Session 27 – Goodbye, Clarence

7th Day of the 4th Quarter of the Moon of Songs, Season of Wines, Year 766.

Days in Barovia: 10. The moon is full.

The Masked Mage

“Hello, dad,” Elliana said.

Cornelius’ jaw was on the floor. Dickie didn’t try to hold back his laughter, deep and incredulous.

“B-b-but, but, this is, this is ridiculous, how could you possibly be my daughter? I’m only twenty-seven years old.”

“It’s true,” Dickie giggled, “How could anyone be Paris’ daughter? He’d have to be with a woman less than twice his age!”

“Well, I think perhaps we can talk about this outside,” said Elliana, looking from the strange reactions of Paris’ companions to than man she took for her father himself. She began to shiver as the deadly cold of the Amber Temple crept into her. “It’s quite cold in here.”

“No, talk about it now!” Cornelius demanded.

Elliana’s teeth were chattering, and after a moment she blinked as if in revelation and smacked a hand to her head. “Wait, of course!” She reached into a pouch on her belt, and pulled out a flickering flame that sat on her palm. The magical ember warmed her and she sighed in relief. “That’s better.”

“Another wizard- I’d be glad to tutor you!” Paris offered, “Although I hope you don’t end up like my last pupil.” He looked askance at the body of Clarence draped over Cornelius’ shoulder.

“I wouldn’t call myself much of a wizard- I haven’t had enough training for that, but-“

“If you do magic, you’re a wizard. Right boys?”

“Well, I suppose we shall see if we are travelling together,” the young woman replied. “This offer to assist you in your quest to vanquish Strahd still stands?”

“Sure,” said Dickie, “why not.”

“I don’t think we’ve been introduced?”

“I’m sure I introduced everyone of worth…” Cornelius mused.

Dickie ignored him. “Bren Tanner, although folks call me Dickie.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Bren. Elliana Roche.”

“The pleasure is entirely mine, milady. Now, shall we get out of this horrible, frozen temple of faceless evil.”

The Bullingdon Boys and their strange new companion turned to leave, a raven perched on Elliana’s shoulder, Clarence’s body draped over Corenlius’.

A voice boomed down from above them. From the statue of the god of secrets, standing forty feet tall, dominating the temple. From the face, wreathed in impenetrable darkness.

“Bullingdon Boys! You stand before the faceless god of secrets- and all of your secrets are revealed!”

Sulphurous smoke billowed from the dark void of the statue’s face, pooling on the floor around enormous stone feet where it coiled heavy and black.

“You are no heroes! You are frauds!”

The smoke was writhing, coiling, taking form.

“Seriach! I invoke you!”

And the smoke formed a solid shape, a huge and terrible beast, black-furred and red-eyed, a creature the like of which they knew: a hell hound.

“Now, behold the faceless god!”

The darkness around the statue’s face fell away, revealing a hollow head and crouched in that space… the masked mage, who had harried their trek from Berez to the Amber Temple.

This foe stepped out of the statue into the air before them, its fall caught by skeletal wings; it swept low over the party, then up, and landed hands and feet clinging to the ceiling. The masked mage threw out a hand, crying “Rise for me, Clarence!” and Clarence’s corpse rose, languid and sluggish, mouth slightly agape, eyes aglow with fell green light.

As Clarence’s body animated a gout of flame swept over the group, vomited forth by the hell hound. Elliana raised her sword and some of the fire seemed absorbed into the blade.

“Don’t harm Clarence! He can still be saved, I’m sure!” cried Cornelius, as the Sunsword sprung to life in Dickies’ hand: a blade of concentrated sunlight appearing as he swung the magical weapon at the fiendish hound.

The blade swung wide, Dickie not used to the balance of a weightless blade, but Elliana’s dimly glowing blade swung true. Ensconced in thunderous energy, it smashed into the shoulder of the hound, and the creature too was engulfed in magical energy.

A wand twirled in Paris’ hand and a ray of frost joined him to the hellhound for a moment; the creature sagged and balked under the onslaught. “Freeze!” he shouted, laughing at his own wit.

Cornelius had a vial in hand. He pulled the cork with his teeth, downed the contents- silver fluid holding iron filings- and in one motion smashed the vial into the face of the hellhound; the creature whined as it collapsed into the black smoke from which it had formed. “Ignore Clarence, focus on the wizard!” the last Bullingdon shouted.

This instruction fell on deaf ears as zombie Clarence lunged at Paris. “Clarence, it’s me! We used to be friends!” Paris cried, and either motivated by some lingering loyalty or due to his clumsy reanimation, Clarence’s strike swung wide.

Then a fireball erupted in their midst. Heat, flame and smoke engulfed them. Empowered by the potion, the worst of it washed over Cornelius; Elliana once again absorbed some of the blast into her blade; Paris was already throwing himself out of the way, but Dickie, thrown to the ground by the explosion, did not rise to his feet, did not curse or swear, did not move at all. The sword of sunlight went skidding from his hand, radiant blade still protruding.

The mage fell upon them on wings of bone, taloned hands outstretched. But he recoiled as he came near the sword of sunlight; and Elliana’s blade struck, catching on the white mask upon the mage’s face, sending it tumbling. It revealed an awful face: one half burned ruin, slick black flesh pocked with craters and deep cracks, that oozed red and wet; hair growing only from one side of a scalp divided by awful scarring; lips burnt away exposing teeth- canines unnaturally long and sharp. The functioning eye stared at Elliana, wild and mad. Patches of oily black fur sprouted haphazardly from the face, and in the centre of the forehead a third eye sat closed, weeping milky fluid.

The voice was changed, rough and hoarse, but even through the ruin of fire and maladies of dark gifts Cornelius and Paris recognized the face: the face of  someone they had once called a Bullingdon Boy.

“Yes, it is I! Victor Vallakovich, last scion of Vallakovich!”

Paris recoiled at the grisly revelation, his hand over his eyes. From the ring on his finger an enormous spectral rams’ head appeared, slamming in to the unmasked mage, the vampire Victor Vallakovich, and there was a crunch of bone and Victor went flying back.

“Why don’t you shut the fuck up, you stupid child!” Cornelius shouted as he raised his holy symbol. Light poured forth from the gem at the centre of the device, and Victor was lit from two angles- Cornelius and the sunsword- and was paralyzed, frozen, rigid.

Clarence  lurched again in Paris’ direction, dead hands grasping, but the lithe mage slipped away from him saying “But Clarence, you were like a son to me!”

As Victor stood statuesque, the ruined half of his face began to bubble anew under the light from the Sunblade: the weapon emitted true sunlight, anathema to vampires!

