5th Day of the 4th Quarter of the Moon of
Songs, Season of Wines, Year 766.
Days in Barovia: 8. The moon waxes gibbous.
1 Sept 2017
Session 21 – House of Light, House of Darkness
Down By The Riverside
The clouds gently parted, allowing
sunlight to play on the rippling water where Baba Lysaga’s corpse had sunk
below the surface. The Bullingdon Boys were, for a moment, frozen in the
sunlight- Clarence on the crumbling riverbank, Paris dragging himself from the
waters into which Dickie was diving, Cornelius triumphant upon the skull. And
then the clouds closed.
As Paris heaved himself onto dry
land he noticed watery blood running down his hands: in his brief stint in the
river, thick, red brown leeches had attacked themselves to any exposed skin. He
screamed. “Clarence! Clarence!”
“What is it?” The younger Bullingdon’s attention was on the
dragon’s skull, floating above the river.
“Help me rid myself of these leeches!” Paris put his hands over his
eyes, hoping his apprentice would resolve his predicament.
Clarence conjured a spectral hand
which swatted at Paris, who stood shivering until each of the blood drinkers
were removed.
Cornelius, closing his victorious
rendition of the Towton Beating Song, examined the macabre vehicle upon which
he stood. The skull was six feet of reptilian terror, with teeth like swords.
The witch had removed a section of cranium to create a hollow for a seat, in
which Cornelius plonked himself. Within there were no obvious methods for
directing the skull, but the source of the green light emanating from the eye
sockets was revealed. A ith glowing emerald intricately cut into the shape of
an acorn was affixed to a point on the inside of the skull between the eyes.
Cornelius, greedy eyes reflecting
the light of the gemstone, called down below “Dickie! Come up here with a chisel!”
As Dickie splashed into the water
he payed no heed to his master, following the body of the witch as it sunk into
the slow dark waters of the Raven River. Blindly grasping, his hand found
something like a gnarled branch… No, a thin arm, with a clawed hand at the end.
He heaved the corpse to the surface, now too providing a feast for leeches. As
Dickie dragged Baba Lysaga’s body ashore Clarence’s mage-hand turned its
ministrations on him.
“We should’ve left her in there,” said Paris, “It’s just not worth it.”
Dickie, with Cornelius’
permission, once again caught the dragon’s skull with his grapnel and (with Paris
feigning assistance) towed it to the shore. The vehicle did not resist and
could be towed smoothly, although as soon as any force was released it went
back to floating stationary in the air. As it reached the shore, Clarence
excitedly clambered onto it to investigate the new magical toy, awkwardly
trying to squeeze into the seat with Cornelius.
“Clarence, unless you brought a chisel with you could you please move
out of the way so Dickie can get in here?”
“Why a chisel, brother?”
“To remove this gem- which is surely worth quite a mint!”
A discussion was then had on
whether the gem compelled the skull to fly. If that was the case, which it
appeared to be (as emeralds do not usually luminesce), if they removed it they
would have to carry the skull back to Argynvostholt- for surely this was the
skull of Argynvost, founder of the Order of the Silver Dragon, stolen from his
mausoleum at the ruined mansion. Better, surely, to leave the enchantment
intact, tow the skull to wherever they needed to take it, then remove the gem
at the last? This was agreed to be the best course of action; once the skull
was at Argynvostholt (soon to be Castle Bullingdon), they would remove the
emerald.
They all climb on –
it bobbed slightly under their
weight but continued to float a few feet above the ground.
Paris asked “Who’s going to drive?”
“I am in the pilot’s seat,” Cornelius announced, “so I will pilot.” He placed his hand on
the glowing gem, and said “Up!”
“Up!”
“Try to be more specific,” Paris suggested, as the dragon skull
remained motionless. “Tell it to go to
Castle Bullingdon.”
“Go to Castle Bullingdon!”
Nothing.
“Fly! Go! Up! Away! Steady to starboard?”
Nothing.
It was Paris’ arcane assessment
that the while the enchantment appeared to keep the skull afloat, likely only
the hag herself would be able to pilot it.
“We may be facing a small issue here. My magical intuition tells me
that we cannot control this vehicle but- thank you Clarence for interrupting!”
“I didn’t say anything?” Clarence protested, having not said
anything.
“I hear what you’re saying, Paris,” said Cornelius, “but I think the secret may be we’ve not yet
used the correct magical words. Baba! Lysaga! Maga! Badabadaba!”
“That’s a good try Cornelius, but I don’t think it’s going to work. But
we’ve had a very good try, and we should clap ourselves on the back for that,
and not be ashamed of ourselves if we can’t get it to move any further. There’s
only one thing for it- we’ll sit on the skull, and Dickie can drag it along
from the ground.”
“Paris, I have a better idea,” Cornelius said. “We put the body- which Dickie recovered from the river- into the seat,
and trick the skull into thinking the witch is still alive and flying it!”
“I see no harm in trying it- but if that fails, we harness Dickie to
the thing.”
“Oh, of course. Dickie, grab the old woman.”
As Cornelius clambered out of the
seat, a dejected Dickie fetched the body. He pulled off her sodden cloak,
laying the garment down on the ground. A clinking in the pockets lining the inside
of the cloak revealed a half a dozen flasks and vials of different liquids;
these he placed on the cloak, along with the three long bone pins he withdrew
from the corpses hair, and the gnarled wooden staff that had been tangled up
with the witch.
Clarence jumped off the skull and
immediately started tasting potions to discover their properties. Three were
the same syrupy red liquid, potions of healing; another, with purple pigment
that contracted and expanded continuously, would shrink whoever drunk it; a
sweet liquid flecked with silver would remove curses but age the drinker, and a
bitter green fluid in a vial holding a fat segmented grub would, if fed to a
corpse, allow the dead to be questioned.
The staff held some sort of magic,
and the bone hairpins are something Van Richten had made clear he needed for
his soul transference scheme, which he hoped the Bullingdon Boys would use to
restore him to a body.
“There are magics of binding and restraining upon these needles,”
Clarence said as he looked them over, “I
can see why they would be of use to those who wished to trap the soul of
another creature.”
