Session 15 - The Road Less Travelled

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

Days in Barovia: 6. The moon waxes gibbous.

Morning Glory

Dawn in Barovia is usually a dull affair; the fog and cloud to the east becoming ever-so-slightly less brighter as the sunlight forces its way through the permanent gloom until the black sky is replaced by a deep grey; and usually here the sun gives up any effort to brighten the lands beneath the mists, and the sky remains monotonously overcast until the evening when it falls again to darkness.

But not today. As the Golden Bully Hut faded, the party was awakened by the unexpected bright light of a full dawn as the sun crested over the horizon, sunlight driving the terminus of night across the valley until it washed past them in crescendo of light.

Rising to his feet, Cornelius was silhouetted by a corona of light. The symbol on his chest shone forth. A small halo of light rested upon his head, and he heard a woman’s voice:

“Listen. Hear me and obey. A foul darkness steeps this land. A darkness that you will destroy. It is time for my splendour to return to Barovia.

You are not worthy to bear my blessing, yet… you must. The defiler has closed this land to me. My power here is weak. The people falter in their belief.

You will be the light that burns away the darkness. You will be the truth that throws down the lies. You will destroy the defiler.

My light will guide you and ward you. Do not stray, for the darkness will swallow you whole.”

And then, as the voice fades, tumultuous black clouds push back against the sunlight, straining and struggling but finally winning over and killing the bright light of dawn; and Barovia was once again cast into unending shadow.

Squinting, Cornelius looked about suspiciously.

“Who was that? Dickie, Dickie did you hear that woman? Can you see her?”

“What woman, m’lord?” Dickie asked, confused.

“Oh god,” Paris cried, struck with sudden panic, “Is it Rhineheart?”

“She’s back from the dead… again!” wailed Clarence.

“No, not her Paris. This was a young woman, I think… She spoke very highly of me. I think I’ve finally acquired a fan! She’s got to be around here somewhere, she sounded very close.”

The leaves of a tree shifted in the wind and Clarence hurled eldritch energy at it.

“Not find her to kill her, Clarence! She told me I was destined for great things.”

“Well that is clearly preposterous, brother,” Clarence replied, eyeing the treeline warily in case it needed another blasting. “There is no such woman around here.”

“The people of Barovia are finally beginning to buy into our ploy,” Cornelius hissed at his brother, “Don’t go around saying things like that when they could be nearby, listening.”

Catching on, Dickie loudly said “All hail Cornelius Bullingdon, prophet of the Morninglord!”

“Destined for great things!” Paris joined in; and, surrounding Cornelius with floating orbs of light, he gasped and cried “Behold, the blessing of the Morninglord!”

“Have no fear, mysterious woman!” Cornelius shouted into the empty woods, “You may come to meet your prophet! I said, have no fear! Oh well, she must be shy. Encountering the sacred holy servant of your god can be an overwhelming experience – I don’t blame her for running.”

Dickie set about making breakfast – a breakfast fit for the heroes of the Morninglord, as Cornelius demanded – and the Bullingdon Boys reminisced on the last time they’d run the old “pretend to be prophets of a god” scam, which had… not ended well.

They were much more confident with their current situation, the Morninglord being strongly established where the “Kinghts of Deathswine” had turned out to be a bit of a fad.

Van Richten, propped on one elbow where he had been sleeping, looked them over in disgust. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Thank you,” replied Dickie, “I am feeling encouraged!”

When Victor roused he was confused at waking up on the floor, when he had gone to sleep in the wagon. He found Clarence poring over the Tome of Shadows. He told his teacher how he had followed his instruction, and had meditated on the insubstantial veneer of existence, the true nature of reality as Clarence had revealed to him. He had gone into the wagon, where it was quiet and not to be distracted, and went into a deep meditative “trance”… And as he dreamed, he was visited. Visited by a presence, cold and distant, ancient and beyond mortal understanding.

“It promised to unlock my true arcane powers! It showed me, teacher-”  

“Yes!” Clarence exclaimed in excitement -

“It showed me how to do the fireball!”

And to demonstrate Victor launched an expanding ball of fire that crashed into the treeline, enveloping the vegetation in a fiery explosion.

“Shit!” Dickie shouted, as Paris called for Clarence to control his pupil.

“Apologies, apologies,” the younger Bullingdon murmured; he waved his hands, and a sphere, a void of absolute darkness appeared and swallowed the flaming trees, snuffing the fire instantly. For a moment, his companions could see… things wriggling in the blackness, just beyond the edge of focus, but then the Clarence dismissed the sphere leaving a gaping, steaming hole in the treeline.

Paris, spluttering with anger, demanded that they take Victor home immediately. Clarence quite calmly agreed, claiming the boy had learned enough to keep learning on his own. Paris chastised him for teaching Victor such a dangerous spell.

Dickie sighed. “Who wants eggs?”

“You know, today Dickie, I think I’ll have my eggs-“ Cornelius paused, grinning – “Sunny-side up!”

…

As the Bullingdons broke camp and began loading their things into Van Richten’s wagon, a rider approached from the road leading out of the forest. By his hair and clothes, they could tell he was Vistani. A dozen yards away from the wagon, he came to a stop, glancing nervously at the vehicle.