“I don’t care much for who you are, but I don’t appreciate you throwing a fireball at me!” Elliana cried as she strode towards the statuesque Victor. Her dimly glowing blade scythed through Victor and the top half of the masked mage, flesh ruined and bubbling, skeletal wings protruding from the shoulders, tumbled to the ground; and after a moment the legs collapsed too.

As Victor fell she spun, closed on Clarence, shoved the zombie to the ground and put her boot on his chest. “What do you want to do with this? I understand it’s the corpse of your brother-“ she grunted as Clarence feebly struggled- “but it’s a little undead at the moment.”

Paris rushed to Dickies’ side, and placed a hand on the smouldering servant. Healing energy trickled from Paris and Dickies’ eyes flickered, a low moan escaping his mouth.

“Out! Out, demon!” Cornelius cried, holding his holy symbol out with one hand and splashing holy water on the animated corpse of his brother with the other. The blessed water left pockmarks and spitting blisters on Clarence’s pale dead flesh: the zombie writhed but could not escape from beneath Elliana’s boot. “Paris! Paris, what do we do?”

“Just, uh, thinking back to something that happened, um, some years ago…” Paris blustered, walking back from Dickies’ side, “If we keep doing what we’re doing and hack his body to pieces… Eventually his spirit will find peace. Clarence, my respects.”

Frost leapt from the wand in Paris’ hand, crawling up Clarence’s arm and freezing his hand; a few fingers shattered as the zombie flailed the limb.

“There must be a better way, Paris! You’re desecrating the corpse!”

“No no, trust me, this is the only way. Trust me, if he could communicate he would thank us.”

Elliana shrugged, placing the tip of her sword next to her boot, above Clarence’s heart. She pushed, and the blade skewered the dead Bullingdon, the sword scraping on the black marble floor beneath the corpse; Clarence fell still, and for the second time that day he died.

Funeral for a Friend

Paris eyed Victor’s hideous corpse. “Clarence never was the best judge of character.”

“I take it we won, then?” Dickie grunted as he sat up, looking around the temple chamber.

“Of course!” Paris replied, “have we ever lost? No!”

Cornelius once again took Clarence’s remains into his arms. “Burn the other one,” he ordered Dickie, “we’ll  take my brother outside.”

“Of course,” Dickie muttered, wrapped in furs, his breath condensing in the freezing temple as soon as it left his mouth, “burn it. Definitely can do that in here. Definitely possible.” He picked up the sword of sunlight and at his command the blade dissipated. The temperature was well below freezing and without any fuel to hand, prospects for burning Victor’s corpse were poor. He grabbed a foot, and began to drag the lower half as Elliana collected the upper.

“Who was this fellow, anyway?” she asked the dour manservant.

“Some damn fool of a boy. Meddled with powers he shouldn’t have.” Dickie shrugged. “Seems to happen a lot round these parts.”

“Last scion of Vallakovich?”

“Yeah, that house isn’t doing so well.”

“Anslem never thought well of the nobles in Vallaki. They had failed in their duty to the peasantry.”

“Eh. Can’t say he was wrong. Still, tragedy what happened to the Vallakovichs. Killed in a housefire by an intruder.”

“Really?”

“Just so.”

“Huh. And what, this one was brought back by the devil?”

“Could well be. Who knows? Bloody wizards.”

Dickie fell into a dark silence as they carried their grim load up the stairs onto the balcony and out through the main entrance to the temple. It was a strange sensation as they egressed onto the snow-dusted mountain face, where it was considerably warmer than within.

“I don’t want to carry Clarence around much longer. I suppose we’ll have to have his funeral here.” Cornelius lay the body of his brother on the ground. He called for his companions to gather round. Dickie tactfully hid the remnants of Victor behind a snowdrift as Elliana’s raven fluttered down to land on her shoulder. Cornelius ordered his manservant douse Clarence’s body with oil and surround it with whatever flammable materials they had spare.

“Clarence was my brother,” Cornelius eulogised, “and yes, he was a coward and a dweeb, but he stood behind me for all of our hardships, and for this I am thankful. In the end it was his hubris that killed him- hubris, and an unknown and unknowable entity of evil we canst dare not imagine.”

Paris looked sidelong at Elliana who’s face held a somewhat puzzled expression at the strange delivery.

“His judgement was often poor- as we can see by the circumstances of his death. But his heart remained in the right place, I think? He may have died in screaming agony as a horrible being burst its way out of his body, but now he rests with the Morninglord.”

Dickie, eyes closed and head bowed respectfully, had to clench his jaw to keep from laughing.

“It falls to me, Cornleius, to carry on the Bullingdon line-“ Cornelius voice was choked- “alone.” He sniffed. “I think we should all say some words. Paris, you go first, he was your pupil.”

Paris blinked in surprise, but quickly recovered. “Um… Clarence, I was your teacher. I feel… well, I taught you everything you knew, so I feel I have to take some credit here. I clearly did my job too well. You made a pact with a dark power in an attempt to become as powerful as I- Paris Digby, mighty wizard- but not everyone is destined for greatness.” Cornelius was sobbing into a floral hankerchief. Elliana looked around in nervous amazement. “I’m sorry, I failed you.” Paris bowed his head.

There was a pause.

“Dickie!” Paris hissed, head still bowed.

Dickie shared a look with Elliana; a look that said I know, I’m sorry, get used to it.

“Well.” The manservant gathered his thoughts. “He got involved in some tough business. But I’ll say this for Clarence: he saved my neck more than once. And, as insane wizards involved with dark powers beyond the knowing of man go… He was pretty good. As Cornelius says, his heart was… mostly… in the right place. And we shall miss him.”

“Elliana, do you want to say some words?” Cornelius asked.

“I can’t say I knew your friend, at all… But if he was an enemy of Strahd, then he was a friend to me.”

“Kind words from you all.” Cornelius stood, arms outstretched. He called out to the sky, “He returns to you now, Morninglord! Your servant, Clarence...” he screwed his face up as he tried to remember, “Clarence… Something Bullingdon. Quincy Bullingdon!”

Fire leapt from Cornelius’ fingers to Clarence’s body. Even in the cold air, the body took light; the oils catching at once, the robes themselves a heartbeat later as tiny flames skated over the liquid. A rising heat came from the body which was shortly lit like a candle, heat and steam and smoke driving the funeral party a step back as the flames rose to whirl and writhe over Clarence’s corpse.

The air became so hot that it started to shimmer; for an instant Clarence was clad in cloth of flame and curling smoke. The odour of burning flesh touched their nostrils. The smoke grew thick, and glowing cinders rose to float into the dusk. Clarence was lost to the flame, consumed and converted and carried into the sky as a pillar of smoke.

And for the last time they said goodbye to Clarence Quincy Bullingdon.

…

A long moment later, Cornelius sighed. “So. As one Bully Boy leaves, another may join us. Elliana, will you become a Bullingdon Boy, and fight with us to defeat the devil Strahd?”

