Session 4 - Toil and Trouble

6th Day of the 3rd Quarter of the Moon of Songs, Season of Wines, Year 766. 

Days in Barovia: 2. The moon waxes crescent.

Something Wicked This Way Comes

As the party stood pondering their strange encounter with the vampire lord, thunder rumbled in the distance, and the bleak landscape was momentarily lit as lightning crashed to the east, illuminating the huge gothic castle in the distance. The dark clouds above them broke and heavy rain began to fall upon the party, turning the earth around them to mud.

Cornelius chastised Dickie for not having thought to bring an umbrella to protect Ireena from the rain, but the hardy Barovian was more comfortable in this weather than the foreigners. The Bullingdon party put up their hoods and headed west along the muddy track, turning away from the castle and hoping to reach Vallaki before nightfall.

Shortly the Old Svalich Road once again was swallowed by forest, and the trees arching thickly over the road provided some measure of shelter from the foul weather. The path twisted and turned but seemed to hold roughly west, and after about an hour the trees began to thin and the lowland was revealed before them. The road lazily hugged the hillsides as it descended into a fog-filled valley, where they could just about discern a walled town on the shores of a great mountain lake, waters dark and roiling.

Before the town there was a fork in the road, leading to a promontory upon which there stood a windmill. Something tickled Clarence’s memory but he didn’t recall the warning of the strange Barovian woman the night before; he had been far to engrossed in his arcane tome and her words had not stuck with him.

The windmill was maybe only an hour away, and then Vallaki another two or three hours beyond it. Cornelius decided that if it were in habitable condition it may be a good idea to take shelter there until the worst of the weather was past.

So another hour was spent trudging through the rain, staying to the road; while Barovia was open before them, the foul weather and steeply descending hills of the harsh landscape made any thought of leaving the road considerably unpleasant.

As they approached the spot where the road split with one arm heading to the windmill, they could see the building in better detail; a stocky, onion-domed edifice, leaning forward and slightly to one side as though turning away from the stormy sky. A wooden platform encircled the grey brick in a balcony above the doorway leading in to the building.

The party could now see a figure approaching from Vallaki, a few hundred feet down the old road, bundled tightly in a cloak against the weather and pushing what looked like a peddler’s cart. Dickie proposed that the rest of the party talk to the local while he investigates the windmill to see if it would provide suitable shelter. Cornelius assented to this plan, despite feeling that subtlety is vastly overrated; and Dickie disappeared into the fog and rain. The rest of the party waited to see what the peddler might be selling. 

Fair is Foul and Foul is Fair

As the figure approached Cornelius, Paris, Clarence and Ireena made out a horrible tuneless singing, remarkably jovial considering the weather. Suddenly a host of black forms alighted from some nearby trees and set upon the figure, who started to flail at them with a rolling pin, screeching as the flock of ravens attacked her. During this commotion a burlap sack tied to the side of the cart came loose and fell to the ground; thus freed, the sack then started to try and crawl away.

“Paris, quickly, use some of your magic to help this poor woman,” Cornelius commanded. Paris Digby used his magic to triple the volume of his voice, and waving his wand for effect shouted “Leave that woman alone, you disgusting, shaggy old ravens!” The birds were briefly stunned at the psychic assault of the vicious mocking, and while they were momentarily distracted Clarence lashed out with a bolt of crackling eldritch energy, and a raven fell to the ground dead. The old woman’s hob nailed boot crashed down on the bird’s corpse, crushing it as she exulted a triumphant “HA!”. Cackling, she tied the sack back to the cart, giving it a whack with the rolling pin for good measure, and started to push the cart towards the party.

“Oh, hello dearies! Who’d have thought to see folk travelling in this dreich! And I’ll peg you foreigners an ae if I’m nae mistaken, same as myself. What are the chances? So fair and foul a day I haven’t seen.”

“Now good woman, this fine fellow here is Cornelius Pfeffil Bullingdon the third.” In Dickie’s absence, Paris stepped into the role of functionary; “now you tell us what’s in that sack!”

The crone protested that she was just an innocent pastry seller and that the sack contained pastry selling supplies. Cornelius demanded she open it and show him; she claimed she just wanted to get home out of the rain having been attacked by a flock of foul ravens. Paris claimed that she was indebted to them, as he and Clarence had driven off the birds, so she should do as they say. Cornelius offered to assist her by carrying the sack, which seemed liable to fall of the cart again; the old woman prodded it with her rolling pin to show it was tied on quite securely - “Now are you going to let me be on my way or are you going to keep on harassing me?”

“You can’t fool us, we’re all highly intelligent gentlemen,” lied Paris, “We saw that sack trying to run away!”