“Bren Tanner?” He called. Dickie approached him, asking his comrades for a moment. As he came closer, he recognized the Vistani – Radu, who they had met their first night in Barovia, in the tavern in the village.

“If you’re Tanner, I have a letter to deliver. From the castle.”

“Well.” Dickie looked warily to the east, where behind the trees and fog he knew Castle Ravenloft lay. “I thank you for coming this far. Lets see the letter.”

As Radu passed the envelope down to Dickie – sealed with the familiar seal of Strahd, the same seal which had closed the letter originally bringing them into Barovia – Van Richten emerged from his wagon. Radu turned his horse, eying the monster hunter warily. To Dickie, he said “I was told you are a friend to the people. You want to mind what company you keep.”

“He’s been useful but I know he’s no friend of yours. I value my good opinion among you, and I’ll do my best to do right by you.”

The Vistani, staring at Van Richten who stared back evenly, nodded to Dickie, turned his horse and left.

“Friends of Vistani as well, as if my opinion of you couldn’t get any lower.” Van Richten turned to the party. “I’m packed and ready to go. Where to next? Krezk? Berez?”

Cornelius declared that they would return Victor to Vallaki; Van Richten agreed that the boy shouldn’t be accompanying them, but warned them he was not welcome in Vallaki, so would have to remain without the town.

Road Warriors

The road from Argynvostholt was old and poorly maintained, and Van Richten drove the wagon at a slow pace, with the Bully Boys cramped in the back with Victor. After an hour or so they rejoined the Old Svalich Road, and turned east, as the morning crept into noon.

The expectant quiet of the woodland road was broken, suddenly, by the screaming of horses, their voices joined by a womans; Van Richten’s cursing as the wagon came to a halt along the side of the road; the pounding of hooves and rattling of wheels as a cart passed them by, a hairs breadth from the wagon, and slipped from the side of the road, crashing into the underbrush, horses collapsing, and behind it all, the howling of wolves.

“Get up here!” Van Richten shouted from the front of the wagon. The Bully Boys poured out of the back, Cornelius shoving Victor to keep him inside. To their side a horse cried in pain, and on the other side of the tumbled cart they saw a man climb to his feet. Dickies sword was in his hand. Van Richten was stood on the drivers box, and drew a sword from his cane. Prowling towards him, from the direction the cart had flown, were three huge wolves.

The foremost wolf, a gigantic white-grey beast with a it’s right eye a livid open socket, padded forward and shifted, morphing seamlessly into the form of a man. Tall, lean, shaggy haired, yellow toothed, wildly bearded, the right eye still scarred and holding what looked like a glass eye, he called out in a coarse rumble – “Forget the crows for now, boys. There’s foreign meat on the menu.”

Clarence flung his hand towards the three antagonists, and sent visions of terrifying unnatural forms from beyond time and space searing into their minds.

As the wolves tails went between their legs, but the man, laughing, unhooked a hand-axe from his belt and hurled it at the wizard. Paris rubbed his hand together, blowing into them, and muttered “Now or never…” and a ball of fire expanded from his fingers, roiling and glowing and exploding in the midst of these new foes – “Yes!” Paris shouted, as the smell of burning fur and flesh filled the air.

The two wolves fled. Whining and snapping, they dashed from the road into the woods, away from Paris and Clarence and their terrible magics.

Dickie, Van Richten and Cornelius closed around the one-eyed man-wolf, and sword and sword-cane and fists harried the creature; Cornelius channelled divine energy through one hit, blackening the flesh on the man’s chest. The man dropped to one knee, wheezing. The blackened blemish cleared, and he threw his head back, releasing a blood curdling howl as he shifted into a form some terrible cross between wolf and man, and threw himself at Cornelius in a frenzy.

A chorus of howls answered from the woods, as Cornelius wrenched the white werewolf away from him –“You bit me, you bastard!” – and hammered a blow to the skull of the beast that left it stunned.

Another man-wolf hybrid came charging towards  Clarence from the woods where it had fled; the younger Bullingdon invoked the spell he had learnt from the blasphemous treatise of the diabolist Devostas, the Grimoire of Four Quarters, found within a secret room in Wachterhaus. He drew his own blood and flung a hast circle around himself as a creature stepped out of thin air just behind the werewolf charging at him.

A huge hound, with pitch black fur, red eyes, vicious teeth in a monstrous jaw, and huge talons on its paws: this demonic hell hound looked up at its summoner, and belched forth a stream of fire that engulfed the werewolf in front of it and cascaded towards Clarence. The flames washed around the circle of blood, but Paris was caught by the conflagration, his robes igniting momentarily; the werewolf let out a whining howl and turned to this new adversary.

Paris screamed at the sudden appearance of the two monstrous canines, werewolf and hell hound, and as he waved his hands a huge, golden, impracticably fabulous sword appeared floating next to the pair; festooned with jewels, glittering in the light, the weapon crashed down into the ground between the two beasts, hitting neither.

