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.