“That’s not something you’re interested in, is it, Clarence? Trapping
souls, I mean?” Paris asked.
“I have an… academic interest in the topic.”
Dickie took the needles, Clarence
the staff- which held some magic- and the potions were divvied up as the party
saw fit. Dickie placed Baba Lysaga’s corpse in the seat of the skull, and began
working ropes around the vehicle in the anticipation that he was going to end
up having to pull it. Cornelius placed the gnarled, dead hand on the gem, and
in an awful impersonation said “I am Baba
Lysaga, and I command this skull to fly!”
It did not fly. When Paris did a
much better impersonation, the skull remained stationary.
“Well, I don’t think anyone can do better than I have, so that’s final.
Dickie’s pulling it.”
“Right,” agreed Cornelius, “tip
out the corpse, Dickie, get your walking boots on.”
Paris unceremoniously heaved the
body over the side, where it fell into the mud of the riverbank. Clarence
suggested they might burn her body to stop Strahd restoring her to unlife, but
they found the wet witch fairly non-flammable. Paris didn’t want to build a
pyre; Dickie didn’t want to waste his oil; and in the end the body was left in
the mud on the side of the Raven River.
The Bullingdon Boys returned to
the road before the bridge, Dickie dragging the skull, and Paris summoned the
Golden Bully Hut. Clarence mulled over his new staff, which held some necrotic
potency, while Paris and Cornelius reminisced over their defeat of the hag; the
both of them ending up in fits of laughter. Afterwards, Clarence took his older
brother aside to talk.
“You recall the books I salvaged from the Abbot’s laboratories?”
“For the sake of argument, let’s say yes.”
“There are many secrets in those books pertaining to the science of
fleshwarping, of persuading ones body that it is something else. I could ensure
Dickie is considerably… More able, to pull the dragon skull.”
“Look, Clarence. Sometimes it’s very hard to understand what you mean,
when you say things. So in plain language, could you tell me your plan?”
“I could turn Dickie into a giant eagle.”
Cornelius’ eyes brightened and a
smile spread across his face. “Why, that
would get us to the mansion in no time!”
Where Eagles Dare
Clarence approached Dickie,
putting an arm around his shoulders. Dickie tensed as the young mage touched
him, immediately suspicious.
“You know, Dickie, we don’t really get to talk all that much.”
“You seem to talk plenty.”
“There’s some very interesting information I’ve come into possession of
recently which could make your job here a lot easier. I understand you’re being
asked to drag the dragon skull quite a distance; I’ve recently learnt a spell that
may provide some benefit to you.”
Dickie gave him a suspicious
sidelong glance.
“So, if you’ll just stand right here,” Clarence jostled the dour
manservant into position, “and don’t
move, and don’t tense up or anything…”
“I don’t see how this day could get any stupider. Very well.”
“Alright. Just relax, and try not to panic.” Dickie looked visibly
worried at this, as Clarence made the appropriate shapes with his hands and
spoke the appropriate words of power. Dickie looked down at his hands, as the flesh
beneath his skin began to write; his flesh moulding to Clarence’s will,
feathers pushing through from under his nails and then springing from his hair
follicles. As Dickie shrunk and twisted and stretched, his face was briefly a
mask of terror before twisting into a huge golden beak. His panicked cry became
a piercing squawk.
“Yes! It works! It works!” Clarence exulted, as Cornelius clapped
him on the back.
“Bravo! Bravo indeed! You know Paris, I should give you a bonus for
teaching him that one.”
“You’re very welcome,” Paris said, with no idea how Clarence had
achieved this feat of magic. “Well done,
Clarence.”
Before them, where Dickie had
been, stood a huge eagle; its head level with Clarence’s chest, it’s sharply
wicked beak half a foot long, talons like daggers on yellow feet. Paris reached
out to stroke one large brown wing, remarking on the lovely markings Clarence
had achieved; Dickie struck the wizard with a wingtip, wobbling as he lost his
balance and crying indignantly.
“Alright, calm down!” Clarence said, “your new form knows everything it needs to. Stop trying to move like a
human because you’re not a human any more, you’re a giant eagle. The giant
eagle knows what to do.”
The giant eagle gave Clarence a
malevolent look.
“Clarence, just get back in the skull, I’m sure Dickie knows what he’s
doing,” said Cornelius, ever confident. He and Paris managed to rig a rough
rope harness connecting the skull to the eagle, Dickie occasionally snapping at
them irritably.
Cornelius sat in the seat, and lit
the heirloom pipe taken from Wachterhaus as Clarence and Paris bound themselves
to the skull with ropes. Dickie spread his wings, and powered his legs along
the road performing a running, flapping jump, the dragon’s skull bobbing behind
him… And failed to get airborne, realising he needed to jump from some height
to achieve flight, burdened as he was.
The giant eagle did a crouching,
hopping march over to the bridge, where the mouldering goat corpses still lay
at the far end. He hopped onto the side, looking out over the river. Clarence
had said the giant eagle knew how to fly, and as Dickie hopped down towards the
water below… the giant eagle did.
With swift, easy beats of the huge
wings, Dickie raised into the air: above the Raven River, above the dead goats
on the bridge, above the tops of the trees, wreathed in mist. Clarence’s
laughter echoed through the air as the dragon’s skull was hauled south through
the air, Dickie drawing a line to Argynvostholt despite the omnipresent cloud
and fog.
The fog was still and there didn’t
seem to be a breeze, but for those on the skull the journey was surprisingly
turbulent; their vehicle jolted and twisted and shook behind the great bird, as
Dickie felt out what his new form could do.
“Dickie, be a bit smoother, could you?” Cornelius shouted, looking
a shade green. Paris had his face pressed to the skull, eyes shut, while
Clarence laughed maniacally. Dickie pulled down, so that the bottom of the
skull skimmed across the treetops, shuddering to the susurration of the tall
pines.
“Go up, for gods sake!” The skull turned more up than Cornelius
appreciated, a steep climb that caused his stomach to heave. “I know what you’re doing, Dickie, and I
don’t apprecia-“ and Cornelius’ stomach betrayed him, spewing forth its
contents which spilled back over him as the skull continued to rise.