The third werewolf, fur shed in singed patches, came barrelling out of the woods to Clarence’s flank, but as it leapt Clarence invoked his new ward to manipulate the strands of fate itself; the creatures leg buckled as it jumped and it ploughed snout-first into the ground at his feet.

On the other side of the road, Dickie stabbed his rapier up through the bottom of the elongated jaw of the one-eyed white werewolf, the blade pushing up into the brain, and the one live eye fell dead as the creature returned to the shape of the wild man.

As the one werewolf and hell hound began killing each other in earnest, Cornelius rushed to defend his brother. The howling of wolves peaked as six wolves burst onto the road from the trees; smaller than the werewolves, and similar to the wolves the Bullingdon Boys had fought previously in Barovia.

For the second time that day, Clarence summoned the swirling black void, and two of the wolves vanished within; they did not emerge. Paris, not to be outdone, released a thunderous blast of concussive magical force among the wolves, and two were horrifically compressed into twisted corpses; the gaudy golden sword floated toward Clarence and ponderously flattened the werewolf assailing him.

It transformed into a man, pushing itself to its knees and begging “No, no, please, don’t kill me!” and scrambling to its feet, fled into the trees.

As Dickie unceremoniously killed one remaining wolf, as the other joined the werewolf. They and the hell hound continued to rip and tear at each other in a horrific fashion. Cornelius charged after the escapee – “Stop! In the name of the Morninglord!” – and a beam of holy light enclosed around the werewolf, but Cornelius was unfamiliar with his newly bestowed powers and the light shone wide. Giving up on that, Cornelius tackled him to the ground and started dragging him back to the road.

Paris moved away from the grim battleground to the crashed cart behind them. The horses leading the cart were silent now, and the wagon had split an axle and lost a wheel. A large man stood protectively in front of his wife and children – Paris recognized them as the proprietors of the tavern in Vallaki, the Blue Water Inn.

“Do not worry- you have been blessed. The servants of the Morninglord have… almost… driven away the wolves.” As he spoke, he clicked his fingers, and the gaudy floating sword smashed down on the wolf harrying the hell hound. The werewolf reverted to human form, and cried “Don’t let it kill me!” Paris sighed, and the spiritual weapon smashed down again. With a strange sucking sound, the hell hound disappeared as if it had never been there; leaving the Bully Boys looking over two panting, exhausted, surrendered werewolves in their man-shapes, the innkeeper’s family looking on from down the wreck of their cart.

As The Crow Flies

“So,” Cornelius asked the werewolf he dragged back onto the road, “what made you think you could take on the Bullingdon Boys – famed wolf slayers – and live to tell the tale?”

“We just follow our leader – that’s what wolves do! You’re the foreigners who upset the master. It’s open season on you now, you know.”

“When you say the master, you mean of course the contemptible worm Strahd, no?” Clarence asked, prompting a chuckle from the straggly haired man.

“Yes, he’s… well, as Kiril-“ and he nodded to the one-eyed corpse- “told it to us, he really wants to see you dead.”

“Well, perhaps you can take a message back to your ‘master’ telling him what occurred here, and how easily we defeated his dogs. And more than that you say that the Morninglord now walks by our side! And if Strahd really wants to see us dead, he should come and face us, rather than cowering in his castle like a small child or woman.”

“I’ve never been to the castle – you think he lets the likes of us in? You should write him a letter.”

Cornelius commanded Dickie to write the letter, which the manservant did, rolling his eyes. Dickie asked about these many servants of Strahd, while Clarence plucked the glass eye from the dead werewolf with a conjured magical hand. Strahd, it was revealed, had many servants; the Vistani, vampiric spawn, ex-adventurers… witches. When prompted, he knew of the ancient witch who flew about in a skull; she was the most ancient in Barovia, and washed herself in blood to retain her youth.

The Bully Boys discussed what to do with the two werewolves; Cornelius wanted to drag them into Vallaki, take them to the church or maybe have them executed, but his comrades were more inclined to let them go. Getting them into the town in the first place might cause trouble, and they smelled like wet dog.

The werewolves swore to spread word that the Bullingdon Boys had killed their pack leader, which may deter further wolf attacks. They were released, and not needing to be told twice took the form of wolves and bounded into the forest.

Van Richten was seeing to the innkeeper and his family, concern written on his face. Cornelius shouted over “Fear not, citizens! The Morninglord has saved you!” and his holy amulet began to glow with soothing light. The innkeep looked up at him and muttered something like “Out of the frying pan, into the fire…”

“I take it you’ve met Urwin before then?” Van Richten asked.

“I do not believe I’ve been fortunate enough to encounter this man before,” Cornelius lied, believing Urwin would not recognise him from his ruse in the tavern a few days prior. He extended his hand. “I am Cornelius Bullingdon, hero of the Morninglord, saviour of your people. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“I thought it was Edward Edwardson?”

“I don’t know of any Edward Edwardson, my good sir. I am Cornelius Pfeffil Bullingdon the third, Marquis of Saxonia, perhaps you have heard of me and my companions, the Bullingdon Boys? We do god’s work in this land.”

The innkeep tapped his chin in pantomime. “Cornelius Bullingdon, Cornelius Bullingdon… Were you in Vallaki a few days ago?”

