Session 25 – Dark Gifts

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

Days in Barovia: 10. The moon is full.

What Is Dead May Never Die

The Bullingdon Boys stepped into the chamber in the bowels of the Amber Temple, amongst the ruins of burned ghouls, scattered bone and between the three amber blocks. Their lights- Corenlius’ glowing holy symbol and Paris’ floating orbs- cast weird light across the room, stinking now of burned flesh as well as fetid decay.

A voice spoke in Paris’ head.

“Knock knock.” It was Van Richten, speaking in Paris’ mind from the ring on his finger.

“Who’s there?” Paris said aloud.

“I don’t know, but they’re trying to get into your mind. Something is trying to reach through to you.”

And something was. The other Bully Boys, not shielded by the ring, heard dark mutterings, whispers on the edge of hearing, mutterings of power that enticed and encouraged them to reach out to the blocks of amber…

“Bully boys, listen up!” Paris said, oblivious to the dark whispers his companions could hear. “I’ve just had a message from old Van Richten, he says there’s something trying to get in my mind- I guess it’s trying to get in yours too. Anyone hear anything suspicious?”

“Something does feel a bit off about this place,” Dickie said nervously.

Clarence shrugged. “Nothing more than usual.”

“It’s full of cannibalistic monsters and strange amber blocks full of flickering darkness?”

“Seems pretty par for the course for old Barovia, my ,” said Cornelius blithely.

 “Paris,” Clarence said, “I only hear whispers on the edge of consciousness promising power and immortality. Nothing unusual.”

Van Richten quizzed Paris about where they were and how they were progressing vis-à-vis finding the hag’s needle, getting the blood of Barovia’s royal line and finding him a suitable body to transfer into. Paris assured him that those were their main priorities, and as a concerned Van Richten continued to press him Paris pulled the ring off his finger… and the dark mutterings reached into his mind as well.

Among the whispers in Cornelius’ head a discernible voice arose, and in hushed tones it promised to grant him the bearing of a king, and that a king he would become if he accepted its gift.

 “Now listen, one of these voices is telling me I’ll become a king if I accept its gift,” Cornelius said, “and I don’t see anything to lose in a deal like that.”

“You don’t need that to become a king!” Paris protested, “We’re all going to become kings anyway, we already decided.”

“Or you might end up like Strahd,” Dickie warned.

“I know how I can resolve this problem,” Cornelius said with a twinkle in his eye. “Hello, dark powers!” he spoke to the chamber, “What is your gift?”

A moment’s pause. Then he heard in the same stilted tones, “I am Zantras, the king maker. I will make you a king, should you accept my dark gift.”

“But what is your dark gift?”

“Touch the amber block, and you shall see. Touch the amber block and accept my gift, or be forever a peon.”

“Now it’s telling me to touch the amber block!”

Paris put the ring back on, explaining the situation to Van Richten and asking his advice. Van Richten was bemused that he even needed to be consulted- did it need to be spelled out that they should absolutely not follow the instruction of unknown dark mutterings in this mysterious temple of ancient evil dedicated to a faceless god?

So Cornelius touched the southern block. “Do you accept my gift?” the voice muttered. “I will grant you the bearing of a king, and a king you shall become.”

Cornelius accepted. The point of darkness flickering within the block seemed to alight upon his finger for a moment, and then retreated. Cornelius seemed… unchanged. Maybe his noble bearing was a little more noble, but he but he had always carried himself regally.

Dickie wasn’t paying close attention to his master, as a voice in his head was offering him a gift- to go where the spider goes, to walk as the spider walks. Paris had slipped the ring off again, and he and Clarence were being offered may lives; to cheat death itself. And then Paris was being offered to be made a king, Cornelius to cheat death, Clarence to walk as the spider, and all of the offers were muttering in all of their minds.

Clarence was concerned that he had an existing arrangement… he sat upon the floor, opened his book and started to cast his scrying sticks.

“What does Van Richten know?” Paris said confidently. He touched the southern sarcophagus and accepted the dark gift of the hushed kingmaker.

“Hang on, you can’t be the king,” said Cornelius. “King Cornelius Pfeffil Bullingdon the First is not going to co-rule,” he spat.

“We can have separate kingdoms,” Paris said.

“Fine. But I get Bullingdonovia- you’ll have to find your own kingdom.”

“Pff, I’ll get a better kingdom than Bullingdonovia,” Paris replied nonchalantly. “I think I’ll found a new city, and call it… Paris.”

Meanwhile Dickie sidled north. Some things were just too useful to pass up… He didn’t need to be a king. He reached towards the northern sarcophagus. The voice whispered in his head, “Do you accept the gift of Drizlash, the nine-eyed spider?”

“Sure. Why not.”

The flickering of darkness touched his finger and then, on the back of his outstretched hand, the flesh writhed; a milky eye formed, lazily looked up at Dickie, clouded over and shut. As the thief recoiled in horror, another formed on the flesh of his wrist, and he had the horrible sensation that was not the limit of them. His breath caught ragged in his throat, and he squeaked “Mendax!” changing his glamoured armour to form gloves covering his hands and arms.

Paris put the ring back on to shut out the voices as Dickie and Cornelius and Clarence continued to be bombarded with muttered offerings of dark power.

Clarence stood, his augury done. Whatever influence his Patron had on his prophesising, he saw weal and woe in his future should he accept the offers at hand. That was good enough. He stood, and strode to each sarcophagus in turn: south, then east, then north, accepting each gift, giggling as he scampered from dark gift to dark gift among the bones and charred corpses of ghouls. No physical changes seemed to overtake him, any extra eyes or other alterations covered by the illusion over his true self Clarence permanently wore.

Not to be outdone, Cornelius too accepted the gift from the sarcophagus offering him many lives; “Accept the gift of Dhalver-Nar, he of many teeth, and you will live many lives.”

“Just get it over with! Make me live forever as a perfect king!”

And it was done- again, without a change to Cornelius.

Van Richten spoke again in Paris’ head. “Nobody accepted any of those mysterious offers, did they? I hope that’s not why you took the ring off.”