Eventually the Bullingdon Boys
adjusted to their new sensations: for Dickie, being a giant eagle, and for the
others, their mad sleigh ride on a dragon’s skull. They soared through the
cloud above the treeline, south, south and east, for almost an hour until the
trees below them cleared revealing the ruin of Argynvostholt standing
spectacularly above the mountain valley behind.
Dickie’s eagle eyes were the first
to see, upon the lawn in front of the mansion, a double rank of knights in
various states of decay- the revenant knights of the Order of the Silver
Dragon, with their commander Vladimir Horngaard at their head. Dickie
screeched, trying to get his companion’s attention, but unable to articulate
what he could see. He cut low over the lawn so that his companions could see
the knights assembled below.
“Shit!” Clarence cried as he saw the host.
“I thought we were friends with them now, on account of wanting to
destroy Strahd?”
“That is the opposite of what they desired! Or at least, their leader.
Dickie, get to the back, before they shoot us or something!”
Dickie banked, climbed, making a
pass around the large central tower, and descended, coming to a running landing
in the graveyard, the dragon’s skull juddering behind him. As Dickie’s taloned
feet hit the ground, the transformation came to an end and he returned to the
form of a man, still running and harnessed.
“Cor,” he breathed as he came to a stop, “bloody hell.”
Shakily, Cornelius disembarked and
coated in his own vomit, staggered towards Dickie. His hand came around in a
slap but Dickie leaned away from it, and instinctively popped Cornelius in the
jaw with a closed fist. Shocked, Cornelius swung another blow at his
manservant, this time a closed fist, but he was unsteady and Dickie stepped
away from him again.
“God damn it!” Cornelius moaned.
“What the bloody hell was that about?” Dickie asked, confused and
upset.
“You- you made me be sick on myself, Dickie! And a gentleman is not
sick on himself!”
“Your brother turned me into a bloody eagle!”
“That was for the greater good!”
“He could’ve bloody warned me!”
“If we’d warned you, you wouldn’t have let him do it.”
“And you wouldn’t have been sick on yourself.”
“It would have taken us longer to get here! There was no reason- no
reason- for you to be silly with your… manoeuvres in the sky!”
Dickie took a deep breathe,
composing himself. “I don’t know what
you’re talking about m’lord. It’s tricky, this flying stuff, with air currents
and turbulence and stuff.”
“Look Dickie, you didn’t go to university- you don’t know shit about
air currents!”
“You don’t know shit about being a giant bird!”
At this point the chapel door, at
the top of the stairs leading from the graveyard to the mansion, swung open.
Vladimir Horngaard stepped out, clad in dragon-inscribed plate armour, enormous
greatsword held ceremoniously before him in both hands.
“Stop right there!” Clarence called, staff outstretched ready to
cast his magics as the commander began to descend the stairs. Horngaard halted.
The greatsword reversed in his hands, the point resting on the step in front of
him, his hands upon the dragon-wing crossguard, revealing the pommel, a
dragon’s head holding a black opal in its jaws. A column of knights halted
behind him, standing like statues, armour and flesh alike patchwork and falling
apart.
“Behold!” cried Paris, “We
have returned the skull of Argynvost, and thus… Released you from the curse?” He
didn’t sound entirely sure. “Is that what
it was?”
Horngaard’s voice boomed back
across the still graveyard. “In spite of
your transgression, you do us great honour. We would see our lord restored to
his rightful resting place.”
“I think we’re all in agreement here then,” Clarence said with
relief.
Horngaard raised a hand. “But first, you must remove whatever
enchantment is upon it.”
Paris smiled smugly. “I think that should be well within my
ability- Clarence, leave this to me, I’ve been doing this far longer than you.”
The wizard stepped towards the skull, murmuring “Dickie, do you have a chisel?”
Dickie found that he was quite
easily able to remove the acorn shaped emerald without any need for chiselling.
The gem continued to glow, but the light faded from the eyes of Argynvost’s
skull, which stopped floating: Dickie barely saving his toes from being crushed
as it fell to the earth.
“And thus, the spell is removed,” Paris intoned sombrely. “You’re welome.”
“Bravo! Bravo I say!” said Cornelius, clapping. “Bully! Bully! Bully!”
“Oi! Oi! Oi!” responded the Bullingdon Boys, and as they did so
there was a clash of steel on steel as mail-fisted hands wrapped around sword
hilts crashed into the breastplates of the assembled knights in salute.
“Aha!” said Cornelius, “I
knew it would catch on eventually! You do us an honour, good knights.”
“No, you do us an honour,” Horngaard replied, moving down the
stairs. He gestured to the huge marble door of the mausoleum, still open wide
enough for a man to slip in from the Bullingdon Boys last excursion to
Argynvostholt. “So, the honour falls to
you.” A pair of his knights stepped forward and heaved the marble slab
open. Collectively the Bullingdon Boys managed to lift the huge skull, and move
it into the tomb, where an empty plinth awaited Argynvost’s return.
As the skull of the dragon
Argynvost was placed on the plinth, the room was engulfed by brilliant white
light. There was a clatter of falling steel, and as the light receeded, the
Bullingdon Boys saw the collapsed bodies of Vladimir Horngaard and his silver
knights, lifeless and inanimate. As they stepped outside, there was a glorious flash from the top of the tallest
tower of Argynvostholt. Ravens scattered from the room where they had found Van
Richten as the beacon of Argynvost ignited, brighter than any lighthouse. As
the light fell upon them, the clamy cold of Barovia’s air was replaced by a
gentle warmth. The fog at their feet recoiled, tendrils of mist curling up like
the legs of some dead spider before fading completely.
As the fog faded, spirits
materialized in the graveyard before them, standing over the fallen knights.
These phantoms, ghost-blue, were resplendent in the glorious attire of the
Order of the Silver Dragon. At their front stood Vladimir Horngaard, their last
lord commander, eyes no longer haunted, visage no longer hateful, a soft smile
playing around his spectral lips.
