Session 18 - The Abbey of St. Markovia

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

Days in Barovia: 7. The moon waxes gibbous.

A Broad Church

“It strikes me that we’ve only been here for a bloody week,” Dickie said, as the tolling of the bells faded.

Cornelius, burdened with Ireena’s corpse, replied somewhat defensively. “And? What are you trying to suggest here, Dickie?”

“Just that… It feels longer.”

“Things move quickly when events reach a critical turning point in the fates of worlds,” rambled Clarence. “At the nexus of fate and time prophecies interweave and the strands of reality begin to unravel. I suggest we complete our tasks here before things advance too quickly for even us to control!”

Dickie ignored the esoteric nonsense. “It’s just, more things have happened to me in this week than in… well, years of my whole life.”

“I’ve certainly killed more people,” Paris said glumly, looking regretfully at the bundle in Cornelius’ arms.

…

The switchback road climbed four hundred feet, doubling back and forth along the cliff face, rising through the mist to the wide ledge on which the abbey was constructed. The rocky earth and small trees were lightly dusted with snow. Ahead, the gravel road passed between two small stone outbuildings, flanked by a low stone-and-mortar wall. The path was blocked by iron gates on rusted hinges.

Through the gates, the stone abbey stood quiet. Two wings were joined by a tall curtain wall; the roof of the closer north wing housed a belfry, and a chimney billowed grey smoke from within.

A guttural, braying snoring came from one of the outhouses. As Dickie started to push the gates, they resisted with a squeal of rusted metal. The snoring halted- Dickie stopped pushing the gate, and the snoring resumed.

“You know Dickie, I think it might be better if we just hop over the wall,” Cornelius said in hushed tones.

“Good suggestion m’lord. These gates are clearly not in a suitable condition for a building of important civic purpose.”

“Indeed, indeed. We’ll have to get them replaced when we rule here. Paris, Clarence, do you need a hand up over the wall?”

“Oh no no,” Paris said confidently, “I’ve hopped over many a wall in my time.” The foppish wizard flourished his hands, ran at the wall and vaulted over it in a smooth motion. His comrades joined him, Cornelius and Dickie managing to get the body of Ireena over without difficulty.

They found themselves stood in a graveyard in the shadow of the north wing. Ancient gravestones burst from a thin crust of snow in the yard. Beyond the low wall to their right, the ground fell away four hundred feet to the mist-shrouded village below; a breathtaking view.

Cornelius’ eye was drawn to one of the grave markers; in the stone there was a familiar looking indentation, the symbol of the sun, which matched the medallion of the Morninglord he had been gifted by Father Petrovich in Vallaki. Engraved beneath the indentation was the name “Petrovna”.

“Doesn’t mean anything to me,” Cornelius muttered, seeing if the holy symbol matched the indentation. It fitted perfectly; seamlessly; and once so placed, he could not seem to pull it out. A ray of sunlight broke through the clouds, illuminating the holy symbol now affixed to the gravestone. The mist at Cornelius’ feet shied away from the sunlight, and something glittered in the dirt.

“Dickie, come over here.” His manservant was at his side in an instant. “I appear to have gotten my holy symbol somewhat wedged in this gravestone. By any chance would you happen to have a chisel and hammer, so you could extract the thing?”

“Err, perhaps m’lord, but what’s that by your feet?”

“Oh!” Cornelius noticed the glitter. “What is that?” Amidst the loose, rocky topsoil was a gold ring with a small orange garnet. Cornelius put the ring on. Immediately, the chill of the mountain air fled from his flesh, and he was warmed as if stood in the summer’s sun. “Hmm. Just got a little warmed, don’t you think Dicky?”

The manservant shrugged. “Can’t say I’m feeling it myself.”

“I’m freezing,” Paris contributed.

“Well maybe it’s just that I’ve made a lot more effort, carrying Ireena up here, while you’re barely burdened at all.”

“As you say, m’lord,” said Dickie, still carrying Cornelius’ supplies as well as his own, including three tents long since rendered obsolete by the Golden Bully Hut.

“Dickie, another question for you,” said Cornelius, asking bluntly “you’re familiar with crime, aren’t you?”

“I have some experience in that area.”

“Good. So, thing ring I’m wearing- it was on top of the grave, not in the grave, so it doesn’t count as grave robbing, correct?”

“What with the ray of light and all, I’d say it’s a blessing from the Morninglord.”

“I like that thinking! Now get to work with the chisel.”

