Session 19 – To Make The Angels Weep

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

Days in Barovia: 7. The moon waxes gibbous.

Dead Ringer

“Well that was about the most unpleasant experience of my life,” said the voice in Cornelius’ head. “So. Things haven’t quite gone to plan.”

“Yes Dickie, I agree, things haven’t gone to plan,” Cornelius said into empty air.

The manservant, having said nothing, let out a confused “Err, what?” and Van Richten’s voice again spoke into Cornelius’ mind.

“Ah. I forgot you were an idiot. It’s not Dickie. It’s me, Rudolph Van Richten.”

Cornelius scoffed, turning on his brother who with regularity spoke into his mind without moving his mouth. “Clarence, you can stop pretending to be Rudolph now, it’s not very funny- we’ve just killed the man.”

“What do you mean, pretending to be Rudolph?”

“Using the voice-in-the-head thing you do, pretending to be Rudolph, which is very insensitive in light of what has just taken place in this room!”

Clarence reached out telepathically to his older brother… but was rebuffed, his mental intrusion hitting some solid barrier, just as when he had reached out to Van Richten’s mind. He paused, shaking his head.

“The ring must be some sort of… abjuration against divination. I can’t reach your thoughts, brother.”

Cornelius heard Van Richten. “Your brother is correct. In addition, the ring stores my soul and allows me to communicate telepathically with whoever wears it.”

“Oh.” Cornelius frowned. “You know, I’m not really sure I like the idea of having old Rudolph there floating around in my head.”

“Well I don’t really like the idea of being in a ring, to be honest with you. So maybe we can work together to sort this out.”

“Fine.” The rest of the Bullingdon Boys were only hearing half of the conversation.

Paris asked Clarence and Dickie, as they stood by bemused, “What exactly is… Does Cornelius think he’s talking to Van Richten?”

Cornleius waved his apparently ring-less hand in Paris’ face. “Van Richten’s soul is encased on the invisible ring on my finger Paris, you’re a wizard, you should know this stuff.”

As it happens Paris did know about this; he was familiar with stories of spells  and magical items that could store a soul- the Phylactery of the Lich, the Magic Jar ritual, the Imprisonment of Minimus Containment and, in this case, the Ring of Mind Shielding. The ring, invisible when worn, acted as a ward against unwanted mental intrusion, scrying and the like, and also contained a failsafe in which if the wearer were slain their soul would be stored in an empty ring, as had Van Richten’s.

“Ah yes, I’ve made a horcrux of my own,” he lied, “I know precisely what is going on here.”

Cornelius suggested that as Paris was more knowledgeable perhaps he should wear the ring and communicate with Van Richten through the veil of death instead. Paris was more than happy to, and accepted the ring from Cornelius, slipping it over his own finger, where it became invisible once again.

“Heeello? Caaan yooou heeear me?” Paris spoke slowly and clearly.

The voice spoke in his head with some irritation, “Yes, I can hear you. Which one were you again?”

“Paris Digby, mighty wizard!”

“Oh.”

 “I have been chosen as the most qualified to bear thing ring and converse with your soul!”

Clarence rolled his eyes at Paris’ one sided conversation. “You do realise undoubtedly he does not require you to speak outl-“

“Shush, Clarence, I can’t hear the soul!” Paris closed his eyes in communion. “Do you have any instructions for us mortals?”

Paris heard a telepathic sigh. “Luckily I believe I have a way out of this,” Van Richten said. “Relay this to your group. You recall I had a plan to kill Strahd, that involv-“

“Oh, everyone, he has a plan to kill Strahd, listen up!” Paris called at his companions.

Cornelius frowned. “I thought we had a plan to kill Strahd!”

“Wait, wait-“ and to the ring, “Carry on.”

“It involved the ancient hag, and I was unwilling to explain further.”

“Yes?”

“Paris,” Cornelius interrupted, “Is there a way you can make it so we can all hear Rudolph speaking?”

“I will relay the information in just a second! We’re having a conversation, don’t interrupt.”

Van Richten continued. “My plan to kill Strahd was to take a hairpin from the witch- in itself a powerful magical artefact- and then, there is a ritual-“

“Is it the Zone of Truth?”

“What? No it wasn’t… Gods help me. The ritual is to imbue the needle with the blood of the Barovian royal line. Then, I would use the needle, enhanced by Strahd’s own bloodline, to trap his soul in the ring. That was my plan.”

