Session 26 – Family Matters

7th Day of the 4th Quarter of the Moon of Songs, Season of Wines, Year 766.

Days in Barovia: 10. The moon is full.

Tough Love

The Bullingdon Boys stepped through the door from the lich’s chamber into a dark corridor. At the far end was another portal, of strange mechanism; its purpose became clear as they opened it. The mechanism moved a bookcase in the room beyond, a hidden door cunningly concealed from the other side.

The bookcase was one among many: the door opened to reveal a magnificent library. The high, vaulted ceiling held a fresco depicting angels being set ablaze in a hell. A black marble railing enclosed a gold marble staircase that descended a thirty-foot wide shaft at the north of the library, and an amber door stood closed to the south.

The walls were lined with bookcases holding hundreds upon hundreds of well-preserved tomes. Embroidered rugs, chairs, writing tables and small candelabra were scattered through the room.

“This is a treasure beyond wildest imaginings,” Clarence said with no small hint of wonder; but he moved towards the golden stairs. “It would take some time to fully immerse myself.”

“It looks like a bunch of stupid books to me, Clarence,” Cornelius contributed.

Paris suggested that selling antique books could be profitable, and Dickie pondered renting the library out to aspiring wizards- once they were ruling Barovia, of course.

“A real wizard does not need a book to cast spells, Dickie- a common misconception.”

“I agree with Paris. When I’m king of Bullingdonovia all books will be banned and wizards will have to learn the fine art of boxing instead.”

Dickie investigated the southern door, which led to stairs which would lead to the main floor of the temple, behind the huge statue.

On one of the library tables, Paris saw a large piece of parchment sat next to a pot half full of dried ink. The parchment held an enchantment- not a spell Paris was familiar with. The immaculate calligraphy with which it was written became lazy and stilted towards the end where it petered to a spot. This was a work of abjuration and transmutation; restoration, and chronal-manipulation.

Found in this room, the library of Exethanter, who would have known his mind was fading, the purpose of this scroll was clear to Paris: to restore the lich’s clarity, at least temporarily.

“Now everyone,” Paris said, tucking the scroll out of sight, “I think I remember a spell from my youth that could bring that lich back to lucidity. Would you be willing to let me have a go? It’s been sometime since I attempted it but last time it went swimmingly, so I don’t see there being a problem.”

“Paris,” Cornelius said awkwardly, “I know you’re a fan of older people, but I don’t want this lich getting all lusty on us-“

“No, I mean, so that we could recover the passwords.”

Clarence had some concern that the starved lich may awaken from its senility hungry for souls. Cornelius reckoned they could take him, but Dickie was similarly wary. He suggested they keep the option open but move on for now- the other Bully Boys agreed.

They descended the shaft. The chamber below had amber-covered walls sculpted to look like tentacles, entwining marble bas-reliefs of kings, queens, pharaohs, and sultans, attended by myriad slaves. In the south-east corner of the room two wide cracks had opened in the wall, spilling rubble and shattered pieces of amber and leaving passages wide enough for a man to pass through.

To the west, south and east were alcoves, and within each alcove stood blocks of rough-hewn amber. But in this room, there were no dark whispers. Whatever gifts these amber sarcophagi held, they did not come begging for supplicants.

The southern sarcophagus was marred, cracked and sundered. A black line ran from top to bottom, a half inch across, a jagged line of darkness that seemed infinitely deep.

Clarence felt a sense of… Kimset. This was it. This was where he had been driven, had driven himself, the source of his power, the bridge to that nameless beyond where his patron resided.

Clarence’s eyes widened, darting back and forth between the block and his companions.

Oblivious to his brother’s excitement, Cornelius said “Well, I can’t hear any whispering, so I guess these ones are pretty harmless.” He walked to the western sarcophagus and reached out to it.

No voice spoke in Cornelius’ head but he was assailed by a series of flashing images, images of violence, betrayal and bloodlust, images that showed the gift that this sarcophagus would give him: the gift of immortality, strength and power, the dark gift of undeath, the gift of Nosferatu, the gift of the vampire.