“Thankyou. I was… wrong. My hatred blinded me, bound me here and
trapped my knights along with me. It was not fair, nor just. But Argynvost’s light
has freed me- all of us. I cannot thank you enough.” The spirit of
Horngaard pointed to the body at his feet. “Upon
that corpse I wore, you will find a silver horn. This horn was used in times of
need to rally the order- to call my lord’s knights to defend the innocent, and
slay the villainous. My knights and I are free now to go forward, into whatever
lies beyond. But I will linger while you still have need of me. Not for hatred,
but for the honour of the silver order. While Strahd persists and you oppose
him, I will await your call. I will not bind these knights to do the same-“ He
turned to the cohort of knights behind him- “You
are free to go. But I would have you fight by my side, one last time, for
Argynvost!”
The graveyard was filled by the
cheer of phantom voices, as spectral swords were drawn and thrust into the air.
“Argynvost! Argynvost!”
Added the Bullingdon Boys: “Oi! Oi! Oi!”
Horngaard smiled broadly at the
group, and explained how blasting once upon the horn would summon a knight to fight
by their side. When they began their final assault upon the devil’s lair, he
beseeched them blast three times, and all willing knights of the Order of the
Silver Dragon would come to their aid.
Horngaard bowed, and he and his
knights began to fade.
“Wait, wait!” cried Cornelius, “There
is one thing left! Perhaps as a reward, you can hand over the title deeds of
this property?” But he was beseeching empty air: no trace of the phantoms
remained. “Damn it! So do we legally own
this place or not?”
Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge
The Bullingdon Boys took the horn
from Horngaard’s corpse, and Paris, although unable to wield the thing
effectively, liked the look of his ornate greatsword. Cornelius decided they
would have a final sweep of Argynvostholt- Castle Bullingdon, now- to fully
acquaint themselves with their new abode.
The ground floor of the west wing-
the collapsed side of the building- they had not investigated, and found to
hold a huge ballroom infested with gigantic spiders. Thick webs filled the
room, and hairly legged arachnids of grotesque size stood still as statues,
awaiting prey. Paris, from a distance, cast a small spell to make the ground
tremble, shaking the webs- and the giant spiders animated, skittering around in
a flurry to find whatever had stumbled into their realm.
The Bullingdon Boys decided to
leave that room alone.
The rest of the mansion was now
uninhabited. They found the odd corpse of a knight, spirit now free, but
otherwise they met only empty bedchambers, ruined bathrooms, and desolate
hallways. An armoury held a selection of arms and armour not suited to any of
the Bully Boys’ tastes, but in a chest hidden under a bed Dickie found a few
potions of interest: two to provide physical protection to the drinker, and one
to sharpen blades.
By the time they were done, it was
mid-afternoon. Reassembled on the lawn, they decided there was enough of the
day left to reach Berez; especially if rather than returning to the road, they
traversed the steep bank behind Argynvostholt, descending into the Luna River
valley.
This path was more treacherous
than the road but Dickie proved as effective at off-piste navigation as a man
as he was at aerial orienteering as a bird. The ascent was easier for the lack
of fog: the beacon of Argynvost, it seemed, had burned away all of the
unnatural mist in the valley.
They reached the valley floor and
Dickie found a trail that hugged the Luna River for several miles. The dirt and
grass soon turned to marsh as the trail dissolved into spongey earth pockmarked
with strands of tall reeds and pools of fetid water. There was still mist here,
despite the beacon blazing above the horizon to the northwest; the natural mist
of the fen, rather than the preternatural fog to which they were accustomed.
Everywhere, black clouds of flies darted about, hungry for blood.
It would have been easy for them
to lose their way in the mire, where the path was broken and sunken and
sometimes entirely disappeared, but soon enough Dickie was keeping them in
line, navigating the Bullingdon party around sinkholes and deep muck, stopping
them from walking into vipers’ nests, growing more assured the longer they
spent in the swamp.
Eventually Dickie’s self assurance
paid off, as they come upon a cluster of old peasant cottages, their walls
covered with black mildew, their roofs mostly caved in. The decrepit dwellings
hunkered down in the mire, having long since given up on escaping the thick
mud.
The Bully Boys could imagine how
the drowned village would have looked but hours ago: wreathed in creeping fog,
for every crumbling house a misty shroud of writhing tendrils. Strange shadows
and muted lights, all sound dampened to directionless susurrations and queer
echoes. But the unnatural fog was gone; a thin mist still wisped around their
ankles, but they could see the length and breadth of the village.
To their left and right, rows of
dilapidated hovels, mouldering and collapsing into the mud. At the far end of
the village, the empty shell of an old stone church adjacent to a cemetery of
leaning gravestones enclosed by a disintegrating iron fence- half the cemetery
sunk into the mire. On slightly higher ground beside the church, a mansion
reduced to piles of stone and rotting timber, empty, arched windows staring.
Broken walls fail to contain an untamed garden that runs rampant around the
ruin. Just to the east of this, a wooden fence, more recently erected, forming
a pen in which several goats were held.
And in the centre of all this, in
the centre of the village, a ramshackle wooden hut built on the stump of what
was once an enormous tree. The rotting roots of the stump thrust up from the
mire like the legs of a gigantic spider. Flanking the hut’s doorway were two
iron cages that dangle like hideous ornaments from the eaves. Scores of ravens were
packed into each cage, trapped so tightly they could not move. They were
silent: black eyes watching the three women stood outside the hut.
Their backs were towards the party.
The leftmost was wide of hip and bust, with curly brown hair; the rightmost
slender and blonde; and between them an old woman bent with age, leaning on a
staff, white haired and wrapped in thick cloaks. Each had their hair neatly
bundled upon their heads, held with long pins. They appeared to be arguing.
Cornelius opened his mouth to call
out a greeting, but Dickie recognized the three- or suspected he did- so
clamped his hand over the nobleman’s mouth. “We
should listen,” he hissed, and the voices of the triumvirate carried over
the still air.
“T’isn’t right! Something is awry!” the youngest came from the woman on the right.
“Aye, where be the fog? Is then the dark lord slain?” said the one
on the left, sounding of middle years.
“Nay, don’t be foolish- still the sun is hidden! Hush, and patience,
for she will return soon! She will know,” snapped the elder, between the
two others.
