness, encased himself in his magical frost armour.

Paris reached down to his apprentice, and the red skin cleared and faded as magical energy healed Clarence. The Golden Bully Sword continued to pursue the angel, crashing into its back; again, the great wings beat, and the Abbot flew backward from the stairs. His hands grabbed Dickie by the shoulders, and even weakened by the poison is was able to heave the manservant off the stair. The angel turned as it flew back across the room, and as it spun it released Dickie, hurling him through the window in a crash of glass. Dickie tucked and rolled, and miraculously passed inches between two gravestones, landing sprawled in the thin grass.

“You fiend! That’s my manservant!” Cornelius leapt from the stairs, wrapping the Abbot and dragging him to the ground, the striking with fist and knee. As they crashed to the floor the angel turned its terrible gaze fully upon Cornelius, who shrunk back in fear.

Dickie rolled to his feet, and without hesitation sprinted back at the wall of the abbey. Full speed, he scrambled up the stones to the broken window, and coloured glass crunched beneath his boots as he stood. The dagger was still in his hand.

“I bet you weren’t expecting this, you billowing bastard!”

Dickie leapt from the window ledge, dagger clasped in both hands, towards the Abbot’s back. The blade crashed up to the hilt through the angel’s skull. Cornelius saw the wicked tip of the blade come juddering through one of those beautiful, shining eyes, which turned into a black pit, along with its twin. The wings withered and Dickie was surrounded by a downy rain as feathers fell around him.

The Abbot’s hand came up to its head, clutching at the protrusion, feeling around the hilt and blade and wound. “No… No… Where are you… Morninglord, where have you gone?” the holy symbol faded, and was but simple wood again; the golden mace fell to the floor and scattered as beads of dissipating light. “Don’t leave me! It’s… It’s so dark… So dark…” blind black eyes stared at Cornelius “So dark… Is this what it’s like for you? How do you bear it?”

“No,” replied Cornelius, suffusing himself with a holy white glow, “this is what it’s like for me.”

Dickie drew back the blade, and the angel, the Abbot, crumpled to the ground, dead.

Skipping Town

The door burst open and the Abbot’s flesh-golem guardian, who must have been summoned when they first assaulted the abbot, charged into the room; but the horrific construct was too late, its creator was already dead.

With blasts of eldritch energy, rays of frost, swings of the Golden Bully Sword, strikes of Cornelius’ fists and slashes of Dickie’s knife, the creature was repelled. In its frenzied attack it even started to tear itself apart, the stiches in the flesh tearing loose; under the Bullingdon Boys’ assault it was swiftly reduced to the constituent parts from which it had been created.

Cornelius looked around the room: the fallen angel, the dismembered flesh golem, Vasilika still sat at the table patiently. “Well, let’s go,” he said, and began to clamber out of the window broken by Dickie’s earlier passage.

“Nononono, wait!” Paris said, “Aren’t we going to rescue the construct? And the inmates?”

“They’re beyond saving,” Dickie said, moving over to the hearth. Standing on a chair, he pulled down the sun-engraved gold disk hanging on the wall. The disk, he discovered, concealed a niche in the wall where a crystal flask holding some glittering potion was concealed. “Ooh!”

Clarence collected some of the Abbot’s shed feathers, in the hope that they held some magical or alchemical properties.

“I want to talk to the girl,” Paris said.

Cornelius huffed. “She can’t speak back to you Paris, you know.”

“But she might be released from her spell now or something, I don’t know.”

“Well Dickie and I will be waiting here on the window ledge for when you’re finished.”

Clarence said, “I promised I would help determine the thoughts of the creature for you… However, I do not quite have the… energies, at the moment.”

“Oh, you have betrayed me!” Paris wailed. Regardless, he approached, still sat at the table. She looked confused, and her face was lined with concern as she looked from the corpse of the Abbot to Paris. “Um. Miss? Are you able to nod or shake your head?”

She nodded. And so, Paris was able to communicate with her: she did not grieve the Abbot’s death. She didn’t know what to do with herself, or the inmates. Paris was concerned that the might starve- Cornelius was happy to let them. Vasilika pointed at herself, pointed at the pot, pointed towards the residential wing.

“You want… to be put in the pot?” Paris asked, confused.

She shook her head, and Dickie said “I think she’s offering to take care of them, Paris.”

“Oh. Ah, well, that solves everything. No need to feel guilty! Jolly good show.” He patted Vasilika on the shoulder.

Paris left the corpse-bride some gold, as Cornelius stared in horror, and the Bullingdon Boys left the Abbey of St. Markovia by the window; avoiding the gate and the gravedigger-guards, they hopped over the low wall, and scuttled back down the cliff-face path to Krezk.

The last light of evening was beginning to fade as they reached the bottom of the path. Two of the town’s amateur guards awaited them, in their fur hats. As the Bullingdons approached they stood, hefting their spears, but Cornelius swept past them unceremoniously. “Don’t mind us, we’re just leaving, come on let’s go!”

The guards trailed them as they strode towards the gates. “Hey, you’ve got to be out of the town by nightfall!”

“Yes, yes, we’re on our way, don’t mind us.”

One of the guards had to run to overtake them, in order to have the gate open in anticipation. The party hustled through the gate, Dickie calling “Good health to you all!” as they passed beneath the palisade.

“Lovely town!” Clarence added, and Cornelius- “We had a wonderful time! Come on, Paris, say something nice.”

“Um… Look after the disabled!”

The great wooden gates closed behind them.

Some minutes later, where the road leading down from the town met the Old Svalich Road, Paris began to summon the Golden Bully Hut. Dickie prepared supper, which Cornelius demanded he be served on the golden plate pilfered form the abbey.

They unfurled the map of Barovia, generously donated by the baron Vallakovich before his murder, and tried to work out where to go next. “So,” Dickie said, “As I see it, we can go here-“ he pointed to where they had marked Berez on the map- “and search out some angry ghost. Or go somewhere down here-“ he pointed to the mountains marked on the south of the map- “to look for a glowing sword.”

“I suggest we search for the temple of amber,” Clarence said, “it will no doubt contain many magical secrets in addition to the sunlight sword we seek.”

“It looks like a bloody trek though. Berez is what, a day from here? Going through the mountains looks longer.”

“Berez is almost on the way to the mountain shrine,” Cornelius said, drawing a line with his finger as the crow flies.

Dickie considered it. “If we go off road we could follow the river to the bridge then pick the road up there, maybe?”

“Indeed. So, we’ll head to Berez on the road, then do a little bit of a cross-country treck- it doesn’t look too far- along the river towards the mountains.”

Paris, by this point, was gently snoring.