Curse of Strahd [CLOSED]

[Baba Luga]

"Where is the cabinet?" the accountant asks. "Ah, I use the word in its old sense, meaning the full breadth of the Count's collections. If it were all together in one place, that would make my life easier, certainly. Anyway, good luck to you." He returns to his scribbling.

As Syvis instinctively senses an unknown threat approaching, everyone quickly returns to the secret servants' passage. Hircus is last in, and closes the door quietly behind, just as the clicking of hard soles echoes from one of the stairways across the great hall. The only signs that anyone was in the Audience Chamber should be the slight change in the throne's position, the broken door to the counting room, the accountant's possible testimony, and the two slaughtered servants.

Aiming for the lower depths, the group goes back down the tight spiral staircase to the ground floor, then continues below the surface, growing almost dizzy with the constant rightward turning. Finally, the stairs end in a damp and musty arched passage. At the other end of this passage is a door entirely covered by an elaborate collage of human bones, with the head of a femur as the doorknob.

On the left side of the passage, midway between the spiral staircase and the bone door, is an open archway leading to another long hall lined with alcoves on both sides. From the doorway you can see that the nearer alcoves contain rotting cots, rags, and skeletal remains. The ceiling there is covered with a sickly yellow lichen. The air is cool and still down here.

 

[Epiphany]

It's a testament to how surreal things have become in Moire's life when the Paladin breathes a sigh of relief that they're now safe, underground, surrounded by bones.

It's certainly a relief to be out of that stairwell. And the sight of the bone-covered door fills her with, not dread, but a certain eagerness. Might this be the ossuary where the fabled broken blade she once wielded lies?

Moire proceeds down the hallway, cautious despite the imminent danger of pursuit. It may be only a matter of time before the accountant divulges their destination. Though there may be many paths down into the catacombs of Castle Ravenloft and this party may not have taken the obvious one, after all, just the one they knew about.

Once (if) she reaches the mid way point, the Paladin peers down the long hallway with its alcoves filled with what may be dead slaves or servants. She shudders once in sympathetic revulsion. Then, she proceeds with a careful, deliberate pace towards the bone door.

 

[Baba Luga]

In the brief moment, by the passing light of HIrcus' cantrip, Moire sees other effects in those alcoves that can be spied from the archway: spears, rusted chain coifs, a mildewed banner in one corner, shields decorated with a raven coat of arms. The bones in these alcoves belonged to neither slaves nor household servants, but to the soldiers or guards once charged to defend this place.

 

[Epiphany]

The discovery of weapons and armor among those old bones changes things. Moire beckons the party to move past her, while she stands guard at the intersection between the alcoves and this corridor. She's worn her shield for much of the trip through the castle, out of sheer good sense, but the sword remains sheathed unless she expects trouble. She's expecting it now.

With a finger to her lips, the Paladin points out the bones, weapons and armor to her companions and hopes they move along the corridor to the bone door while making as little noise as possible. No sense in disturbing the sleep of the dead, especially when the dead might be light sleepers.

Sword in hand, Moire stands watch until her three friends have moved along. If anyone looks back, she gestures at the bone door with her sword, twisting the blade in the air to pantomime opening it.

 

[ZombWie]

Hircus passes Moire with a nod and heads toward the door while keeping a watchful eye on his surroundings. Hircus feels the full weight of his vow to Torm as he walks among the dead. One hand squeezing tight on his hammer and the other wiping the sweat from his brow. Before he opens the door, Hircus glances back toward Moire for reassurance and to make sure that he didn't misunderstand her intentions. Then he turns and opens the door.

 

[Baba Luga]

​

The piece of thighbone that makes the doorknob is smooth and turns easily in Hircus' hand, and the door opens inward without complaint. The warm glow of hundreds of candles dances from within. This is without question the Hall of Bones, an imposing ossuary nearly as large as the audience chamber you were just in. the walls and high vaulted ceiling are entirely covered in a thick patchwork of skulls, ribs, sacra, scapulae. Long, heavy garlands of skulls link a massive chandelier to tall mounds of bone piled at the corners of the room. The prize piece of this morbid collection is doubtless the great reptilian skull mounted above double doors on the east wall, which can only be that of a full-grown dragon.

The center of the chamber is dominated by a long banquet table, also made of bone. In the middle of its thirty-foot length, a skeletal forearm grows out of the surface. Its hand is posed to hold the hilt of the sword you seek, pale platinum set with a large blue stone. The blade is missing, as fits Moire's vision.

And Rahadin is here as well, standing at the far end of the table, with one hand splayed out on it. The grim dusk elf chamberlain looks not at all surprised to see you, and recites one of his characteristic verses:

Said the wise old cat
Why chase after furtive mice?
I sleep with the grain

 

[Epiphany]

As the party slowly files into the Hall of Bones, Moire's last to arrive in their midst. Hircus' perfunctory "Oh, there you are! This place is like a maze, I must have gotten myself turned around," evidently fails to convince the chamberlain. And for once, the dusk elf's verse seems perfectly plain.