The brunette disobeyed her. “Ach, should we even beseech her? What if
she’s wroth?”
“Why would she be wroth?”
Spoke the youngest, “The banderhobb! It failed! A waste of her
magics, she will not be pleased to hear it, nor happy to give us aid again.”
“Aye, not without a price. You know the temperament of these ancient
hags, Nanny.” Nanny harrumphed at this, as the youngest asked “Mayhaps we should enter before she returns?
We could all take a dip in her bath.”
“Cease that foolishness, and hush I said! I shall be wroth if-“ and
she stopped, as an agonizing moan escaped from the hut built upon the stump; a
long, drawn, heaving moan of fear and pain.
“What is’t?” the youngest asked timidly. “Should we flee?”
“You are a fool! Silence and patience, the pair of yous.”
Another moan came from the hut,
and then silence as the trio wait anxiously. Their voices had given them away
as the three hags met in the windmill between Vallaki and Barovia, as Dickie
had suspected. “Shall we have us a little
revenge?” he asked his companions.
“I think we can take them,” Paris muttered, rootling through the
pockets of his robe for the eye of the Banderhobb, the horrific frog-beast they
suspected these hags had sent to steal Clarence, which had mistakenly swallowed
Victor Vallakovich.
“We’ve just killed one old woman,” Cornelius whispered confidently,
“I think we can take another three.” It
was decided that they would launch a surprise against the three while they had
the element of surprise.
“Bully Bully Bully!” shouted Paris as he waved his wand with one
hand, crushing the Banderhobb eye in the other: an enormous ball of fire
exploded in the coven’s midst, additionally potent from the additional
ingredient in the casting.
Nanny was caught full in the
blast, enwreathed in explosive flame, while either side of her Aunty and
Daughter (as the Bully Boys recalled the other two had called each other in the
windmill) avoided the worst of the blast. Flames licked up the huge roots of
the stump, threatening to catch the hut.
As the fire wrapped around Nanny,
her back almost audibly creaked as she pushed out of her stoop. A gnarled hand
went to her face and pulled down, and the flesh sloughed away amidst the
flames, revealing blue-white skin, pale eyes surrounded by dark,
bruise-coloured flesh, and a horrendously oversized mouth full of pointed
teeth.
Unfaltering, Dickie loosed an
arrow at her from his long black bow, but his aim was thrown off by the fiery
explosion and the shaft sunk into the mud at the awful creatures feet.
Clarence raised his hands, palm
up, thick purple robe sleeves dropping down his wrist. As his hands rose, thick
black tentacles arose out of the ground around the witches, dense as grass,
writhing and grasping for anything in their domain.
Nanny, blue and terrible, fought
off the tentacles but beside her Aunty was engulfed. As the black limbs
constricted, crushing her, she began to shift and swell strangely, flesh
rippling and bulging as black iron spikes protruded from her skin. Her mouth
opened in a roar of agony, revealing rusted metal points in place of teeth.
Cornelius approached her, laughing
at her predicament. He raised the Holy Symbol of Ravenkind and the hag screamed again as radiant light crackled
around her.
The huge roots of the gigantic
tree stump suddenly animated. The hut was lifted into the air as the stump
stood up on gigantic root-legs, slipping out of the grasp of the black
tentacles and ponderously teeterimg to one side. A root came free of the earth wrapped around a
large hunk of rock, and whipped towards Paris. “Wait, look over there!” the wizard cried, and somehow the boulder
went slightly askew but still crashed into him.
Following the ball of fire, a ray
of frost leapt from Paris’ wand to the Daughter, who’s glamour fell as ice
crept up her skin. Her youthful beauty fells away; her skin was pallid, slimy,
even scaled; her eyes glassy, lifeless as a doll. Her blond hair held a
sickening sheen as if it were a tangle of seaweed. As she hissed at Paris,
black tentacles constricted around her and with a sickening crunch her body was
crushed.
With a wave of Paris’ wand, the
Golden Bully Sword appeared and began to float towards the walking hut. Dickie
took aim with his bow, this time at Aunty, restrained by tentacles: for a
moment there was a gap in the writhing limbs through which the arrow flew true,
smashing into her sternum. Aunty writhed against her bindings, unable to break
free.
Clarence threw eldritch energy at
the walking hut, blasting into the stump as Dickie strode forward to stand by
Cornelius. The structure, wobbling forwards, ravens in the cages screeching in
terror, did not seem to notice Clarence’s assault.
In the midst of the tendrils,
Nanny batted her way free with her staff then nimbly hopped on it side-saddle-
it bobbed in the air for a moment then carried her beyond the reach of the
tentacle patch, and she swept low infront of Cornelius and Dickie and Paris, a
hand outstretched.
A blast of air, tremendously cold,
swept from her palm, freezing the mist in chunks and throwing traces of frost
over the three Bullingdon Boys. Dickie and Paris managed to dive out of the
worst of the cone of cold; Cornelius took the brunt. However, the ring of
warmth found in a grave at the abbey was on his finger, and its protection
lessened the effect of the old hag’s magic.
Cornelius pushed through the icy
blast and threw himself at Nanny as she swept low, knocking her from the broom.
The hut scuttled towards the pair with startling speed, heaving another rock at
Paris as it did so; as the boulder arced through the air, Paris jumped from
side to side. “Where- Where to throw it?
You can’t tell!”
The boulder, it turned out, was
large enough to hit both of the spots that Paris was jumping between. He was
flattened, smashed into the mire, flopping into unconsciousness.
Another root struck down in front
of the hut. Cornelius nimbly stepped aside, and the limb smashed into the prone
figure of Nanny who lurched horribly. As the root lifted, Dickie darted in
liquid fast, wicked dagger in his hand. “We
told you to remember the Bullingdon Boys,” he murmured in her ear, before
drawing the blade across her throat, spilling her lifesblood into the mire.
Clarence charged over to Paris,
half-crushed beneath the boulder. Patting down the wizard he found the potion
taken from Baba Lysaga in a robe pocket, and poured it down his teacher’s
throat; Paris muttered and his eyes flickered as the healing magic ran through
him, and Clarence retreated from his side in case and further missiles were
incoming.