Cornelius wrenched his hand back. “Nobody touch that one! Do not touch that one! Keep Clarence away from it!” Dickie and Paris turned their eyes on the younger Bullingdon, who was trying to sidle away from them. He paused, as Cornelius continued, “I heard no words, but I saw images… images that tempted me to become as Strahd, to give up my life, and become cold, heartless, evil as he is.”

“An evil gift,” Paris said.

“It is as we knew,” intoned Clarence. “This is where Strahd lost his mortality and became that which we now know.”

“These are hidden deeper than all the others.” Dickie gestured to the sarcophagi. “And they’re quiet, too. Whatever these are, I think it’ll be the worst of them.”

“I agree with Dickie. It’s best that nobody touch any of them.” Cornelius looked pointedly at his brother.

Paris wasn’t sure. “It might help us learn something to know what they offer. Although, none of us should accept the gifts. Under any circumstances.”

Cornelius placed his hand on Clarence’s shoulder, amiably holding his brother fast. “Dickie, I trust you not to meddle with magic. See what these other two have to offer.” The manservant, half of his face sagging, blind eyes on his flesh covered by the illusion of his magic armour, nodded.

With trepidation, Dickie touched the eastern sarcophagus- and his mind was pulled away, his vision filled by a colossus, a gargantuan being, more enormous than anything should be, impossibly vast, a thing that would dwarf moons. It rolled in the void and a terrible dead face the size of worlds filled Dickie’s vision.

“Accept the gift of the corpse star,” an awful voice boomed in his head. “I will give you power. The power of Zhudun. The power to raise the ancient dead.”

The void collapsed around him as Dickie pulled his hand away, shaking. “I did not like that. I did not like it. It’s… I don’t know… a huge, dead, something… Called itself the corpse star, said it could raise the ancient dead.”

“Sounds like bad magic to me, Dickie.”

“This is dark stuff down here,” Paris said with a shiver.

Cornelius turned to the final amber block, the sundered southern sarcophagus. “Do we even want to know?” he asked.

Clarence spoke, his voice quietly ominous. “That one I know.”

Paris stepped towards the block.

“Paris. You do not want to touch that block. If you wish to know what it is, I will tell you.”

“What is it then, Clarence?”

Clarence paused, gathering his words. “Do you recall when I was but a child, how with difficulty I took to even the simplest cantrips, the most meagre of magics?”

“Yes, you were very slow.”

“Do you remember then how I fled? And how when I returned, I carried this book? And knew many secrets, of that which is seen and that which is unseen?”

“Er, no, but carry on.”

“The power within that block… It is not sleeping. Or perhaps it sleeps and dreams, but its dreams have more reality than anything we can comprehend.”

Cornelius sidled over to Dickie. “Do you have any fucking clue what they’re on about?”

As soon as Corenlius’ hand left his brother’s shoulder, Clarence raised the staff in his hands. Between him and the block, Paris made a placating gesture- “Clarence, we’ve always been friends, haven’t we?” but the enchantment lining his words failed.

Cornelius witnessed this exchange of magics between the two, and moving next to Paris called “Don’t do it, Clarence! I won’t let you fall to evil!”

Dickie’s knife was in his hand. Clarence cast an enchantment at his brother and all of a sudden it struck Cornelius that it wasn’t unreasonable to let Clarence touch the block- what harm could it do, really? But as Clarence’s hands wove the enchantment, Dickie’s blade flashed, a slicing a gash in Clarence’s robes… And to everyone’s surprise, when Dickie struck iron chains burst from the ground, wrapping around Clarence and anchoring him in place.

Even as Cornelius was ensorcelled Paris countered the effects, and burly elder Bullingdon rounded on his brother. “What is this that you want so much, you would trick your own brother with magic?” His eyes not leaving Clarence’s Cornelius moved to the sundered sarcophagus, reached out his hand, touched the amber…

And there was  nothing. No dark whispers. No eldritch visions swept over him. There was no offer of a dark gift.

“There’s nothing there! This one’s broken. All of this bother for nothing!” Cornelius fumed as he stepped away from the stone.