“Well… I only did one.”

“Oh gods above.”

…

They left the charnel chamber, at the front, Dickie, surly that his dark gift had backfired where his companions’ appeared free of consequence.

Through the collapsed corridor, and up the stairs, onto the balcony next to the gargantuan statue of the god, its face wreathed in darkness, past the destroyed amber golem, back along the cracked corridor and past the closed lecture hall doors, back into the chamber where the flameskulls had risen from a well in the floor and attacked them.

Dickie investigated the well. He stuck his head down again into the hole. Previously he had only been able to see the floor, but he felt he could stretch a little further, a little further, and his vision was just clearing the lower lip; and he was clinging, suspended, head down, to the vertical wall of the hole, walking as the spider walks.

“Well, this is strange.”

The chamber he looked down into had a red marble floor, and a closed amber door to the north. To the west, south and east were alcoves, each holding a large block of amber, with shimmering points of darkness in their centres. As he stuck his head into the room he heard dark whispers once again. Watch his enemies wither and die… Become the tempest… Never lose another comrade, friend or lover.

“What do you see down there Dickie?” Clarence asked from above.

“Oh, nothing much, just a few bits and pieces- I’m going to have a closer look, I’ll be right back,” the voice rose from the hole.

Suspended from the ceiling of the chamber, Dickie reached out and touched a block. “Accept the gift of Zrin-Hala. Become the howling storm, become the tempest.” Dickie accepted, and scuttled back up to the room above. As he reappeared the Bully Boys saw one half of his face had fallen slack, mouth and eyelid drooping, all the muscles dead.

“I, I think Dickie’s had a stroke!” Paris cried.

“What’s wrong?” Dickie asked, slobbering.

“Your face, Dickie, it’s gone all…” Cornelius pantomimed, pulling the flesh on one cheek to demonstrate. Dickies fingers probed against his face, but he didn’t feel them- there was no sensation.

“Did there happen to be any more of those sarcophagi down there?” Clarence enquired.

“You got lucky once, you got one gift for free, but you thought you could get away with another one?” Paris accused.

“What did you touch, Dickie?” Cornelius asked sternly. “Don’t lie to me, I can tell when you’re lying!”

Clarence was upside down in the well, crawling along the wall just has Dickie had. “There are three more of them!” he cried gleefully. He touched every sarcophagus, and accepted every gift.

As he returned an awful, fetid, rotting, acrid, noxious stink accompanied him. His companions gagged. “What on earth is that?” Paris gasped, near retching. “Clarence, is that you?” He threw his hand out, and magical perfume sprayed over Clarence but it the stench permeated through.

Cornelius approached his brother, splashing him with holy water, but the blessed liquid has no effect; as he got closer he felt sicker as the reek of filth grew nigh unbearable.

“I pity you having him as an heir now, Cornelius,” said Paris. “It’s going to be awfully embarrassing for the Bullingdons, to say the least. So I hope you feel proud of yourself, Clarence.”

“I think at this point we should leave the dark gifts alone,” Dickie suggested. “These have not strictly gone well.”

“Clarence is not touching anything else!” Paris declared.

Cornelius agreed. “Clarence and Dickie have both made bad decisions.”

“You should have done what Cornelius and I did,” Paris chastised, “and come out of this a glorious, handsome king-“

“Immune to death,” Cornelius added-

“Rather than smelly, strange looking… whatever you are.”

“There are... Advantages and disadvantages,” a thoroughly chastised Clarence mumbled.

“The disadvantage being, you stink of shit!”

The Balance of Power

They moved on, Clarence bringing up the rear, a good ten feet behind everyone else. Back on the balcony above the main temple floor, Clarence suggested they clear out the flameskulls they suspected lurked to the east before exploring the main chamber. This meant going back to the room where they had fought the Terg barbarians, which they found to be empty- even the corpses they had left, ceremoniously dressed, were gone.

The lights flickering through arrow slits visible from the balcony would be in the corridor to the north of them, beyond a closed set of amber doors. Cornelius stood by the portal as his companions readied to strike whatever lay beyond.

He threw the doors open to reveal a corridor, a mirror to the one with the cracked floor.  The southern half of the hall was sorched by fire, and a charred corpse lay on the floor here, in burned robes and lacking a head. It clutched a staff of white wood, miraculously untouched by the fire. Several amber doors led from this hall, to the west and north, and three arrow slits were cut into the east wall. Floating in the middle of the hall are three skulls weathed in green flame- flameskulls, as they had expected.

One simply disappeared with a faint pop as Clarence banished it. The Golden Bully Sword appeared beside the closes skull, and as it struck true arrows flew from Dickie’s bow and blasts of energy from Clarence’s fingers joined to destroy the undead construct, bits of bone scattering across the marble floor.

Clarence and Dickie retreated after this initial assault. Paris, sneering at his companions’ cowardice mocked “Hey, stop skull-king around back there!”… As a fireball launched from the skull to engulf Paris and Cornelius. Eyebrows once again singed, Corenlius launched himself at the skull and between his fists, the Bully Sword, Clarence’s eldritch blasts and Dickie’s arrows, the skull was swiftly destroyed. Clarence arranged his companions in anticipation of the third skull reappearing; when he ended its banishment, it was destroyed as soon as it rematerialized.

They splashed the last of their holy water on the skull fragments, and Cornelius began to bless some mundane water in anticipation of needing more: “Oh Morninglord, blesseth this thy water, blesseth it, so it may perisheth thy enemies, and they may falleth, into the realms of eternal darkness…eth…”

Paris approached the burned, headless corpse with a suspiciously unburnt staff. He picked up the white-birch item. Van Richten’s voice appeared in his head again. “Are you accepting more dark gifts? There’s someone- something, trying to get in again.”

“Well I better take the ring off and have a listen then.”

“What? No, that-“ and the voice disappeared as Paris removed the ring… To be replaced with another voice, low and powerful.

“Ah. Hello. Yes… You’ll do quite well. How would you like to be the most powerful mage to ever have walked the earth?”