She looked at them, one to another. “He has taken too much for me to leave this place before he is defeated. I am with you.”

“Good. Put your hand on my scroll of pedigree, and recite after me the Bully Oath.”

She placed her hand on the scroll.

“I- say your name-“

“I, Elliana Roche-“

“Do swear by these words,”

“Do swear by these words,”

“That as a loyal Bully Boy I will always uphold the Bully Values,”

“That as I loyal Bully… ‘Boy’, I will always- wait, what are the Bully Values?”

“I’m about to tell you, that comes next.”

“Will always uphold the Bully Values,”

“Money!”

“Money?”

“Loyalty to my fellow Bully Boys!”

“Loyalty to my fellow Bully Boys,”

“And good running shoes in the event it all goes south!”

“And good running shoes in the event-” Elliana paused, composed herself, resigned. “In the event it all goes south.”

“From this day to my last day!”

“From this day until my last day.”

“I will not rest until my coffers are full; my tankard overflows with fine wine; and the rights of Cornelius Pfeffil Bullingdon as the Marquis of Saxonia have been restored.”

Elliana begrudgingly repeated Cornelius, who continued:

“Let all who hear me fear these words!”

“Good lord, there’s more of it?” she muttered. “Let all who hear me fear these words.”

“And, now, everybody together,“ conducted Cornelius, “Bully! Bully! Bully!”

“Oi! Oi! Oi!” chanted Dickie and Paris, Elliana catching up by the last ‘Oi!’

“Whenever someone says Bully Bully Bully, you have to say Oi Oi Oi,” Paris explained to Elliana.

…

As the enrolment came to a close, Dickie asked Paris quietly “Did you have to do that?”

“What?”

“The pledge thing.”

“Uh… No. Did you?”

“No.”

“I think he’s just written it, but, let’s not embarrass him. To be honest I think the Bully Boys has become much more of a ‘thing’ than it was when I signed up.”

“Fair enough. I mean, I met Cornelius in prison- he didn’t have a gang then.”

Barmecide Feast

“So, now we’ve got that out of the way,” Cornelius said to the newest and female-est Bully Boy, “I suppose the one thing we all want to know Elliana… Who is your mother?”

“Her name is Maria Roche,” Elliana said, looking at Paris.

“Oh,” Paris said quietly.

“Quite.” Elliana smiled sharply at him, as the colour drained from Paris’ face. She unbuckled a clasp on her armour, reached in to a pocket and pulled out a small oilskin bag, poured the contents into her hand- a locket on a chain. “Do you recognise this, father?”

“I, uh, couldn’t possibly be sure.”

She flipped the locket so that he could see the inscription on the back- To Maria, From Paris.

“Surely you’d remember this one, Paris- she’d be the only person you’d ever shagged below sixty!” Cornelius said viciously.

“Yes, uh, I, um,” Paris mumbled, as Elliana opened the locket to reveal a lock of hair within; brittle with age, but the colour an undeniable match for that on Paris’ head.

“Now, look,” said Paris, managing to compose himself. “When I met Maria I was a kid, I was still playing the lute for my living. It was before I became a wizard!” He frowned. “Don’t tell anyone I was a lutist.”

“She used to sing me the ballad you wrote for her.”

“You can sing, Paris?” Dickie asked incredulously. “What, you were some sort of… Bard?”

“You told me you were trained in a college of magic!” said Cornelius.

Paris glared daggers at them. “I was, but I was not lucky enough to be born into riches like you, so I had to do a bit of… Barding, and… other things, here and there, to pay for the fees.”

Elliana explained how it was Paris’ fault she was in Barovia in the first place. A Vistani fortune teller had told her she would find her father in this land, and that had led to her getting involved with the Spency Squad.

All of the Bullingdon Boys’ Vistani fortunes had now come to pass. They had found their ally, albeit as a spirit trapped in a ring, in Van Richten; the Tome of Strahd, to give them knowledge of their enemy, recovered in Berez; in the Abbey of Saint Markovia, at the pool of the white sun they had found the Holy Symbol of Ravenkind; and in a vault deep within the Amber Temple, the sword of Strahd’s brother, the weapon of vengeance- the Sun Sword. All of the fortunes, bar one: to find the devil, Strahd von Zarovich, and defeat him. In the depths of darkness, the one place he must return; in his tomb in the bowels of Castle Ravenloft.

It had been a long day for all of them, and night was beginning to fall on the mountainside. It was decided that in the morning they would make for Ravenloft. Dickie still carried a rosary of prayer beads, one of which held an enchantment that would carry them to the castle as wind; no long slog across Barovia awaited them.

Cornelius carried a scroll found in the abbey that would produce a great feast, Dickie recalled; Cornelius gave him the parchment, which Dickie passed to Paris, who had been trying to impress his daughter by conjuring the Golden Bully Hut.

Paris studied the enchantment, shrugged his shoulders and uncertainly read from the paper. And their nostrils filled suddenly with delicious flavours as a majestic feast appeared within the golden dome: floor cushions around small tables that held a plethora of exotic dishes, carafes of wine, a whole lamb centre stage roasting on a spit.

Elliana, Cornelius and Dickie couldn’t hold back their grins, almost drooling in anticipation of the wondrous food before them. Paris looked smugly at his daughter. “I expect you’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time. I wish I’d had a mighty wizard for a father.”

“You mean, you wish you’d had a mighty wizard for an absentee father?” sniped Cornelius as he flopped on a cushion and tore the leg from a roast chicken.

Dickie was trying a little bit of everything- he didn’t want to leave a single dish unsampled. Elliana was unrestrained; Ravenloft’s dungeons had not provided the finest fare before her escape.

After the meal was complete, Paris took a quiet moment to talk sincerely to his daughter. Sincerity was not his forte, and he was somewhat intimidated by this large armoured youth with a glowing sword who claimed to be his spawn. It was without his usual bravado he explained the circumstances of his leaving her mother; how it had been agreed it was best that Paris leave by both himself and Maria, before either was even aware that she was with child; how the persistent and unwanted affections of the lady of the house where Maria worked and where Paris was patronized had led to an untenable situation for the young bard.

Elliana revealed to him that she had inherited more than his hair colour; that she too could do magic, although without any tutelage she did not have total control of her arcane functions.

She asked about how the Bullingdon Boys had come together and received three stories of how they had all met, varying in details large and small.

And finally, completely satiated by the magically conjured feast, comfortable and warm within the Golden Bully Hut atop snow-clad Mount Ghakis, the Bullingdon Boys- all four of them- fell asleep.

…

“And now only one thing remains,” Cornelius said as they rose the next morning.

Dickie nodded grimly. “Castle Ravenloft.”

“I can’t quite believe we’re finally going to kill Strahd,” Paris said.