“Maybe this one will only speak to Clarence?” Paris proposed, as Dickie reached into Clarence’s robes and relieved him of his Tome of Shadows- Clarence didn’t resist, nor even seem to notice, his eyes fixed on the sarcophagus. Clarence struggled against his bonds, then wheezed slightly as the chains began to tighten around him.

“No, it’s not empty, it can’t be empty!”

Paris had walked over to the sarcophagus, and touched it- also garnering no response. But as he stared into the amber there was the slightest flicker of darkness.

“It’s not dead. There’s something alive in there. Some evil.” He looked over at his apprentice in chains. “I don’t understand why Clarence would want to commune with this thing.”

“The debts I have incurred, if I do not repay them… I fear the consequences would not fall on me alone.” As Clarence spoke,  Cornelius went and sat on the lowest stair, lighting his pipe.

“What debts? What have you promised?” Paris asked, but Clarence’s lips were pursed tight. He seemed to sag, his hands in the pockets of his robes… And then a ray of green light lanced out from within the pocket, and impacted the chains enwrapping him, and the chains were disintegrated, falling around him as a fine ash. His hands, now free, withdrew from his pockets, one holding the bronze left hand of Exethanter, glowing green ray emanating from its fingers, the other holding a feather- one of the feathers taken from the wing of the fallen angel, the Abbot of Saint Markovia, and as the chains fell away the feather burned in radiance and Clarence floated into the air, stepped lightly over the heads of Dickie and Paris and landed on the black marble floor in front of the southern sarcophagus. His hand reached out; he touched the amber.

The Miracle of Life

As he touched the crack in the sarcophagus that line of utmost darkness writhed, and from the chasm a black tentacle extended. It slithered over his face in an almost affectionate caress, then plunged into the front of his forehead.

And he knew. He knew what his patron was: A boundless daemon sultan that gnawed hungrily in inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond time and space amidst the muffled, maddening beating of vile drums and the thin monotonous whine of accursed flutes; a feaster of fate, devourer of lore, obscene lord of mysteries; the seeker of all seekers of knowledge. He knew it had been bound here, impossibly, inconceivably trapped on this mortal plane and starved for long millennia. He knew that it was dying, almost faded, and in its dying breath has played a final gambit. Setting a greedy young man on a path that started with a book, and led him from isolated hermitage, to the fall of his house, to his family’s diaspora and eventual arrival in Barovia, and finally, it led him here, where with its last sliver of concentrated being Clarence’s patron granted him its touch. All in the hope that through him it could endure.

Cornelius stood, stepped forward as his brother’s back arched, eyes rolled back into his head, connected to the amber by this tendril plunged into his skull; and then that tentacle retracted. There was a chime as if the tolling of a bell; the crack in the amber spread and with a crash, the block split down the middle and crashed to the ground.

Clarence’s forehead was marred only by a slight bruising. For a moment, he had known everything; he had seen with absolute insight the turning of the gears of creation. But it was gone… And he did not remember. For a moment he had held all knowledge of the eldritch and arcane but now, there was nothing.

“What was that?” Cornelius bellowed. Clarence ignored him, held out a hand to see if he still could… And yes, his power still coursed through him, but all of the infinite knowledge he had held but moments ago was gone.

“No… I had it, for a moment… I saw everything, I had everything, I knew… But it’s gone! It’s gone!”

Cornelius grabbed him by the lapels and layed his hand across Clarence’s cheek. “Pull yourself together!”

Clarence stumbled clumsily as Cornelius hauled him forward, his legs feeling strange, his stomach strangely swollen beneath his robes.

“What did you do, Clarence? In the name of the Morninglord, tell me what you did!”

Clarence was nauseous, cramping in the gut, confused by the actions of his patron. He wretched weakly and curled in on himself.

“Paris, something’s wrong! He needs a tincture!”

The colour had drained from Clarence’s face and Paris, unsure what to do, dabbed the pooling sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

“I promised everything to it… Power and knowledge, in return for service…”

“We shouldn’t have come here,” Dickie said darkly, as the Clarence’s robes could no longer hide the bloating in his abdomen; his hands clutched at his absurdly swollen stomach, flesh hard and stiff, and there was a writhing in his bowels.

