5th Day of the 4th Quarter of the Moon of
Songs, Season of Wines, Year 766.
Days in Barovia: 8. The moon waxes gibbous.
Bring the House Down
The windmill hags were dead:
Daughter crushed by black tentacles, Aunty smashed by a boulder, and Nanny’s
throat slit by Dickie’s hand. But the creeping hut remained: the huge animated
tree stump, stood up on massive roots, carrying the house of Baba Lysaga. It’s
root-legs lifted it higher than three men atop each other’s shoulders, and twenty
feet or more of empty space lay between its “feet”.
Although it had been blasted with
eldritch power, singed with holy fire and engulfed by a fireball, the construct
did not seem to have been particularly damaged- but it had, apparently, been
made angry.
Paris groggily regained
consciousness and Clarence retreated, having administered a healing potion. As
he found his feet, he saw the Golden Bully Sword still floated patiently next
to Cornelius and Dickie, on whom the creeping hut was bearing down. At a
gesture the Golden Sword flashed towards the hut, and began battering at the
structure on the stump. “Haha!” Paris
wheezed, “Still alive!” striking the
house with a smidgen of unintentional psychic energy.
As the hut bore down on them,
Dickie and Cornelius darted towards separate root legs, both of them nimbly
managing to mount the limbs, climbing up towards the hut on thes stump itself.
Dickie used to the upswing of the leg’s step to propel himself further forward,
but Cornelius, not to be outdone by his servant, surged up the root
athletically, reaching the door of the ramshackle structure before his
manservant.
Within the wooden hut he saw a
collection of equally ramshackle furniture- a stool, a wardrobe, a cot, a
chest, a blood-stained iron tub- all bolted to the floor, for obvious reasons.
Green light came seeping through the cracked, rotten floorboards in the middle
of the room, and bound to one wall by rusted irons was a bloody wreck of a man,
naked and apparently tortured.
The walking stump, seemingly aware
that some insects were skittering around inside of it, came to a stop and then
vigorously shook itself. Cornelius braced himself inside the doorframe as the
hut wheeled, tilting wildy, but as Dickie approached the base of the stump he
was flung, tumbling, into the mire below.
An awfully loud ringing crash
clamoured around one of the legs hut- the terrible noise seeming to screech “Mighty wizard, Paris Digby!” as Paris
mouthed the words sixty feet away. Concussive energy rippled through the mud at
the foot of the root but only a few patches of bark fell from the organ
itself.
Clarence, meanwhile, continued to
launch arcane energy at the hut from afar, moving to keep as much distance in
between him and the structure, hoping that it wouldn’t hurl any rocks or logs
or anything to crush him.
In the mud, the creeping hut
towering above him, Dickie climbed to his feet, fruitlessly brushed off the
muck… And made a tactical retreat, running back towards Clarence and Paris,
steering clear of the root-legs.
Cornelius ducked as the Golden
Bully Sword came stabbing through the roof of the hut. Cursing Paris’ name, he
dropped to his knees in the middle of the room, suspecting that Baba Lysaga’s
hut, much like her floating skull, was empowered by a magic gem. His fingers
skidded around the floorboards, unable to find the purchase they needed to
reveal the source of the green glow.
“Dickie!” he shouted, “Dickie,
get in here with the crowbar!”
The hut continued to rumble
forwards, a front root stabbing down at Dickie and a back one flailing at the
manservant as it passed over him, but Dickie managed to avoid both blows. A
third root heaved a half-rotten log out of the muck and swung in Clarence’s
direction, the younger Bullingdon flung forward his hand and spoke a word of
power: the root faltered, skidding the log it held along the ground, breaking
it into splinters so that the missile it threw at Clarence was nothing more
substantial than broken sticks.
Paris closed his eyes, wishing
really hard that the hut would stop being magical. Sometimes, when he did
things like this, magical things sort of happened, but as the foppish wizard
opened his eyes he saw that, no, the creeping hut was still there, charging
towards him. He sighed, and the Golden Bully Sword swung but Paris’ heart
wasn’t in it and it failed to connect.
As the hut moved over Dickie he
heard his master’s voice calling for him to bring the crowbar. The manservant
once again attempted to scale the living construct, and shortly Cornelius was
greeted by Dickie diving through a window of the hut atop the stump, crowbar in
hand.
“Aha, Dickie, I knew you’d pull through,” Cornelius said, then,
pointing at the floorboards, “Now get to
work.” Cornelius explained that he had studied architecture academically, and
began instructing Dickie- as if the thief-come-manservant needed to be told- the
right way to pry the boards loose. The hut lurched to one side; then, violently
lurched to the other, and both men were thrown across the wooden room, rattling
off the bolted-down furniture as they were thrown about. The prisoner in chains
moaned in agony as the hut tried to shake out the invaders like a dog shaking
off fleas.