“Why yes, we defeated Strahd in Vallaki a few days ago, to the amazement and wonder of all around us!”

“And you gave the baron the idea of executing people who disagreed with him? Like Lady Wachter?”

Paris spoke up- “It wasn’t that he disagree-“

“I’ve never known a Lady Wachter in my life,” Cornelius interrupted. “In any case, we do as the Morninglord commands. Our orders come from up high.” He winked.

Urwin widened his eyes. “Ooh, yes. I’m sure everything you do is just for the best.”

Paris reminded the man that they had just saved his life, and sarcasm may not be in order. Urwin pointed out that if their wagon hadn’t been on the road he could have gotten away, and wouldn’t be stranded in the woods with a his wife and children and a broken cart. Clarence inspected the vehicle; he was unable to do anything for the dead horses, but moving his hands over the broken axle and wheel he was able to magically reconstitute them.

Cornelius, in a shocking display of charity, passed the man a small pouch of gemstones. “Perhaps you can trade this for a new horse. A gift, from the Morninglord to a loyal subject.”

As Cornelius turned and winked at Paris and Dickie, Urwin’s eyes went up in genuine surprise. “This is… unexpectedly generous of you.”

Dickie spoke up, asking about the implication that baron had conducted further executions. The innkeep confirmed it, explaining that Vargas- always a little tyrant- had tightened his grip on the town, ruthlessly imposing his authority through his monstrous henchman, Izek, and the town guard. He explained that he was fleeing with his family to Krezk, or maybe the winery – his uncle owned the place, although there was bad blood there.

“It’s a long and dangerous road,” Dickie noted.

“It is a long and dangerous road,” Van Richten said, “And with one horse I don’t think your cart will get very far. Look, Cornelius, I am not welcome in Vallaki; on foot, it won’t take you long to get to the town. I’ll take the wagon, and get Urwin, Danika and the boys to Krezk. When you finish your business in Vallaki, we can arrange to meet up somewhere.”

When Dickie asked about arrangements – whether there was a safe way to send messages, without Strahd – Van Richten looked to Urwin, who nodded his consent. “I will send a raven,” the monster hunter told them.

“I bloody knew there was something about the ravens,” Dickie sighed.

Urwin prodded Clarence in the chest and told him to make sure he didn’t bloody kill the bird, this time.

…

Having unloaded their gear from the wagon (and Victor, too), the Bully Boys made the rest of the journey to Vallaki on foot. The afternoon pushed into early evening but they were unmolested by wolves, witches, vampires of any of the other wandering horrors of Barovia.

As they walked, Dickie recalled that at the Tarroka reading, the card Van Richten tied to Krezk had been drawn by Ireena, who they had left holed up in the hallowed ground of the Church of St. Andral. He suggested that they ask her if she is willing to undertake the journey – by the sounds of how things were going, she may be keen to leave Vallaki.

“We can take everyone to Vallaki with us, in an exodus to Krezk!” said Cornelius, caught up in the religious spirit.

“Do you think what’s happening in Vallaki is… actually our fault?” Paris asked, concerned.

Cornelius called a huddle of the Boys, excluding Victor. In hushed tones, he said “I think the baron of Vallaki has been a mad old fool since long before we arrived. I don’t think we can hold any responsibility for what’s happened. We saved Vallaki by defeating Strahd. I’m sure the people there love us – even if they don’t express it very well. We’ll have an excellent reception when we return, everything will be fine, we’ll grab Ireena and be off to Krezk and we’ll probably never go back there again!”

Clarence’s strangely flat tones cut across his brother’s speech. “It’s like what mother said about how you really love me even though you never show it.”

Cornelius paused for a moment. “Yes Clarence, it’s just like that. I love you very much, but I remain stoic, like a true man of Saxonia. Clearly here in Barovia they have a more blunt form of stoicism to which all people adhere very, very closely. In a sense it’s admirable.”

“I am becoming concerned that we may have to save Vallaki again,” Dickie said, after an awkward silence. “This time, from the baron.”

“How many political figures are we going to have to kill? How difficult can these issues be to fix?” Paris asked.

“We must stop all of this discussion of killing nobles,” Cornelius declared, “it’s giving me horrible flashbacks. So are we agreed on our plan? We get rid of Victor, we collect our fee from the baron, we grab Ireena, we head of to Krezk and we don’t look back. Yes? Yes. Good. Bully! Bully! Bully!”

“Oi! Oi! Oi!” replied his faithful cohort.

…

Eventually the trees began to thin and Vallaki appeared before them. As they approached the Sunset Gate they could see the pikes that had held the heads of wolves when they first entered the city still decorated the gates, but now they held more grisly trophies: the heads of men and women. They recognized one as having belonged to Lady Wachter’s butler but a few days previous. A raven perched upon the cranium, reaching down to peck at the tender flesh of the cheek.

A quarrel planted itself in the ground a yard in front of Dickie. A voice called at them to halt, by order of the baron, and state their business. The guard recognized them when they presented themselves, and allowed them to enter; but with a warning that if they were harbouring malcontents, apostates, Vistani or other criminals, they would not be spared the baron’s justice.