“Right?”

“But obviously that’s not going to work now. Because I’m in the ring.”

“Did you not intend to get in the ring?”

Van Richten’s thought-speak dripped sardonically. “I did not intend to be turned into a horrible half-man, half-beast creature and be forced to kill myself to escape that form and be trapped in the ring, no, that was not originally part of my plan.”

“But you seemed so put together.”

“Well. The Abbot took me apart, and I didn’t like what he put back.”

Paris relayed the half of the conversation unheard- Van Richten’s plan- to his companions.

“Could somebody explain to me why it seems so impossible just to stake Strahd like we did with that other woman?” Cornelius asked, frustrated at hearing yet another overly-complex, not-enough-staking plan to defeat the vampire.

“And, who are the monarchs of Barovia?” Dickie asked- Van Richten’s plan required royal blood.

“Hold your horses!” Paris said, “all will be revealed. I am the container of all knowledge!” Clarence raised an eyebrow. Speaking to the ring, Paris asked, “So, what’s the new plan?”

“It’s the same plan, in reverse. We take the hairpin, imbue it with the blood, but rather than trapping Strahd’s soul in the ring with it… we find a suitable host, and push my soul out of the ring, into the host. Then I have a body again!”

Paris asked hesitantly, “Wouldn’t that be a little unfair on the host?”

“Well, that depends on the host.”

“Wouldn’t you be happy just to… Die? Peacefully?”

Van Richten said, “No. No I wouldn’t be happy just to die! No! My work isn’t finished. I have to slay the vampire, and take revenge for my son. So I would not be happy just to die! All you need to do is find the witch, get her needle, complete the blood ritual, and use the needle on a suitable host! Then I’ll have a body and we can kill Strahd.”

“I don’t mean to be rude but why do we need you to kill Strahd?”

“You think you can do it without me?”

“Cornelius thinks we can just stake him in the heart.”

Van Richten responded to this suggestion with a mental harrumph.

Paris repeated the conversation to the others, and then pulled the ring off. In a hushed whisper, he said “I don’t think he can hear me when I’ve got the ring off. Sounds like the poor chap’s gone mad. I’m very happy to help up to a point but I don’t like the idea of putting his soul into the body of an unwilling host. Isn’t that just what this Abbot’s been doing?”

Clarence shrugged. “The Abbot has been combining human and animal forms through alchemy. It’s very different.”

“If we put Rudolph’s soul in the body of the wife the Abbot was making,” said Cornelius, a gleam of intrigue in his eye, “he won’t be able to talk to us! That could be advantageous.”

“But, if we want to put him in a body surely it’ll be to help us?” asked Paris.

Dickie spoke up. “Before we put his soul in a body anywhere, I’ve still got questions about his plan. What is a witch’s hairpin? Where do we find it? What’s the royal line of Barovia? What’s the ritual? There’s lots of missing information.”

“Look,” Cornelius said sternly, “I think we’ve had enough success defeating Strahd on our own, without the help of Rudolph or anybody else, and without this stupid needle nonsense. So I say we chuck the ring in a ditch and carry with what we were doing before without anybody’s help, as we’ve been doing well enough on our own.”

“Well, we can decide whether to keep the ring or not once we’re out of this frankly horrendous abbey,” suggested Paris.

This was generally agreed upon. The mind-shielding powers of the ring may be useful as many of the vampires they had encountered had exhibited mind altering powers, and they were under no compulsion to follow Van Richten’s plan if they didn’t want to. Paris put the ring back on and reassured Van Richten he’d have a new body just as soon as they could get him one.

…Where Angels Fear To Tread

Meanwhile, looking about the operating theatre, beyond the corpse of Van Richten’s man-monster form and the surgical implements, Dickie found the monster hunter’s things piled neatly in a corner- clothes, jacket and sword cane. Paris, ever the fashionista, took the coat and cane.

On a side table Clarence found what he had been looking for- tomes of alchemical secrets, placed where the Abbot could reference them while operating. The contents were too complex and obtuse for Clarence to comprehend initially, but he put them in his pack for later study, cackling quietly.

The Bullingdon Boys left Van Richten’s mutilated body on the slab, and checked the rest of the floor- the nursery held only broken cribs, and the morgue was bare except for a raven at the window, who cawed and flapped away when disturbed.