Clarence moaned in agony and the illusion, the glamour he constantly held over his real form dropped. Beneath the mask his skin was spotty, pockmarked, his beard unkempt and wispy; one half of his true face hung slack and his irises were a deep, sickly yellow; as his tangled robes pulled up his arms the Bullingdon Boys saw a dead eye, closed and weeping, on his wrist.

“You couldn’t… I knew, no matter what, our family would fall, everything good would go away so I asked for more power to stop it but I couldn’t! I’m sorry brother!”

“The Bullingdons will not fall, Clarence! We are always, and eternal, as long as we have each other! Paris, he is dying- do something!”

Clarence’s stomach writhed and turned and he was bloated like a pregnant woman now, there was something inside of him trying to get out.

“I don’t think I’ve got a tincture for this, Cornelius!”

Cornelius pushed his holy symbol to Clarence’s swollen abdomen, tears in his eyes. “Begone! By the light of the Morninglord, begone!”

And Clarence screamed.

Blood, guts and viscera spilled across the black marble.

“No!” Cornelius cried.

It fell to the floor with a wet thunk, a fleshy membrane covered in gore, an amniotic sac still connected to Clarence by a thick, pulsing umbilical. There was something inside, writhing, straining to get out: the sac tore open, there was a gush of fetid fluid and it rose into the air before The Bullingdon Boys. This thing, this blasphemous thing that Clarence has wrought, this stillborn godling.

It stank of death. It had no eyes: pale flesh covered the indent of sockets, and the rest of it was half-formed and terrible, shrivelled, malformed, bony and limp. A grossly distended jaw hung slack, a long worm of a tongue protruding, and it emitted a continuous high pitched wailing scream, monotonous and terrible. Its feet did not touch the ground; it floated, limply, still connected to Clarence by that awful umbilical.

“Burn it! Burn it, Paris, it is evil!”

His magical energies near exhausted, Paris shakily drew his sword. The blade slashed into the thing and when it did, the umbilical pulsed and what little colour was left in Clarence’s face drained; unconscious, he moaned pitifully.

“Begone! Begone, fiend, turn away from the light of the Morninglord!” Cornelius held up the Holy Symbol of Ravenkind. Divine energy pulsed from it and the lifeless, keening thing before him recoiled limply, its wailing taking on a further tone of anguished panic.

Dickie dove at the umbilical joining Clarence and the creature, and his dagger slashed through it; blood poured from both end, from the creature and from Clarence, whose breath was growing more ragged.

The stillborn godling pulled away, trying to escape Cornelius’ holy light, and as it moved past the three conscious Bullingdon Boys they felt their flesh stripping away, the top layer of their skin flaking off and leaving them red-raw. Blades and fists flashed as it fled, and the creature sagged, its abdomen shredded, the keening wail weak now, falling to the ground as Dickie’s dagger ripped through it.

Clarence’s eyes flickered open. “No… Our bargain… You will not harm my brother…” blood spotted spittle dribbled from his mouth as he moved his arm, his hand, and gestured… And with a faint rush of air, the creature was gone, banished by the last of Clarence’s energy.

Clarence’s hand fell limp. His breath rattled, and fell still. His eyes were closed, and a faint smile played on his lips. In the deepest chamber of the Amber Temple, before a sundered block of amber, Clarence Quincy Bullingdon lay dead.

…

“Clarence? Clarence, are you still there?” Dickie knelt by the younger Bullingdon. There was no response.

“I don’t have a tincture for this,” Paris sobbed.

“This… this was too far. We were foolish, and greedy and… Now look what’s happened.”

Cornelius was stood, his back to his dead brother, his eyes fixed on the Holy Symbol of Ravenkind held before him. “It is real!”

Paris looked up from where he knelt by Clarence’s corpse. “What?”

“The Morninglord!” Cornelius twirled to face them. “I asked him to cast out the demon from Clarence and it did! I asked him to turn the demon away from me, and it did!”