The western gate was opened, and the Bullingdon Boys returned to Vallaki.

Session 14 - Dragon's Den

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

Days in Barovia: 5. The moon waxes gibbous.

Giving Up The Ghost

As the two spectral arrows faded, Dickie’s rapier flew free as he shouted “I’ll bloody ‘ave you!” and charged the ghostly knight. The stairwell opened into the glum Barovian daylight and the manservant emerged onto the top of a crenelated turret astride the greater tower, a closed wooden door leading into the greater edifice.

Cornelius shoved his brother aside to move ahead on the stairwell and join his manservant. The bow dropped from the knight’s hands and faded into mist where it hit the ground; it drew the sword at its hip and began to defend itself in earnest from the two attackers.

From the mouth of the stairwell, Clarence flung eldritch energy at the undead creature, while Paris shouted some patronizing advice on how to set up a proper ambush, distracting the ghost and giving Dickie an opportunity to land a strike. The Bullingdon rapier thrust through the incorporeal heart of the creature, and Dickie learned that stabbing ghosts is not particularly effective.

Cornelius’ punches were also not optimally effective but as they were landed the form of the creature seemed to fade and flicker slightly. As it did so, a second phantom warrior appeared through the closed door to the main tower; sword and shield in hand, it charged Cornelius who met it firmly without giving any ground.

As the two knights delved into the melee Paris and Cornelius flung frost and weird energy from the stairwell. One of the ghosts was visibly wilting under the assault of magic and fists, but the pair managed to body Cornelius over to the battlements and throw him over the side of the turret.

Cornelius plummeted towards the ground eighty feet below him, but as his hands slapped against the side of the tower he was able to find purchase on the loose stone and mortar and catch himself, feeling a hard yank in his shoulder blades as his fall was arrested.

A lick of vengeful energy engulfed one phantom which faded then completely into the air, as if it had never existed; Clarence, having seen his brother hurled from the tower, released another blast at the remaining knight. “Die, bastards!” cried a distraught Paris, throwing frost wildly as Dickie circled around the phantom knight so that his back was to the main tower, not keen to follow the fate of his master. The ghostly sword flashed but Dickie nimbly dodged.

“Brother, are you alright?” Clarence called hopefully as he and Paris continued their magical assault.

“I’m absolutely fine!” came a voice from below, “Now sock it to ‘em the Bullingdon way!” The head of Cornelius appeared over the battlements, and as the knight turned towards him the senior Bullingdon headbutted it in the incorporeal crotch.

The phantom flickered and faded but remained; wispier perhaps, but corporeal enough to reach down and throw Cornelius from the tower again.

Once again Cornelius Bullingdon fell through the air, hand scrabbling against the wall of the tower; he found no purchase among the stones but after a few yards his fingers wrapped around a strip of ivy. The plant pulled away from the tower and began to unravel until, suddenly, it caught, and pulled taught, leaving Cornelius dangling inches from the ground; he released the vine and fell to the ground… Into a thorny bush below, where he took a number of nasty scratches.

Clarence finally blasted the phantom knight to nothing atop the tower, as Dickie leant over the side to see what had become of Cornelius. “Are you down there, my lord?”

A bald and moustachioed figure burst out from a bush below, fists raised victoriously in the air, and began singing.

“Hang on, my lord, I’ll get you back up here in no time,” Dickie called. The manservant-come-thief was able to scramble down the wall of the tower to the roof of the mansion, some twenty feet below, and then secured a length of rope around a merlon and threw it down to his master.

As Cornelius ascended, he called up conversationally “You know Dickie, I think that bush gave me a nasty little scrape!”

“That’s unfortunate m’lord. Still, more dangerous than those ghosts, eh?”

“Indeed. I take it you got rid of those things as I was otherwise engaged?”

“They’ve been handled suitably, m’lord, yes,” Dickie said as he extended his hand to help Cornelius up.

From the turret above them they heard a voice ranting, and looking up they could see Clarence in his dark purple robes, waving his hands and shouting about his unfathomable power.

Cornelius looked around the roof of the soon-to-be Castle Bullingdon. The southern side dropped off sharply where the building had collapsed; there was a great hole in the centre of the roof, the result of some siege weapon perhaps; and worst of all, perched on the rooftop overlooking the parapet was a silver-plated gargoyle shaped like a dragon. Cornelius sucked his teeth. “Well, we always knew it was going to be a bit of a doer-upper…”

Dickie and Cornelius joined Paris and Clarence on a landing in the main tower, which had a door to the roof and, a storey higher, a door to the turret where they had fought the phantom knights.

“That silver dragon statue looked like it could be worth something,” Paris said, “we could melt it down and recast it into a, a… a bust of, um…”

“Me?” Cornelius volunteered.

“Yes, why not. Or me.”

“We could use it to mint the Bullingdon currency!”

“We could have each of our faces on the different denominations!”

“Yes, of course!” Cornelius thought for a moment. “My face shall be on the platinum piece. Clarence’s face shall be on the electrum piece. Paris’ face shall be on the gold piece, and of course Dickie’s face shall be on the copper piece. And my face will be on any other denominations that we have not yet mentioned.”