“Riddle me this then: if you’re all so highly intelligent, what are ye doing in Barovia?”

Cornelius replied: “We, good woman… are Vampire Slayers!” which drew a “Ha!” from the crone.

Cornelius did not take being laughed at well, and became indignant with this peasant; she claimed it hadn’t been a laugh and that she was an old woman and being out in the cold and rain was giving her a cough, and she would probably catch her death; she demonstrated with some fairly unconvincing coughs.

Cornelius commanded Paris to use his magics to open the sack. The wizard intoned an incantation, sparks and smoke flew out of his wand and in a thoroughly convincing display of magic he pulled the sack open with his other hand. The old woman’s rolling pin lashed out and sharply rapped the knuckles of the foppish wizard.

Clarence’s raised his definitely-not-evil voice. “Excuse me. Would you like to tell us what is in the sack, dear lady?” and as he spoke, he cast a subtle spell of mental manipulation whereupon he would suggest a course of action to his victim and they would obey. The woman turned to him, and said… “I’m not telling you anything you cheeky wee bastard! You can stop trying to use yer puny magic tricks on me. I’m going to get angry in a minute! And you-” to Paris- “Get off my sack!”

The sack now open, Paris saw the top of a child’s head, and started to try and free them from the bag. “Were you going to bake this small child, you hag?” cried Cornelius as he saw this, and tried to grab the crone by the front of her cloak as he shouted at her, but the rolling pin batted his hands away.

“Well you’re all very rude, aren’t you! You’re a bunch of rump-fed ronyon!” the old woman stepped back from the cart, hitched up her cloak, and vanished.

…

Meanwhile, Dickie approached the decrepit looking windmill, ignorant of his fellows’ actions back on the road. While there only seemed to be one entrance on the ground floor, he was easily able to climb up to the wooden platform encircling around the first storey, which had access to a number of windows. Peering through one of the grimy windows, the thief-turned-manservant saw two women, one of middle years, the other youthful, stood by a stone millstone with a surly looking boy of seven or eight years between them. The women wore flour-covered aprons and held their hair in tight buns with long ivory bodkins; one of them held on of these hairpins and prodded it into the arm of the boy, drawing blood. The boy barely flinched and didn’t cry.

With no way to enter the first storey without alerting those within, Dickie tried to climb up to a window on the next storey; however, he found no purchase on the crumbling bricks, slick with rain. He moved back to ground level and slowly pushed open the front door, and stealthily entered the building.

The ground floor room was a filthy makeshift kitchen, with baskets and old dishware piled everywhere, a chicken coop, a heavy wooden trunk, an out-of-place wooden cabinet with pretty flowers painted on its doors. An open, upright barrel gave off a foul odour which overpowered the sweet smell of pastries coming from the brick oven. Over the clucking of chickens and croaking of frogs (seeming to come from the trunk), Dickie could hear the raised voices of two women in argument from the top of the stone stairs climbing along the wall.

Dickie found this all very suspicious. He drew his rapier and snuck up the stairs. The two women were arguing. The older claimed the boy was useless and they’d have to get rid of him; the younger advised patience, that “Nanny” wouldn’t make such a mistake. “She’ll be back soon, let’s see what she has to say about it before we do-“ she stopped midsentence and sniffed the air suspiciously. “By the pricking of my thumbs… Something wicked this way comes.”

…

As the crone vanished, Paris lifted the child, a girl of five or so, out of the sack, and set her down on the floor. The child was weeping and snivelling and showed bruises from the ministrations of the woman’s rolling pin; she stayed clasped to Paris’ leg as he sat her on the floor. Cornelius, showing a remarkable amount of tact, kindly introduced himself and asked her name, which they learnt to be Myrtle. “Don’t worry, child,” he said, “my faithful manservant has just been to a windmill nearby, which I’m sure you will be able to rest in a while.” Paris tried to find her some food and Clarence searched the cart as Ireena wrapped the child in her cloak. The cart, a one wheeled peddler’s cart, was partially stocked with pastries of the sort the two peasants in the village had been fighting over.

Cornelius asked the girl “These pastries. Were you to be used as an ingredient in them?” she looked at him with horror. “I, I…” “Spit it out, woman!”

“Cornelius, this kind of thing, saving young girls – it’s our kind of business. You can treat the little wench more kindly, can’t you?” interjected Paris.

“Perhaps I forget myself. I am a gentleman, a gentleman who treats ladies with deference and respect. I apologise, young Martha.”

They managed to discern that Myrtles parents hadn’t had enough money to buy pastries from the peddler, so had traded her away in exchange for some of the treats. At this point, Clarence flung an eldritch blast at the spot where the old woman had vanished; but there was nothing there for it to hit.