A shivering Paris asked Dickie whether he was able to turn a dead animal into a nice fur coat, and Dickie informed him that although he was named Tanner, he was not, by trade, a tanner. This sparked some debate as to the purpose of names, and indeed what in fact a Digby was. Paris insisted that noblemen didn’t have to have trades as family names; the rest of them were surprised by these new claims of aristocratic heritage, and a blushing Paris insisted that even if he was an orphan who held no lands or titles you could tell he was of noble stock by his bearing.

As Cornelius, Clarence and Paris discussed whether they should bury Ireena in the graveyard or find somewhere else to enshrine her, Dickie investigated the snoring coming from the outhouse. Within the small structure he found a creature sleeping soundly, curled up on the floor. It looked like a dwarf, with patches of donkey flesh covering its face and body. It had one human ear, but one wolfs’ ear, and the protruding snout and fangs of a wolf as well. The hands and arms appeared human, if stunted, but the feet were leonine and it had a donkey’s tail. Next to the creature was a shovel.

Dickie backed away quietly. In the other outhouse was another strange amalgam of man and beast; female, also sleeping, holding a shovel like a doll. This one had patches of lizards’ scales, and tufts of wolfs’ fur, and hands that resembled cats’ paws, and would stand less than five feet tall. The rest of her was covered by a grey woollen cloak.

Dickie stealthily returned to his companions. “Something is very, very wrong here. Inside those gatehouses are things I would… Not… Strictly describe as human.”

“An undead?” Clarence asked.

“It looks like someone tried to make something out of a donkey, a wolf, and… a dwarf, you know, a little person. And the other one is like a cat-lizard-midget.”

Paris grimaced and made sounds of disgust. Cornelius asked Dickie if he’d been drinking. The manservant was probably confused, those people were likely just scruffy peasants. After some discussion they decided to entreat with the creatures.

The wolf-snouted, lion-legged creature was somewhat surprised to be woken by the Bulligndon Boys. It leapt away from them in alarm, asking in a horrible, braying voice “Hee-hu, who are you-urgh?”

Cornelius made his usual introduction, extending his hand. The creature leant in and sniffed the hand, then introduced itself as Otto, and made an unconvincing claim that he was both smart and strong. They asked to borrow his shovel, and he eagerly asked if he could bury the body, as he was a gravedigger.

The female creature had awoken and approached. “What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here!” her voice was a growl. She chastised Otto, saying the body shouldn’t be buried but should be taken to the Abbot- it could go in “the pot”. When Cornelius asked what the pot was, Otto explained to him that it was a big pot.

The creatures were not the brightest. The female was easily bribed with food; they convinced her to go back to her guard post as the party would find the Abbot themselves. Otto was happy to start digging a grave for Ireena, “the pot” swiftly forgotten.

Two ten-foot tall reinforced wooden doors were set into the curtain wall between the two wings. To one side, a tarnished copper plaque was mounted on the wall. The plaque read: “The Abbey of St. Markovia. May her light cure all illness.”

“This place is a lot less abandoned than I’d previously believed it to be,” Cornelius said.

“Quite. I’m wondering where Rudolph has run off to,” Clarence replied.

A concerned Paris said “He could’ve been turned into a half-donkey thing for all we know. Do you think it’s catching?”

Cornelius found a handkerchief and held it to his mouth in a precautionary measure. “Well, we’d better go save him.”

The doors were unlocked. From behind came a sound like the flapping of wings. As they pushed the doors open, swirling fog escaped from the courtyard within. A large well, with rope and bucket, stood in the centre of the yard. Along the perimeter, tucked under the overhanging wall, were stone sheds with padlocked doors, and shallow alcoves holding horse troughs. Doors led north and east to the abbey’s two wings.

 A wooden post pounded into the earth was connected by a long chain to a short humanoid with bat wings and spider mandibles. The creature fluttered into the air, but the chain jerked it back and as the Bullingdon Boys came in it landed on the ground, cowering away from them.

“That is disgusting,” Paris said, as Dickie put his hand on his sword. Cornelius put a hand on his arm.

“Let’s just… Go over here,” Cornelius said, walking towards the belfried wing, giving the bat-spider-creature a wide berth, his companions in tow. The northern door was unlocked. He pushed it open, and entered.

Creatures Of Habit

The gentle, beautiful music of a lone viol trickled down from above. The room- the main hall- was large, spacious, lit through arched glass windows. In the lit hearth a cauldron sat on an iron rack, and above the fireplace hung a golden disk engraved with the symbol of the sun. A long wooden table stretched the length of the room, holding wooden plates and golden candelabras.