“But, we only have silver,” Paris pointed out.

“Excellent point. My face shall be on the silver piece.”

Clarence rolled his eyes. “Shall we ascend further now we have resolved the numismatic basis of our future reign?”

He Who Fights Monsters

Wooden stairs climbed to the towers peak, which had a stone floor and a high pitched roof. Having learnt their lesson from the previous staircase, the Bully Boys payed some modicum of attention to what awaited them and managed to ascend relatively cautiously. Ravens perched on the rafters, coming and going through holes on the roof. Huge arched windows, some missing panes of glass, were spaced evenly around the walls.

A man was stood at one of the windows, holding a raven in his hands. He whispered something to the bird and released it, and as it flew out of the empty space where a pane of glass had fallen from a window the Bully Boys saw it had a message tied to its leg.

Clarence, leading the group and as yet undetected, probed out at the mind of the stranger to detect his thoughts and see if he was friend or foe. Usually, he found that usually he could submerge his probing psyche into the pool that was the thoughts of his target; but with this man it was as if a layer of impenetrable glass sat upon the pool; and Clarence’s probing was rebuffed.

The ravens on the rafters started to caw, and the man turned at the noise to regard the party. As he did so, Paris cast his Zone of Truth. The man was bespectacled, with a shock of white hair – he was not young – and wore a fine leather cloak, and held in his hand a wooden cane outstretched like a sword.

“Who in the hells are you?” He asked, his voice sharp and nasal.

“We might ask you the same question,” Paris retorted.

“Well I asked it first.”

Never going to miss an opportunity to introduce himself, Cornelius leapt in. “I am Cornelius Pfeffil Bullingdon the Third, Marquis of Saxonia, vampire slayer! This is my castle, Bullingdonheim, and soon I will be king of all Bullingdon-ovia. Who are you, peasant man?”

“Are you insane?”

“Ha!” Cornelius laughed heartily in his face. “I am not insane, old man! I am the proudest and greatest noble of old Saxonia. I have slain the villain Strahd with these very fists. My companions and I have killed many a fiend and old woman in our time. And we will kill you too, if you don’t move out of our way and let us explore our new property, which we have stolen.”

The man stared at Corenlius incredulously. Then, shaking his head, he turned away from Cornelius and addressed Paris.

“You. Why did you cast that spell, unannounced? What deviltry is this?”

“Ah - to make sure you couldn’t tell any lies!”

“Paris is a wizard more mighty than any who have entered Barovia before him,” Cornelius explained.

“Indeed! I am Paris Digby, a mediocre magic user from Saxonia.” Cornelius laughed at the “joke” while Paris clamped his jaws shut, shocked at being hoisted on his own petard.

Dickie too introduced himself – as Bren Tanner, for which he got a very confused look from Cornelius. Clarence

“Who are you, and what message did you send about us?” Paris demanded.

“The contents of my message are no concern of yours. My name is Rudolph Van Richten. I am a… monster hunter, by trade. I am in this land to kill Strahd von Zarovich.”

“Well, you’re too late there!” Cornelius told him, “We’ve already killed him.”

To Clarence, Van Richten said “Your brother, I fear, is quite delusional. We are under the effect of a spell which renders us incapable of lying; but Strahd von Zarovich is clearly not dead.”

Cornelius mentioned vaguely remembering an old woman in a tent mentioning a monster hunter; something about cards. This caught the man’s attention.

“You had your fortunes read by the Vistani witch? Hmm. And what did these fortunes say?”

“Can’t remember,” Cornelius replied honestly, “they were total nonsense.”

This Van Richten, despite his admitted dislike for the Vistani, considered the fortunes of Madam Eva – “the old Vistani witch” - to hold true clairvoyant power. Resignedly, he felt that through the telling his fate was now entwined with theirs, and that the best chances for all of them to survive Barovia and defeat its lord was to work together.

The monster hunter was able to bring some clarity to the other fortunes, which (for those among the party who had not forgotten them) were fairly obscure.

The Dark Lord – “He lurks in the depths of darkness, in the one place to which he must return” – which led them to their enemy, obviously referred to Strahd’s tomb, deep within the bowels of Castle Ravenloft.

The Healer, leading to a holy symbol of great hope, referenced a pool blessed by the light of the sun, to the west. This, Van Richten informed them, was likely a shrine dedicated to a saint in the town of Krezk.

The Beggar would give them understanding of the enemy, and called for an ancient, maimed man with dark dreams. Van Richten was less sure of this; although in Vallaki he had heard a folk tale of a disfigured creature who had seen his town of Berez ruined around him, and was forced to linger their alone.

The final fortune told of a weapon, a sword of sunlight, hidden behind amber doors. A sunlight-sword would obviously threaten a vampire; and Van Richten was familiar with the motif of amber doors, but he did not know what. However, it had lead him to Argynvostholt and was part of his investigation there that the Bully Boys had interrupted.