Fire leapt from Cornelius’ fingers
at the hut before him, licking up the huge root-legs but failing to catch.
Within the patch of black
tentacle, iron-spiked Aunty, slowly being crushed, screamed and heaved
forwards, pulling the tendrils free. She stumbled out of the mass and screamed
as Dickie slit Nanny’s throat. She pointed a black iron nail at them and cried,
“Curse you, Bullingdon Boys, ye’ll nev-“ And
was flattened as one root of the house smashed her into the muck. She did not
rise.
The coven of hags- Daughter, Aunty and Nanny- were dead, but the Bullingdon Boys yet faced the creeping hut of Baba Lysaga.
18 Aug 2017
Session 20 – Every Mother’s Son
5th Day of the 4th Quarter of the Moon of
Songs, Season of Wines, Year 766.
Days in Barovia: 8. The moon waxes gibbous.
Let Sleeping Dogs Lie
Paris snapped awake. It was well
before dawn, the sky above still dark but… The Golden Bully Hut was gone! And
then, there was fire: a burning explosion, unbearable heat, in the midst of
their camp. Cornelius and Dickie, barely conscious, were already flinging themselves
away as they came too, scrabbling and rolling; Paris threw himself down,
minimizing the impact of the blast, but Clarence was engulfed by the inferno.
As Paris recovered, nightclothes
smouldering, he saw Strahd von Zarovich stood hand outstretched towards the
camp. The devil’s face was a cruel rictus of rage.
Paris cried out in retribution – “That’s not how the Bully Hut’s supposed to work!”
and Strahd was briefly engulfed by hellish flames that licked at his cloak
and flesh but seemed to do no damage; in Paris’ ears boomed the lub-dub, lub-dub of some enormous heart, as the foppish wizard, never without
his wand, flung a ray of frost at the vampire. The ice rippled around Strahd
and again the effect seemed mitigated, and the great heart beat once more.
Paris gestured, and the Golden Bully Sword appeared; huge and pendulous, it
struck at the vampire who brushed it aside to the sound of the heart.
Dickie sprung to his feet. “Attack us in our sleep, will you? You
bloody bastard!” He charged toward Strahd, rolling as he passed Van Richten’s
sword-cane, thrown towards him in the blast, coming to his feet now with two
weapons; dagger in one hand, silver sword in the other. He slashed at the
vampire, and as the blades sliced through Strahd’s flesh it reknit immediately,
and Dickie now heard the heartbeat boom.
Strahd’s hand, long nails
outstretched, lunged at the bare flesh of Dickie’s chest, and came away bloody.
Clarence, skin red raw, eyebrows
gone, backed away from the monstrous lord of Barovia desperately casting a
protective enchantment that encased him in armour of ice.
“Paris, there’s a fire in the Bully Hut!” Cornelius shouted, then,
noticing Strahd engaged with Dickie, “What?
You’re supposed to be dead, fiend!” He grasped the Holy Symbol of
Ravenkind, hung around his neck- “This
time, no fancy tricks will let you escape from the Bullingdon Boys! We have the
Morninglord on our side!” He channelled the divine power of the symbol- the
power to paralyze vampires- and Strahd slowed, his muscles locking stiff… But
then, shuddering the vampire overcame the effect, his flesh tearing from the
stress then immediately reknitting to the sound of the great hard. “No! That was lost, forever!” He roared,
as Cornelius charged towards him.
“Not anymore,” Paris called, “You’re
facing the big boys now, Strahd!” and the Bully Sword swung down, striking
Strahd once again. Lub-dub, lub-dub. Van Richten’s sword in Dickie’s
hand flashed, skewered Strahd, and lub-dub,
lub… the heartbeat stopped, the silver sword came out bloody, and the wound
did not immediately heal. Dickie stepped away from the swing of a clawed hand,
but Cornelius was not so nimble and Strahd wrapped an iron hand around his
throat.
Clarence wove an enchantment to
send Strahd away, and the vampire’s
form began to flicker and fade, phasing out of existence but Strahd screamed in
anger and through sheer force of will overcame the spell; his physical body
tearing from the strain of the exertion of will, hand still clamped on
Cornelius’ throat.
Cornelius’ fist wrapped around the
holy symbol, then pounded into Strahd’s face, bones beneath the dead white skin
crunching, the cheekbone collapsing. A ray of frost from Paris went errant and
the Bully Sword swung and missed, and Strahd drew Cornelius close, sinking his
fangs into his neck. Cornelius shuddered as for a second time, Strahd drank
deep of him, drawing forth his very essence.
Dickie’s dagger slammed into
Strahd’s side, and the creature released its hold on Cornleius; throwing the
elder Bullington into his manservant, Strahd stepped back and threw a fireball
at Paris. This time the wizard was too slow and took the full front of the
blast. The vampire’s cheekbone pushed itself back out as it slowly started to
heal.
As Clarence summoned his energy to
throw at Strahd the vampire sought to quash his magics; but the bronze hand artefact
within Clarence’s robes absorbed Strahd’s counter-spell, and a backpedalling
Clarence let loose two eldritch blasts. As these narrowly missed the vampire
Cornelius rushed in holding up the holy symbol and releasing a radiant blast of
divine energy. Searing white light surrounded Strahd and his flesh smoked.
Paris, wheezing, singed, burned,
wheezed “A-ha! Two can play at that game!”
and hurled a fireball of his own at Strahd, catching the vampire and Cornelius
both in the explosion. “Err, sorry,
sorry, whoops!” Paris cried as Cornelius barely kept his feet, swaying
uncertainly. Paris started towards him, and motioned for the Golden Bully Sword
to crash down upon the distracted Strahd.
Dickie flew towards his wobbly
master, grabbing his pack from the wreck of their camp as he ran; on the move,
he drew out the potion he had pilfered from the abbey, and pressed it into
Cornelius’ hands – “Drink this!” –
stepping in between him and their foe. His dagger flashed, keeping Strahd at
bay.
Strahd was still smouldering from
the divine magic, his regenerative powers halted momentarily; His hands
flashed, striking at Dickie and Cornelius who would have been slain, if not for
the surge of healing energy that filled him as he drank the potion.