A woman stood behind the table. Her skin was alabaster, and the red dress she wore was torn and soiled. Her auburn hair was neatly bundled so as not to touch her soft shoulders. She appeared lost in her thoughts, until her hand was gently taken by a perfectly handsome young man in a brown monk’s habit. A painted wooden holy symbol depicting the sun hung from his neck. He moved with saintly grace.

“Ah, a fellow servant of the light!” said Cornelius, extending a hand. “Greetings, my friend!”

The man strode forward gracefully and clamped a hand on Cornelius’ shoulder. “Greetings, Cornelius.”

“Ah, um, have we met before?”

“We have not.”

“So, you must have heard the exploits of the amazing Bullingdon Boys?”

The man smiled mischievously. “Yes. Something like that.”

This, it transpired, was the Abbot. Cornelius told him that they had come to bury a body, which surprised the Abbot, who told them he had performed miracles of resurrection for the townsfolk occasionally. Cornelius didn’t think Ireena would want to come back.

The Abbot was happy to converse with the Bullingdon Boys. When asked about the strange residents of the Abbey, He explained that he had come to Barovia to return the light of the Morninglord to the dark land. When he arrived, the abbey was being used as an asylum, and although his mission was serious he could not turn his back and refuse some charity to the poor creatures there.

The Belviews had suffered the double stigma of inbreeding and family-wide exposure to leprosy. For a time, there had been little he could do for them: caring for their flesh and spirit as best he could as they descended into madness and death. But then, he was visited by a nobleman who brought strange texts, knowledge of alchemy and chemistry and surgery, he claimed to have uncovered in the temple of a faceless god of secrets.

The Belview patriarch first asked him to replace his missing flesh. While the abbot could not return him to his natural form, the new knowledge he had allowed him to fulfil his wishes: and once the deed was done, Belview was much happier, and all of his kin requested the same treatment.

To the Abbot’s sorrow, this was only a temporary fix, as it did not slow the deterioration of their minds; they were, regrettably, quite insane, and it was better for them to be kept up in the abbey in isolation, while the Abbot did what he could for them.

At the mention of a temple to a faceless god, Clarence’s attention had perked. “How did you stabilize the transplanted organs via splicing of the external material?”

The abbot, smiling, replied, “All with a little help from the Morninglord.”

Paris asked why animal parts, not people, and the Abbot explained that it was all he could do; at the time, he was still new to the art. As the Abbot explained, Paris’ attention was naturally drawn to the woman at his side. But as he looked, he saw under the pale powder applied to her skin there were seams running along the flesh, long rows of stitches running across the body.

“Who is this… lady, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“This is the Lady Vasilika,” the Abbot told Paris. “Vasilika, say hello.”

Her mouth opened but no words escaped, only a strange grunting.

“Very nice to meet you too!” Paris replied cordially.

Cornelius pointed out the speech impediment, and the Abbot told them how he was unfortunately yet to find a fresh tongue for her.

“Cornelius, tell me- would you like to know how I intend to drive the darkness from this land?”

“If you would also like to hear how we intend to drive the darkness away. But you came first, let’s hear your plan. We’ve only been here a week- I’m sure we’ve achieved little compared to you.” Cornelius winked

The Abbot smiled and said “I think I can guess your approach. Hopefully I can educate you.” He paused in contemplation. “Strahd von Zarovich, the vampire lord, is bound to this land. He cannot truly die here; nor can his curse be ended with death. Have you met Strahd?”

“We’ve crossed paths a couple of times,” Cornelius said.

The Abbot nodded. “I myself have spoken to him; in fact, it was he in disguise as a nobleman who delivered the arcane texts to me. He is a miserable creature. Truly, truly miserable. Tragic. And the only way to alleviate his suffering is to bring him happiness. To that end I have created a perfect bride for Strahd, in the image of his lost love, and I intend her immortal frame to keep the undying lord of Barovia company and bring him happiness- eternally. If he is happy, the light will return to Barovia.”

“Well, that’s a bit different from out plan,” Cornelius admitted.

Paris asked if the Lady Vasilika had any choice in the matter. This prompted some heated debate, which the Abbot weathered patiently, as to the importance of free will, the difference between the Abbot’s work and necromancy, whether you should condone necessary evils; was the construct a person, and what were the moral implications of giving Strahd a thing for his pleasure? Why would you even want make Strahd happy?

