Session 12 - Past Lovers Can't Be Friends

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

Days in Barovia: 5. The moon waxes gibbous.

The Banderhobb

The monster leant forward as if gagging, and ejected a huge pink tongue across the room to wrap around Victor, who was then hauled screaming into the creature’s jaws. As those jaws clamped shut Victor was left half-dangling from the Banderhobb’s mouth, his legs and one arm flailing weakly. The monster turned placidly and began to walk back towards the stairwell.

Dickie and Paris (with the tower neutering his magic) drove at the creature with their swords – the manservant with more confidence but, with a writhing Victor in the way – less effect. Paris’ amateur strike was truer but barely seemed to scratch the warty hide. Cornelius stepped up from the stairwell and grabbed Victor’s legs, trying to pull him from the maw of the Banderhobb -“Somebody, come help me pull!” - but the massive creature twisted away, showing tremendous strength, and Cornelius’ hands slipped free.

Dickie struck at the distracted foe and his blade sunk deep into the flesh of its back, but the Banderhobb pulled free, swallowing Victor into its enormous gullet as it did so. It pushed past Cornelius to get further down the stairs, and Dickie’s rapier thrusted into its back again; this time, blood bubbled up from the wound as the Banderhobb wheezed and staggered.

Paris stepped back to let Dickie and Cornelius pursue the creature on the narrow stairwell. “Come on Bully Boys! Defend the child!” he cried, but his comrades were uninspired, as the magic usually lacing his calls to valour failed. Regardless, Cornelius pursued the Banderhobb down the stairwell, fists flying as the monster retreated. The Banderhobb seemed to be struggling, wheezing and slowing.

Dickie took the initiative, remembering the tower door, stepped back, then bodily leapt over the creature to get there first, slamming the door shut.

Clarence, cross-legged before the floating hand, did not seem aware of any of this: his eyes were almost shut and his fingers danced and weaved around the ensigiled cube in front of him. His peripheral vision had pinched down until all he could see was his hands, the cube, the floating gauntlet. He did not react as Victor was heaved away, as his party cried out and attacked, as the Banderhobb retreated. He was mentally engulfed, at the centre of a huge blackness, swept into a great void. His Tome of Shadows lay open next to him as he followed the ritual within automatically now. He was a window between realities. He was a door. On the other side was something… inconceivable, unknowable, ancient yet nascent, hungering, hungering and starved. It reached through the door that was Clarence. It pushed. And the bronze hand, floating in the air above the cube… Tipped.

The hand clattered to the floor and arcane power filled Clarence and Paris in a rush, leaving them elevated, giddy, euphoric. As Clarence became aware of his surrounds, a strange voice began to emanate from the desk behind him –“Congratulations insect! You have-“ but he ignored it, shouting “Where is the boy?”

“Err… eaten!” Paris replied over the strange voice, prompting Clarence to push him aside and fly down the stairwell.

Cornelius was working punches around the body of the monster, and as he moved from its back to its side he could feel the distention in its stomach where Victor was trapped. He hammered his fists into this section and was rewarded by a grotesque gagging noise as the Banderhobb half-vomited his quarry back up, Victor’s head and arms dangling from its maw, covered in foul mucus.

“Someone grab him, quick!” Cornelius called.

Slobbering and badly wounded, the Banderhobb moved away from the noble pugilist and pushed past Dickie, throwing the door open, intent on escape. However, Paris – chest puffed out with renewed confidence now his magic was back – shouted “Stop right there, villain!” and as the Banderhobb pushed through the doorway it collapsed to the floor in an enchanted slumber.

As Dickie dragged Victor out of the creature’s slack mouth, Clarence strode up to the sleeping monster. Looking down on the Banderhobb with disdain, he pointed both of his hands at it and searing bolts of eldritch light tore its head asunder.

“That is for taking my apprentice.”

“What a hideous creature,” Paris said, “I’m only too pleased I was able to put it to sleep and save poor Victor.”

“Yes, yes, indeed,” Cornelius agreed. “Now quickly, somebody hide the body, and when Victor wakes up we don’t mention this ever happened to him.”

“Ah, don’t you think he might remember?” Paris asked.

“We were in a magical tower, Paris- he will believe that his mind was clouded with magic and he only imagined everything that occurred!” Cornelius beamed, pleased by the cunning of his plan.

In the stories Paris had heard, the witches who sent Banderhobbs after naughty children sometimes used their eyes as magical ingredients; the damage Clarence had done in his fervour had destroyed one eye but the other Dickie was able to salvage, before he and Cornelius hauled the creature into the lake. From the spit on which the tower stood the water was deep; the corpse of the Banderhobb quickly faded from sight, and the disturbed fog settled again over the water, and of the creature there was no trace.