He warned the Bully Boys that Strahd had brought adventurers into Barovia before them; many of those had their fortunes told by the Vistani, but now they were either dead or thralls to the devil. The fortunes were not perfect.                                                                                      

The Bullingdons also learnt the reason for Van Richten’s hatred of the Vistani: he held them responsible for the death of his son. Additionally, he had a plan for how to kill Strahd, but he was reticent to reveal it.

As Paris’ Zone of Truth wore off, the Bullingdon Boys and Rudolph van Richten came to agree that their cooperation would be mutually  beneficial (at least, until it stopped being so). Van Richten intended to delve deeper into Argynvostholt and discover its secrets, and the Bully Boys weren’t done with the exploration of their would-be new home.

Having found the tallest tower depressingly empty of treasure, they descended the tower stairs to the roof-level; the stairs went no further, the floor here presumably forming the high ceiling of the chapel directly below. They went out onto the destitute rooftop in search of another way into the mansion’s upper floors; logically there should be an access other than ascending the tower turrets from ground level then descending the tower itself.

When they approached the silver dragon gargoyle to determine what value of coinage they could mint out of it, the statue turned its head towards them and intoned:

“When the dragon dreams its dream within its rightful tomb,

The light of Argynvost will beam, and rid this land of gloom”

Then turned back and was still once more.

“Would you repeat that?” Paris asked, but the statue did not respond. Van Richten, having just made note of the verse in a small book, sighed and repeated it for him.

“So, they want us to bury him?”

“Well, the implication is Argynvost is not within his rightful tomb.”

“There’s nothing in the tomb,” Dickie said.

“Besides which,” Cornelius reminded him, “it’s our tomb now!”

“That may be, m’lord, but I think we could all agree a spot of good weather is worth… sharing… the tomb, especially seeing as none of us is going to be in there until we’re dead anyhow.”

“Do you think he was one of those revenant knights we smashed apart downstairs?” Clarence suggested.

“None of them seemed… impressive enough to be the lord of the manor.”

“Clarence, you know these jumped up noble types,” Cornelius said, continuing without irony: “As soon as we meet him, he’ll announce all of his titles, all of the lands he rules, the whole shebang, droning on and on as if he just loves himself so much he can never let anyone forget it.”

“That is one of the worst things about nobles, my lord,” Dickie replied dourly.

“I despise people like that. You should be glad, Dickie, that we Bullingdons are so modest.”

There was some speculation as to whether or not Argynvostholt would be wearing dragon-themed clothing, which was decided as an almost certain yes, until someone suggested that what if he was a real dragon – the statue had referred to him as “the dragon”; could it be more than a moniker? Dickie had heard stories of dragons taking the form of men, which may explain why the dragon would have built a mansion.

The siege damage to the roof had left a gaping hole, collapsing a huge section of the ceiling into the interior below. Cornelius jumped down, landing perfectly upon the broken beams and shattered tiling that now filled the corridor below.

“Come on, Paris, Clarence!” Cornelius called as Dickie nimbly clambered down the rubble.

“I don’t want to embarrass myself,” muttered Paris, precariously hop-jumping from one broken stone to another and then tumbling head over heels and embarrassing himself. Clarence and Van Richten descended in a more sensible fashion.

Paris began to chastise Dickie for “loosening up the stones” and causing his fall; Dickie sombrely replied that Paris lacked his poise, and Cornelius claimed that if they followed a proper strength training regimen like him then they would have no issue; and a frustrated Van Richten hushed them all. “Do you want to bring every knight in this place down upon our heads?” he hissed.

“Well we’ve got to fight them all at some point if we want to live here,” Clarence replied, making no effort to quiet his voice. Van Richten put his head in his hands.

On one side of the corridor into which they had descended the rubble had pushed through a wall, knocking flat a pair of great wooden doors. These doors led into a large chamber, an audience hall with three tall windows in the west wall. A large wooden throne, carved to resemble a dragon with unfolding wings, faced these windows, back to the party. Slumped in this throne was an armoured figure, one gauntleted hand wrapped around the hilt of a greatsword.

The Order of the Silver Dragon

“You want to bet that’s him?” Dickie whispered to Cornelius, noting a pauldron decorated as a roaring dragon’s head.

“Perhaps,” Cornelius muttered back. “Ho there! Who are you?”

The figure replied in deep tones, “Go away.”

“You are squatting in Castle Bullingdon!”

The grip on the greatsword tightened, and the voice spoke.

“If you have come to destroy me, know this: I perished defending this land from evil over four centuries ago, and because of my failure, I am forever doomed. If you destroy this body, my spirit will find a new corpse to inhabit, and I will hunt you down. You cannot free me from my damnation… And nor would I wish it.”

The figure stood, turning to face Cornelius, to whom Dickie whispered “Perhaps we should come back to this one?”

The knight, clad all in fine plate armour, continued to monologue. “If you have come to free this land from the creature that feasts on the blood of the innocent, know this: There is no monster I hate more than Strahd von Zarovich. He slew Argynvostholt, broke the lives of the knights I loved, and destroyed the valiant order to which I had devoted my life.

But Strahd has already died once. He can’t be allowed-“

“Yes, we killed him!” Cornelius interrupted, but the knight ignored him.