They discussed what to do next. Dickie was all for getting away from the Abbey as quickly as possible. Paris didn’t want to leave Vasilika, and Cornelius demanded revenge for Van Richten. Clarence thought for a moment, and decided that if he were going to steal the books it would be better not to have their owner hounding him; he backed revenge.

With revenge decided, what remained was how they would enact it. Cornelius suggested they get the Abbot alone, where he could not summon hordes of ravenous Belviews to descend on them. Or maybe they poison the pot of gruel. Clarence suggested Paris and he had many magical methods for dealing with large mobs; Paris, however, was not so keen to throw fireballs at the innocent, even if they were insane. Maybe they could turn the creatures against him; although they would have to contend with the flesh golem guardian. The Belview’s were, for the most part, locked up, and Cornelius recalled that causing bedlam had not gone particularly well for the Bully Boys in Vallaki.

Paris asked Van Richten’s advice, which was not to test the Abbot, and certainly not to release the Belviews from their internment. “Rudolph says he has every confidence in us,” Paris told his companions.

Cornelius decided he could challenge the Abbot to a duel. “A battle of the sword. One man against the other, no magical tricks, no assistance. A straight-up good-old honest fight, and of course I will easily defeat him.”

“But if things did go wrong, we could always back you up,” offered Paris.

“Of course! We’d cheat. Like in all my duels at university. I remember the motto of my old society- ‘Never Challenge Anyone To A Fight Unless You’ve Got Boris Hiding In The Bushes With A Crossbow’.”

Straight faced Dickie said “My lord, it’s good to see that you have been constant through all your days.”

Decided on their plan, they rested in the hospital room briefly; Clarence, under his constant glamour, still held wounds from the lightning strike at the pool that needed treating. Cornelius put in a little practice with the Bullingdon rapier, practice he sorely needed if he were ever going to wield it in anger. Dickie discussed some of the finer points of swordsmanship in Cornelius’ earshot, without going so far as to give him advice directly. Paris rambled a half-conversation where he feigned modesty at Van Richten’s unheard praise; from the monster hunter in the ring came only sulky silence.

With an errant swish of the blade, the ancestral rapier went flying from Cornelius’ fingers, skidding across the room. He turned to his companions and made sure it was very clear that if it looked like he was losing, they should not hesitate to leap to his rescue.

The Bullingdon Boys left the residential wing and passed back along the curtain wall, avoiding the inmates below. In the belfry room, the horned and two-headed manservant of the Abbot, Clovin Belview, was playing a soft and gentle song on his viol. He made it clear he did not want to be disturbed, as his other head was sleeping. They headed downstairs.

The Abbot, young, handsome, clothed in a simple homespun habit of brown wool, stood with hands clasped behind his back, staring out of the west window. At the far end of the long wooden table, the corpse-bride Vasilika sat patiently.

Cornelius, with a glove borrowed from his servant in hand, strode down the stairs towards the Abbot. “Abbot! I wish to speak to you.”

The Abbot turned, an eyebrow raised. “Ah, Cornelius. You’re still here?”

“Yes. We are still here. We investigated your abbey, and found you had performed heinous experiments on one of our friends, Rudolph Van Richten. What say you?”

The Abbot frowned apologetically. “Ah. Yes… Perhaps my anger was a little misplaced, and perhaps there was some pride in it as well. I thought the man could be taught some… Humility.”

“Well, if you want to see what misplaced anger, and pride, and teaching humility looks like, I’ll teach you! I challenge you to a duel!”

Cornelius swung the glove at the Abbot’s face, but was arrested as the Abbot’s hand moved lightning fast from behind his back to clasp the wrist of the assailant. “Now, now,” the Abbot murmured, and in Cornelius’ head the Abbot’s voice said “You can still turn back from this path, Cornelius Bullingdon.” Cornelius glanced over his shoulder at his party, a look of some regret on his face.

Paris reacted first as the plan fell at the first hurdle. His spiritual weapon appeared, as Paris called down “Threaten our leader and feel the wrath of the Golden Bully Sword!” and the huge blade clumsily buffeted the Abbot.

The Abbot released Cornelius’ wrist, taking a half step back. “You DARE?!” he cried, and threw his hands forward; pure white light began to shine from his flesh, and the back of his robe billowed and buckled. As the light grew painfully bright, the robe fell away, revealing a pair of enormous snow-white feathery wings; and the abbot stood transformed in the glow, a huge Adonis, a perfect form, beautiful and terrible to behold. This angel’s eyes were of solid radiant light, the wooden holy-symbol shone as gold or platinum upon his chest, and in his hand he held an enormous golden mace.

