07th February 2025 - The Fight with the Knight
Map of Barovia
General Summary
Aeli's breath came in short, shallow gasps. The fear still clung to her, thick as the fog outside. Marcus stepped closer, his voice steady despite the unease coiling in his gut, his tone meant to anchor her.
She nodded, though her fingers twitched near the hilt of her blade.
Lars, ever the pragmatist, swung open a nearby door. A bathroom. Lavish. An iron tub, porcelain basin, neatly folded towels. He scoffed. "Only the rich could afford this," he muttered. He had seen too many people die in the mud to tolerate luxury in a place like this.
Aeli recovered quickly, taking point. They moved down the stone balcony that overlooked the grand foyer, the carved balusters—knights in shining armor—standing vigil along the railing. Shields and weapons adorned the walls, remnants of forgotten battles.
Ahead, an archway yawned open, leading to a spiral staircase. Upward. Always upward.
The third floor greeted them with darkness. The lanterns along the walls remained unlit, their wicks long since burned out. Aeli's sharp eyes picked out gaps in the structure where the building had collapsed beneath Strahd’s siege. Sections of the walls were gone, entire rooms open to the night.
To the south, the damage was worse. Marcus studied the bedrooms that once housed nobility had crumbled, their wooden floors splintered into jagged remnants. The debris led to nothing but a forty-foot drop into mist below—a pit of shadows, hungry and waiting.
The three pressed on, stepping carefully over fractured beams. In the centre of the mansion, the sky itself loomed through a massive breach in the ceiling. Twenty feet across, the wound in the roof was lined with broken rafters, like the ribs of some long-dead beast. Overhead, storm clouds gathered, churning in slow, deliberate menace. Rain dripped from above, pooling in shallow puddles across the sagging floorboards.
They spread out, searching.
To the east, Lars found what remained of a tiled washroom. An iron bathtub, half-filled with debris, its once-pristine surface marred by the slow encroachment of time. A torn curtain swayed in a doorway opposite them, the fabric curling and twisting like a dying thing.
To the west, the largest chamber yet revealed itself. An audience hall, long and wide, battle-scarred and broken. Sections of the walls had crumbled inward, leaving jagged gaps that exposed the skeletal remains of the structure. Shields and weapons that once lined the walls had succumbed to rust, their once-polished steel eaten away by years of neglect.
And at the far end of the chamber, a throne.
It was carved from wood, shaped like a dragon unfurling its wings, its majesty dulled by time. Before it, three tall windows stretched toward the storm outside, casting the chamber in pale, flickering light.
Slumped in the throne was a figure.
Gaunt. Armored. A greatsword clutched in one skeletal hand, the blade’s edge resting against the floor.
The air shifted, thickening with something unseen.
Vladimir’s gauntleted fingers tightened around the hilt of his greatsword, the metal groaning beneath his grip. His voice, when it came, was a rasp—like a blade dragged across stone.
“If you have come to destroy me, know this: I perished defending this land from evil four centuries ago. Because of my failure, I am cursed to remain. If you strike me down, my spirit will find another corpse to inhabit, and I will hunt you. You cannot free me from my damnation. Nor would I wish it.”
He rose from his throne, armored plates grinding against one another.
“If you have come to end the tyranny of the creature who feasts on the blood of the innocent, know this: There is no monster I despise more than Strahd von Zarovich. He slew Argynvost. He shattered the life of the knight I loved. He destroyed the valiant order to which I gave my soul. But Strahd has already died once. He must not be allowed to die again.”
Lightning flared through the ruined windows, illuminating the chamber in stark relief. Shadows stretched and twisted.
“He must suffer. He must rot in the hell he has built for himself. And I will destroy any who seek to end his torment.”
Lars was undeterred. He stepped forward, voice firm, pressing the undead knight for aid. Strahd was the true enemy. They stood on the same side.
But Vladimir’s hollow gaze settled on Marcus, and something in the wizard made the ancient knight’s expression darken. His grip on the sword shifted.
“You stink of him,” Vladimir spat. “I see the shadow of his corruption. You are in league with the Devil.”
Then he struck.
The battle was brutal. Vladimir moved like a warrior untouched by time—his greatsword an extension of himself, honed by centuries of undeath. Marcus, Aeli, and Lars fought back, but spectral knights rose at their master’s call, ghostly figures emerging from the walls, silent and implacable.
Marcus, recognizing the grim odds, disengaged—pulling back, giving himself room. Space for sorcery. Distance to weave his spells. Aeli and Lars flanked Vladimir, falling into a rhythm they knew well. But the death knight was relentless.
Then—steel met flesh.
Lars gasped as Vladimir’s blade cut through him, dropping him where he stood. The world spun. Darkness surged at the edges of his vision.
Aeli was there in an instant. She dragged him from the fray, ignoring the burning in her arms, ignoring the blood pooling beneath him.
Vladimir pursued—but his eyes flicked to Marcus, standing near a ledge, robes billowing in the wind.
The death knight changed course.
Aeli saw it happen as if in slow motion. Vladimir advanced, raised a gauntleted hand, and shoved. Marcus staggered, balance lost, and then—
He fell.
Aeli’s breath caught.
Vladimir turned away, satisfied.
But then—movement. A flicker of motion below.
Marcus hit the ground, but not as he should have. He twisted midair, bracing just before impact, the force of the fall dampened by luck it would seem.
He landed in a crouch, dust rising around him.
Slowly, deliberately, he stood.
Aeli stared.
Vladimir frowned.
Marcus brushed off his newly acquired cloak, the dark fabric shifting unnaturally. Then, with a whispered command, he rose. The air shimmered around him as the magic took hold, lifting him upward.
Aeli saw the smile on his face.
Marcus hovered, eye-level with Vladimir now, hands wreathed in crackling energy.
Then he let loose.
Lightning split the air. Fire roared to life. Wind howled through the ruins, tearing through the spectral knights, shattering their forms like brittle glass.
Vladimir raised his blade—but he was too slow.
The final blast struck true.
The death knight staggered. His form flickered, armor crumbling, the glow in his eyes dimming.
He fell to his knees.
Silence.
And then, nothing.
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