“It’s what we’ve been planning this whole time,” Cornelius replied.

“Well, for quite a long time it looked like we were-“ Paris glanced at Elliana, who was strapping on her armour, and continued in hushed tones, “like we were just going to pretend to.”

“Well it’s not like we had any choice,” Cornelius whispered back, “it’s the only way to escape. Look, Paris, we agreed on a plan. We defeat Strahd. We take Barovia for our own. We exploit the peasants for every pound of gold they’ve got, and then we raise an army to go back to Saxonia, and reclaim it as the land of Bullingdonovia. Help me with this, Paris, and I will make you a duke.”

“Can’t argue with that,” said Paris, “maybe my dream of naming a city after myself isn’t so far off.”

Dickie and Elliana were studying the map. Paris and Cornelius joined them and they discussed their plan to assault Ravenloft. Cornelius had a silver horn which would summon a spectral host of knights, the Order of the Silver Dragon; these they would send on a frontal assault. While Vladimir Horngaard and his phantom cohort drew every eye in the castle, the Bullingdon Boys would revert back to wind form and fly to the tower where the Heart of Exethanter resided. Destroying the enchanted heart would weaken Strahd; once this was done, they would find the devil, slay him, and find him in his tomb to make the death permanent.

When they were packed, armed and prepared, Cornelius addressed them all.

“Come! Let us tarry no more. The Bullingdon Boys will defeat Strahd today! Before the sun sets, Barovia will be free. Bully! Bully! Bully!”

“Oi! Oi! Oi!” three voices replied

And Dickie crushed the topaz prayer bead in his hand.

Session 26 – Family Matters

7th Day of the 4th Quarter of the Moon of Songs, Season of Wines, Year 766.

Days in Barovia: 10. The moon is full.

Tough Love

The Bullingdon Boys stepped through the door from the lich’s chamber into a dark corridor. At the far end was another portal, of strange mechanism; its purpose became clear as they opened it. The mechanism moved a bookcase in the room beyond, a hidden door cunningly concealed from the other side.

The bookcase was one among many: the door opened to reveal a magnificent library. The high, vaulted ceiling held a fresco depicting angels being set ablaze in a hell. A black marble railing enclosed a gold marble staircase that descended a thirty-foot wide shaft at the north of the library, and an amber door stood closed to the south.

The walls were lined with bookcases holding hundreds upon hundreds of well-preserved tomes. Embroidered rugs, chairs, writing tables and small candelabra were scattered through the room.

“This is a treasure beyond wildest imaginings,” Clarence said with no small hint of wonder; but he moved towards the golden stairs. “It would take some time to fully immerse myself.”

“It looks like a bunch of stupid books to me, Clarence,” Cornelius contributed.

Paris suggested that selling antique books could be profitable, and Dickie pondered renting the library out to aspiring wizards- once they were ruling Barovia, of course.

“A real wizard does not need a book to cast spells, Dickie- a common misconception.”

“I agree with Paris. When I’m king of Bullingdonovia all books will be banned and wizards will have to learn the fine art of boxing instead.”

Dickie investigated the southern door, which led to stairs which would lead to the main floor of the temple, behind the huge statue.

On one of the library tables, Paris saw a large piece of parchment sat next to a pot half full of dried ink. The parchment held an enchantment- not a spell Paris was familiar with. The immaculate calligraphy with which it was written became lazy and stilted towards the end where it petered to a spot. This was a work of abjuration and transmutation; restoration, and chronal-manipulation.

Found in this room, the library of Exethanter, who would have known his mind was fading, the purpose of this scroll was clear to Paris: to restore the lich’s clarity, at least temporarily.

“Now everyone,” Paris said, tucking the scroll out of sight, “I think I remember a spell from my youth that could bring that lich back to lucidity. Would you be willing to let me have a go? It’s been sometime since I attempted it but last time it went swimmingly, so I don’t see there being a problem.”

“Paris,” Cornelius said awkwardly, “I know you’re a fan of older people, but I don’t want this lich getting all lusty on us-“

“No, I mean, so that we could recover the passwords.”

Clarence had some concern that the starved lich may awaken from its senility hungry for souls. Cornelius reckoned they could take him, but Dickie was similarly wary. He suggested they keep the option open but move on for now- the other Bully Boys agreed.

They descended the shaft. The chamber below had amber-covered walls sculpted to look like tentacles, entwining marble bas-reliefs of kings, queens, pharaohs, and sultans, attended by myriad slaves. In the south-east corner of the room two wide cracks had opened in the wall, spilling rubble and shattered pieces of amber and leaving passages wide enough for a man to pass through.

To the west, south and east were alcoves, and within each alcove stood blocks of rough-hewn amber. But in this room, there were no dark whispers. Whatever gifts these amber sarcophagi held, they did not come begging for supplicants.

The southern sarcophagus was marred, cracked and sundered. A black line ran from top to bottom, a half inch across, a jagged line of darkness that seemed infinitely deep.

Clarence felt a sense of… Kimset. This was it. This was where he had been driven, had driven himself, the source of his power, the bridge to that nameless beyond where his patron resided.

Clarence’s eyes widened, darting back and forth between the block and his companions.

Oblivious to his brother’s excitement, Cornelius said “Well, I can’t hear any whispering, so I guess these ones are pretty harmless.” He walked to the western sarcophagus and reached out to it.

No voice spoke in Cornelius’ head but he was assailed by a series of flashing images, images of violence, betrayal and bloodlust, images that showed the gift that this sarcophagus would give him: the gift of immortality, strength and power, the dark gift of undeath, the gift of Nosferatu, the gift of the vampire.

Cornelius wrenched his hand back. “Nobody touch that one! Do not touch that one! Keep Clarence away from it!” Dickie and Paris turned their eyes on the younger Bullingdon, who was trying to sidle away from them. He paused, as Cornelius continued, “I heard no words, but I saw images… images that tempted me to become as Strahd, to give up my life, and become cold, heartless, evil as he is.”

“An evil gift,” Paris said.

“It is as we knew,” intoned Clarence. “This is where Strahd lost his mortality and became that which we now know.”

“These are hidden deeper than all the others.” Dickie gestured to the sarcophagi. “And they’re quiet, too. Whatever these are, I think it’ll be the worst of them.”

“I agree with Dickie. It’s best that nobody touch any of them.” Cornelius looked pointedly at his brother.

Paris wasn’t sure. “It might help us learn something to know what they offer. Although, none of us should accept the gifts. Under any circumstances.”

Cornelius placed his hand on Clarence’s shoulder, amiably holding his brother fast. “Dickie, I trust you not to meddle with magic. See what these other two have to offer.” The manservant, half of his face sagging, blind eyes on his flesh covered by the illusion of his magic armour, nodded.