More arcane energy leapt from
Paris and Clarence, chilling frost and shimmering eldritch power; Cornelius,
feeling invigorated, crushed the potion bottle in his hand then threw a flurry
of potent punches at the vampire lord. Strahd staggered back- “You cannot kill me! I am eternal!” The Golden
Bully Sword smashed into him, and as his guard fell open, Dickie’s dagger
plunged up, under jaw, into the skull.
As Dickie pulled the blade back,
Strahd toppled… and collapsed into mist as he hit the ground, melding
seamlessly with the ankle-high fog. Strahd was gone.
Beauty Sleep
“How many times do we have to kill this man?” Paris asked.
“I think we’re going to have to find a very… Specific way of killing
him,” Dickie suggested. “Speaking of
which, has anyone got an empty bottle?”
Among the scattered contents of
their camp an empty vial was found. Dickie scraped thick, black blood off of
sword and dagger and into the vial, as best he could- Van Richten’s plan
required blood of the Barovian royal line, and perhaps Strahd’s blood would
suffice. “That’s one hell of a way to
wake up.”
“So, um. I don’t know what happened with the Bully Hut there,” Paris
said sheepishly, “my apologies.”
Cornelius huffed. “Your ‘apologies’, Paris? One of us could
have died back there!”
“Strahd must have overpowered your magic,” Clarence said.
“Well, he needs to make his magic more powerful!”
“Some of us could have died, but none of us did, and that’s the
important thing,” said Dickie. “And
we’ve beaten him again! The bastard’s got nothing on us.”
Clarence winced as his fingers
probed reddened flesh. “Still, it was
quite unpleasant to wake up to.”
“I for one am growing quite tired of that man clamping his teeth on my
neck.” Cornelius was, in the flickering firelight, looking slightly paler
than usual.
“If we can drive him off this way, once we’ve got all the tools we’ll
make short work of him,” Paris boasted confidently. “We’ve got… two to four victories under our belt already.”
“Undoubtedly he will be much stronger in his place of true power.”
“But we can probably defeat him for good there,” said Dickie,
recalling the Tarokka reading.
“I feel we’re getting significantly more battered every time we face
him, although maybe this time Strahd wasn’t entirely to blame?” Cornelius
looked accusingly at Paris.
“My aim may have been slightly… askew, and for that I apologise.”
“You engulfed him in 20 feet of flame!”
“Admittedly, yes but… Ah… It was all part of my plan,” Paris lied. “I knew if Cornelius was caught in the
crossfire, Strahd would immediately turn his attention to Dickie.”
Dickie looked affronted that Paris
would try to throw him to the wolves in such a manner, not that he believed the
dandyish wizard’s excuse.
“He punched me again straight after!” Cornelius shook his head. “Look, it is not yet dawn, and I need rest.
Paris, summon the Bully Hut again, and this time with more security!”
So, Paris once again conjured the golden
dome, reassuring his companions that this time it had “additional security
features”. Considering the hallowed of the Church of Saint Andral repelled
Strahd, Cornelius decided to bless the Bully Hut for added protection, waving
his holy symbol around and calling upon the Morninglord.
Paris, confident in the safety of
his conjuration, regardless of the evidence, fell asleep immediately. Cornelius
joined him. Clarence began to read the tomes of alchemical and surgical
knowledge he had purloined from the abbey, but soon was gently snoring, his
head resting on the pages. Dickie did not sleep.
Some hours later, Cornelius was woken
by the smell of roasting rabbit, that Dickie had caught, dressed and started
cooking while they slept. Clarence joined them for breakfast, and they charitably
let Paris sleep. Looking over the map, they determined that to get to Berez,
where hopefully they would find some ancient man or ghost or beggar with some
treasure for them, would take them the better part of a day. The ruined village
was not as far to the east as Vallaki but much further to the south.
Eventually, having somewhat
recovered from the predawn assault, the Bullingdon Boys broke camp and headed
east along the Old Svalich Road. The morning was damp and cloying and thick
with twisting strands of fog; a normal morning in Barovia. The road was muddy
from the night’s rain. As they approached the Raven River, the fog rolled heavy
off of the waters, and the dirt road abruptly gave way to the slick stones of
the bridge.
The air carried a foul stench; the
scent of corruption and decay that they had not smelt the last time they came
this way. The air was filled by the drone of a thousand tiny wings. As the fog
gave way before their progress, a strange silhouette became visible at the far
end of the bridge. A misshapen pile, buzzing with vermin, formed by the corpses
of half a dozen dead goats.
Something huge and white sat upon
the slaughter pile, regarding them with empty eye sockets, teeth like swords in
an immortal rictus grin. The Bully Boys felt the hairs on their necks stand on
end as their primal instincts told them to RUN from this enormous, predatory,
reptilian visage: the gigantic skull of an enormous lizard lost to time… or… a
dragon.
“This seems… familiar,” Cornelius said.
The buzzing of the flies rose and
fell, and rippled, and converged, coalescing in tone and pitch as a legion talking
in a thousand tiny voices.
“My poor boy,” the droning voice buzzed, “my poor sweet Strahd. Do you know what you’ve done to him?”
Cornelius took the voice, emanating
from the swarm of flies flittering around the skull and slaughter, to be
addressing them. “What we have done to
your Strahd is beat him off! That’s what’s happened every time he tries to test
us!”
The horrid buzzing carried on over
Cornelius. “He was always too good for
that slattern, mother knows best, but he would not hear me.”
“Maybe he didn’t hear you because you make no sense, you crazy woman.
Now, your pile of goats is in our way.”
“You persist in making him miserable.”
“He started it!”
“You cut him to the bone, you break his body- and his heart!” The
buzzing grew in intensity, anger in the voice.
“Well if he stopped trying to kill us we wouldn’t have to!”
“And also if he renounces his claim to the state of Barovia,” Clarence
added.
“Yes,” Cornelius joined in his brother’s opportunism, “and confers it to us, the Bullingdon Boys.
And… Gives us money!”
The buzzing droned over him, “He’ll thank me for getting rid of you, then
he’ll listen to his dear old mother!”