“Um… Well, I’m already the most powerful mage to walk the earth,” Paris replied aloud.

“Ha. Ha. No. But you could be.”

Clarence asked if it was talking to him. Paris told him the offer. Dickie wasn’t impressed- he can’t be that powerful, he’s dead.

Paris asked the staff, “Well, what are you getting at?”

“My purpose is to be wielded by the most powerful mage there ever could be, and I would mould you to that purpose, so you would be worthy to wield me.”

“Er- I’m, uh, I’m already very happy with my skills as a mighty powerful wizard, thank you very much, so-“

“What’s it saying to you?” Clarence asked eagerly.

“Nothing, Clarence!”

And Clarence heard the staff as it spoke to him: “I’m offering this fool the chance to be the most powerful mage to walk the earth. He seeks to decline me- maybe you would do better?”

Clarence cackled. “Paris, if you don’t want to use it, I’m perfectly willing to.”

“Do not give Clarence that staff!” Cornelius demanded. “I don’t think your magic ability is quite on point to be wielding a weapon like this,” Paris replied to the younger Bullingdon.

And as he spoke, against his will, beyond his control, his hand reached out and passed the staff to Clarence. “No, no I didn’t mean to!” and Paris’ arm jerked as Cornelius attempted to intercept, and the staff was passed safely to Clarence. “I didn’t mean to do that! It made me- eurgh!” Paris gagged, almost vomiting as he was engulfed by the Clarence’s fetid stench.

Cornelius looked concernedly from Paris to his brother. His eyes narrowed. “Clarence, you be very careful about what you do with that staff,” he said, as holy light shone over his heir, Clarence’s words granting a divine blessing against posession.

As Clarence took the staff it spoke to him- “Good. Don’t listen to them- they’re simple fools. You, you could be something powerful and amazing.”

Clarence replied telepathically. “Yes, they are short sighted, and easy to fear. What shall I call you?”

“In life I was called Jakarion. There is much power that can be found here… You’re going to need it.”

…

Three doors led west from the corridor. One held hundreds of dusty bottles containing the dried up remains of potions, their efficiacy long since lost. The second room held a twelve-foot-tall model of a dark castle, with high walls and dark spires. They had seen this castle looming over them in the village of Barovia- Castle Ravenloft.

“This is Strahd’s residence!” Corenlius declared. “We should study its every detail for when we invade it.”

And study it they could: the model lifted apart in large segments, cleverly deconstructing to reveal the layers within. They saw the tallest tower where lay the Heart of Exethanter, the enchantment detailed in the Tome of Strahd; and in the bowels of the castle, the catacombs, with three particularly grand tombs. One of these had a window carved out looking east, over the village of Barovia, from some seven hundred feet up the stone pillar on which the castle stood. Could a creature fly, or be transformed into an eagle, or take the form of mist, or walk as the spider walks, that door may provide entrance to the catacombs.

Studying the model gave the Bullingdon Boys some familiarity with the lay of the fortification, and they took what notes they could. Then Cornelius placed the pieces back in order and crying “Look upon this, Strahd! See what we shall do to you!” slammed his fist into the centre of the model. His hand came away bloody- the model, it appeared, was made from magically sculpted rock, and weathered his assault rather better than his fist.

The third westward door led to a descending stairwell, which led to a broad corridor running north to south. Set into the far wall were ledges holding alabaster statues of toads, snakes, weasels, crows, owls and other creatures that may be seen among wizards’ familiars. On the near wall, and at the north and south end of the corridor, were amber doors. The northern door was ajar; the others, closed.

Cornelius tried to open the closest door of amber, to their south; it was shut, sealed, unmoving where previous doors had swung open easily. When Cornelius and Dickie pushed together it did not budge. Two unsealed doors opened to reveal runined bedchambers. The next was again sealed, so Paris moved to the final, open door.

He saw once again a chamber holding three amber sarcophagi; the floor here purplish black marble, and one of the amber blocks shattered upon the floor, with no trace of flickering darkness.

“Cornelius, don’t let Clarence come in here,” Paris called back, slipping the ring off his finger. Cornelius moved to his muscular frame to fill the doorway as dark whispers filled Paris’ mind. A promise of cold fury to be released upon the world from one sarcophagi, and the gift of knowing all secrets from the other. “Definitely not a room for Clarence!”

“Why do you not want me to go in there, brother?” Clarence asked Cornelius as he blocked his entry, “is it because you’re jealous of my power?”

“No, it’s because last time you came back stinking all filthy! Who knows what will happen if we let you touch these. Come on, we’re leaving.”

Cornelius began to muscle his little brother back down the corridor. The staff whispered in Clarence’s ear, telling him to ignore the jealous fools. Clarence slumped, conceeding to his brother, as the staff hissed “Fool!” in his ear. “I will return,” Clarence reassured it telepathically, “do not worry.”

The Arch-Mage

They went back to the corridor above, and north there through the final set of unexplored doors. Lit torches in sconces illuminated a large dining table in the centre of the room beyond, and the table was covered by a maginificant feast that filled the hall with rich smells of cooked meat, vegetables, piping hot gravy and wine- the sweet scents quickly soured by Clarence’s fould stink.

“I bet it’s cursed,” Cornelius said warily, “let’s just move on.”

Paris’ eye caught a green copper ewer embossed with images of dancing bears, elks and wolves. “Nice looking piece there, Dickie.”

Dickie shrugged. “Grab it for us and we’ll make our way out of here.”

Paris paused. “Why don’t you pick it up?”

“You found it. I think it’s rightfully yours.”

Paris’ eyes narrowed. He took of his ring, listening for suspicious mental voices... Nothing. “I think… I’ll leave it.”

“You’re all being ridiculous,” said Clarence, rolling his eyes. He conjured a spectral hand that reached to the ewer, as Paris told him to stop, as Dickie’s hand went to his dagger, as Cornelius lunged forward- the mage hand grasped the ewer and lifted it from the table, and Cornelius slapped it down to go skittering across the table. The feast disappeared, and the torches extinguished leaving them in the light of Cornelius’ holy symbol.