Bruised and bloody, Dickie pulled
himself to his feet. The bar stabbed down between two rotten floorboards, and
with a violent motion he ripped the planks apart. In the space underneath,
buried in the wood of the stump itself, was a glowing green emerald cut into
the shape of an acorn- a twin to that recovered from Argynvost’s skull.
“Grab on to something,” Dickie cried, reaching down and plucking
the emerald from the stump… And the creeping hut froze, inanimate, as he and
Cornelius braced themselves against furniture. “Oh,” said Dickie, “I really
thought it was going to fall.”
“Has it worked?” Cornelius asked, reluctant to release his grip on
the chair he hung on to. “Excellent. You
see Dickie, what we can achieve when we work together?”
“Just as you say, milord.”
To The Victor Go The Spoils
The creeping hut now stood
statuesque, an enormous stump suspended on its roots above the ground, crowned
with the ramshackle house of the ancient hag. Paris began climbing a root to
join his comrades, while Clarence investigated the corpses of the hags,
dismissing the patch of writhing black tentacles he had summoned.
The Daughter had been crushed to
something unidentifiable. Aunty’s bloated corpse, jutted through with black
iron spikes, unnaturaly twisted and broken by the hut’s assault, held nothing
of value; but Nanny had a staff, which she had flown on to escape the
tentacles, and which now lay just out of reach of her dead hand.
Clarence picked it up. Paris
paused as a yelp of surprise came from his pupil below, and looking back he saw
the younger Bullingdon brother appearing to hit himself in the face with the
staff. As his small commotion drew Cornelius and Dickie to observe from the
hut, Clarence released the staff which had struck him unbidden when he picked
it up. It fell to the ground inanimate. Clarence paused. “Blasted hags. Hmm.” He summoned a spectral hand which poked and
prodded at the staff, to no response, but couldn’t lift the item. Loathe to
leave anything magical, Clarence hunkered down, approaching the stick on the
ground as a lion stalking prey. He leapt forward, trying to wrap both of his
hands around it but as he did, the staff zipped backwards, out of his grasp;
then forwards, hard, striking Clarence between the eyes as he stumbled on slick
ground.
Clarence stepped back, away from
the staff, flinging his hands forward. Shimmering eldritch energy lashed out,
sending the staff spinning end over end, cracking the stick in two, which
Clarence stood over and blasted into splinters.
“My brother,” Cornelius said to Dickie with a sigh as they watched
this from atop the stump, “such a strange
and lonely boy. Ah well. Time to ransack this place!”
“Hold on,” Paris wheezed, dragging himself through the door having
finally ascended the root, “Who’s that
fellow?” He gestured to the wall where the prisoner hung chained.
“Oh. Hello there! I’m Cornelis Pffefil Bullingdon the Third, Marquis of
Saxonia, conqueror of the mighty Strahd, slayer of witches and wolves, great
saviour of the Morninglord, mighty prophet, and shining beacon of the future of
Barovia. Who might you be?”
The man did not appear to be
conscious. He was a wreck: bound to one wall by rusted irons, emaciated and
bloody, fresh tortures lying over old wounds. His ears, nose and lips had all
been cut off, blunt scar tissue growing around those orifices. He was naked,
and his pale torso and limbs marred by cuts and insect bites. His head lolled
forward as he sagged against his bonds.
“Hang on, I’m sure I can wake him up with one of my famous tinctures,” said
Paris, rummaging through his pockets. He found the unguent he was after and
spread it over some of the worse cuts. Miraculously, considering, the man
roused and murmured through butchered lips.
“Anslem? Is that you, Anslem?”
“I’m not saying all that again,” said Cornelius, “Dickie, you can introduce us.”
“No, no,” Paris replied to the man, “It is I, your saviour. Paris Digby and my mighty companions.”
One eye was swollen shut but the
other cracked open, the bloodshot orb staring at Paris full of confusion. “Who are you?”
“We are the Bullingdon Boys, saviours of Barovia and soon to be killers
of Strahd Von Zarovich.”
“You know, I just said all those things,” Cornelius said with a
pout, “and you would’ve heard if you’d
bothered to listen.”
“Please help me,” the man slurred, and between them Paris and
Dickie were able to release the iron bonds.
“Selected highlights for you, sir: we are the Bullingdon Boys, foes of
Strahd von Zarovich, slayers of witches, wolves and general wrongdoers,
saviours of Barovia, ordained prophets of the Morninglord and licensed charity
in Barovia.”
Paris frowned as Dickie said this
last. “Licensed charity?”