“YOU DARE!” he roared. The mace flashed towards Cornelius, but in a flash of his own Holy Light the Bullingdon deflected the blow; but the backswing caught him in the midriff, and where the mace struck Corenlius’ clothing was left singed and glowing white.

The gentleman pugilist replied in the manner he knew best: striking with his fists, landing a flurry of blows and throwing the angel to the ground. As the Abbot fell, Dickie was upon him, leaping from the stairs, the blade of his dagger black with poison. Where the blade struck, darkness crept over the Abbot’s alabaster skin. The angel cried out in pain, and slammed the butt of its mace on the ground.

Blinding radiance erupted from the mace, engulfing the Bullingdon Boys, searing their clothes and flesh. As the great wings beat, buffeting Cornelius and Dickie, the Abbot rose into the air as Paris and Clarence threw errant rays of frost and eldritch energy where he had lain. The angel swept down on Clarence on the stair, reaching for him with one perfect hand- but the grasp faltered as a shock of pain from the poison ran through the Abbot’s body. But Clarence couldn’t avoid the mace, a falling star that struck a devastating blow.

“Fleeing to the air won’t save you from the Bullingdon Boys!” Cornelius cried, directing a bolt of holy light at this foe. But the light eschewed the angel, diverging around the figure as Cornelius scrambled up the stairs to put himself between his brother and the Abbot. Dickie rushed to join Cornelius but wasn’t able to get an angle on the abbot as he pushed past Paris, and then the mace lit up again, releasing a blast of light once more.

Seared by holy energy, Paris screamed, pointing his finger- flames erupted about the Abbot and singed and burning feathers fell from the great wings. One hand clutched the blackened wound on its side, and as it sagged forward Clarence, flesh raw from the holy light and only on the brink of consciousness, encased himself in his magical frost armour.

Paris reached down to his apprentice, and the red skin cleared and faded as magical energy healed Clarence. The Golden Bully Sword continued to pursue the angel, crashing into its back; again, the great wings beat, and the Abbot flew backward from the stairs. His hands grabbed Dickie by the shoulders, and even weakened by the poison is was able to heave the manservant off the stair. The angel turned as it flew back across the room, and as it spun it released Dickie, hurling him through the window in a crash of glass. Dickie tucked and rolled, and miraculously passed inches between two gravestones, landing sprawled in the thin grass.

“You fiend! That’s my manservant!” Cornelius leapt from the stairs, wrapping the Abbot and dragging him to the ground, the striking with fist and knee. As they crashed to the floor the angel turned its terrible gaze fully upon Cornelius, who shrunk back in fear.

Dickie rolled to his feet, and without hesitation sprinted back at the wall of the abbey. Full speed, he scrambled up the stones to the broken window, and coloured glass crunched beneath his boots as he stood. The dagger was still in his hand.

“I bet you weren’t expecting this, you billowing bastard!”

Dickie leapt from the window ledge, dagger clasped in both hands, towards the Abbot’s back. The blade crashed up to the hilt through the angel’s skull. Cornelius saw the wicked tip of the blade come juddering through one of those beautiful, shining eyes, which turned into a black pit, along with its twin. The wings withered and Dickie was surrounded by a downy rain as feathers fell around him.

The Abbot’s hand came up to its head, clutching at the protrusion, feeling around the hilt and blade and wound. “No… No… Where are you… Morninglord, where have you gone?” the holy symbol faded, and was but simple wood again; the golden mace fell to the floor and scattered as beads of dissipating light. “Don’t leave me! It’s… It’s so dark… So dark…” blind black eyes stared at Cornelius “So dark… Is this what it’s like for you? How do you bear it?”

“No,” replied Cornelius, suffusing himself with a holy white glow, “this is what it’s like for me.”

Dickie drew back the blade, and the angel, the Abbot, crumpled to the ground, dead.

Skipping Town

The door burst open and the Abbot’s flesh-golem guardian, who must have been summoned when they first assaulted the abbot, charged into the room; but the horrific construct was too late, its creator was already dead.

