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.