With trepidation, Dickie touched the eastern sarcophagus- and his mind was pulled away, his vision filled by a colossus, a gargantuan being, more enormous than anything should be, impossibly vast, a thing that would dwarf moons. It rolled in the void and a terrible dead face the size of worlds filled Dickie’s vision.

“Accept the gift of the corpse star,” an awful voice boomed in his head. “I will give you power. The power of Zhudun. The power to raise the ancient dead.”

The void collapsed around him as Dickie pulled his hand away, shaking. “I did not like that. I did not like it. It’s… I don’t know… a huge, dead, something… Called itself the corpse star, said it could raise the ancient dead.”

“Sounds like bad magic to me, Dickie.”

“This is dark stuff down here,” Paris said with a shiver.

Cornelius turned to the final amber block, the sundered southern sarcophagus. “Do we even want to know?” he asked.

Clarence spoke, his voice quietly ominous. “That one I know.”

Paris stepped towards the block.

“Paris. You do not want to touch that block. If you wish to know what it is, I will tell you.”

“What is it then, Clarence?”

Clarence paused, gathering his words. “Do you recall when I was but a child, how with difficulty I took to even the simplest cantrips, the most meagre of magics?”

“Yes, you were very slow.”

“Do you remember then how I fled? And how when I returned, I carried this book? And knew many secrets, of that which is seen and that which is unseen?”

“Er, no, but carry on.”

“The power within that block… It is not sleeping. Or perhaps it sleeps and dreams, but its dreams have more reality than anything we can comprehend.”

Cornelius sidled over to Dickie. “Do you have any fucking clue what they’re on about?”

As soon as Corenlius’ hand left his brother’s shoulder, Clarence raised the staff in his hands. Between him and the block, Paris made a placating gesture- “Clarence, we’ve always been friends, haven’t we?” but the enchantment lining his words failed.

Cornelius witnessed this exchange of magics between the two, and moving next to Paris called “Don’t do it, Clarence! I won’t let you fall to evil!”

Dickie’s knife was in his hand. Clarence cast an enchantment at his brother and all of a sudden it struck Cornelius that it wasn’t unreasonable to let Clarence touch the block- what harm could it do, really? But as Clarence’s hands wove the enchantment, Dickie’s blade flashed, a slicing a gash in Clarence’s robes… And to everyone’s surprise, when Dickie struck iron chains burst from the ground, wrapping around Clarence and anchoring him in place.

Even as Cornelius was ensorcelled Paris countered the effects, and burly elder Bullingdon rounded on his brother. “What is this that you want so much, you would trick your own brother with magic?” His eyes not leaving Clarence’s Cornelius moved to the sundered sarcophagus, reached out his hand, touched the amber…

And there was  nothing. No dark whispers. No eldritch visions swept over him. There was no offer of a dark gift.

“There’s nothing there! This one’s broken. All of this bother for nothing!” Cornelius fumed as he stepped away from the stone.

“Maybe this one will only speak to Clarence?” Paris proposed, as Dickie reached into Clarence’s robes and relieved him of his Tome of Shadows- Clarence didn’t resist, nor even seem to notice, his eyes fixed on the sarcophagus. Clarence struggled against his bonds, then wheezed slightly as the chains began to tighten around him.

“No, it’s not empty, it can’t be empty!”

Paris had walked over to the sarcophagus, and touched it- also garnering no response. But as he stared into the amber there was the slightest flicker of darkness.

“It’s not dead. There’s something alive in there. Some evil.” He looked over at his apprentice in chains. “I don’t understand why Clarence would want to commune with this thing.”

“The debts I have incurred, if I do not repay them… I fear the consequences would not fall on me alone.” As Clarence spoke,  Cornelius went and sat on the lowest stair, lighting his pipe.

“What debts? What have you promised?” Paris asked, but Clarence’s lips were pursed tight. He seemed to sag, his hands in the pockets of his robes… And then a ray of green light lanced out from within the pocket, and impacted the chains enwrapping him, and the chains were disintegrated, falling around him as a fine ash. His hands, now free, withdrew from his pockets, one holding the bronze left hand of Exethanter, glowing green ray emanating from its fingers, the other holding a feather- one of the feathers taken from the wing of the fallen angel, the Abbot of Saint Markovia, and as the chains fell away the feather burned in radiance and Clarence floated into the air, stepped lightly over the heads of Dickie and Paris and landed on the black marble floor in front of the southern sarcophagus. His hand reached out; he touched the amber.

The Miracle of Life

As he touched the crack in the sarcophagus that line of utmost darkness writhed, and from the chasm a black tentacle extended. It slithered over his face in an almost affectionate caress, then plunged into the front of his forehead.

And he knew. He knew what his patron was: A boundless daemon sultan that gnawed hungrily in inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond time and space amidst the muffled, maddening beating of vile drums and the thin monotonous whine of accursed flutes; a feaster of fate, devourer of lore, obscene lord of mysteries; the seeker of all seekers of knowledge. He knew it had been bound here, impossibly, inconceivably trapped on this mortal plane and starved for long millennia. He knew that it was dying, almost faded, and in its dying breath has played a final gambit. Setting a greedy young man on a path that started with a book, and led him from isolated hermitage, to the fall of his house, to his family’s diaspora and eventual arrival in Barovia, and finally, it led him here, where with its last sliver of concentrated being Clarence’s patron granted him its touch. All in the hope that through him it could endure.

Cornelius stood, stepped forward as his brother’s back arched, eyes rolled back into his head, connected to the amber by this tendril plunged into his skull; and then that tentacle retracted. There was a chime as if the tolling of a bell; the crack in the amber spread and with a crash, the block split down the middle and crashed to the ground.

Clarence’s forehead was marred only by a slight bruising. For a moment, he had known everything; he had seen with absolute insight the turning of the gears of creation. But it was gone… And he did not remember. For a moment he had held all knowledge of the eldritch and arcane but now, there was nothing.

“What was that?” Cornelius bellowed. Clarence ignored him, held out a hand to see if he still could… And yes, his power still coursed through him, but all of the infinite knowledge he had held but moments ago was gone.

“No… I had it, for a moment… I saw everything, I had everything, I knew… But it’s gone! It’s gone!”

Cornelius grabbed him by the lapels and layed his hand across Clarence’s cheek. “Pull yourself together!”

Clarence stumbled clumsily as Cornelius hauled him forward, his legs feeling strange, his stomach strangely swollen beneath his robes.

“What did you do, Clarence? In the name of the Morninglord, tell me what you did!”

Clarence was nauseous, cramping in the gut, confused by the actions of his patron. He wretched weakly and curled in on himself.

“Paris, something’s wrong! He needs a tincture!”