Cornelius decided it was time to go and see what Dickie was up to – “Probably putting his feet up by a cosy fire in that windmill!” – and they left the hag’s wares on the road, with Ireena carrying Myrtle.

Dickie heard the door into the windmill close. Looking around, he saw nothing. Sensing trouble nonetheless, he tried to find a hiding place; the only one obvious to him was the large wooden trunk which sounded full of frogs. And it was full of frogs; as he opened the trunk hundreds of them were released, jumping around, ribbiting, croaking. Dickie decided the trunk was not a good place to hide. Instead, he pressed himself up to the side of the stone stairs, so that anyone coming down the stairs may not see him, trying not to make a sound, trying not to breath.

The door burst open under the boot of Cornelius. “Ah, Dickie, there you are! How is the place? Safe, warm, and spacious, I see!” his ignored the finger Dickie held to his lips and his voice boomed through the windmill. At this racket the windmill’s two inhabitants descended the stairs.

The older woman spoke, addressing Cornelius. “Well well, what’s all this then? Are you here to buy some pastries? You’re making an awful ruckus.”

“You sound like the baby-baker outside!” Cried Cornelius, as Paris demanded “What have you been doing with with the children?”

“What do you mean ‘with the children’? Now listen to me, I understand you wanting to come in here and get out of the rain, but I won’t have you in here insulting my business. Now do you want to buy some pastries or not?”

Standing in the midst of a few hundred dispersing frogs, Cornelius replied, “I don’t want to buy your pastries, your sadistic woman! Now I can understand eating frogs when peasants like you run out of food but children? That is really beyond the pale, even for plebs!”

At this Paris ushered Ireena and Myrtle outside to wait for them, as the situation seemed to be escalating.

The older woman told them she wouldn’t have her business insulted, and asked the Bullingdon’s to leave her property. Not everyone in Barovia is as well off as the foreign toffs, and if people want to pay by… alternative means… who was she to deny them? She wouldn’t reveal the fate of the children – “trade secrets” – and demanded that they buy pastries or leave, immediately.

Given this ultimatum, Cornelius walked up to the two women on the stairs, pointed a finger in the face of the younger who was closer to him, said “Now look here,”… And punched her in the face.

At this the old peddler woman reappeared in the centre of the room, said “Now that’s quite enough!” and pointed a finger at Cornelius. She intoned “Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d!” and there was no effect; whatever spell she cast Cornelius simply shrugged off.

Clarence put the old woman to shame, calling upon his dark powers to lock her in place. The woman of middle years, seeing the assault on the younger, threw a spell at Cornelius as well- “Thrice and once the hedge pig whined!” - and this time the magic was effective, as the brave Bullingdon senior was suddenly turned into a frog. The display of magic prompted a retaliation from Dickie, but his attack went awry due to his awkward positioning.

Paris demanded of the younger witch, “Turn our fearless leader back into a man immediately!” and despite lacing the suggestion with magical power, the woman simply replied “No!” She then picked up frog-Cornelius, and taking one of her long, sharp hairpins held it to his little froggy chest. “Stop it right now or I’ll skewer him!”

Dickie placed his sword at the throat of the paralyzed old woman. “Now you let go of that frog, or you know very well what will happen.”

Clarence recognized the witch’s spell as Polymorph, and knew that despite being transformed his brother was in no real danger; if his frog form was sufficiently damaged, Cornelius would revert to a human form. The witch’s threat was empty, so he flung a blast of energy at her.

The middle-aged witch told Dickie not to do anything stupid, trying to de-escalate the situation. To hold the witch to her word, Paris Digby cast Zone of Truth; magic suffused the room and compelled everyone except Paris to tell the absolute truth.

“What were you doing with that child up there?” Dickie asked

The witch at the top of the stairs replied. “We were seeing if he was fit to be baked into a pie.”

“A-HA! I knew it! I knew zone of truth would, would… The truth will out!” Paris was thrilled at the effectiveness of his spell.

While this occurred, Clarence loosed his eldritch power onto one of the many frogs scurrying about. The frog was obliterated, leaving a bloody smear of frog guts and a wisp of smoke. This was not the effect Clarence had anticipated; these frogs, or some of them it seemed, were just frogs and not polymorphed children.

The actually polymorphed frog, Cornelius, slipped loose of the young witch’s grasp and hopped towards the freedom of the door. She let out a frustrated sigh as he escaped her grasp. “If you can sort him out from the rest of these frogs then you’re free to have him back. Now are you going to be on your way or not? I promise – and I cannot lie – I promise that we won’t hurt you, if you leave us be. We just want to be left alone.”