In seven of the seats around the table  ghostly black figures appeared and rose moving angrily towards the Bully Boys.

Dickie’s dagger flashed, carving through a spectre; black tentacles erupted over the table, engulfing the figures, followed by a casacding ball of fire, and half of the spectres were gone. The remaining three swept towards Clarence, uninhibited by his tendrils. Cold black hands reached towards him, draining his very life essence, trying to siphon his strength, but wheezing he pulled back as divine flames leapt from Cornelius’ fingers, eradicating one ghost and licking over Clarence’s robes. Dickie sliced through a second, and the final faded under blasts of Clarence’s power.

The tentacles disappeared, and all that was left on the table of the fantastic feast was the copper ewer. Paris picked it up- it had a feel of transmutation magic, and while he couldn’t discern its exact function he felt that it may change a liquid it contained, somehow. Dickie supplied him with water, which he put into the jug; he swished it around a few times, then poured it onto the floor- and a red liquid, smelling like wine came out.

“It turns water into wine! We can make a fortune off this thing. We could open a bar!”

A door lead east from the chamber onto a balcony, a mirror to the other side of the temple, next to the statue of the faceless god overlooking the main temple floor. This balcony was partially collapsed, and Cornelius was immediately aware that it was structurally unsound- liable to collapse should it take too much weight. He informed his companions then crossed carefully, throwing open the door beyond.

It led to a bare stone foyer with a shrine to the west. In the shrine, a faceless obsidian statue stood in a raised alcove. Slumped before the statue were two dessicated corpses in tattered garments, missing their heads. As his eyes locked upon the statue, Cornelius was overwhelmed by a sudden compulsion. He approached the two corpses and sat himself down next to them, eyes fixed on the statue.

Dickie assesed the balcony floor, and decided to use his newfound power and crawl along the wall instead. In the foyer he saw the statue before he saw Cornelius; but he threw off the mental compulsion to go and sit and wait. He walked past a gently drooling Cornelius and cast the statue to the floor.

Cornelius was roused from his ensorcellment, as Paris crossed over carefully while Clarence crawled along the wall. Dickie, having found the secret door leading to the chamber of ghouls in the foyer that was the mirror of this one, on the other side of the temple, investigated where the likely spot would be; and indeed, there was another door cleverly hidden in the wall.

The door opened and skulls clattered out onto the floor at Dickie’s feet. The chamber beyond was filled with skulls- dozens, hundreds, on shelves, in boxes, stacked in piles against the walls. On the far wall of the room was a single amber door. A worktop in one corner held unlit candles, ungents, scalpels and other miscellanea; items required for the enaction of some ritual- such as creating flameskulls.

“Well, I think I’ve found something,” Dickie said.

The bronze hand was pulling at Clarence. “I believe the archmage Exethanter to be on the other side of that door.”

“Seems likely,” said Dickie, “this looks like where he keeps his skulls… Morninglord, this guy’s got problems.”

“Not for long, I think,” said Clarence, unable to contain a wheezing cackle.

They went through the door.

The room beyond contained the trappings of royalty. Ornate furniture. Exquisite rugs and tapestries. Decorative statuary. But the beauty of the décor was undone by thick dust and cobwebs.

Standing in the centre of the room was a skeleton, clad in tatters of once splendorous robes. A spectral, ghost-blue mage-hand hovered where the left arm ended at the wrist. Red pinpoints of light burned in the eye sockets of a skull holding just enough tatters of desicated flesh to be pulled into an expression of faint surprise.

“Hello?” the skeleton asked with faint bewilderment, “do I know you?” The voice was distant, a faded whisper.

“I am Clarence Bullingdon. I have come here… Following this.” He held out the bronze left hand taken from the tower on the shore of Lake Baratok. The skeleton looked at it in puzzlement- and then the hand itself animated, wriggling free from Clarence’s grasp, scuttling over the floor on its fingers to tug at the robes of the skeleton.

The stump reached down and came back up with the bronze hand in place, fingers wiggling in front of its face. Exethanter frowned at Clarence. “I don’t think this is quite right.” His other hand began to move over the bronze right hand in arcane gestures.

“What do you mean, not quite right?” Paris asked.

“I’m not sure. I… I don’t quite remember,” came the reply, but even as it said so the right hand finished its motions. “Ah, that seems… better, I think? Does that look right to you?”

“Not much about this looks right to me, old chum,” said Cornelius warily.

The blue mage-hand extended out to return the bronze hand from the stump to Clarence, who accepted it. It looked the same but it felt… Different.

“Do… Do I know you?” Exethanter asked again. “Can I help you?”

“Why don’t you tell us who you are, old man?” asked Cornelius.

“I… don’t remember.”

“Exethanter?” Paris offered. “Does that ring a bell to you?”

“He sounds just like grandfather, Clarence!”

“Exethanter… it could have been… but then, maybe not. Was I Khazan, or Kummerek? Or Exethanter?”

“Does the name ‘Strahd von Zarovich’ mean anything to you?”

“I don’t think so… I can’t recall…”

“Have you ever invented for anyone a giant heart?”

“I don’t remember. I’ve forgotten a great many things,” the skeleton said sadly. “Have you come here for the dark gifts?”

“Yes!” said Clarence.

“Not on purpose!” said Paris.

“I assure you we have not accepted dark gifts from anyone,” lied Cornelius.

“There are ancient powers trapped here, with ancient knowledge.”

“We’ve met some of them,” said Paris, “But to be perfectly honest I haven’t learnt anything I didn’t already know.”

“We learnt about Castle Ravenloft,” Clarence pointed out.

“Pff, I’d already deduced it.”

“One of the stones lies broken,” Dickie said to the doddery skeleton, “one of the powers is… free? Or destroyed?”

“A sarcophagus of amber, broken? A great shame. They hold ancient power, with ancient knowledge.”

“If I recall correctly,” Cornelius said, “we came here looking for a sword. Know anything about that?”

“I… don’t remember. Do I know you?”