The colour had drained from Clarence’s face and Paris, unsure what to do, dabbed the pooling sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

“I promised everything to it… Power and knowledge, in return for service…”

“We shouldn’t have come here,” Dickie said darkly, as the Clarence’s robes could no longer hide the bloating in his abdomen; his hands clutched at his absurdly swollen stomach, flesh hard and stiff, and there was a writhing in his bowels.

Clarence moaned in agony and the illusion, the glamour he constantly held over his real form dropped. Beneath the mask his skin was spotty, pockmarked, his beard unkempt and wispy; one half of his true face hung slack and his irises were a deep, sickly yellow; as his tangled robes pulled up his arms the Bullingdon Boys saw a dead eye, closed and weeping, on his wrist.

“You couldn’t… I knew, no matter what, our family would fall, everything good would go away so I asked for more power to stop it but I couldn’t! I’m sorry brother!”

“The Bullingdons will not fall, Clarence! We are always, and eternal, as long as we have each other! Paris, he is dying- do something!”

Clarence’s stomach writhed and turned and he was bloated like a pregnant woman now, there was something inside of him trying to get out.

“I don’t think I’ve got a tincture for this, Cornelius!”

Cornelius pushed his holy symbol to Clarence’s swollen abdomen, tears in his eyes. “Begone! By the light of the Morninglord, begone!”

And Clarence screamed.

Blood, guts and viscera spilled across the black marble.

“No!” Cornelius cried.

It fell to the floor with a wet thunk, a fleshy membrane covered in gore, an amniotic sac still connected to Clarence by a thick, pulsing umbilical. There was something inside, writhing, straining to get out: the sac tore open, there was a gush of fetid fluid and it rose into the air before The Bullingdon Boys. This thing, this blasphemous thing that Clarence has wrought, this stillborn godling.

It stank of death. It had no eyes: pale flesh covered the indent of sockets, and the rest of it was half-formed and terrible, shrivelled, malformed, bony and limp. A grossly distended jaw hung slack, a long worm of a tongue protruding, and it emitted a continuous high pitched wailing scream, monotonous and terrible. Its feet did not touch the ground; it floated, limply, still connected to Clarence by that awful umbilical.

“Burn it! Burn it, Paris, it is evil!”

His magical energies near exhausted, Paris shakily drew his sword. The blade slashed into the thing and when it did, the umbilical pulsed and what little colour was left in Clarence’s face drained; unconscious, he moaned pitifully.

“Begone! Begone, fiend, turn away from the light of the Morninglord!” Cornelius held up the Holy Symbol of Ravenkind. Divine energy pulsed from it and the lifeless, keening thing before him recoiled limply, its wailing taking on a further tone of anguished panic.

Dickie dove at the umbilical joining Clarence and the creature, and his dagger slashed through it; blood poured from both end, from the creature and from Clarence, whose breath was growing more ragged.

The stillborn godling pulled away, trying to escape Cornelius’ holy light, and as it moved past the three conscious Bullingdon Boys they felt their flesh stripping away, the top layer of their skin flaking off and leaving them red-raw. Blades and fists flashed as it fled, and the creature sagged, its abdomen shredded, the keening wail weak now, falling to the ground as Dickie’s dagger ripped through it.

Clarence’s eyes flickered open. “No… Our bargain… You will not harm my brother…” blood spotted spittle dribbled from his mouth as he moved his arm, his hand, and gestured… And with a faint rush of air, the creature was gone, banished by the last of Clarence’s energy.

Clarence’s hand fell limp. His breath rattled, and fell still. His eyes were closed, and a faint smile played on his lips. In the deepest chamber of the Amber Temple, before a sundered block of amber, Clarence Quincy Bullingdon lay dead.

…

“Clarence? Clarence, are you still there?” Dickie knelt by the younger Bullingdon. There was no response.

“I don’t have a tincture for this,” Paris sobbed.

“This… this was too far. We were foolish, and greedy and… Now look what’s happened.”

Cornelius was stood, his back to his dead brother, his eyes fixed on the Holy Symbol of Ravenkind held before him. “It is real!”

Paris looked up from where he knelt by Clarence’s corpse. “What?”

“The Morninglord!” Cornelius twirled to face them. “I asked him to cast out the demon from Clarence and it did! I asked him to turn the demon away from me, and it did!”

“You glory over the vanities of your god now?” Dickie cried, “Your brother is dead! And you gloat that something ran away from your… trinket?”

Cornelius’ eyes narrowed at his manservant. “My brother lives with the Morninglord now, Dickie. He knows glory none of us could imagine.”

“He could be living with us if we’d not been so foolish.”

Paris spoke up. “Dickie, we all did our best for Clarence, you saw. We tried to save him!”

“We warned him. It was his own choice. By his own choice he made his dark pact, and by his own choice fulfilled it.”

“We’ve all taken dark gifts in the hope of bettering our own odds. And look, now one of us is dead and we’re no closer to our goal!”

“But we are protected! The Morninglord will look for us now, we are guided and protected!”

“Did he look for your brother?”

“Clarence…” Cornelius jaw clenched, just for a moment. “Clarence strayed too far. There was no saving him.”

Dickie regarded Cornelius coolly. “I fear there is no saving any of us.”

Cornelius knelt by his brother’s side, cradling his head. “He will be remembered as a martyr of the Morninglord. Who gave his life to fulfil his purpose.”

“What are we going to do with the bod- with Clarence?” Paris asked. Clarence’s voluminous robes covered the ruin of his birthing, but blood and viscera was pooled around him.

“We will take him outside. We will burn his body in the open air- to allow his body and soul to return to the Morninglord. And then… We will march on Ravenloft. We will find Strahd and we will avenge the death of Clarence! Are you with me, Dickie, Paris? Bully Bully Bully!”

The “Oi, oi, oi” his speech garnered was weak- Paris sobbing, Dickie’s voice tinged with exhaustion.

“When it’s done, I’m coming back here,” the manservant promised dourly. “I’m going to destroy the entrance. No one else should ever come to this place.”

Paris nodded his agreement. “And maybe we could have a… a huge golden memorial to Clarence in the middle of Bullingdonovia?”

“We can think of these things when Bullingdonovia is won.”

“It makes me feel better to think of them now.”

“You’ll feel even better, Paris, after our final victory.” Cornelius looked at the fissure running through the wall. “It seems we must delve deeper.”

“The sword of sunlight, and the destruction of Strahd,” said Dickie, “that’s all that matters now. The rest? Merely trinkets, for when this is over.” He looked at the corpse on the floor. “Goodbye, Clarence.”

Cornelius, cradling Clarence’s body in his arms, stepped through the fissure. He entered a room that would be a fitting mausoleum for any Bullingdon: from the amber doors on the opposite wall, filling the room to the crevasse where he stood, were piles of treasures.