The flies gathered on the skull,
forming a humming, shivering pile of thousands upon thousands of fat black
bodies, and the pile shifted and took shape, narrowing here, widening there,
truncating, branching, until the millions of flies formed the silhouette of a
person. And then a person was there, in place of the swarm of writhing insects.
A haggard, ancient, hideous woman, masses of wild thick hair held haphazardly
in place by long bone pins. She sat in the cranium of the skull, apparently
hollowed to allow a seat, and the skulls eyes began to glow with sickly green
light as it slowly rose into the air above the pile of goat corpses.
Mother Knows Best
As the skull ascended the Bully
Boys saw that two goat corpses trailed it, dangling behind from a length of
rope. From his pack, Dickie drew a length of rope of his own, with a grapnel on
its end. He twirled it one, twice, and released: the iron hook flew true, landing
in the lap of the hag, and as Dickie yanked the rope the grapnel caught on the
edge of the skull and the vehicle tipped ponderously towards him.
Clarence grasped the bronze hand
taken from the tower of Exethanter, speaking a word of power and gesturing
forwards. The bronze hand expelled some of the magical force it had absorbed
since Clarence has acquired it, and a huge hand manifested in the air next to
the witch. The fingers on the bronze hand closed, and the huge magic hand
bodily plucked the flailing hag from the skull and began to drag her towards
the party. But her figure dissolved back into a swarm of flies, screams of
protest turning to angry buzzing. The spectral hand shut closed, crushing a few
dozen insects, thousands of others swarmed back to the skull, still tethered to
Dickie.
The bloated corpses of the goats
at the end of the bridge ruptured, releasing the writhing bodies of scores of
small snakes which slithered across the wet stones to surround the Bullingdon
Boys.
“I say to you what I said to Strahd: you cannot defeat us, for we walk
in the light of the Morninglord!” Cornelius yelled, holding the Holy Symbol
of Ravenkind aloft. Searing radiance burst forth, pushing back the fog and engulfing
the serpents, a great number of which curled up, writhing, and died.
Paris held an imaginary flute to
his lips and weaved his head; a dozen snake heads followed his, eyes upon him,
then drowsily slumped to the ground in slumber. Dickie heaved on the rope,
trying to pull the skull down, but whatever magical force kept it aloft
resisted his attempt to move it. As he braced against the rope, Dickie’s dagger
scythed around, and he hacked and slashed until no serpents remained within his
reach.
The giant spectral hand swatted
down among the swarm of flies, splattering hundreds of them against the skull. Clarence
scrambled away from the snakes around him and retreated to the far end of the
bridge, the direction from which they had come.
The rope in Dickie’s hand slacked
as the skull swooped towards him, and the two goat corpses trailing it were
dropped down upon the Bullingdon Boys as the flies transformed back into the
witch. The goats smashed into the stones of the bridge either side of Paris,
Dickie and Cornelius, releasing even more snakes; and up close, the Bullingdons
could see the bodies writhed with finger-sized maggots. The skull then began to
ascend vertically but Dickie heaved, stopping it from moving away.
Snakes hissed and nipped and
writhed and bit, and where their fangs sank into Paris, Dickie and Cornelius’
ankles, the pain of the bite was amplified by venom which burned like fire.
Furious, Cornelius lashed around him, punching snakes, snapping their necks,
stamping on them with booted feed; tying them into knots, smashing them against
the bridge and throwing them into the river as they snapped at him.
Paris waved his wand and to a huge
crash of thunder… an underwhelming wave of energy gently buffeted Cornelius,
Dickie and the snakes. Embarrassed by this poor showing, the wizard conjured
the Golden Bully Sword, swiping at the hag in her dragon skull vehicle.
Dickie was still heaving at the rope
and slashing at snakes, and Clarence directed some blasts of eldritch energy
into the swarming serpents as the giant hand smashed into the hag. Cowering in
the seat, she reached out and touched the spectral hand, and it vanished, the
magic dispelled. The skull heaved against the rope but Dickie held fast and
actually pulled it closer to the ground. “You
think you’re getting away from this?”
Frost crackled from Paris’ wand,
freezing serpents solid, and the Golden Bully Sword crashed again into the hag,
knocking her down in her seat and causing two blasts of energy from Clarence to
go skittering off the skull. “Dispel my
magic? I’ll show you!” he cried.
The witch touched the grappling
hook and it shrunk to twice its size, reduced by her magic, and lost its
purchase; skittering off the skull it fell to the ground, and as she cackled
madly the skull sped away upriver, into the fog. “I’ll get you, Bullingdon Boys!” the witch cried as she escaped…
Or would have escaped, had Paris
not thought quickly, grabbing Cornelius and then, where one moment they had
been stood on the bridge amidst snakes and dead goats, they were now balanced
precariously on the front of the dragon’s skull, inches from the witch.
Dickie, suddenly alone on the
bridge, rope limp in his hands, looked up; some eighty feet away the skull
bobbled ponderously, with two new figures astride it. He began sprinting,
flying past Clarence at the end of the bridge and turning up the shoreline,
unslinging his longbow and drawing and loosing an as he did; the arrow fell
harmlessly into the fog as Clarence started running behind him, unable to match
pace but flinging eldritch energy at their enemy.
The hag looked shocked as Paris
and Cornelius appeared in front of her, atop the reptilian snout of the skull,
but rapidly recovered; she cast her hands out, muttering. Cornelius resisted
the enchantment but Paris was ensorcelled; his eyes rolled back and he let out
a loud snorting snore, then, fast asleep, tumbled from his perilous perch into the
river below.
Paris came to gasping with cold as
fetid water rushed into his mouth. Weighed down by his clothing, he began
desperately paddling to the shore where Dickie and Clarence were directing
missiles at the skull above.
“Well, I guess it’s just you and me now, you old hag,” Cornelius said.
Gnarled Bullingdon hands curled into fists and flew at her. Relentless punches
crunched into the ancient creature, pounding flesh and cracking bones, until
finally he cast the broken corpse of the ancient creature from the skull into
the river.
Standing atop the skull, nowhanging ponderously in the air, Cornelius looked down to his party, grinning,
and began to sing. “Jolly beating weather…”
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