“But will you promise not to cook any more children into pies?” asked Paris, and Clarence corrected him - “Pastries, not pies! Not to cook children into any form of pastry!”

“I promise not to bake children into pies ever again. If you go.”

The party then discovered that no one else knew that the pies were made from children, to the hags’ knowledge – no customer had ever thought to ask. They wouldn’t reveal the secret of the pies addictive nature.

Bored with the congenial chit chat, Clarence blasted the frog he thought was his brother. His aim was true and the frog was destroyed, returning the older Bullingdon to his natural form. “You’re welcome, brother.”

Now the witches had no leverage on the party. Paris mentioned that even if they left, the authorities would have to be informed, which drew grim laughter from the middle-aged witch.

“The only authority in this land is Strahd. And he would much prefer we don’t kill you, so he can have his sport with you. So it’s in all of our best interests for you to walk away.”

Dickie lowered his rapier from the neck of the crone. “I think it would be in everyone’s interests if we went on our way?”

This was not well received.

Paris - “Surely we can’t let this insult slide! They murder children!”

Cornelius - “They turned me into a frog, we should knock their bloody lights out!”

Clarence - made no protest, but stepped up to the frozen elder and blasted her with eldritch power. 

When the Battle's Lost or Won

And then it went all went downhill.

Cornelius stepped up next to his brother and threw some punches at the paralyzed witch; even so, one of his punches seemed to only glance off of her. The witch of middle years was unimpressed with this escalation of what had seemed a settled issue; “Harpier cries, ‘tis time, ‘tis time!” and a violent vision rocked Clarence, wrecking his mind, bursting blood vessels in his eyes and nose and almost killing him with psychic pressure as he was clutched by an absolute fear of the witch. “Begone with you all or we’ll bury you here!”

Paris cast a sleeping spell – “Sleep now, witches!” – but could not gather enough magical power to overcome any of the witches, and the spell dissipated amongst the nearby frogs. A stream of foul magical energy leapt from the finger of the young witch – “In the poisoned entrails throw!” – towards Clarence, but splashed harmlessly on the stone at his feet. The old crone then snapped out of her paralysis.

Seeing things turning sour, and Clarence on deaths door, Dickie decided to follow his heart, and run away. His head said “Bugger this!” but his mouth said “Mightily sorry to have offended you ladies!” as he dashed out of the door. Once without, he slowed, to analyse the situation; Ireena was where she’d been told to stay, with the child, and Clarence came flying out of the door hot on his heels. Clarence didn’t slow, and as he past Ireena he cried out for her to flee as well; and she did, picking up the girl and running after him down the road to Vallaki.

Cornelius shouted to Paris “New plan, you torch the place, I’ll lock the door!” as he bolted. The witches moved down the stairs towards Paris. “You’d better go too laddie. And pay no mind to torching the place if I were you.” Paris didn’t need telling twice. “Ah, ah ha, ha, that was just my master’s little joke, now don’t you fair ladies mind us one little bit, and have a very nice day now, and ah, remember, today you saw the Bullingdon Boys in action!”

And a voice followed him out of the windmill: “Oh, we’ll remember who you are!”

And so the Bullingdon Boys fled.

…

Some way down the road, Cornelius, Dickie and Paris caught up with Ireena, Myrtle and a winded Clarence. Cornelius and Paris discussed how they were going to spin this incident; Cornelius thought it best to avoid mentioning the windmill and witches entirely, and they should claim they found the stray child on the road, but Paris thought the venture could be made into a victory of sorts; they’d extracted a promise from the witches not to bake more children into pies. Cornelius let him think on coming up with a glorifying tale of the exploit but made it explicitly clear it must go past him before reaching the ears of the public.

Clarence informed Ireena of what occurred within the windmill, frightening her and the child considerably. Paris applied some healing ministrations to his young protégé, and tried to assuage the ladies’ fears. This task complete, Cornelius pulled his companions into a quick huddle.

“If Paris thinks he can turn this into something good for us, I say we at least let him try. We’ve got the kid, to prove we saved at least one of them. Let’s just get to wherever the hell it is we’re going and find a way out of this place.”

Spoke Paris: “I mean, we all heard them promise, it’s not a lie, is it?”

“Not entirely. Even so, our main concern now is finding out way out of this damned country and getting to somewhere civilised, not infested with baby-eating witches and cowardly vampires. As long as we all agree on a story which makes us appear valiant and righteous defenders of justice, everything will work out fine. Now onwards, to Valler, Valli, whatever!”

All agreed, they continued down the road. Paris suggested a sing of the old Towton Beating Song as a pick-me-up, but Cornelius pointed to the bleak, grey, roiling sky, and told him that this was not “jolly beating weather”.