“We need that tax exempt status,” Cornelius explained.
Then man seemed overwhelmed by all
of this, although at the mention of witches he flinched and murmured “You must be quick, she will return soon!”
The three spoke over each other
exuberantly to explain that he need not fear, the witch was dead- all of the
witches were dead. A slightly battered Clarence joined them at the top of the
stump, as the man sat with his back against the wall, overwhelmed by his new
freedom.
Kindly, Dickie asked “How about we get you out of this horrible
hut, sir-“
“And move you into a fabulous Golden Bully Hut!” Paris interrupted.
The man nodded weakly to Dickie, and Cornelius picked up the bony figure like a
child. He and Paris left the witch’s hut to find some dry land on which to
raise the Golden Bully Hut. Dickie and Clarence stayed to see if there was
anything of value to be found- hopefully less ill-tempered than Nanny’s staff.
Dickie was drawn to the chest, and
finding it unlocked and free of traps, he threw it open- to be set upon by
three severed hands, scrabbling and clawing and scratching at him. One came to
its end upon the toe of his boot, as he smashed it back into the chest- “Shit buggering fuck!”- and the other
pair Clarence sniped off of Dickie’s person with precisely aimed magical
blasts. “I’ve had far too many encounters
with magical nonsense today,” Dickie muttered.
“But you got to fly, didn’t you?” said Clarence cheerily.
“That was fun at the time, but not initially pleasant.”
“I wish that I could fly. I’ve always dreamed of it, since I was a
young boy.” Clarence’s voice was whistful.
“That’s nice, Clarence. Humanizes you. There’d better be something good
in this box…”
The chest was full of treasures.
Bags of coins and precious gems worth thousands of gold; a signet ring, with
the sigil of a hawk in flight, that Dickie took for himself; a vial of oil,
familiar to Dickie, used to magically sharpen weapons; a small wooden box
marked with arcane runes, containing a pot of iridescent paint and a brush- the
paint seemed to shift hue as Dickie looked at it, and he couldn’t place a
colour to it; and a haversack. Dickie reached into one pocket, finding
something pole-like, which he then pulled… and pulled… and pulled, until a
solid ten foot pole had been drawn from the bag’s much smaller interior. Impressed
with this haul, Dickie almost missed the ring on one of the hands that had
attacked him- holding a beautifully carved ram’s head.
At the far end of the village the
ruined mansion stood on a raised plot of land. Here, in the shadow of that
building, Paris raised the Golden Bully Hut. They ate some food with the maimed
man, whose name they learnt was Kasimir Ulrich, but did not question him
thoroughly- they were all in need of rest. Without much ceremony they settled
in for the night.
Tears of Morning
The Bullingdon Boys did not set a
watch- Paris assuring everyone that tonight’s Bully Hut had much better
security than the previous nights- and maybe he was right, for morning came
without incident. Kasimir Ulrich was still with them.
The sun rose, lightening the
continually overcast skies, and for the first morning in Barovia they were not
beset by preternatural fog. A little mist rose from the swampy ground but the
beacon of Argynvost evidently still shone.
“You know, I vaguely recall there was a reason we came all the way out
here, and it wasn’t to kill witches.” Cornelius began his morning
stretches.
“There was something about finding an ancient man, maimed of visage,” Dickie
recalled from the fortune telling, that seemed so long ago now. He pointed to
Kasimir, with ears, nose and lips butchered. “I think we have a likely candidate here.”
“Is he ancient?” Paris pondered, as the stranger roused from sleep.
“He’s definitely maimed,” said Cornelius. “You there, man! Are you ancient?”
He looked at Cornelius, rubbing
his eyes. He shook his head, as he took in his surrounding, and lisped “I must be dreaming.”
“I can assure you this is no dream- dreamy as we Bullingdon Boys may
be.” Cornelius winked. The man began to laugh, and laughed harder when they
explained how they were adventurers, following a fortune read by the Vistani,
on a mission to defeat Strahd. It took them some time to get sense out of him,
but eventually the reason for his incredulous humour became clear. Kasimir
Ulrich had been helping a band of adventurers come to oppose Strahd, led by a
charismatic nobleman, calling themselves the- he had to pull himself together
from gales of laughter- the “Spency Squad”.
The maimed man explained that
months- maybe years- ago, the Spency Squad had come upon him in the ruins of
Berez and sought his assistance in opposing Strahd.
“For I am an enemy of Strahd,” lifting his arms to display himself,
to show what wonders that opposition had gained him. “I was the mayor of Berez. My daughter, Marina, was… chosen, as a bride
for Strahd. He seduced her in the dead of night and feasted on her blood, and
he would have taken her to the castle to be his unholy bride- had not we put a
stop to things.”
