14th March 2025 - The Siege of Krezk
Map of Barovia
General Summary
Vidar had expected compliance. He had arrived in shadow, spoken with the quiet arrogance of a man who knew his demands would be met. Instead, Lars and Marcus met him with defiance.
A flicker of something passed over Vidar’s face—disappointment, perhaps. Or irritation. Then, his head tilted as if listening to an unseen voice within the carriage. A heartbeat later, the ground trembled.
The scent of rot choked the air as fingers—blackened, skeletal—clawed their way free from the earth. Graves that had been undisturbed for generations shattered as the dead pulled themselves free. Milky-white eyes turned toward the walls of Krezk, and the dead began their march.
Vidar stepped back, a smirk curling across his lips. He wanted to see how this would play out.
Lars nocked an arrow, muscles tensed. Beside him, Aeli’s grip tightened on her longsword, her breath steady. Athun planted his feet, his stance wide. Marcus lifted a hand, fingers crackling with arcane power.
And then the attack began.
Arrows rained from the walls as Lars let loose, each shot finding purchase in rotting flesh. Aeli moved like a storm, steel flashing, cutting through the first wave of undead as they scaled the walls with unnatural speed. Athun leapt into the fray—and grew. His form expanded, bones stretching, skin hardening, his shadow looming over the battlefield as he swung his weapon with the strength of a giant.
Marcus unleashed the elements—spells seared through the night, carving paths through the horde. The town guards fought alongside them, holding the line, though some fell beneath the relentless tide of the dead.
Still, Krezk held. Vidar’s smirk faltered. He had miscalculated. The fallen cleric ducked into his carriage and fled, the wheels skidding against the dirt as the dark horses carried him away at breakneck speed.
For a moment, it seemed they might win. The tide had turned. And then—
A new presence emerged from the mist. A figure in black robes, his movements slow, deliberate. He did not rush. He did not need to. Lars and Marcus knew him. And he knew them.
A wordless incantation spilled from his lips. The undead rose again, their bodies reknitting, bones snapping back into place. They turned, their lifeless gazes fixating on Marcus. The tide surged once more. But Krezk did not break.
The adventurers pressed harder—Aeli’s sword carved a path through the horde, Lars loosed arrows with deadly precision, Athun struck with the force of a titan, and Marcus wielded magic like a storm. The dead fell a second time, their assault crumbling.
The robed figure watched. Unmoved. Unbothered.
Marcus, breathing heavily, narrowed his gaze. He reached for the clasp at his neck, unfurling his cloak, and with a whispered command—he took to the sky. He surged toward the stranger, magic burning at his fingertips.
He cast—
And nothing happened.
The spell did not take hold. It was as if the man before him existed on a different plane, untouchable. Lars and Athun, from below, loosed their arrows. They passed through nothing.
The robed man turned away.
"Your time will come, Marcus," he murmured. And then, with a final step, he was gone—his form dissolving into the mist as though he had never been there at all.
Marcus descended slowly, his feet touching earth once more.
Athun exhaled, his voice loud enough almost only for himself to hear. "Vampyr. A power from the old legends. Older than Strahd himself."
The name settled over them like a shadow. No one spoke.
At the gates of Krezk, the Baron met them, his expression grim. Guards were doubled on the walls. Torches burned brighter. The bells of the Abbey rang—low, distant, three solemn chimes.
The heroes of Krezk returned to the Baron’s home. But as they approached, Marcus hesitated. And stopped. His foot hovered just over the threshold, unable to step inside. A look of confusion crossed his face. Lars, watching, lifted a brow. “Marcus?” Lars gestured toward the doorway. “Come in.”
And just like that, Marcus was able to step through. The bells of the Abbey rang again. Three more chimes. No one knew what to make of it.
That night, they tried to rest. Aeli slept. Athun, too. Marcus, exhausted, let himself collapse into sleep.
But Lars sat by the fire. He turned a page in the Tome of Strahd, his fingers hovering over the aged parchment. Words spilled from the book, secrets clawing their way into the light. The Dark Lord’s thoughts. His desires. His fears.
Lars read. And as the fire burned low, only one thought remained.
How much of this would he share with the others?
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