Gold, platinum and silver coins were heaped high; there were more gemstones than he had ever seen, rubies and sapphires and emeralds, the glitter of diamonds; suits of armour, shields, breastsplates; swords and shields among ceramic statues of saints, even a gilded chariot. The room was a treasure trove, a vault of incredible wealth, more than any of them could have imagined, more than they could carry or ever spend.

“What you seek lies in a pile of treasure,” Dickie recalled, “behind a set of amber doors… Is it here?”

And his keen eyes caught it- the handle of a broken sword, hilt and guard of masterfully worked platinum sat atop a pile of gold pieces. What remained of the broken blade glittered in the light- a tiny sliver of crystal, in place of steel. Somewhere in Dickie’s pack were three shards of crystal, that roughly formed the shape of a blade, found in the tower of Exethanter.

He picked up the hilt. A thrum of power ran through him and he felt a wash of friendly warmth, from the sword.

“Can you feel its power, Dickie?”

“It’s powerful, but- and I don’t believe I’m saying this- I don’t think its evil?”

“What’s it doing here?”

“If it is what we think it is, it’s a sword made to take vengeance on Strahd. Perhaps he hid it here- if I remember the book right, he tasked Exethanter to destroy it. And it seems he succeeded, to an extent.”

“We’ll have to have it reforged,” Cornelius said.

“I think we have the rest of it. There shards of crystal from the tower.”

“We can contemplate these things outside.” Encumbered with his brother’s body, Cornelius didn’t bat an eye at the treasure surrounding them. “I wish to leave this place.”

As Cornelius left, Dickie looked at Paris. “I don’t think a conventional blacksmith can fix this… But I wonder if the wizard could.”

“I could use the scro- my spell.”

Wary that the treasures may be cursed, they  took nothing else. The vault doors were sealed, so they retreated through the fissure, up the golden stairs into the library, and into Exethanter’s chamber.

Sword And Sorcery

“Do I… Do I know you?” the decrepit lich croaked as it saw them.

“Tell me, mighty wizard- do you know anything about this?” Dickie held out the sword handle.

The undead mage took the item, holding it up to the red pin-points in its eye sockets. “This is fine work but, it appears the blade is broken. Strange- was this a sword of crystal? That does not strike me as particularly practicle.” It looked up apologetically and saw the corpse of Clarence in Cornelius’ arms. “Ah. Is he… deceased?”

“Indeed. An ancient evil killed him.”

“If you wish to revive him, there is an amber sarcophagi below which would grant you the power to raise even the most ancient dead.”

“We have no interest in any more dark pacts,” Paris said firmly.

“No. We will burn him in the open air, return his body to the Morninglord from whence it came.”

“I see,” the lich wheezed. It returned the sword handle to Dickie, who, rootling through his pack, had found the three large shards of crystal taken from the desk in the tower of bronze.

“Could it be repaired, do you think?”

“Ah… such a weapon would have been forged with powerful magic. How? I don’t know, I… can’t remember.”

“Paris,” Cornelius asked gently, “can you help him?” He lay his brother down on the dusty divan bed in one corner of the room.

“Just, one second- I need to, ah, turn and face this wall while I remember how to cast the spell…” Paris turned away from his comrades and slipped the restorative scroll out of his pocket. He followed the scroll as best he could, making the correct gestures and incantations; he turned and laid his hand on the shoulder of the lich, and a faint white light suffused the ancient wizard as the scroll crumbled to ash in Paris’ hand.

The lich stood a little straighter. The red dots in his eye sockets glowed a little brighter. It sharply turned to Paris and spoke, and its voice was not slow and plodding but quick and clear and full of power

“My thanks. You have restored me.”

“So, uh,” Paris took a step back, “So… what’s the password?”  

“The sword, Paris,” Cornelius hissed, “ask him about the sword!”

“Oh, yes- the-“

The lich held up a hand as it cut Paris off. “You can wait. I am Exethanter, the mage of mages, the mightiest arch mage to ever walk this earth.”

“I think we’d already figured that out, if you don’t mind me saying,” Cornelius mumbled.

“You haven’t got long!” Paris reminded the wizard.

“I know. I will grant you the passwords, or anything else you wish. This much I suppose I owe you for restoring me. But! I ask for one thing. I require a soul for my phylactery. Do those words mean anything to you?”

“Nope, not at all, don’t know what you’re talking about,” Paris lied.

“I’m afraid we’ve got no fish with us today, Exethanter.”

The pinpoints of red light narrowed, and then he barked a harsh laugh. “Ah, humour. Yes, I remember that. So, I am beholden to you, and so I will give you a choice. You have… Maybe a number of hours to find me a soul- or I will have to take one.”

Dickie glanced at Cornelius, and mouthed “The madman!”

“The one who cowers in the theatre?” Cornelius asked. Dickie nodded. “Well. Paris, you stay here and make sure Exethanter doesn’t do anything to Clarence. Dickie and I will fetch that coward. If that doesn’t work-“ his eyes went to the ring on Paris’ finger- “we use Rudolph. It’s unsavoury, but it’s for the greater good. If he helps reforge the sword, then he helps defeat Strahd.” 

Dickie held the broken sword up to the lich, once again. “You can repair this, can’t you?”

Exethanter gave it a long look. “You think it needs repair? The thing is fully functional- I never succeeded in destroying it. I spent decades… it vexed me so that in the end I threw it in the vault, with the other garbage. Look, I’ll show you.” He took the hilt from Dickie’s hand. “Watch closely.” He swished it back and forth as though waving a blade in front of him, and with a vrummm, a blade extended from the hilt: a blade of sunlight.

“Ah,” said Dickie.

Exethanter waved the sword again and the blade vanished. He placed the hilt within his robes. “Now, fetch me that soul and I will return this to you. A fair deal, I think.”

…

Cornelius and Dickie made their way back through the temple, dark and quiet, to the lecture hall. They pushed open the amber doors.

“Are you there?” Cornelius called out. “I forget your name.”

A head emerged from behind a row of seats. “V-Vilnius, who’s that? Oh, you’re not dead!”

“It is I, Cornelius, your friend.”

“Are we friends? I didn’t think I had any-“

“We have searched the temple, and found what you seek if you will come with us.”

“You found my master?”

“Yes, we found your master. And you will always have friends in the Bullingdon Boys.”

“Does he yet live?”

“Yes indeed he lives!” Cornelius lied, “but he is… Uh… trapped, beneath a rock, and wishes you come to him. He has wisdom to share with you, before the crushing of the rock kills him.”

“What of the thing outside? The stomping thing?”

“Long gone- we Bullingdon Boys felled it.”

“And the flameskulls? With their gnashing teeth and burning fire?”

“All destroyed, with holy water.”

“So they won’t be coming back?”

“Nothing will harm you here, my friend.”

“Oh, you are a true friend!”