Paris frowned at the figure. “I was expecting something a little more… impressive.” Something about this skeleton, if Exethanter then once a powerful arch mage, was tickling his memory.

“I’m sorry I don’t impress… Maybe you would be impressed by the dark gifts of the sarcophagi? I could show you. The vaults are locked- I know the passwords. No, I… I don’t recall… I think I knew them once.”

Lich! He was a lich! The remains of a great wizard who had undergone certain processes to become inured to the grasp of death, Paris recognized it now. How many stories did he know where heroes went to slay the evil lich? Or told of evil wizards who rose again generations later at the head of undead hordes? There was something else, a wrinkle in how they escaped death’s clutches- they needed an object, a focus, a horcrux, a phylactery; they were creatures of such vile reputation because the phylactery needed to be fed, and it fed on souls. And if the phylactery wasn’t fed, the lich would start to decay, slowly losing its body and mind…  

Exethanter, the arch-mage, the lich, had gone senile.

Paris turned to his comrades. “So my thought it- I hope you’ll excuse me- quite clearly this fellow is a lich, and he hasn’t fed his phylactery in some time. I’ve seen it many times before. They often go like this after a period of forced starvation.”

“I have a scroll of heroes’ feast,” Cornelius offered, “maybe that could feed his phylactery?”

“We could feed him Van Richten. I’m joking!”

“What is it that liches consume?” Dickie asked with some concern.

“Souls.”

“Oh. I see.”

The Bullingdon Boys decided not to feed the lich any souls, for the moment. They politely excused themselves and moved beyond the lich, to the door on the other side of his chamber, leading deeper into the Amber Temple.

Session 24 – The Amber Temple

6th Day of the 4th Quarter of the Moon of Songs, Season of Wines, Year 766.

Days in Barovia: 9. The moon waxes gibbous.

Diplomatic Relations

Black tentacles writhed across the floor, coverting the west side of the room; within their grasp there was no sign of the shaman, the barbarian or the hell hound. The three charmed warriors and the dog look dejectedly at Paris as Cornelius dumped the corpse of their comrade on to the floor.

It was cold- deathly cold, here, colder than the waters of the Luna river, colder than the wind that howls through the chasm in mount Ghakis, well below freezing. Cornelius did not feel the chill, but Dickie and Paris’ teeth started chattering as their breath steamed from their mouths. The Tergs, flesh coated in grey  mud, wore heavy furs that appeared to be keeping them warm.

“My dear fellows, I really am awfully sorry about that-“ Paris gestured to Cornelius’ kill- “but we’re still pals, aren’t we? You won’t hold it against us?”

The Tergs did not appear to speak the same language as the Bullingdon Boys, but were able to communicate with Paris through empathic cues and gestures.

“Pals, Paris?” Cornelius spluttered, “you’re pals with these degenerates?”

“Yes!” Paris said emphatically, winking at Cornelius. “I think they’re absolutely… Charming!” He winked again.

“Paris, something is wrong with your face.”

“I charmed them with my ‘personality’,” Paris said pointedly, subtly gesturing to his wand.

“Ah, I see what you mean,” said Cornelius as he cottoned on, “you charmed them with your magic?”

Clarence had stuck his head back through the fissure, and seeing the peaceful scene he dismissed his tentacles. As they puffed away into oily smoke, he clambered down, turning on Paris.

“I can’t see very much of a difference between that and what you assured me were charmed individuals!”

“Well, these ones aren’t attacking us because they think I’m friends with them. What I was saying was, if you’d stopped attacking the priest I’m sure I could’ve persuaded him to cease the attack. But you made it incredibly difficult for me to make peace!”

As Paris’ voice was raised against Clarence, the Tergs turned on the Bullingdon, moving towards him menacingly. Thinking quickly, Paris said “Ah, but I forgive you!” and pushed past his new friends to wrap Clarence in an embrace. The Tergs stopped as Paris gave them a big thumbs up- one sheepishly smiling and reciprocating the gesture- but another pointed at the corpse Cornelius had deposited on the floor and communicated something like “I’m not very happy that Cornelius has sauntered in and thrown the dead body of my comrade at my feet.”

“I don’t think they’re very happy you’ve dumped that corpse there, Cornelius. I think maybe we should-“

“No, hold on Paris, I can explain.” Cornelius turned to the mud-clad warriors and spoke slowly, enunciating each word. “This was a ‘misunderstanding’. My brother and I thought you were trying to kill us. And we responded in kind. I apologise. I am sorry for the death of your friend, OK?” He raised his hands in a pacifying gesture.

It appeared to work, as the Tergs looked at each other; at Paris; narrowed their eyes at Clarence, then looking from Cornelius to the corpse morosely. One of them gave a forgiving shrug.

“Very good, very good. Here, you can each have a shiny coin for your troubles!”

As Cornelius pressed the coins into mud-coated hands, Dickie slid over to the south wall of the room where something in the pattern of the stonework looked… wrong. His fingers probed the discrepancy and found a mechanism; with a click, a section of the wall slid backward revealing a dusty cloister. Cylindrical holes fit for scrolls were carved into the south wall, but any papers that may once have been there had long since crumbled to dust.

Dickie sighed. “Well, that’s a disappointment.” Then, to his companions, “Bloody cold in here!”

“Is it?” Cornelius asked. “I feel quite comfortable.”

Paris did some pantomime with the Tergs to indicate that he was cold, and they should give him their furs. The Tergs pantomimed back that indeed it was cold, and their furs were keeping them nice and warm. Paris tugged one of their coats, pointed to himself, and indicated that they were friends. Cornelius loudly cleared his throat and tapped the dead Terg, also wearing a rough coat, with the toe of his boot. Paris dove for it.

“Right,” said Paris from within his new furs, “now we’re all warmed up-“

“Speak for yourself, I’m bloody freezing,” said Dickie, his hands under his armpits, teeth chattering.

Cornelius suggested his companions share the fur coat- Paris wearing it for ten minutes, then Clarence for ten, then Dickie for five. This suggestion was not popular.

Dickie suggested killing the remaining Tergs and taking their furs. Paris wasn’t comfortable killing his new friends- Clarence was less squeamish.