Paris applied his magical ministrations to cleaning the creature’s digestive sludge off of Victor. “So, Clarence, has any of Victor’s behaviour been bad enough to warrant being eaten by a Banderhobb?” he asked; then, remembering the Banderhobb had called for Clarence by name, “have you done anything particularly naughty? It must have something to do with those witches.”

The party gave him some confused looks. “Oh, for those of you who haven’t studied quite as much as I have, it says in all the history books that Banderhobbs are the creation of evil witches. Mothers are known to chastise their children with threat of the Banderhobb if they misbehave, which is why I mention the possibility that Victor or Clarence have misbehaved.”

“You mean to say the mothers are in league with the witches?” Cornelius asked incredulously.

“Well those witches from the windmill undoubtedly sent it after us,” Clarence deduced.

“After you, specifically, Clarence,” Paris told him.

“What?”

“It mentioned your name more than once- which is why we strove so hard to defend you!” Paris had put up no obstruction to the creature as it had entered the tower, in the hope that it would leave him alone.

Cornelius declared that Victor, and by extension his father who was paying them, should never know of the creature, which all agreed to. Paris was keen to leave the vicinity of the tower, but Dickie wanted to make sure they didn’t leave anything of value behind.

Clarence and Paris waited with the unconscious Victor while Cornelius and Dickie went to retrieve anything worthwhile from the tower. Cornelius claimed the bronze hand, which tingled with magical power – “Feels funky. Better give it to Paris to look over later.”

From the desk in the tower room, Dickie claimed the inks, the paper, the bronze-tipped pen; the chunk of amber; the four pieces of broken crystal that had together made the shape of a sword’s blade; and the bronze handbell. As he stuffed these into the various bags, pouches and compartments he kept about his person, the handbell clanged. On the bronze surface of the desk in front of Dickie two lips suddenly took form, and as they moved a voice filled the tower room.

“Congratulations insect! You have bested my challenge. You have deactivated-“

“What in the blazes is this?”

“- the wonderous enchantment placed upon this tower by the master of masters, Exethanter. If you seek me as a student then you have proved your worth as a protégé. Attune to my hand and it will lead you to me. If you seek me as a challenger, I relish the opportunity to scatter your ashes to the four winds, fool! Muahaha-“ and the magical message abruptly stopped, as the lips melted back into the desk which became smooth once more.

Frowning, Dickie stuffed the inside of the handbell with a piece of cloth to quiet it, muttering darkly about wizards.

A Free Ride

Outside the tower, Clarence was trying to convince Paris to magically heal Victor to rouse him into consciousness. However, seeing there were no wounds on the boy, Paris saw no need to expend his arcane energies, to Clarence’s chagrin. Cornelius and Dickie emerged from the tower, satisfied they had found everything worthwhile within. Cornelius told Clarence to show Paris some more respect, as his teacher, and went to investigate the wagon while his brother summoned his floating disk to carry the unconscious Vallakovich.

Within the wagon, Cornelius immediately went to the chest marked with the symbol of his new god – the rising sun of the Morninglord. Throwing the lid open revealed a sharpened wooden stake, some vials of holy water, a spyglass, rope, vials marked as perfume and antitoxin, and a holy symbol of the Morninglord. Taking the stake and holy water for himself, he passed the perfumes and antitoxin to Paris, and the rest to Dickie, instructing the manservant to don the holy symbol so that they present a more pious appearance.

“We could adopt that as a little party logo,” Paris suggested.

“I have a thought, Bully Boys,” Dickie said as he slipped the amulet around his neck. “This wagon is full of useful items… and is a wagon. Perhaps we should liberate the entire thing?”

The idea excited Paris, who exclaimed “The entire wagon – and paint it with our new symbol!” But Cornelius was less thrilled.

“Dickie, there’s just one problem here. Who do you propose pulls the wagon?” They had seen no horses picketed in the clearing. “Do you want to take up this task yourself? Can Paris and Clarence use their magic to summon up horses? Paris?”

“I could summon the image of a horse, but I could not summon an actual horse, no…”

“How hard can it be to get a horse?” Dickie muttered, remembering that when they first investigated the wagon, Victor had determined that the driver’s seat of the wagon was magical in nature. “Maybe it drives itself!” He went and planted himself in the driver’s seat and tried to focus on the wagon.

Clarence completed the spell, summoning a disk to carry the unconscious form of Victor, and joined his compatriots in the wagon. “So, what have you found so far?”

