14th February 2025 - Finding the Sunsword at the Dragons Peak
Map of Barovia
General Summary
While Lars and Aeli rested, Marcus moved. Quiet as a shadow, he slipped into the ruined hall, where Vladimir’s body lay still—his greatsword and holy relic abandoned beside him. The knight would have no more need of them.
Marcus reached down, fingers brushing the hilt of the blade. Even after centuries, the steel hummed with power, the weight of its purpose lingering. He lifted it, along with the relic, tucking them away before returning to the others.
When Aeli and Lars awoke, they took stock of their situation. A ruined chamber. A shattered wall, leaving them exposed to the cold winds that howled through the keep. It was far from ideal, but they could make it work.
“We should barricade the door,” Lars muttered, dragging what little furniture remained into place. It wouldn’t hold—not against anything determined—but it gave them a feeling of control. That would have to be enough. They settled in. And they slept.
They awoke in the dead of night, rested but wary. The air was heavy with expectation, the kind that settled deep in the bones, whispering of unseen dangers ahead. Lars stretched, shaking off the remnants of sleep—then frowned. A thought flickered through his mind, a small but pressing problem. “I can’t see in the dark,” he admitted.
Marcus, without hesitation, reached out and took his wrist. His grip was firm, steady. “Then let me guide you.”
Together, they moved through the dim corridors, their footsteps barely making a sound on the ancient stone. They were searching—hunting for anything that might lead them to the Sunsword.
Beyond the hall where Vladimir had fallen, they found it. Large double doors, standing solemn and still.
Aeli was the first to push them open, revealing a room swallowed by dust and cobwebs. Faded war banners clung to the walls like ghosts of battles long lost. In the center stood a heavy wooden table, an iron chandelier hanging above, frozen in time. Six high-backed chairs surrounded the table, each carved with dragons.
And in three of them, figures sat slumped. Skeletal. Still.
Then, movement.
One of the corpses lifted its head. The bones shifted with a slow, deliberate grace. A voice, hollow and dry, like wind through a crypt. “Why do the living disturb the dead?”
Sir Godfrey Gwilym had once been a knight of the Order of the Silver Dragon. Aeli and Lars pleaded their case, speaking of their cause, of their fight against Strahd. They begged for aid, and for acceptance into the Order. For a long moment, Godfrey was silent. Then he sighed, the weight of centuries in his voice.
“Vladimir is Lord Commander,” he said at last. “Only he may initiate new members.”
A pause.
“But his heart has been consumed by revenge. He decreed that Strahd must not die—only suffer, trapped in his own prison for all eternity. And that command cannot be broken.”
Lars clenched his fists. Another door slammed shut in their path. He pressed for information, asking of Seraz and Sergei. Godfrey hesitated. Then, quietly, he spoke.
“Sergei left long ago. If he lives, he is likely in Krezk, seeking the Abbot—who claims to have a divine connection to the Morninglord.”
A breath.
“But Seraz… I believe he is gone. Not just dead, but erased. Strahd is powerful, and if he wished, he could do more than kill. He could destroy a soul. Obliterate it. Make certain it never finds rest.”
Aeli and Lars absorbed the weight of his words.
Then Godfrey’s gaze shifted. It landed on Marcus. The wizard had been standing near the door, silent, listening. But something about him—his presence, his stillness, the way his eyes calculated every word—sent a ripple of unease through the revenant knight.
Godfrey’s expression darkened.
“You,” he snarled.
The air shifted, the temperature dropping.
“You reek of him. Strahd’s stench clings to you.”
Before Marcus could reply, Godfrey struck.
The battle was swift. And brutal. Marcus unleashed the elements, fire and lightning crackling through the chamber. Aeli and Lars fought with practiced precision, blades cutting through the air in deadly arcs.
But the revenants were tireless. Relentless. One of them turned, retreating toward the fireplace and vanished into the darkness beyond. Marcus exhaled, flames flickering in his palms as the last remnants of the battle faded. Aeli wiped blood, hers or someone else’s, from her cheek. Lars pressed a hand against his ribs, wincing.
And beyond them, the shadows stretched deeper. The keep still held secrets.