“Now, look here,” Cornelius said after some discussion. “We don’t need to kill them. We could trade with them!” He turned to the Tergs with an electrum piece in his hand. “I will give you this shiny bead for your furs!”

The Terg muttered at Cornelius, showing him the gold piece the Marquis of Saxonia had paid him a few minutes previously. An electrum piece obviously wouldn’t do, seeing as Cornelius had been so free with gold already.

Paris conjured a small carving in his hand; a lewd statuette of a naked woman in posed provocatively. He gave the Tergs a wink and showed them his work; one chuckled, reaching for the trinket, but Paris snatched it away. The barbarian shrugged off his furs, handing them to Paris, who gave him the statue. The Terg laughed deeply, then turned, shivering, towards the fissure and left. The dog followed him, and the two other mud-clad warriors as well, bereft of their furs once Paris made them similar rude idols.

“There we go- clothing for pornography,” said Paris, tossing a fur cloak each to Dickie and Clarence.

“Say chaps,” said Dickie through chattering teeth, “before we push any further into this… Citadel of Darkness, I could really do with a rest.” Leading the long, hard journey from Berez had left the manservant exhausted.

It was early evening now, and the Bully Boys retreated from the temple- out through the crevasse- back to the mountainside façade. Paris conjured the Golden Bully Hut, and they settled down to while away the evening and recover their strength. The temple could wait until morning.

This night, they set watches, lest the Tergs return in anger. They did not, and the night passed uneventfully- except for Clarence, who heard the beating of some huge wings passing over them in the darkness. And then silence.

When morning came the Bully Boys entered the Amber Temple. Cornelius led the way, striding confidently through the entrance guarded by amber statues. As he descended the steps into the sepulchral darkness, Cornelius snapped his fingers and his holy symbol beamed with light; a glow then joined by Paris’ luminous orbs.

Cornelius strode through the entrance corridor out on to the balcony where he had killed the Terg warrior, but coming in behind him for the first time, the other Bullingdon Boys payed some more attention to their surroundings. There were slits in the stone- murder holes- along each side of the corridor.

“Ooh!” Paris pressed his eye right up to one, and sent a floating ball of light through to the chamber beyond. The room appeared to be empty… Except for a skeleton in one corner, in a blue wizard’s robe, clutching a wand to its chest and lacking a skull.

“Err, wand in there, Clarence.”

“Really?”

“Yes, have a look. Press your eye to this murder hole.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Pressing your eye to a murder hole?” Clarence emphasised murder.

“Well, when you put it like that…”

From the limited perspective of the murder hole they could not see an entrance to the chamber- only bare stone, no doors along the walls or traps on the floor or ceiling. The chamber on the other side of the corridor was the same, minus the skeleton.

“If there’s a way in, I’m sure we’ll find it,” said Dickie, joining Cornelius. Clarence and Paris followed, and Paris’ lights illuminated the chamber before them.

Skulduggery

They stood on a wide balcony of black marble with shattered railings, overlooking a vast temple. Black marble staircases at each end of the balcony descended to the temple floor, thirty feet below them. The walls and ceiling were covered in an amber glaze, weirdly reflecting the magical lights. A set of amber doors stand closed to the west- to the room where the Tergs had camped- and another set stand open to the east.

Below and before them, four black marble columns held the vaulted ceiling of the temple, where at the far end stood a statue, forty feet tall, of a cowled figure in flowing robes. The statue’s hands were outstretched in some arcane gesture, and its face was a void of utter darkness, even as Paris’ lights washed past it.

The ominous statue stood between to black marble balconies, the easternmost partially collapsed. The walls of the temple are sheathed in amber, and the doors are of amber as well. Arched hallways coated with amber led to the west and east, and these exits were flanked by alcoves which held white marble statues of robed figures with pointed hats and golden staffs. One was shattered upon the floor.

Along the walls of the upper level, arrow slits looked down into the temple. Those along the eastern wall- just north of the Terg’s chamber- flickered internally with green light.

Dickie looked from the cowled statue, to Clarence, to the cowled statue. “Blimey, Clarence, I didn’t realise you had this big a following.”

“It is not that I am followed, but I am the follower.”

“Yes,” Cornelius nodded, “you are all my followers.”

“Precisely.”

Dickie raised an eyebrow. “Yes, clearly.”

“I’m glad you both agree. Now, where shall we go from here?”

A door on the south wall just next to the Terg camp entrance them lead into what looked like an empty guardroom or barracks. It would be adjacent to the western murder hole chamber, and while there was no door, investigating the wall between the two spaces Dickie found once again a disguised mechanism that hid an entrance. The chamber looking onto the corridor was empty but Dickie was getting a knack for finding these secret doors.

Dickie was staunchly against going into the Terg’s camp, as they may be back and hostile; additionally, the flickering lights behind the arrow slits gave him pause. They went through the open door to the east of the balcony which led into a large stone room. Double doors of amber stood open to the north, where the marble floor was cracked. There was a single door just south of the doors they came through, and a rough-edged hole ten feet in diameter in the floor of the eastern side of the room.

In addition that cast by Cornelius’ holy symbol and Paris’ dancing lights, a flickering green light emerged from the well. Paris and Dickie watched as the source of the light revealed itself: green flames, rising out of the hole, flames enshrouding a skull which floated upwards, eye sockets holding menacing flames. Two other flaming skulls followed it, as Paris screamed, gibbering and cackling as they emerged.

“Clarence, stop that gibbering and cackling,” Cornelius said obliviously as he studied the stonework of the walls. Clarence and Paris recognized these things, aptly known as “flameskulls”, fashioned from the remains of dead wizards in a ghastly ritual.

Dickie did not know how they were made but he had an idea on how to unmake them: his dagger flashed in one hand, and the sword-cane struck in the other, smashing the jaw clean off the closest skull. Cornelius appeared next to his manservant and the skull collapsed into fragments beneath his fists.