“You glory over the vanities of your god now?” Dickie cried, “Your brother is dead! And you gloat that something ran away from your… trinket?”

Cornelius’ eyes narrowed at his manservant. “My brother lives with the Morninglord now, Dickie. He knows glory none of us could imagine.”

“He could be living with us if we’d not been so foolish.”

Paris spoke up. “Dickie, we all did our best for Clarence, you saw. We tried to save him!”

“We warned him. It was his own choice. By his own choice he made his dark pact, and by his own choice fulfilled it.”

“We’ve all taken dark gifts in the hope of bettering our own odds. And look, now one of us is dead and we’re no closer to our goal!”

“But we are protected! The Morninglord will look for us now, we are guided and protected!”

“Did he look for your brother?”

“Clarence…” Cornelius jaw clenched, just for a moment. “Clarence strayed too far. There was no saving him.”

Dickie regarded Cornelius coolly. “I fear there is no saving any of us.”

Cornelius knelt by his brother’s side, cradling his head. “He will be remembered as a martyr of the Morninglord. Who gave his life to fulfil his purpose.”

“What are we going to do with the bod- with Clarence?” Paris asked. Clarence’s voluminous robes covered the ruin of his birthing, but blood and viscera was pooled around him.

“We will take him outside. We will burn his body in the open air- to allow his body and soul to return to the Morninglord. And then… We will march on Ravenloft. We will find Strahd and we will avenge the death of Clarence! Are you with me, Dickie, Paris? Bully Bully Bully!”

The “Oi, oi, oi” his speech garnered was weak- Paris sobbing, Dickie’s voice tinged with exhaustion.

“When it’s done, I’m coming back here,” the manservant promised dourly. “I’m going to destroy the entrance. No one else should ever come to this place.”

Paris nodded his agreement. “And maybe we could have a… a huge golden memorial to Clarence in the middle of Bullingdonovia?”

“We can think of these things when Bullingdonovia is won.”

“It makes me feel better to think of them now.”

“You’ll feel even better, Paris, after our final victory.” Cornelius looked at the fissure running through the wall. “It seems we must delve deeper.”

“The sword of sunlight, and the destruction of Strahd,” said Dickie, “that’s all that matters now. The rest? Merely trinkets, for when this is over.” He looked at the corpse on the floor. “Goodbye, Clarence.”

Cornelius, cradling Clarence’s body in his arms, stepped through the fissure. He entered a room that would be a fitting mausoleum for any Bullingdon: from the amber doors on the opposite wall, filling the room to the crevasse where he stood, were piles of treasures.

Gold, platinum and silver coins were heaped high; there were more gemstones than he had ever seen, rubies and sapphires and emeralds, the glitter of diamonds; suits of armour, shields, breastsplates; swords and shields among ceramic statues of saints, even a gilded chariot. The room was a treasure trove, a vault of incredible wealth, more than any of them could have imagined, more than they could carry or ever spend.

“What you seek lies in a pile of treasure,” Dickie recalled, “behind a set of amber doors… Is it here?”

And his keen eyes caught it- the handle of a broken sword, hilt and guard of masterfully worked platinum sat atop a pile of gold pieces. What remained of the broken blade glittered in the light- a tiny sliver of crystal, in place of steel. Somewhere in Dickie’s pack were three shards of crystal, that roughly formed the shape of a blade, found in the tower of Exethanter.

He picked up the hilt. A thrum of power ran through him and he felt a wash of friendly warmth, from the sword.

“Can you feel its power, Dickie?”

“It’s powerful, but- and I don’t believe I’m saying this- I don’t think its evil?”

“What’s it doing here?”

“If it is what we think it is, it’s a sword made to take vengeance on Strahd. Perhaps he hid it here- if I remember the book right, he tasked Exethanter to destroy it. And it seems he succeeded, to an extent.”

“We’ll have to have it reforged,” Cornelius said.

“I think we have the rest of it. There shards of crystal from the tower.”

“We can contemplate these things outside.” Encumbered with his brother’s body, Cornelius didn’t bat an eye at the treasure surrounding them. “I wish to leave this place.”