“Because it will allow the Morninglord’s light to glow once again in Barovia and lift the oppression of the people,” the Abbot explained again calmly.

“Well, our idea is to kill him, and I think that’s much better,” blustered Paris.

“I’m not surprised, although I am a little disappointed.”

“Our plan is a lot more complex than just to kill him,” Cornelius explained, “there are many stages. Frist, we must find a witch, who flies around the country in a dragon’s skull. Then, we go to a mystical shrine and recover a powerful sword of magic from a pile of amber, and…”

“Do go on.”

“Then, with the dragon skull and the magical sword, we…” Cornelius turned to his companions.

“There’s something about a hermit,” Clarence prompted. Cornelius turned back to the Abbot.

“There’s something about a hermit as well. Look, we’ve not got all of the details ironed out yet. But we’re going to recover a number of powerful artefacts, and take the fight to Strahd, banishing his soul forever, or something.”

“What we don’t do is sacrifice the entire existence of innocent young women!” Paris said, then remembering, Ireena, “Oh. On purpose!”

“She went willingly, Paris.”

The Abbot said “I’ve sacrificed no young women. That is not my intention at all.”

Paris was not content. “You’re forcing this woman with no apparent free will to spend eternity with a horrible vampire.”

“When you could just gather a number of esoteric magical artefacts and kill him!” Cornelius added.

The Abbot was unabashed. That had been his plan, too, until he found a better path. Vasilika had been created with a single purpose, and to deny her that purpose would be the crueller act.

“I fear you have been deluded,” Cornelius accused, “or perhaps infected by Strahd’s magic.”

“I think he’s quite mad, and we should put this poor woman out of her misery!” said Paris.

The abbot’s face grew stern, and he threw a protective arm between Vasilika and the Bully Boys. “Now now, don’t be impolite.”

“I’m sure what Paris meant was putting her out of her misery by breaking off her engagement to Strahd,” Cornelius recovered, not wanting to escalate the strange situation.

“I’m sorry, but I won’t allow you to hurt Vasilika. I won’t allow you to ruin the work I have done here.”

“Abbot, yours is a plan for appeasement, not true action. I knew people like you back in Saxonia. Give the peasants a little bit of what they want, they said. They’ll calm down if they have food, they said. But you give an inch, and they take a mile! We can’t let Strahd get anything he wants. We must defeat him, plain and simple, so that the Morninglord may rule over Barovia once more!”

Inside Paris’ mind, Clarence’s voice said “Imagine what we could do with such power! Over life and death!”

“Clarence, I’m beginning to worry that you might be evil,” Paris replied out loud.

At Paris’ words, the Abbot studied Clarence with piercing scrutiny. Paris, Cornelius and Clarence felt a faint emission of magic from the man, although he did not move his hands or mouth or touch his holy symbol- the things that they would correlate with spellcasting.

“Cornelius, your brother walks a dark path,” the Abbot said, still staring at Clarence. “There is a taint about him.”

“Look, just because Clarence has some strange ideas and occasionally goes off on one about the infinite power of the universe or whatever, doesn’t mean he’s evil. He’s just… misguided. But he’s in the company of the Bullingdon Boys and he won’t put a foot wrong while we’re together.”

The Abbot suggested that Cornelius give up his fight against Strahd and look to bringing his brother back to the light; Cornelius did not appreciate the suggestion. The Abbot did not push the issue, and said he wouldn’t oppose them in their quest, even if he thought it erroneous.

Clarence asked the Abbot if he could study his alchemical texts, but the Abbot denied him, claiming that he didn’t trust Clarence with the knowledge, and even if he did the Bullingdon’s mind would likely not be able to comprehend the contents. Clarence did not take kindly to that at all.

Paris enquired as to where the body parts to create Vasilika had come from; the Abbot assured him it was from dead bodies only. Cornelius asked if the collection of these body parts had anything to do with “the pot”, which reminded the Abbot of something. He called upstairs “Clovin! It’s feeding time!” and the gentle music stopped, then the bell rang out half a dozen times.

The ringing bell was joined by discordant cries of “Food! Food!” from the courtyard and the residential wing beyond. A creature descended from the belfry- another one of the Abbot’s vivisections, one foot a bear’s paw, a crab pincer for one hand, his head goat-featured… and a second head, smaller, soft featured, awkwardly growing next to the first.

Clovin reached the bottom of the stairs. He looked at the party, then at the Abbot; then, swaying slightly, he moved to the hearth and lifted the cauldron down. Ignorning the others in the room, he dragged the cauldron, muttering about “letting them all starve”.