The golden bully sword appeared and Paris, waving his frost-enchanted wand, focussed through the crystal orb he had claimed from a vampire-wizard when they left Vallaki; and rather than the usual finger of ice flowing from the wand, a shower of warm golden light fell upon the skull.

The bully sword swung wide as Paris and Clarence scrambled out of the room, equally aware of the explosive infernos these flameskulls were known to cause. Blasts of eldritch energy covered Clarence’s retreat, scattering teeth from one skull, but both of the undead constructs opened their mouths wide cackling and balls of flame erupted around Cornelius and Dickie.

The pair flung themselves away, rolling with the explosive force, and were left singed and smoking but still alive. Dickie rolled to his feet, slashing and striking again, and Cornelius reared behind him, reached through green flame to grasp both skulls and smashed them together. The fires died as the skulls fractured, and Cornelius stomped his boots on the pieces.

“That’s not… I’m not a fan of those. They’re more dangerous than they look!” said Dickie, brushing embers off his coat.

“No no no- this fight is not over!” Paris cried, “Does anyone have holy water?” 

“Why?” Dickie asked.

“I’m a very experienced wizard, I know what I’m talking about. These things will regenerate in no time if they’re not covered in holy water.”

The skull fragments were swept into a pile and doused with a vial of holy water Cornelius had pilfered from Van Richten’s wagon. Some theological discussion as held as to Cornelius’ personal capacity, as prophet of the Morninglord, to make holy water; which led to discussion about Cornelius’ credibility as said prophet, and whether the Morninglord was gullible enough to empower his blessings.

The single door behind them led to another empty barracks, where Dickie found another secret door leading to the chamber with the headless wizard skeleton. The wand clutched in bony fingers was clearly magical, but its exact properties would require more study to discern. Paris claimed it, tucking it into one of his pockets amongst his other wands. Clarence explained how the head had likely been removed to make one of the flameskulls, much to everyone’s discomfort.

The well through which the skulls had emerged opened into a chamber with a red marble floor, some thirty feet below. They left it, for now, and exited the annexe through the northern amber doors, entering the corridor with a floor of cracked marble.

Paris’ lights flickered off the glazed amber covering the walls of the corridor. The western wall held a number of arrow slits looking down into the temple proper and across, where now familiar green lights flickered through arrow slits in the opposite corridor. The amber doors at the far end were open, and another set of double doors led east from the corridor. Cracks in the black marble floor led the length of the corridor, and through the doors at the far end.

Dickie opened the eastern doors to reveal a chamber brightly lit from red copper lanterns that hung from the ceiling. The walls were sheathed in amber, shaped in a bas-relief of wizards with spell books. Wide stairs descended to an obsidian lectern, behind which a board of slate hung from chains. Between the stairs sat descending rows of red marble benches- this was some kind of lecture hall.

The Bullingdon brothers were immediately whisked away in their memories of the university of Jotun; Cornelius’ joyful, Clarence’s fraught with terror. Dickie and Paris, less whimsical, noticed a man making a terrible effort of hiding behind the lectern: his feet stuck out from one side, and they could see him covering his head with his arms around the other.

“Show yourself!” Paris’ voice boomed magically, snapping Clarence and Cornelius from their reveries. A startled scream answered from behind the lectern; a face peered up at them, tight with terror, but relief swept across it when it registered the party.

“You, you can’t hide here! This is my hiding place, you can’t, you go away and shut the door!” the stranger’s reedy voice rattled up the stairs. Dickie casually shut the door behind him.

The man stood, revealing scorched robes; unkempt hair half burned away, arms and face covered in blisters. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” Paris demanded.

“I’m, I’m Vilnius. I came here with my master, looking for magical secrets but it’s, it’s all gone horribly wrong.”

“Who is your master?” Clarence asked.

“Who was my master! Jakarion, he’s dead now. The flameskulls did for him what they’ll do for the rest of us, if not that… Thing, before them.”

“Thing?” said Paris, “What thing?”

“Didn’t you see? You must have come down the corridor. The Thing!”

“Well, what does it look like? What kind of thing?” Paris was sceptical.

“I don’t know!” this Vilnius cried despairingly, “I’ve never seen it! But it goes stomping up and down the corridor and it’s broken the floor- you can hear it going!”

“I have little doubt whatever it is shall fall before our might,” Clarence boasted.

“Well I’m glad you’re so confident, but you could just leave me here  in peace, couldn’t you? Have you got any food?”

Paris approached Vilnius and offered the man a hard biscuit, which was snatched out of Paris’ fingers and devoured. Up close, Paris could see an amulet hanging from the man’s neck, a pendant shaped like an upside down V. As he saw Paris’ eyes upon it, Vilnius shoved the amulet inside his robes.

“Now, what was that, what was that symbol?”

“It’s mine, I found it!”

“What did it say?”

“It doesn’t say anything, it’s none of your business, it’s mine!”

Dickie coughed pointedly. “It’s clearly magic or he wouldn’t care so much.”

Vilnius narrowed his eyes at the manservant. “What do you know about magic?”

“I know a lot about crazy wizards,” Dickie replied flatly.

“There aren’t any crazy wizards in here,” Vilnius said obliviously, “they’ve all been turned into bloody flameskulls!”

Cooking With Gas

Vilnius did appear to have cracked somewhat from his experience in the Amber Temple. He wanted the party to leave him in peace; he wanted them to take him home. He wouldn’t let them leave without him, but he wouldn’t leave until they’d killed “the Thing” in the corridor. He had a magic amulet, but declared he had nothing to pay them with. He didn’t want to go deeper into the Temple, but he didn’t want to leave without his master’s magic staff, and he didn’t know the way he’d come as he had fled in panic.

The Bullingdon Boys tired of him and left him in the lecture hall, promising they would destroy “the Thing” and see him safely home before shutting the door.

They followed the cracked marble flooring north through another pair of amber doors, into a room where the walls and ceiling had collapsed. Amber doors led west onto the balcony abreast the huge statue in the temple. In the centre of the room stood an enormous statue of a hawk headed warrior made of cracked amber. Large chunks were missing from its form and the whole thing, near twice the height of a man, flickered: disappearing and reappearing, sometimes in whole, sometimes in a fluttering of different parts rendered invisible and then visible again.