Aeli led the way, pressing forward with the relentless urgency of one who knew time was an enemy lurking just out of sight. The fortune spoken by Madam Eva echoed in her mind. To the highest peak. That was where destiny lay in wait.
A round-topped wooden door groaned as it swung open, revealing a spiral staircase that coiled upward like the spine of a forgotten beast. Narrow windows punctuated the walls, offering glimpses of the storm-scarred night beyond. The mansion’s roof loomed above, a fractured landscape of cracked stone tiles and wind-scattered debris.
To the east, the parapet stretched in a narrow path, just wide enough to make a man question his footing. It ended before a heavy wooden door, ancient and defiant. Lars and Aeli pressed against it, their muscles straining. The door did not yield. Not at first.
Then the defenders came.
Phantoms materialized in the air, their eyes hollow voids, their bows strung with ghostly arrows that shimmered like moonlight on steel.
Marcus did not hesitate. His hands wove sigils of power, lances of arcane force streaking toward their spectral assailants. Lars returned fire, his arrows loosing with a precision honed through years of practice. And Aeli—Aeli did not falter. She braced, gritted her teeth, and slammed her weight against the door once more.
With a splintering crack, the barrier gave way.
They surged forward, steel meeting phantasm, the clash of battle ringing through the tower. The spectral warriors fought with the weight of centuries behind them, but the trio pushed through, their resolve as unyielding as the mountains that cradled Barovia.
When the last spirit faded, Aeli turned her gaze upward. Their goal was near.
A rickety staircase clung to the inner walls of the tower, winding precariously toward the peak. Each step groaned beneath their weight, the wood brittle with age and neglect. Then, without warning, a section gave way.
Lars and Marcus plummeted, their cries swallowed by the void below. Dust and splinters filled the air, but there was no time to lament. They scrambled, found purchase, pulled themselves upward, urgency laced in every movement.
At last, they reached the summit.
The tower’s peak was a sanctuary of stillness. The floor was solid stone, the roof pitched high above, its beams crisscrossing like the ribs of a slumbering giant. Ravens roosted in the rafters, their dark forms shifting as they observed the intruders. Small holes in the ceiling allowed the wind to pass through, whispering secrets of the world below.
And what a world it was.
From this height, Barovia stretched in all directions, its horrors momentarily subdued by distance. The mist-veiled valley sprawled below, its dark woods concealing secrets as old as the land itself. To the east, a small town slumbered, its lights flickering like trapped fireflies. Further still, a lonely windmill stood sentinel on a precipice. To the south, a river wound its way through the haze, an artery of silver bleeding through the land. And to the west, perched upon a snowy mountainside beyond the shrouded pines, an abbey loomed like a half-forgotten prayer.
It was almost beautiful.
Almost.
Aeli’s sharp gaze caught the glint of metal against the west windowsill. A sword, its hilt and guard crafted from platinum, lay in wait.
She stepped forward, hesitant yet certain. Fingers wrapped around the hilt, and the moment she drew the blade, a warmth unlike any she had felt in this forsaken land surged through her. The Sunsword. At last.
Then, the sound of hooves. A cart creaked along the gravel path below, pulled by a single draft horse. At the reins sat a Vistani, his posture casual, his expression unreadable. He brought the cart to a halt before the mansion, slid from his seat, and—without ceremony—relieved himself on the dragon statue at the entrance.
Then, just as unceremoniously, he untethered the horse, mounted, and rode away. He left the cart behind. And with it, its single cargo. A coffin.
Cautiously, they descended. The mansion seemed to hum with something unseen, as if it too awaited the revelation ahead. They approached the coffin, dread clawing at their stomachs. The lid bore an inscription, the name carved with deliberate precision.
Aelithra Moonshadow
Aeli recoiled. She had no interest in Strahd’s games. She had no patience for whatever trick this was.
Lars, however, was not so easily dissuaded. His curiosity burned too hot, too insatiable. He pried the lid open. The darkness within breathed. Then, the bats came. A living storm of wings and shrieks burst forth, swarming toward Aeli with predatory intent.
She dove for cover, slipping into the wagon’s shadows. The creatures ignored Lars. Ignored Marcus. They only wanted her. And Marcus, ever the tactician, did not let them have their way. With a flick of his wrist and a whisper of power, he turned their flight to folly. The last of the bats fell, silence settling once more.
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