With blasts of eldritch energy, rays of frost, swings of the Golden Bully Sword, strikes of Cornelius’ fists and slashes of Dickie’s knife, the creature was repelled. In its frenzied attack it even started to tear itself apart, the stiches in the flesh tearing loose; under the Bullingdon Boys’ assault it was swiftly reduced to the constituent parts from which it had been created.

Cornelius looked around the room: the fallen angel, the dismembered flesh golem, Vasilika still sat at the table patiently. “Well, let’s go,” he said, and began to clamber out of the window broken by Dickie’s earlier passage.

“Nononono, wait!” Paris said, “Aren’t we going to rescue the construct? And the inmates?”

“They’re beyond saving,” Dickie said, moving over to the hearth. Standing on a chair, he pulled down the sun-engraved gold disk hanging on the wall. The disk, he discovered, concealed a niche in the wall where a crystal flask holding some glittering potion was concealed. “Ooh!”

Clarence collected some of the Abbot’s shed feathers, in the hope that they held some magical or alchemical properties.

“I want to talk to the girl,” Paris said.

Cornelius huffed. “She can’t speak back to you Paris, you know.”

“But she might be released from her spell now or something, I don’t know.”

“Well Dickie and I will be waiting here on the window ledge for when you’re finished.”

Clarence said, “I promised I would help determine the thoughts of the creature for you… However, I do not quite have the… energies, at the moment.”

“Oh, you have betrayed me!” Paris wailed. Regardless, he approached, still sat at the table. She looked confused, and her face was lined with concern as she looked from the corpse of the Abbot to Paris. “Um. Miss? Are you able to nod or shake your head?”

She nodded. And so, Paris was able to communicate with her: she did not grieve the Abbot’s death. She didn’t know what to do with herself, or the inmates. Paris was concerned that the might starve- Cornelius was happy to let them. Vasilika pointed at herself, pointed at the pot, pointed towards the residential wing.

“You want… to be put in the pot?” Paris asked, confused.

She shook her head, and Dickie said “I think she’s offering to take care of them, Paris.”

“Oh. Ah, well, that solves everything. No need to feel guilty! Jolly good show.” He patted Vasilika on the shoulder.

Paris left the corpse-bride some gold, as Cornelius stared in horror, and the Bullingdon Boys left the Abbey of St. Markovia by the window; avoiding the gate and the gravedigger-guards, they hopped over the low wall, and scuttled back down the cliff-face path to Krezk.

The last light of evening was beginning to fade as they reached the bottom of the path. Two of the town’s amateur guards awaited them, in their fur hats. As the Bullingdons approached they stood, hefting their spears, but Cornelius swept past them unceremoniously. “Don’t mind us, we’re just leaving, come on let’s go!”

The guards trailed them as they strode towards the gates. “Hey, you’ve got to be out of the town by nightfall!”

“Yes, yes, we’re on our way, don’t mind us.”

One of the guards had to run to overtake them, in order to have the gate open in anticipation. The party hustled through the gate, Dickie calling “Good health to you all!” as they passed beneath the palisade.

“Lovely town!” Clarence added, and Cornelius- “We had a wonderful time! Come on, Paris, say something nice.”

“Um… Look after the disabled!”

The great wooden gates closed behind them.

Some minutes later, where the road leading down from the town met the Old Svalich Road, Paris began to summon the Golden Bully Hut. Dickie prepared supper, which Cornelius demanded he be served on the golden plate pilfered form the abbey.

They unfurled the map of Barovia, generously donated by the baron Vallakovich before his murder, and tried to work out where to go next. “So,” Dickie said, “As I see it, we can go here-“ he pointed to where they had marked Berez on the map- “and search out some angry ghost. Or go somewhere down here-“ he pointed to the mountains marked on the south of the map- “to look for a glowing sword.”

“I suggest we search for the temple of amber,” Clarence said, “it will no doubt contain many magical secrets in addition to the sunlight sword we seek.”

“It looks like a bloody trek though. Berez is what, a day from here? Going through the mountains looks longer.”

“Berez is almost on the way to the mountain shrine,” Cornelius said, drawing a line with his finger as the crow flies.

Dickie considered it. “If we go off road we could follow the river to the bridge then pick the road up there, maybe?”

“Indeed. So, we’ll head to Berez on the road, then do a little bit of a cross-country treck- it doesn’t look too far- along the river towards the mountains.”

Paris, by this point, was gently snoring.

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.”