“I bet it’s that,” said Dickie as they approached the room, “I bet that things going to bloody go for us.”

“It’s just a statue,” said Paris incredulously.

“Paris! We just fought flying skulls.”

“Ah. Yes.”

“Skulls are living things, Dickie, statues are just inanimate objects!” Cornelius explained.

“Not to contradict you milord, but skulls are the opposite of living…”

“You know what I mean! Skulls used to be alive, a statue is always just a statue.”

“You’re getting paranoid,” Paris said.

“I don’t trust it. It’s flickering! It’s weird.”

“I do agree with Dickie,” said Clarence.

“You know what, if it’s so safe, you can go first,” Dickie said to Cornelius.

“I always go first,” Cornelius said, striding through the amber doors, “for I am the leader.”

The statue turned to face him, and clenched its enormous fists.

Clarence, unsurprised, blasted energy at the statue while stepping back the way they had come. Dickie, likewise unsurprised, nocked an arrow but the missile when skidding off the flickering amber surface of the construct. The amber golem held its hands forwards and a wash of pressure rippled down the corridor, wrapping around Paris and Clarence who’s limbs became heavy, minds sluggish as they were ensorcelled.

The statue stepped towards Cornelius, the marble floor cracking further under each footstep. Cornelius took a deep breath, turned on his heel and ran back down the corridor, propelled on his way by the crushing impact of an amber fist.

Paris waved his wand, invoking a magic specifically designed to shatter inorganic material; a painfully intense noise reverberated from behind the statue, and the cracks in its form spread, amber flaking from its surface. Paris backed away, having to push his muscles as if he were in water.

There was a stink of brimstone and sulphur as Clarence conjured his hell hound, between the golem and the retreating party. The slowing effect faded as Clarence willed himself to move away, while another of Dickie’s arrows clattered against an amber shoulder to no effect.

The hell hound’s fangs skidded off of solid amber as two huge arms smashed down on it, almost crippling the demonic dog. Cornelius stopped his retreat: he turned, ran, and launched into the air crying “Cornelius Bullingdon!” He bodily slammed into the huge statue, which already thrown off balance by its assault on the hound…. Toppled.

Paris’ shattering spell rang out again and more cracks spread across the flickering form of the golem. Dickie gave up on the bow, and raced forward with his dagger, but that blade too simply skidded from the amber as the colossus climbed to its feet, energy lashing towards it from Clarence. Amber fists swung to Cornelius but a flash of light from his holy symbol diverted the blow, as a statuesque foot smashed into the ground inches from the waning hell hound.

The hound’s mouth opened, and flame rippled up from its gullet, scorching around Cornelius, Dickie and the statue: Dickie avoided the inferno, Cornelius was singed some more, and amber cracked and flaked from the golem.

The flickering statue was starting to fall apart, Cornelius’ fists pounding cracked amber, frost from Paris’ wand and swings from the Golden Bully Sword; Dickie’s dagger finally struck true in a deep crack in the statue’s thigh which caused the whole leg to rupture and collapse, the golem taking a plaintive swing at Dickie who was clobbered as it fell. Finally it shattered into chunks of amber, the flicker between visible and invisible stopping as Cornelius’ fists reduced it to rubble.

The hell hound breathed in, about to unleash its firey breath over the party once again, but a ray of frost flitted from Paris and the inherent flame of the creature was put out- it collapsed in a pile of brimstone-scented steam.

“I have to admit, on this one occasion, Dickie, you were right about that statue,” said the flamboyant mage as the fracas closed.

Some discussion followed on where whoever built this place got their hands on so much amber; and what amber even was, the conclusion being that it was probably all the fault of wizard nonsense. Dickie wanted a breather, but Clarence wished to push ahead. Vilnius had mentioned his master’s staff, and the younger Bullingdon was excited at the prospect of more arcane artefacts.

The balcony overhung the northeast corner of the temple, beneath one arm of the huge faceless statue. The next room held a shrine, in which the fragments of a shattered obsidian statue were scattered. There were empty alcoves to either side and Dickie, knowing what to look for now, found another concealed door.

The door opened into a dusty corridor where a dark staircase curved down. The air was thin, but carried the heady stench of death. “Phwoar, blimey,” exclaimed Dickie, “Do you smell that? Death!”

The Bullingdon Boys advanced with uncharacteristic caution. Dickie led, catlike, silent, down into the bowels of the temple. The stairs descended to a collapsed hall with a high ceiling and walls of amber. Rubble was strewn across the floor but a path led to an open doorway, from whence the stench issued.

Dickie held up a hand to stop his comrades, and moved across the rubble, not even a pebble shifting in his wake. Silently, he reached the door and looked within. The room had amber glazed walls and a floor of green marble, strewn with bones. In alcoves to the north, east and south stood sarcophagi carved of amber blocks, points of darkness flitting within them like shifting shadows.

Two feral-looking humanoids with ghastly grey skin and long black claws crouched chattering in hushed tones, and Dickie saw they had three eyes: two as one may expect to see upon a man, with a third, lidless and clouded in the centre of their heads. Five more creatures clung to the ceiling.

Dickie returned to his comrades and described what he’d seen. He suggested Paris throw a fireball into the room of monsters- Paris was wholeheartedly on board, and worked his way towards the door. He was not as stealthy as Dickie- a stone skidded from his boot, and he paused with his heart in his mouth, but whatever was within did not seem to notice. He moved into position undetected, and, glancing back at his comrades, twirled his wand.

An ember floated from the tip, growing rapidly as it spiralled into the room. A three-eyed head turned to Paris and then a great explosion of heat and fire washed out of the amber door. There were brief screeches of agony, and a thud-thud-thud-thud-thud as five bodies fell from the ceiling; the death-stink was lost beneath the equally unpleasant smell of burning flesh, and a lone creature came stumbling from the room, horrifically burned and wailing, flesh sloughing from its body.

Cornelius stepped forward and, with a single blow, put the creature out of its misery.