“What happened?” Clarence asked.
“We killed her. Strahd was wroth, made the river swell, turned the town
into a swamp. Those who did not die fled, but not me, for he cursed me to
remain here- cut off my nose, my lips, my ears, made sure I would bear no more
children. Cursed me so I would only die by his hand, so I could not leave here,
so I spent decades here, lurking in the ruins, eating rats and snakes in the
mud like a beast, unable to even kill myself. But then, I encountered them-
Anslem Thruppington-Spence, and the Spency Squad.”
Kasimir went on to tell how they
had stolen something important to Strahd, right out from the castle, and
brought it to him; he hid it, secreted the treasure away where even they didn’t
know, so that Strahd would never find it. But then the witch came.
Baba Lysaga destroyed the Spency
Squad, sent Anslem to the castle in chains and kept Kasimir as a plaything to
torture at her leisure.
Kasimir led the Bullingdon Boys to
where he had hidden the treasure, while Cornelius, bored by the man’s long
lisping exposition, started his morning exercise routine. The other three were
led down from their camp and past the ruined church- where Kasimir, seeing the
decayed corpse of a woman in full plate armour, crushed to death by what could
easily be imagined as the giant root of a walking hut. “Poor Tamith,” he said, “she
was Anslem’s true right hand.” He paused for a quiet moment, then led on.
Behind the church stood a raised
plot of land, barely ten feet across. In the centre of this plot stood a
life-sized stone monument, carved in the likeness of a kneeling peasant girl
clutching a rose to her breast. Carved in the base of the statue was an
epitaph- “Marina, may her murderers never
know peace”. Despite the weathering of the stone features, the girl on the
statue held a striking resemblance to one of their old companions.
“She, she looks like-“
“Just like Ireena, yes,” Dickie finished for Paris. “I wonder how many times this cycle has gone
around?”
“In any case it is broken now,” Clarence said, and turning to Kasimir:
“Your daughter’s spirit is at peace, old
man.”
“She died a long time ago,” Kasimir said with some confusion. “What you want is buried here, before the
statue.”
Paris and Clarence looked at each
other. “Dickie?” they said
simultaneously.
Dickie sighed, and set to work. The
soft earth parted easily and soon enough the shovel clunked against something
solid- a wooden chest, which he recovered. Inside, in a tightly wrapped oilskin
to protect it from the damp, was a book. It was bound in a thick leather cover
with steel hinges and fastenings and the pages were of brittle parchment.
Within, vast tracks were
ineligible with stains and age, and much of the readable text was written in
some cryptic shorthand. But there were paragraphs and whole passages intact and
readable, passages that told them this book, this tome, was something like a
diary- penned by Strahd himself.
“They told me he was furious when they stole it from him,” Kasimir
said, as Clarence pawed through the tome excitedly. “It did them no good, but…”
“Do you know what they were trying to do when they stole it from him?” Paris
asked.
“Um… They were trying to defeat Strahd? That is what you’re trying to
do, isn’t it?”
“But why steal this book?”
“It has his secrets- there’s something in there about the castle, I don’t
know.”
“But how will knowing more about Strahd help us kill him?”
“Knowledge is power,” Clarence intoned gravely; Dickie agreed. “I thank you for this gift, elder. Be
assured that Strahd’s undeath shall not last much longer.”
Paris recalled the potion he had,
taken from the body of Baba Lysaga. Tears of Morning, it was called, and it
would remove a curse from a creature- at the price of a few years of that
creature’s life. He offered this to Kasimir, who did not expect it to have any
effect but was willing to try it.
Kasimir unstoppered the vial Paris
gave him, downing the silver-flecked liquid in a single gulp. The Bullingdon
Boys didn’t know how long Strahd’s curse had kept the maimed man alive in
Berez: as the potion took effect, it appeared to be centuries as Kasimir
gasped, shuddering, moaning “Thank you” as
he rapidly aged, his already emaciated form shrivelling, withering away as he
curled in on himself, hair and nails pushing out rapidly as his face collapsed
into a wizened hollow, as decades, centuries maybe of aging occurred in the space
of moments, until what remained of Kasimir Ulrich was left a small, grey, curled
up corpse.
Paris screamed.
“I fucking killed him!”
“What were you expecting?” Dickie asked, nonplussed by the strange transformation.
“He said that he was cursed not to die;
what he wanted was to die; you lifted his curse, and he died.”
“I don’t know!”
“He’s not suffering any more, if that makes you feel better.”
“It wasn’t what I was expecting! And now he can’t tell anyone I lifted
his curse.”
“Well, we know you lifted his curse, Paris. You broke the magic- good
job. You want some eggs?”