As Cornelius left, Dickie looked at Paris. “I don’t think a conventional blacksmith can fix this… But I wonder if the wizard could.”

“I could use the scro- my spell.”

Wary that the treasures may be cursed, they  took nothing else. The vault doors were sealed, so they retreated through the fissure, up the golden stairs into the library, and into Exethanter’s chamber.

Sword And Sorcery

“Do I… Do I know you?” the decrepit lich croaked as it saw them.

“Tell me, mighty wizard- do you know anything about this?” Dickie held out the sword handle.

The undead mage took the item, holding it up to the red pin-points in its eye sockets. “This is fine work but, it appears the blade is broken. Strange- was this a sword of crystal? That does not strike me as particularly practicle.” It looked up apologetically and saw the corpse of Clarence in Cornelius’ arms. “Ah. Is he… deceased?”

“Indeed. An ancient evil killed him.”

“If you wish to revive him, there is an amber sarcophagi below which would grant you the power to raise even the most ancient dead.”

“We have no interest in any more dark pacts,” Paris said firmly.

“No. We will burn him in the open air, return his body to the Morninglord from whence it came.”

“I see,” the lich wheezed. It returned the sword handle to Dickie, who, rootling through his pack, had found the three large shards of crystal taken from the desk in the tower of bronze.

“Could it be repaired, do you think?”

“Ah… such a weapon would have been forged with powerful magic. How? I don’t know, I… can’t remember.”

“Paris,” Cornelius asked gently, “can you help him?” He lay his brother down on the dusty divan bed in one corner of the room.

“Just, one second- I need to, ah, turn and face this wall while I remember how to cast the spell…” Paris turned away from his comrades and slipped the restorative scroll out of his pocket. He followed the scroll as best he could, making the correct gestures and incantations; he turned and laid his hand on the shoulder of the lich, and a faint white light suffused the ancient wizard as the scroll crumbled to ash in Paris’ hand.

The lich stood a little straighter. The red dots in his eye sockets glowed a little brighter. It sharply turned to Paris and spoke, and its voice was not slow and plodding but quick and clear and full of power

“My thanks. You have restored me.”

“So, uh,” Paris took a step back, “So… what’s the password?”  

“The sword, Paris,” Cornelius hissed, “ask him about the sword!”

“Oh, yes- the-“

The lich held up a hand as it cut Paris off. “You can wait. I am Exethanter, the mage of mages, the mightiest arch mage to ever walk this earth.”

“I think we’d already figured that out, if you don’t mind me saying,” Cornelius mumbled.

“You haven’t got long!” Paris reminded the wizard.

“I know. I will grant you the passwords, or anything else you wish. This much I suppose I owe you for restoring me. But! I ask for one thing. I require a soul for my phylactery. Do those words mean anything to you?”

“Nope, not at all, don’t know what you’re talking about,” Paris lied.

“I’m afraid we’ve got no fish with us today, Exethanter.”

The pinpoints of red light narrowed, and then he barked a harsh laugh. “Ah, humour. Yes, I remember that. So, I am beholden to you, and so I will give you a choice. You have… Maybe a number of hours to find me a soul- or I will have to take one.”

Dickie glanced at Cornelius, and mouthed “The madman!”

“The one who cowers in the theatre?” Cornelius asked. Dickie nodded. “Well. Paris, you stay here and make sure Exethanter doesn’t do anything to Clarence. Dickie and I will fetch that coward. If that doesn’t work-“ his eyes went to the ring on Paris’ finger- “we use Rudolph. It’s unsavoury, but it’s for the greater good. If he helps reforge the sword, then he helps defeat Strahd.” 

Dickie held the broken sword up to the lich, once again. “You can repair this, can’t you?”

Exethanter gave it a long look. “You think it needs repair? The thing is fully functional- I never succeeded in destroying it. I spent decades… it vexed me so that in the end I threw it in the vault, with the other garbage. Look, I’ll show you.” He took the hilt from Dickie’s hand. “Watch closely.” He swished it back and forth as though waving a blade in front of him, and with a vrummm, a blade extended from the hilt: a blade of sunlight.