Her eyes drop to where his hand is on the table, briefly curious if there's a weapon within reach...or if the presumptive necromancer is somehow drawing power from it.

"Hardly furtive," Moire says after a moment of mutually silent contemplation. She begins to slowly circle the long table, watchful in case a movement from the elf betrays that she's gone too far. Those double doors on the east wall are a point of vulnerability, though, and she'd like the option to be close enough to bar them if someone tries to throw them open. For that matter, the more he's watching her, the less he's watching the rest of her friends.

"We were invited here, Chamberlain." Step. "By the Master of this castle, in fact." Step. "To dine, or so we were given to understand." Step. While Moire's path ideally takes her closer to that hilt, the angle of her feet point her more towards the double doors, hopefully maintaining an amount of space between her and the prize that Rahadin will find comfortable. "And when dinner was done, one of your servants invited us here. The waiter, with the tray? We've been wandering for some time now. Trying to find someone..." her steps and words pause for a moment as she gives the elf a warm smile. "Someone diplomatic," she finishes at last. "Who might lead us to parts familiar. I hope you and your master know we didn't come here with the intention of being poor guests. We're not certain what your servant's intentions were, though, or where she thought we should go."

If the chamberlain will let her reach the doors, Moire chooses that spot to stop at last, sword and shield in hand but down at her sides. "Unless this was the destination." At last, she raises her blade but points not at the elf but at the hilt. "I remember that blade. I bore it, once. Was this the reason you and yours brought us here, Chamberlain? To witness a reunion between a once-broken holy warrior and her broken sword?" Her eyes narrow with interest and her smile sparkles all the more so. "Speak on to your intentions, Rahadin, and the rule of order you would have in your master's house."

 

[Baba Luga]

Rahadin observes Moire with cool detachment as she advances to the double doors about thirty feet from him. From her place below the morbid bone chandelier, she notices an oblong shape up in the shadowy recesses of the ceiling. The shifting candlelight reveals an enormous spider's cocoon that must have been woven by a truly monstrous arachnid specimen.

When Moire has said her piece, Rahadin, never one for direct answers, is at least goaded into responding in multiple verses:

Hospitality?
But what of an irksome guest?
Then, this mask may fall

So the hour grows late
Where is your indulgent host?
Other eyes watch now

If you would depart
Come with me to your carriage
Lest you court nightmares

He lifts his hand from the table and gestures to the double doors beside Moire, looking across the rest of the room to include everyone in his invitation.

 

[Epiphany]

The sight of the spidery cocoon is unsettling, but entirely in keeping with the rest of this castle, given the whole place is unsettling. So is the sight of that hilt, the first fragment of memory she's now laid eyes on. Ancient words murmur in her memory and the feel of ancient power thrums in the hand holding her recently acquired sword.

It's magnetic. The Chamberlain is the one who needs direct eye contact but it's the hilt her eyes keep landing on. With an effort of will, the Paladin turns her attention wholly on the mysterious, poem-quoting elf.

"Irksome, are we? Well, let it never be said of us that we willingly overstay our welcome. I haven't seen our host either but I'm certain his business is more pressing than a handful of old faces."

"As for other eyes that watch, let them mark me now." Moire's sword arm drops to save her strength but there's tension now in her mailed form. "The master of this castle invited us here and we have no wish to abuse his hospitality. But I see all that's left of Sergi's sword on that table there. I once bore it in battle and it lies there, broken, because I was not worthy of it then. I'm not convinced I'm worthy of it now. But it was a righteous weapon meant to strike against wickedness. I will not leave it behind in this chamber of horrors."

"Release it to me, Chamberlain, and all of us will gladly accompany you to the carriage so that we trespass on your hospitality no longer."

The Paladin's words are cordial, calculated and wrought of passion as well as oratory. And, though civil in tone, there's no misjudging her expression or posture. She's leaving with the hilt or she's leaving on a stretcher.

 

[Baba Luga]

Rahadin's lips shift in an almost imperceptible manner that might be this stiff, affectless man's approximation of a wry grin. He stands more upright and takes a half-step back from the table, bringing the curved sword he wears on his hip in easier reach of his hand. He seems not at all displeased with Moire's ultimatum.

'Take care of the guests'
A dull task; far better sport:
Take care of the thieves.

 

[Epiphany]

"Condemnation by a man who wears the screams of his victims fails to prick even a Paladin's conscience."

Moire's sword rises and now so does her shield. "If you're keen for a less dull task, Chamberlain, perhaps we can give you something sharper."

The decision made, she advances around the table and moves to engage the man.