“We Bullingdon Boys are always true to our own. Perhaps… You could join us, when we are finished here? Wouldn’t that be good, to have lifelong companions?”

“That… That sounds wonderful! I so dreaded being alone on the mountain when I left this place.”

“Then come with us!” And Cornelius and Dickie headed back to Exethanter with Vilnius in tow.

…

Meanwhile, Exethanter was reading through a huge tome on his desk while Paris sat awkwardly next to Clarence’s body on the bed. After a moment the arch-lich glanced over to the Bully Boy.

“So. You’re a wizard of sorts. Any interest in becoming a lich?” twin points of light regarded him intensely.

“No, none,” Paris said quickly.

“Ah well. Each to their own.” Exethanter turned back to his book.

“You and Clarence would’ve gotten along,” Paris said, his voice thick with emotion. “really well. It’s a shame that he’s dead. This is just the kind of thing Clarence would’ve enjoyed.”

“I’ve had so many pupils I’ve grown tired of them.”

“I will never have another pupil again,” Paris said, with tears in his eyes.

“It’s not worth the trouble,” Exethanter murmured, as Dickie, Cornelius and their sacrifice returned. As the wizard’s apprentice saw the skeletal lich, he let out a scream. Cornelius grabbed his shoulders, forcing him into the room, as Dickie closed the door behind them.

“I feel a little guilty about this,” said Paris, ignored as Cornelius shoved Vilnius towards Exethanter: “A soul for you! Take it!”

Exethanter turned. “This is the one, then?”

“What about the soul in the staff?” Paris cried, remembering the whispering staff of Vilnius’ master.

“There’s a soul in the staff?” Dickie asked.

“It’s too late for that,” Cornelius said, “take him, before he realises what’s going on!”

And above Vilnius’ confused wailing, above Paris and Dickie’s protests, above Cornelius’ egging on, a single word slipped from between the lich’s ivory teeth, a word from an unspeakable ancient language, a word of power. And Vilnius dropped dead.

“Aaaah!” Exethanter moaned in satisfaction. “Yes, that will do.”

“The Morninglord be with you in death,” Cornelius said to Vilnius’ corpse. “Er, can we have the sword now?”

The lich threw the hilt towards Dickie, who caught it smoothly.

Cornelius moved to the bed and picked up Clarence’s corpse. “Now let’s get out of here as quick as we can and try not to think about what we’ve just done.”

Exethanter made a noise as if clearing its throat. “True to my word, I will let you walk out of here. There is but one thing more- I believe that dead compatriot of yours has something that belongs to me.”

They looked at the arch-mage blankly, so Exethanter raised its left arm, displaying the stump of a wrist.

“Oh, the hand,” said Paris. “Wait… What are you going to do with it?”

“Well I’ll probably put it on this stump of a wrist, given that it’s my damn hand,” the lich said with menace.

Cornelius fetched the item from within Clarence’s pockets and threw it to the lich, who caught it and affixed it to the stump. The Bullingdon Boys then beat a hasty retreat, kindly thanking Exethanter for his assistance.

…

They left through the room of skulls, past the enchanting statue and onto the broken balcony. As Cornelius gingerly made his way across the unstable structure- Dickie crawling along the wall behind him- in the centre of the temple floor below a burst of blue fire appeared from the air.

Out of the crackling flames tumbled a raven, squawking in indignation, and behind the raven, a young woman all in armour, holding a glowing sword, who clattered to the marble floor. The blue flames vanished. The girl looked around in confusion

“Greetings!” Cornelius bellowed down. “I am Cornelius Pfeffil Bullingdon- who are you?”

As Paris drew his wand in the doorway above, the woman cried out “Where am I? Is this Castle Ravenloft?”

“This is not Castle Ravenloft-“

“You’re a fair bit south of that,” Dickie interrupted Cornelius-

“But we’ll be there soon.”

“Where, then?” the stranger asked. “Barovia, still?”

“Afraid so,” said Dickie.

From above, Cornelius asked “Who are you, and what do you want?”

“You’ve given me your name, so it’s only fair I give you mine,” she replied. “I am Elliana Roche- last surviving member of the Spency Squad.”

“Welcome, Elaina Ross,” Cornelius said. He deftly jumped the twenty five feet  down from the balcony, as Dickie slithered down the wall behind him. Cornelius shrugged Clarence over one shoulder, and stuck out a hand.

She eyed him warily. “Why are you carrying a body?”

“It is my brother, Clarence. Sadly he has died.”

Paris’ voice boomed down from above, magically carrying to them. “Funnily enough, we now have an opening the group we like to call the Bullingdon Boy-“ he checked himself- “Bullingdon Buddies.”

“Bullingdon Boys,” Cornelius corrected.

“But, she’s…” Paris called down awkwardly.

Ellania watched the exchange with bemusement. “You’re… Enemies of Strahd?”

“We are,” Cornelius replied. “Clarence here died in our quest to defeat him.”

“You seek to destroy him?”

“Forever. For eternity! We will banish him from this world so he may terrorize no one ever again. In the name of the Morninglord we do this! Bully bully bully!”

“And then we all shout- Oi Oi Oi!” Paris informed the warrior.

“The Spency Squad,” Cornelius said, “I have heard that name.”

“Yes. We were a group of adventurers, much like you-“

“But clearly not as successful.”

She laughed bitterly. “Evidently not. We did however manage to find a book, which detailed the weaknesses of the devil.”

“Oh, this?” said Dickie, pulling the Tome of Strahd from his pack. “Yeah, it’s been a great help.”

She laughed again. “It didn’t help us so much when the devil and his mother came upon us.”

“We killed his mother when she came upon us,” Cornelius bragged.

“Nasty one, she was,” Dickie said. “Her house was worse, though.”

“We’ve got her hair pins,” Paris added.

“So, tell us Elaina-“

“Elliana, if you please-“

“Elliana, how did you survive when the rest of your party was destroyed?”

She described how they had been struck down and destroyed by Baba Lysaga, save her and Anselm Thruppington-Spence, who were taken to the dungeons of Castle Ravenloft. Cornelius told her how Clarence has died from his stomach bursting open.

Dickie noted that while exchanging stories was nice, they could do it outside of the terrifying temple of faceless evil. Cornelius called down Paris and with a pop, the fancy wizard disappeared from the balcony, then reappeared right in front of Elliana in a flash of light, hand extended.

“Paris Digby, mighty wizard,” he said with a grin and a twinkle in his eye.

Elliana gaped at him. She rocked back, tears in her eyes, shaking, losing herself to ever-so-slightly manic laughter. “Paris- Paris fucking Digby?”

“That’s not my middle name…”

“Paris, I think someone’s heard of you!” Dickie said.

“I’ve certainly heard of you,” laughed Elliana Roche. “Hello, dad.”