03rd January - Face to Face with the Devil
Map of Barovia
General Summary
The bones weighed heavily in Vidar's hands as he and Sorrow prepared to leave the coffin maker's shop, their resolve driving them toward Father Lucian and the safety of the church.
Behind them, Aeli, Lars, and Marcus lingered, their steps halted by the sight of Henrik van der Voort's lifeless form. His body lay crumpled where it had fallen, two pinprick wounds on his pale neck, the blood drained clean with clinical precision. Lars crouched, studying the scene, his brow furrowing as he traced faint, unnatural footprints leading up the wall and across the ceiling—evidence of the predator that had claimed the coffin maker's life.
Marcus, Lars and Aeli, exhaustion etched into their faces, suggested the need to rest.
But Vidar and Sorrow had already passed through the threshold, their determination cutting through the unease like a blade. “The bones must reach Father Lucian,” Vidar said without looking back, his voice steady. "The church cannot wait for us to feel ready."
The streets of Vallaki seemed to close in around Vidar and Sorrow as they advanced. The clouds above churned, heavy with the threat of rain, and the mist at their feet coiled around their ankles like grasping hands. The silence was broken only by the distant murmur of voices—uneasy, restless.
As they neared the town square, the murmur grew into a strange, dismal scene. A line of children trudged through the mud, their faces downcast and their arms weighed down by garish costumes shaped like flowers. Behind them came a procession of weary townsfolk, bearing a massive wicker sphere atop their shoulders. The burgomaster rode behind on horseback, his ever-present smile stretched unnaturally wide. His wife followed, her hands clutching a bouquet of drooping flowers, their petals gray and lifeless.
The procession ended in the square, where the wicker sphere was hoisted onto a tall scaffold. Townsfolk splashed the sphere with oil, their movements mechanical, joyless. The burgomaster raised his torch high, shouting over the first drops of rain, “All will be well!”
Vidar scanned the square, his eyes drawn upward by an instinct he couldn’t name. There, standing still as a statue on a shadowed balcony, was a figure cloaked in darkness. Though the face was obscured, Vidar felt its gaze pierce through him, carrying a weight that settled cold and heavy in his chest. The rain fell harder, extinguishing the burgomaster’s torch as he thrust it toward the wicker sphere.
The silence that followed was brittle. The crowd shifted, restless. Then a single word, shouted in warning, cracked the moment like a hammer on glass: “Tiger!”
Panic erupted. Villagers scattered, their screams echoing through the streets as the crowd dissolved into chaos.
Back at the coffin maker’s shop, Aeli, Lars, and Marcus heard the commotion carried on the wind. Without hesitation, they left their place of uneasy rest to investigate. It wasn’t long before they crossed paths with Rictavio, the enigmatic carnival master. His face was tight with barely concealed frustration, his words clipped. “It’s mine,” he admitted reluctantly. “The tiger—it’s loose. Piccolo. Someone let it out.”
The words left an uneasy silence in their wake, one that none of them were eager to break but they agreed to keep an eye out and continued on their way.
The road to the Church of St. Andral was filled with tension. Vidar and Sorrow moved with purpose, their focus sharpening as they saw the shadow of the church spire through the mist. But as they approached, a wave of villagers came rushing out, their faces pale with terror, Sorrow's hand instinctively reaching for her weapon.
From the shadows of a nearby shack, a figure emerged—Kasimir, the dusk elf. He beckoned them over urgently. Vidar’s hand tensed at the sight of him, but the elf’s expression was unmistakably grim.
“Strahd is inside the church,” Kasimir said, his voice a low whisper, as though afraid the very air might betray him. “He’s terrorizing the parishioners. You don’t have much time.”
Aeli arrived moments later, her breath hitching as she joined them, her gaze on Kasimir as she requested he find Marcus and Lars and bring them immediately.
Kasimir nodded, vanishing back into the mist as Aeli, Vidar, and Sorrow turned their eyes toward the church. The door loomed before them, dark and foreboding, the faint sound of voices from within twisting into cries of fear.
Aeli glanced at her companions, her fingers tightening around her sword. “Let’s see what’s waiting for us.”
Marcus and Lars were drawn to the guttural roar echoing from a dense tangle of bushes behind the crooked line of houses. A glint of orange fur shifted through the shadows, betraying the presence of the creature that had plunged the town into chaos. They tensed, weapons at the ready, until a figure emerged—Rictavio, his breathless voice rising over the tension as he called for his pet.
The tiger padded out of the undergrowth, its movements a mix of raw power and surprising grace. Rictavio approached it with a steady hand, whispering something soothing to the beast before turning to Marcus and Lars. Gratitude filled his expression, though the urgency in his voice belied his calm demeanor. The town guard was closing in, their shouts growing louder. Rictavio pleaded for a diversion, a moment to escape with his tiger, Piccolo.
Before vanishing into the foggy night, he turned back, his voice low but heavy with promise. "Meet me at my tower on the lake," he said, "and I will repay this debt."
Moments later, the clinking of armor and heavy boots heralded the arrival of Izek and his watchmen. The captain's harsh glare fell upon Marcus and Lars. "The tiger," he demanded. "Where is it?"
Marcus adopted an air of feigned innocence and spun a tale so maddeningly evasive that it sent Izek stomping off in frustration. Lars barely stifled a chuckle as they watched the guards scatter to resume their search.
Kasimir appeared next, his movements quiet but purposeful. With a terse nod, he relayed the summons from their companions. Without hesitation, they followed him toward the church.
Vidar’s patience frayed like a taut rope on the verge of snapping. The church loomed ahead, its familiar silhouette shadowed by dread. Without waiting for the others, he pushed open the heavy doors and strode inside. The sight that met him was a grim tableau: the pews stood empty, and Father Lucian lay crumpled before the altar, his breathing shallow.
Aeli and Sorrow followed, their steps cautious as they scanned for signs of danger. Vidar knelt beside the unconscious priest, channeling his divine energy to heal the man’s wounds. Before Father Lucian could fully rise, the church seemed to darken. Footsteps echoed, slow and deliberate, and a figure emerged from the shadows of the nave.
Strahd von Zarovich.
The vampire lord’s presence was suffocating. His jet-black hair gleamed in the faint candlelight, swept back to reveal his angular features. His crimson eyes burned like embers, stark against the elegance of his attire. His laugh, deep and mocking, reverberated through the sacred space.
"You’ve gone to such lengths," Strahd said, his voice smooth as silk but sharp as steel. "And for what?"
His gaze fixed on Vidar, piercing and unrelenting. "Hand them over," he commanded, gesturing toward the relics the group had fought so hard to recover. "Or I will demonstrate the price of defiance—on him."
Vidar’s jaw clenched as he weighed his options. The bones, the priest, their lives—it was a cruel arithmetic. He tried to reason with Strahd, but the vampire’s smirk deepened, his patience thinning. Reluctantly, Vidar placed the sacred remains into Strahd’s waiting hands, the sense of failure like a lead weight in his chest.
Freed from the vampire’s grasp, Father Lucian staggered toward the door, his steps faltering. Lars, bow in hand, drew an arrow and took aim at Strahd. The motion was swift but not unnoticed. Strahd’s crimson eyes flicked to the ranger, and his smirk vanished. In a blur of movement, he reached out, snapping the priest’s neck with a single fluid motion.
The church erupted into chaos. The group attacked as one, but Strahd moved with an unearthly grace, every counter a precise and devastating blow. One by one, the companions fell, their strength no match for the vampire lord’s overwhelming power.
As darkness claimed the room, Strahd stood unchallenged, his shadow stretching long over the fallen.
Comments