“Ah,” said Dickie.

Exethanter waved the sword again and the blade vanished. He placed the hilt within his robes. “Now, fetch me that soul and I will return this to you. A fair deal, I think.”

…

Cornelius and Dickie made their way back through the temple, dark and quiet, to the lecture hall. They pushed open the amber doors.

“Are you there?” Cornelius called out. “I forget your name.”

A head emerged from behind a row of seats. “V-Vilnius, who’s that? Oh, you’re not dead!”

“It is I, Cornelius, your friend.”

“Are we friends? I didn’t think I had any-“

“We have searched the temple, and found what you seek if you will come with us.”

“You found my master?”

“Yes, we found your master. And you will always have friends in the Bullingdon Boys.”

“Does he yet live?”

“Yes indeed he lives!” Cornelius lied, “but he is… Uh… trapped, beneath a rock, and wishes you come to him. He has wisdom to share with you, before the crushing of the rock kills him.”

“What of the thing outside? The stomping thing?”

“Long gone- we Bullingdon Boys felled it.”

“And the flameskulls? With their gnashing teeth and burning fire?”

“All destroyed, with holy water.”

“So they won’t be coming back?”

“Nothing will harm you here, my friend.”

“Oh, you are a true friend!”

“We Bullingdon Boys are always true to our own. Perhaps… You could join us, when we are finished here? Wouldn’t that be good, to have lifelong companions?”

“That… That sounds wonderful! I so dreaded being alone on the mountain when I left this place.”

“Then come with us!” And Cornelius and Dickie headed back to Exethanter with Vilnius in tow.

…

Meanwhile, Exethanter was reading through a huge tome on his desk while Paris sat awkwardly next to Clarence’s body on the bed. After a moment the arch-lich glanced over to the Bully Boy.

“So. You’re a wizard of sorts. Any interest in becoming a lich?” twin points of light regarded him intensely.

“No, none,” Paris said quickly.

“Ah well. Each to their own.” Exethanter turned back to his book.

“You and Clarence would’ve gotten along,” Paris said, his voice thick with emotion. “really well. It’s a shame that he’s dead. This is just the kind of thing Clarence would’ve enjoyed.”

“I’ve had so many pupils I’ve grown tired of them.”

“I will never have another pupil again,” Paris said, with tears in his eyes.

“It’s not worth the trouble,” Exethanter murmured, as Dickie, Cornelius and their sacrifice returned. As the wizard’s apprentice saw the skeletal lich, he let out a scream. Cornelius grabbed his shoulders, forcing him into the room, as Dickie closed the door behind them.

“I feel a little guilty about this,” said Paris, ignored as Cornelius shoved Vilnius towards Exethanter: “A soul for you! Take it!”

Exethanter turned. “This is the one, then?”

“What about the soul in the staff?” Paris cried, remembering the whispering staff of Vilnius’ master.

“There’s a soul in the staff?” Dickie asked.

“It’s too late for that,” Cornelius said, “take him, before he realises what’s going on!”

And above Vilnius’ confused wailing, above Paris and Dickie’s protests, above Cornelius’ egging on, a single word slipped from between the lich’s ivory teeth, a word from an unspeakable ancient language, a word of power. And Vilnius dropped dead.

“Aaaah!” Exethanter moaned in satisfaction. “Yes, that will do.”

“The Morninglord be with you in death,” Cornelius said to Vilnius’ corpse. “Er, can we have the sword now?”

The lich threw the hilt towards Dickie, who caught it smoothly.

Cornelius moved to the bed and picked up Clarence’s corpse. “Now let’s get out of here as quick as we can and try not to think about what we’ve just done.”

Exethanter made a noise as if clearing its throat. “True to my word, I will let you walk out of here. There is but one thing more- I believe that dead compatriot of yours has something that belongs to me.”

They looked at the arch-mage blankly, so Exethanter raised its left arm, displaying the stump of a wrist.

“Oh, the hand,” said Paris. “Wait… What are you going to do with it?”