“He can’t be allowed to die again. Instead, he must suffer eternally in a hell of his own creation, from which he can never escape. Whatever can be done to bring him misery and unrest, I will do; but I will destroy anyone who tries to end his torment.”

Out of the corner of his mouth, Cornelius muttered to his manservant, “This guy is worse than Clarence.”

“Who exactly are you?” Paris asked.

“I was in life, and am in death, Vladimir Horngaard, Lord Commander of the Order of the Silver Dragon.”

“I am Cornelius Pfeffil Bullingdon the Third, Marquess of Saxonia, and sworn enemy of Count Strahd von Zarovich.”

“I will warn you again, should you attempt to destroy Strahd von Zarovich, I will instead destroy you.”

Paris spoke up with uncharacteristic concern. “I can understand that you want revenge on the man, you want him to suffer, but while he lives he takes the lives of innocent people. He is not the only one suffering!”

“A small sacrifice for the damnation that creature deserves.”

“How much is revenge worth to you?”

“Revenge is worth my eternal damnation, which I suffer here! Revenge is worth everything!”

The Bully Boys paused momentarily in the face of this fanaticism. Finally, Dickie asked, “What has become of the body of Argynvost?”

Cold dead eyes turned to him. “Desecrated. Stolen from its rightful tomb, by a foul witch. An ancient hag. She came to this land with Strahd von Zarovich four centuries ago. A follower of a dark goddess. The witches name is Baba Lysaga. She stole Argynvosts skull and has transformed it into a foul vehicle in which she traipses around at night.”

“She’s turned his skull into a cart?” the wheels turned in Clarence’s mind. “Was he… Was he a dragon?”

“Argynvost was The Silver Dragon.”

“Just to be absolutely clear,” Cornelius persisted, “The ‘silver dragon’ is not a metaphor in this instance?”

Horngaard nodded. “He was a true dragon, and also a metaphor for all that is good and righteous and virtuous, all that has been lost in this land since the accursed Strahd von Zarovich led his people here. So. What do you intend with your great enemy?”

Cornelius put his head in his hands, as Dickie started to drag him away. “Well, I personally, and speaking for all here, think we should leave him alive to suffer his permanent damnation,” Clarence lied, stepping back towards the exit. “I think you’ve convinced all of us that the best approach is not to destroy him – that would be far too good for him. You have a very persuasive air about you.”

“I am glad that you understand that destruction would be too merciful for the horrible creature who ruined this order. However! If I learn that you are not true to your word and seek means to destroy Strahd, understand that I and my silver knights will pursue you and put an end to your folly.”

And with that, Vladimir Horngaard, Lord Commander of the Order of the Silver Dragon, slumped down in the throne, staring morosely out of the windows.

Retreating from the room, the Bullingdon Boys decided that the Castle Bullingdon plan would have to go on ice for now; and that they should probably return the skull, which meant finding the ancient witch. This pleased Van Richten: as part of his plan to kill Strahd, he told them in whispers as to not be overheard by the Lord Commander, it was imperative that they find that witch. He would reveal nothing more as he did not trust the party. At all.

Down the corridor from the audience hall, the party stumbled into a dining room where five revenant knights, similar to those they had fought in the chapel, sat glumly around a table. As they entered, one of the knights looked up, and simply told them to go away; unlike the knights below, it made no move to attack. Cornelius had decided it was time to leave Argynvostholt, so apologised and turned to leave; but Clarence and Van Richten still had questions unanswered.

These knights were melancholy but willing enough to answer questions. Argynvost knew of a place of great evil, to the south; a temple to a faceless god. Whatever purpose it had once served, it had fallen into corruption, and Argynvost founded the Order of the Silver Dragon to keep watch over this place, this Amber Temple.

The knights did not share Horngaard’s vitriol, and beseeched Clarence to ignore the Lord Commander’s command and to defeat Strahd, freeing them from their undead existence.

And the Bullingdon Boys left Argynvostholt.

The Bully Boys stepped out of the front doors to find that Barovia had sunk into evening, the shadow of the ruined mansion cast long behind them. The black carriage of Ravenloft was gone, but Van Richten’s wagon still sat where they had left it on the overgrown lawn.

“I’m summoning the Bully Hut,” Paris informed his comrades, and began to conjure the magical building brick by golden brick. Clarence found Victor fast asleep in Van Richten’s wagon; Cornelius suggested that they leave him to sleep, otherwise they might have to talk to him. The monster hunter was not pleased to find the Vallakovich scion accompanying the party, the father having run Van Richten out of Vallaki.

Cornleius and Dickie managed to move Victor into the hut without waking him, and the Bully Boys settled down to sleep.

Session 13 - Argynvostholt

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

Days in Barovia: 5. The moon waxes gibbous.

Welcome to the House of Fun

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Consider who they’ve been trained by.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I would.”

“You’d buy one of these?”

“They’re very fine!”

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

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

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

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

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

And the fire extinguished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wight Knights

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

Cornelius beamed at Paris.

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

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

Castles in the Sky

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, like those horrible old witches?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, you killed her, actually.”

“Only because I wanted to help you!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here lie the bones and treasures of Argynvost

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And a stylist for Clarence!”

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

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

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

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