“Some rope, a spyglass, some other stuff we gave Dickie,” his brother listed, “a holy symbol for him to wear, to enhance the party image; some holy water, which we can splash on our foes; a nice stake, for extra verisimilitude the next time we must face down a vampire, and some perfume and potions for Paris to add to his mighty collection of tinctures.”

“Of course. Has anyone investigated these scrolls?”    

Cornelius had not. “Pff, just pieces of paper Clarence! I wouldn’t bother if I were you. In any case, Dickie reckons we can steal the whole wagon if we find any horses nearby.”

Clarence did look at the scrolls. The first one held a spell that allowed the caster to speak with the dead. “Hold on. This one… It allows one to penetrate the veil, to see beyond life and-“

“Clarence, Clarence, calm down,” Corenlius interrupted, “we already have the only scroll we’ll ever need: my scroll of pedigree.”

“Does your scroll of pedigree allow us to speak with grandfather?”

“Why would you ever want to talk to grandfather? He’s so boring! Always droning on about the bloody war. Oh grandfather, you won the war, oh tell us more again for the thousandth time!”

“While I agree with your sentiment, this scroll would allow us to speak with one who has been dead even for many years.”

“Ooh, like Strahd?” Paris chipped in. “He’s dead.”

“Paris, Strahd has only been dead for mere hours,” Cornelius corrected.

“Is that too recent?”

“In any case,” said an exasperated Clarence, “I shall keep this on hand.” He turned to the other things in the wagon. The wooden trunk covered in claw marks opened to reveal a small armoury: a battleaxe, a flail, a morning star, a crossbow, and a selection of crossbow bolts that appeared to be tipped with silver. From this, the wooden stake and the holy water, and the traps on the wagon and tower door,  Clarence determined that the wagon probably belonged to the monster hunter whom they were seeking; who they believed was investigating the ruined mansion of Argynvostholt.

Cornelius agreed with his brother. “And if we bring the wagon to him at Argyn… Arg… Argon-vest-felt, I’m sure he would be greatly pleased!”

…

The next half an hour passed quietly. Clarence retrieved the bronze hand from his brother, and spent the time studying the strongly magical item. Victor slept. Cornelius and Paris discussed their mighty victories in Barovia so far, making sure the story of the Bullingdon Boys was consistent. Dickie sat in the driver’s chair of the wagon, concentrating on the magic.

“Oh… like that!” he finally exclaimed. “Drovash.” And suddenly two horses appeared, harnessed to the carriage. “Blimey!”

“I didn’t even notice you go out to catch them, Dickie,” Cornelius called over.

“It’s magic, m’lord.”

“Oh. Well I’m sure they’ll be just as good as regular horses!”

From the back of the wagon there came a wailing cry of “Giant horrible frog!” as Victor returned to consciousness. Paris quickly ran over to the boy, and managed to convince him that when they had entered the tower some sort of magical event had occurred, and they had all suffered from horrible nightmares; and any horrible things he had seen or felt had just been a part of that nightmare. Paris’ glib tongue was able to convince Victor that there had been no giant horrible frog.

Everyone boarded the wagon – Clarence and Victor sat up with Dickie, who clicked his tongue and set the vehicle rolling. As they set off to Argynvostholt, Dickie informed Clarence of the message he had heard in the tower; the message of a master wizard, Exethanter, giving instruction to seek him out as a student or challenger. The bronze hand to which Clarence had attuned pulled at him, pulled south.

Ladykillers

The journey to Argynvostholt was unsuccessful. As the day turned past noon, the road began to slope upwards, and eventually the ruin became visible through the shifting fog.

“On your guard now,” Dickie warned as he caught site of the mansion. He banged on the wagon’s wall, shouting “We’re almost there!”

High above the river valley there jutted a quiet promontory on which the sepulchral mansion loomed, its turrets capped with fairytale cones, its towers lines with sculpted battlements. A third of the structure had collapsed, as had part of the roof. A dark octagonal tower rose above the surrounding architecture.

Out of the fog came a distant peal of thunder, soon accompanied by the howling of wolves from the woods below; but the house stood silent, like the fossilized remains of some long-dead thing smote on the mountainside.

A great unkempt lawn spread before the mansion, a carriageway cutting through the overgrown grass. At the far end of this drive sat a familiar black carriage, and a number of waiting figures. Some hundred feet away, Dickie halted the wagon and pulled out his recently acquired spyglass.

A strange sight greeted him. Beside the black carriage a woman in a long-skirted tea dress sat at a small table, waited on by a man in livery who shielded her with a parasol – unnecessarily, given Barovia’s climate. The carriage Dickie recognized as belonging to Strahd von Zarovich.