The Abbot explained that some of the unusable scraps of his work were thrown in to the pot to nourish the Belviews. Unfortunate, but a necessity given that the narrow cliff path didn’t allow for deliveries, not that the villagers would trade with them, not that they had anything to trade. There were around sixty inmates and the abbey garden could not provide enough for them all.

Clarence asked the Abbot if they were free to look around the abbey. He saw no harm in it, but asked them not to disturb any the inmates, and warned them of a guardian, there for the inmates own protection. A previous attempt at creating something like Vasilika. They should be safe as long as they were with his manservant, Clovin.

As Clarence moved to the descending staircase the Abbot said “That’s the cellar- which you are free to look at, of course.” The stone steps lead into a cool room containing barrels of wine, and a long rack of bottles. The wizard  began searching fervently for any hidden doors or compartments that may lead to the Abbot’s books; he found none, but did discover a scroll, rolled up in an empty wine bottle, which held a spell that would conjure a mighty feast.

Having thoroughly explored the cellar, the Bully Boys moved back up to the hall, smiling awkwardly at the Abbot as they then ascended to the Belfry. A black shroud covered a humanoid shape on an old wooden table, and on the other side of the room a cot heaped with furs was surrounded by empty wine bottles. Next to the cot was a chair and viol.

Dickie drew back the shroud to reveal discarded pieces of chopped up body parts, cold, grey, lifeless, female, waiting to be stitched together into something horrid. He backed away, gagging.

“This man has a serious woman problem,” Paris stated.

“He doesn’t seem terribly healthy about it. Nonetheless, he’s doing great work.”

“Is he doing great work, Clarence?” Cornelius asked, scathingly.

In hushed tones, Dickie warned “He can probably hear us.”

“Well maybe we want him to hear us! Maybe we should do to him what we did to Baron Vallakovich!”

“You mean, save him from an unfortunate accident?”

“Um… Maybe we should do to him, what we did to Lady Wachter!”

“You mean, deliver him into the arms of true justice provided by the Barovian legal system?”

“Fine! Maybe we should do to him what we did to Ernst Larnak!” Cornelius paused, and the Bullingdon Boys reflected on their slaying of Lady Wachter’s spy. “We need to put a stop to this madness now, and that man is so deluded I don’t think he’ll listen to reason.”

Dickie suggested they find Van Richten first- he’d probably know what to do. Clarence started digging around looking for the books again, and managed to convince Paris to help him. Taking the books would put an end to the Abbot’s awful experiments and he would help Paris assist Vasilika if they did find them. But the books were not in the belfry, not under the stinking furs in the cot or amongst the body parts on the table.

The Bullingdon Boys headed out of the belfry onto the curtain wall. In the courtyard fifteen feet below, Clovin had just reached the other wing, having been dealing out slops to those creatures of his family housed in the sheds.

Clarence hailed him from above, asking about the guardian. Clovin barked back that they should be fine if they were with him, but the guardian may try to throw them in with the inmates if it thought they were trying to escape.

The Hand That Feeds

They entered the east wing from the wall, entering an old and decrepit office space. Stairs led down, and a door led into further rooms. Above the cries of “Food!” from below the sound of sobbing came from somewhere on this floor; the Bully Boys ignored the noise, for now, and went downstairs to find Clovin with the cauldron at the end of a dark passage heading into the building.

The corridor was full of unnatural whispers, mad laughter, and bestial odours; and overwhelmingly cries of “Food! Food!” The voices called from behind heavy doors lining the walls.

With heavy footsteps a large figure approached from the far end of the corridor. Clovin looked up at it. “The Abbot says their allowed to be here.” The figure was a looming stitchwork of dead human parts, massive and monstrous, with strange intelligence in its eyes: a golem made of flesh. It stood next to Clovin as he unlocked the first door.

Monstrous hands were thrust out of the door holding wooden bowls. Clovin slopped stew from the pot into the bowls, which were then retracted. The door was shut and locked.

The next room, Dickie edged his way next to the flesh golem to look into the room. It was packed wall to wall with mongrelfolk wallowing in their own filth, the floor strewn with gnawed misshapen bones that looked as if they had come from their own. These only had a few bowls between them, and they fought each other to get the slop.

And so it went through the eight rooms of the asylum. In one, four mongrelfolk brawled over a lone bowl while a fifth watched, cackling, from behind a statue of a saintly woman; eventually, one was victorious and was fed, then the door was slammed shut.