 

[Baba Luga]

Rahadin is quick, and possessed of some magic that lets him travel, unseen, out of Moire's reach and over to Fianna, who he quickly strikes down. His martial philosophy holds to first target the weakest among one's foes, the better to profit ensuing misery and chaos. While attacking with his sabre and concealed poison darts, he also causes that terrible choir of past victims' souls that follows him everywhere to swell up, taking a terrible psychic toll on those around him. Though Hircus wales on the chamberlain mightily, his blows surely guided by Torm himself, Rahadin is merely winded, while Fianna lies nearly dead and Syvis is seriously wounded.

Backing away to catch his breath, Rahadin pauses to address the group:

Shall we nurse our wounds?
Or fight for death and glory,
placards on your tombs?

It seems the chamberlain is ready to let bygones be bygones, now that he holds the hilt of Sergei's sword, which he has taken up in passing during the melee. With his other hand, he presses down on the handle of one of the double doors below the dragon's skull and lets the portals swing open into a broad, unlighted hall whose low ceiling sags over thick beams. Rahadin gestures towards the corridor.

Otrev twitches, unconscious, in his cage. The cries of Rahadin's victims have struck the little bird down too, and his heartbeat slows beneath his breast.

 

[Baba Luga]

The truce is accepted, and Rahadin leads the way out through double doors, down a dark and dusty corridor with sagging beams overhead. An absurdly-steep staircase, like something from an ancient tomb, climbs up to a servant’s entrance on Castle Ravenloft’s ground floor. The black carriage that brought the party here earlier this evening can be seen through a window.

The chamberlain pauses, perhaps gathering thoughts for another of his arch epigrams, when a door opens and Lady Ludmilla, not seen since dinner, hurriedly joins everyone in the small room. She and Rahadin exchange portentous looks before she addresses the guests of Ravenloft. “I regret our lord has had a change of heart. While it will haunt him to abandon the mystery of your appearance here, other matters now trouble his thoughts. An old enemy returns, and the love of his youth is within his grasp once more. He cannot risk loose ends at this juncture.” She turns to Syvis. “You, my dear, a more conventional guest to Barovia, are free to continue your travels in our fair and verdant valley. As for the rest of you, please, come with me.” More of the ghoulish servants crowd in, and, grabbing Syvis, drag her forcibly out the rear door, shove her into the carriage, and whip the horses, sending them racing off into the night.

For Hircus, Moire, and Fianna, everything becomes cloudy and confused. They are walking with Lady Ludmilla through the halls of Ravenloft, through hidden passages, and ever down, down under the castle. At one point Moire feels the stately woman’s cold touch and hears, as if from far away, “I truly am sorry. If it were mine to choose…I’d hoped we might get to know one another a bit before it came to this.” But everything is fading now.

The corridors grow darker and more meandering, until, at last, there is a vast underground space, a veritable village of crypts, each decorated with fine carvings and the names of those interred within. In turn, Ludmilla leads her three charges to the crypts that bear their names, not recently engraved at all, but set in stone many years ago. And in each crypt lie the artifacts of a hero’s life: fine weapons, armor, jewelry, strange objects with the glint of magic. All that is missing are the bodies; the stone coffins are empty and open. Ludmilla gently helps each of Saint Markovia’s allies into their coffin and with a kiss on the forehead, bids them sleep well again. And so they do, forevermore.

* * *​

In the coming days, Syvis and Otrev make their way to the western extent of the Svalich Wood, where the mists of Barovia mark the boundary of Strahd’s domain, and the trees are strangely familiar. Away from humans and elves, Syvis finds it easy to resume a more feral existence, and after a time she does find what’s left of her old pack, whose abduction brought her through the mists to Barovia in the first place. The wolves are lean and hungry, relentlessly harassed by the fiercer Barovian beasts. But with Syvis’ guidance the pack is able to eke out an existence here for some time, until, one day, the young elf woman Inawenys finds them, having searched for months.

When the two are finally able to speak, after many tense confrontations between wolf and elf, Ina shows Syvis the tome she found in the Vallaki burgomaster’s attic, where it had been forgotten for who knows how long. “Basically, it’s Strahd’s diary,” she explains. “His memoirs, his confession, all his dirty little secrets. We still have to get the amulet and the sword, and find Strahd’s Warlock, but you, me, and all these wolves, I think we can do it! And maybe we can find where Tegan’s gotten off to too.”

* * *​

The man who arrives at the Amber Temple isn’t the same one who started the freezing journey over the Tsolenka Pass, and certainly not the same man who woke in Zhudun’s Grove nearly a year ago. Frostbite has taken two of his toes and scarred his face, and the other scars run deeper. But he’s not alone. His loyal familiar, an ugly quasit with a permanent scowl, crouches on his shoulder, and the baleful shadow mastiff he calls Jax is always at his side.

It’s just as he expects that the fox-headed woman, the arcanoloth, stops him in the temple’s antechamber. “You were warned not to return here. Zhudun makes his bargain only once.”

“To hell with Zhudun,” the man sneers, “I remember now all the other vestiges you keep in this museum of horrors, and I’ve come to make deals with all of them.”

FINIS​