The Bulligndon Boys disembarked from their recently acquired wagon. Cornelius’ keen eye for architecture determined that while the structure had the appearance of a fairy-tale folly, if not half a ruin it would make a practical and defensible ruin, holding a commanding position over the valley stretching southwards.

They approached the waiting group on foot.

The woman was dressed in rare finery, festooned in jewellery. She could be a septuagenarian, but time has not been unkind to her. The footman to her side had also seen better days: he was a walking corpse, the flesh on his face rotten and falling away. From the top of the black carriage there came a hissing noise, and the Bullingdons saw another man in livery with a tricorn hat, crouched on all fours, hairless face drawn into a snarl showing sharp teeth, his long tongue flickering over bloodless lips. As they closed, a translucent figure could be vaguely discerned floating inches off the ground next to the woman; this spectre impeccably presented in the same livery as the other two.

With shock, Paris recognized the figure in front of him and as she exclaimed “Paris? Paris Digby? Oh surely not, no no no, it cannot be!” his heart sank, for it was none other than the patron from whose tyrannical clutches he had escaped before joining the Bullingdons: The Dowager Baroness Rhineheart.

“Oh, what benevolent circumstance has returned you to me!”

“Ah, err, um,” Paris sputtered, disbelieving, “Um, B-baroness, sorry if it sounds rude but… What are you doing in Barovia?”

“What are YOU doing in Barovia, darling? I live here!”

Cornelius elbowed Paris in the ribs, hissing “Are you going to introduce us?”

“Ah, this is the Baroness Rhineheart, my former… patron, of sorts. What do you mean you live in Barovia, madam?”

“Well, well. After you left me,” she pouted at Paris, “I was of course heartbroken. Heartbroken, Paris, you don’t know- you don’t know what you did to me, you killed me dear, you killed me, you were vicious. But, well… I wasn’t a young woman anymore and father time waits for no man, or woman, nor even a baroness! And as I started to feel the aching of my bones and with the heavy wearying of my heart… I decided to go on one last adventure. A grand tour to say goodbye to all the fine things I had enjoyed in life! I had Twelvetrees pack the bags, and DeVilliers ready the carriage and Stevens worked out all of the logistics,” she waved lazily at the livery-clad footmen, and the ghost at her side made a formal bow.

“And what a tour it was, you wouldn’t believe what I got up to!” she winked lewdly at Paris, and continued, “But then DeVilliers the fool took a wrong turn in some fog and we ended up in this strange land. I met a prince, darling! For many weeks he entertained me and, despite the age difference, he very much took to me. Alas, he wouldn’t take me for his bride, but he offered me a gift like no other- an escape from the clutches of time! It’s like a fairytale darling, there’s even a castle, and so I find myself here on some of the prince’s business. There’s a man inside the ruin he’s awfully keen to speak with.”

The blood had drained from Paris’ face. “Am I… is this a nightmare?” He saw now the baroness’ face was deathly pale, the blue tint to her lips not cosmetic; within her mouth was the hint of long, sharp teeth. “This prince- Strahd von Zarovich, I presume?”

“Mm, the very one! Have you met him? He’s such a dear. I tell you what Paris, I’ll put in a good word for you, maybe he’ll give you his gift too, and we could be together- forever!”

“I’m afraid I must speak up, baroness!” Cornelius interrupted. “I’m afraid Strahd von Zarovich will be giving no more gifts. For I, Cornelius Pfeffil Bullingdon the third, marquis of Saxonia and prophet of the Morninglord, did slay him in the town of Vallaki! Strahd is dead, old woman!”

“Paris, you were always such a joker,” Rhineheart giggled, “You could always make me laugh, and your friends are so funny. Now come, do be serious!”

“This is no joke! With one might punch of my fist I did throw Strahd through the walls of the church of Saint Andrew! And in the holy light of the Morninglord, he shrivelled and burned until there was naught left but smoke and steam!”

“I just can’t let you talk about that I’m afraid, it’s really quite detestable. He’s not dead.”

“He is dead!”

“No, he’s not.”

“He has been dead for more than three hundred years,” Clarence interjected, “but furthermore he is now… incorporeal.”

The baroness was not convinced. “He’s incorporeal all the time! I don’t think you know him very well. Now I’m going to have to ask you to stop saying all these horrible things or I’ll- I’ll have to put you over my knee! Paris, tell your friends to behave.”

“Trust me,” Paris warned his companions, “you don’t want to be put over her knee.”