“Well I’ll probably put it on this stump of a wrist, given that it’s my damn hand,” the lich said with menace.

Cornelius fetched the item from within Clarence’s pockets and threw it to the lich, who caught it and affixed it to the stump. The Bullingdon Boys then beat a hasty retreat, kindly thanking Exethanter for his assistance.

…

They left through the room of skulls, past the enchanting statue and onto the broken balcony. As Cornelius gingerly made his way across the unstable structure- Dickie crawling along the wall behind him- in the centre of the temple floor below a burst of blue fire appeared from the air.

Out of the crackling flames tumbled a raven, squawking in indignation, and behind the raven, a young woman all in armour, holding a glowing sword, who clattered to the marble floor. The blue flames vanished. The girl looked around in confusion

“Greetings!” Cornelius bellowed down. “I am Cornelius Pfeffil Bullingdon- who are you?”

As Paris drew his wand in the doorway above, the woman cried out “Where am I? Is this Castle Ravenloft?”

“This is not Castle Ravenloft-“

“You’re a fair bit south of that,” Dickie interrupted Cornelius-

“But we’ll be there soon.”

“Where, then?” the stranger asked. “Barovia, still?”

“Afraid so,” said Dickie.

From above, Cornelius asked “Who are you, and what do you want?”

“You’ve given me your name, so it’s only fair I give you mine,” she replied. “I am Elliana Roche- last surviving member of the Spency Squad.”

“Welcome, Elaina Ross,” Cornelius said. He deftly jumped the twenty five feet  down from the balcony, as Dickie slithered down the wall behind him. Cornelius shrugged Clarence over one shoulder, and stuck out a hand.

She eyed him warily. “Why are you carrying a body?”

“It is my brother, Clarence. Sadly he has died.”

Paris’ voice boomed down from above, magically carrying to them. “Funnily enough, we now have an opening the group we like to call the Bullingdon Boy-“ he checked himself- “Bullingdon Buddies.”

“Bullingdon Boys,” Cornelius corrected.

“But, she’s…” Paris called down awkwardly.

Ellania watched the exchange with bemusement. “You’re… Enemies of Strahd?”

“We are,” Cornelius replied. “Clarence here died in our quest to defeat him.”

“You seek to destroy him?”

“Forever. For eternity! We will banish him from this world so he may terrorize no one ever again. In the name of the Morninglord we do this! Bully bully bully!”

“And then we all shout- Oi Oi Oi!” Paris informed the warrior.

“The Spency Squad,” Cornelius said, “I have heard that name.”

“Yes. We were a group of adventurers, much like you-“

“But clearly not as successful.”

She laughed bitterly. “Evidently not. We did however manage to find a book, which detailed the weaknesses of the devil.”

“Oh, this?” said Dickie, pulling the Tome of Strahd from his pack. “Yeah, it’s been a great help.”

She laughed again. “It didn’t help us so much when the devil and his mother came upon us.”

“We killed his mother when she came upon us,” Cornelius bragged.

“Nasty one, she was,” Dickie said. “Her house was worse, though.”

“We’ve got her hair pins,” Paris added.

“So, tell us Elaina-“

“Elliana, if you please-“

“Elliana, how did you survive when the rest of your party was destroyed?”

She described how they had been struck down and destroyed by Baba Lysaga, save her and Anselm Thruppington-Spence, who were taken to the dungeons of Castle Ravenloft. Cornelius told her how Clarence has died from his stomach bursting open.

Dickie noted that while exchanging stories was nice, they could do it outside of the terrifying temple of faceless evil. Cornelius called down Paris and with a pop, the fancy wizard disappeared from the balcony, then reappeared right in front of Elliana in a flash of light, hand extended.

“Paris Digby, mighty wizard,” he said with a grin and a twinkle in his eye.

Elliana gaped at him. She rocked back, tears in her eyes, shaking, losing herself to ever-so-slightly manic laughter. “Paris- Paris fucking Digby?”

“That’s not my middle name…”

“Paris, I think someone’s heard of you!” Dickie said.

“I’ve certainly heard of you,” laughed Elliana Roche. “Hello, dad.”