In another, a group of mongrelfolk chanted something spell-like: “Magic make the bell to ring, then to us our dinner bring! Now we cast our magic spell, food will come with ring of bell!” Paris assured Cornelius that it wasn’t a real spell.

As the door to the fourth room was opened a group of hungy, silent, staring Belviews rushed at Clovin, but the golem interceded and threw them back. They were not fed.

Another room held capering, dancing, singing mongrelfolk, the leader holding a gold statue, singing “The devil dwells in his dark house upon the misty pillar! First he’ll taste her sweet sweet blood, then he’ll have to kill her!” They danced their way to the door, producing wooden bowls.

The last room held half a dozen mongrelfolk fighting over a bronze candlestick, but they stopped when the food arrived, scampering over hungrily.

With some relief, Dickie noted that Van Richten did not appear to have been thrown in with the Belviews. As Clovin began dragging the two-thirds empty cauldron back down the corridor, and the golem took up a position guarding the far door, the manservant asked him what was upstairs.

“It’s where the Abbot does his work,” the two-headed creature replied.

The Bully Boys went upstairs. The sobbing sound still persisted, and they followed it into a hospital room of wrought-iron beds with rotting mattresses. Leading from this room were three doors, each labelled with a plaque: operating room, nursery, and morgue. The weeping came from the operating room.

Blood stained rivulets were carved into the floor, leading past a wooden bucket holding body parts and a metal trolley holding sharp tools, to an operating table where a creature lay weeping; sobbing, shuddering, heaving breaths. It lay turned away from them, its right arm replaced by the black wing of a raven, spread to cover itself. One leg, still human, was entwined by a squid like tentacle replacing the other. As they entered, the creature turned its head, revealing a cluster of bifurcated eyes above an awful, spider-like mandible, marring the left side of the face. It stared at them in madness… Then, recognition dawned in the human eye.

The creature before them was- or had been- Rudolph Van Richten.

“What have they done to you?” Dickie muttered.

Van Richten struggled to splutter words through his disfigured mouth. “The Abbot… his, his wroth… like nothing I’ve ever seen… Do not anger him…” the monster hunter stretched his human hand towards Cornelius. “My ring, Cornelius. My ring! On my, on my finger.”

“This is your ring?” Cornelius asked, flourishing the ring he had found on the grave; Van Richten looked confusedly at him. In the bucket of severed parts Dickie found Van Richten’s other hand, and on one finger was a ring. The manservant worked the jewellery off the dead flesh, and put it on to Van Richten’s living hand. As he did so, the ring vanished.

“Good,” Van Richten croaked, just above a whisper. “Cornelius, when it is done you must… you must wear the ring. Promise. Promise me!”

“Yes, Rudolph, I will wear the ring. But, when what’s done?”

The eyes, one human, the others monstrous, stared beseechingly at Cornelius. “Please. Kill me.”

“Dickie. The Bullingdon rapier.”

Ceremoniously, Dickie passed Cornelius the sword. His younger brother held up a hand in pause. “Wait. What was the rest of your plan to kill Strahd?”

“Wear the ring,” Van Richten coughed.

“I will wear the ring for you, Rudolph. But Clarence raises an important question- we were a bit muddled earlier trying to explain to the Abbot what exactly we were intending to do to defeat Strahd.”

Van Richten’s face was a mask of pain. “You’ll know. All will be revealed. Please, end this.”

“Oh, just do it!” Paris cried. “We should have got here earlier.”

“We’re sorry it had to end this way,” Dickie said gently.

Cornelius raised the Rapier. “Now, if I can remember where the heart is…” and the blade thrust into Van Richten’s chest, about four inches to the side of his heart. “Morninglord be with you, my friend,” Cornelius intoned, leaning his weight into the blade and closing his eyes in prayer. Van Richten writhed in agony, squealing.

Dickie surreptitiously reached over and drew the blade of his dagger across Van Richten’s throat, and the man fell still at last. Cornelius closed his one human eye, and with his touch the body began to glow with soft, gentle light.

“Dickie, pass me the ring.” The manservant did as told; the ring had reappeared as Van Richten died. Cornelius slipped it onto his own finger, and it once again was disappeared: invisible, but he could feel it still. A voice appeared in Cornelius’ head; familiar nasal tones.

"Well that was about the most unpleasant experience of my life,” said Rudolph Van Richten.“So. Things haven’t quite gone to plan.”