“Look Paris, I think that, having defeated the mighty vampire Strahd von Zarovich, an old woman and her tea party will be no trouble at all for the Bullingdon Boys!”

“No, no Cornelius, listen, you don’t know her.”

Cornelius ignored Paris, continuing to address Rhineheart. “Now, we will leave you to deal with this news, as we have business to attend to within the mansion.”

“Well. Well. That’s awfully rude when we’ve only just been introduced. And Paris… you don’t think now you’ve fallen into my lap again I’m going to let you get away?”

“No. Paris works for me now!” Cornelius put his arm around Paris’ shoulders and pulled him close. Dickie, who had been holding back laughter for this whole exchange, had to put his hand over his mouth to stifle his guffaws. The baroness gave a wry smile.

“You boys are very cute. So, Paris, what would it take for you to change your employment?”

“Nothing, and I mean nothing, madam, will return me to your employment. I escaped you once and I will escape you again!”

“Oh but Paris, you will work for me again… You’ll have to if you find yourself trapped alone in Barovia with no employer.” She looked hungrily at Cornelius, and stood.

Through all of this Clarence had been fumbling inside his robe; now he dropped to his feet, and started dragging his wrist along the ground. Victor, looking down, could see a trail of blood left where Clarence’s arm passed.

The baroness backed away from the party, said “You teach them some manners, Twelvetrees!” and gestured at the undead footman stood next to her. The parasol dropped from his rotten hands and he swelled to an enormous size.

Cornelius scoffed at the huge zombie. “You’ve only made yourself twice as easy to hit!” His proud Bullingdon fists flew: the first blow connected with mouldering jaw, snapping the head back with such force that the decaying spinal column sheared and the head detached completely. The second punch crushed Twelvetrees’ hip, the leg crumpling and toppling the headless corpse, which Cornelius pummelled again as it fell, before his fourth blow caught the falling head, crushing the skull: and the zombie footman moved no more.

Dickie jauntily mounted the roof of the black carriage and thrust his blade at the ghoulish coachman. A horrible stench emanated from the creature, distracting enough to throw Dickie’s thrust off its mark. The manservant pulled the tricorn hat down over DeVilliers’ eyes, and distracted in turn the slash of its clawed hand caught only air.

Victor gesticulated and the table at which the baroness had been sat was flung up at Dickie’s opponent; the furniture clipped DeVilliers but the coachman kept his balance on top of the carriage.

The spectre, Stevens, moaned “Leave the lady be!” and mimicking Victor animated a piece of furniture – the chair – and directed it at Cornelius, bludgeoning the nobleman.

“Won’t you ever die!” Paris shouted, and a thunderous blast of magical energy caught Baroness Rhineheart and the spectre, flattening the grass around them. “Paris, is that all you’ve learnt since we’ve been apart?” Rhineheart mocked.

Clarence continued dragging his bleeding arm along the ground, forming a circle around Victor, Paris and himself. He opened up the diabolist's grimoire taken from Lady Wachter’s hidden room, then realising that he would not be able to control whatever he summoned forward, gave up with that plan and flung a pair of eldritch blasts at the ghost: the arcane energy crackled over the figure which moaned “I’m sorry…” as it faded away.

“This is- it’s just- it’s simply unacceptable!” the baroness cried, and promptly turned invisible. Cornelius joined his manservant on the carriage roof, and they swiftly dispatched of the coachman. Dickie caught a glimpse of movement and dashed towards it, calling to his companions.

Paris followed Dickie, shouting “It’s just as well you’re invisible, baroness- you’re frightfully unattractive!” Unseen cold hands grabbed him and a voice whispered “Just give in, darling,” but Paris writhed free of the grasp; however, Rhineheart’s position was now clearer to Cornelius and Dickie, who managed to catch her amongst punches and wild sword thrusts and break her concentration on the spell. “You beasts,” she cried, reappearing.

“You’ll have to try harder than that, you hag,” Dickie spat, as Paris flourished his wand and lanced a ray of frost at the Baroness. Clarence joined the arcane assault, and battered by magical energy the baroness threw up her hands and cried “Oh, I submit! Paris, you savage… Don’t ravage me!”

Dickie grabbed her arms from behind; she flung her head back, thrusted out her bosom and closed her eyes, crying “Oh no, no, please, you big strong men!” Cornelius drew out the wooden stake, and asked Paris “Shall I?”

“I had hoped that she could be saved, but… She’s given away her soul. She must be destroyed.”

As Cornelius pressed the stake against her breast, her eyes opened and her head snapped forward – “Oh, wait, you’re serious-“ and Cornelius hammered the stake into her heart.