17th January - More Truths are Revealed
Map of Barovia
General Summary
The moonlight shimmered faintly across the lake’s surface as Marcus, Lars, and Aeli approached the lonely silhouette of the tower. The air was damp with mist, and the faint croak of frogs added an eerie cadence to their footsteps. But tonight, amidst the uncertainty and dangers that stalked the roads of Barovia, there was a glimmer of hope—a brightly colored caravan parked near the tower. Lars recognized it instantly from Vallaki’s Arasek Stockyard. The sign confirmed it belonged to Rictavio. Relief rippled through the group like the first warmth of dawn after a freezing night.
Marcus, ever cautious, took the lead. The wizard’s sharp eyes scanned every inch of Ezmerelda’s wagon. No traps, no magical sigils—not this time. Yet beneath the wagon, his fingers brushed against something unexpected: a concealed door. A puzzle for another time, he thought, his focus returning to the iron door of the tower.
The handless door loomed before them, its strange embossed design catching the moonlight. Eight stick figures encircled a web of interconnected lines. Lars stepped forward, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then, with an almost boyish grin, he began to move—arms swinging, legs stepping in a deliberate rhythm. A dance. The group exchanged bemused glances, but when the door groaned open, creaking on rusted hinges, they couldn’t argue with success.
Inside, the tower's hollow shell revealed its age. The flagstone floor was littered with debris, and wooden crates huddled against the walls like forgotten relics. At the room's center, a peculiar mechanism caught their attention: a square indentation in the floor, iron chains stretched taut, leading upward into darkness. Beside the chains, four clay statues stood sentinel, their expressions blank yet somehow unnerving. The group quickly deduced the mechanism’s purpose—a crude elevator of sorts, powered by the statues.
Marcus and Lars stepped onto the platform, curiosity outweighing caution. With a lurch, the statues moved in unison, their hands pulling the chains as the platform began its ascent. The ride was anything but smooth. The platform swayed violently, creaking like a ship in a storm. As they passed the third floor, Lars lost his footing. He tumbled backward, the wooden floor snapping beneath his weight.
“Lars!” Marcus shouted, his voice echoing through the hollow tower.
Lars hit the floor below hard, the air knocked from his lungs. But the wood was treacherous, groaning under his weight. Before he could rise, the boards gave way again, sending him crashing to the ground floor. Dazed but alive, he coughed, trying to orient himself amidst the debris.
Aeli helped Lars onto the platform with Ireena and Kasimir, and they held on tight as they rode the elevator to join Marcus at the top of the tower.
Above, Marcus clung to the platform as it reached the tower’s summit. The room he found was a stark contrast to the desolation below. A cozy bed was tucked in one corner, its blankets neatly arranged. Bright tapestries adorned the walls, and a sturdy iron stove radiated faint warmth. Behind a desk sat a figure—a man with sharp eyes and a welcoming smile. At his feet, a sabre-toothed tiger slept soundly, curled into a ball of fur.
“Welcome,” the man said warmly. “You’ve made it!”
Rictavio—or rather, Rudolph van Richten—revealed himself at last. His voice carried the weight of decades of experience, tempered by a hint of weariness. He spoke of his mission: a lifelong crusade to end Strahd von Zarovich’s reign. Van Richten’s hands moved with precision as he laid out his journal, a repository of hard-won knowledge.
“I’ve spent years studying him,” van Richten said, his tone measured. “Strahd is no ordinary foe. He’s cunning, patient. He hibernates in his coffin when the realm is quiet, but don’t mistake that for weakness. And he always has spies.” His eyes darkened. “That’s why I’ve targeted the Vistani who serve him.”
Lars, Marcus, and Aeli listened intently, the weight of the mission settling heavily on their shoulders. Van Richten spoke of his allies—the Keepers of the Feather—and the magic that had shielded him: a hat of disguise to blend in and a ring of mind shielding to guard his thoughts.
“I can’t do this alone,” he admitted, his voice softening. “My time is running out. But you—you’re here. And that means something.”
He handed over the journal, his hands steady despite the enormity of the gesture. “Take this. It’s yours now. The knowledge, the fight—it belongs to you.”
The group accepted the journal with solemn gratitude. As Lars flipped through its pages, he caught glimpses of Van Richten’s meticulous notes: maps, observations, and theories. One passage detailed the vulnerabilities of Strahd’s hibernation; another outlined the habits of his spies.
The hour grew late, the night outside thick with an oppressive silence. Van Richten offered them sanctuary for the evening, his tower a haven amidst the darkness of Barovia. For the first time in days, the group felt a flicker of hope—not the blinding light of triumph, but the steady glow of determination. Strahd’s shadow loomed large, but now they carried the wisdom of a hunter who had walked this path before them. And that, they knew, was a light worth fighting for.
The night was still, heavy with Barovia's ever-present mist that wrapped the tower like a suffocating shroud. Marcus stirred in his bedroll, his sleep uneasy. A voice, faint as a whisper carried on a dying wind, called to him.
"Marcus..." it coaxed, both soothing and unnervingly familiar. "You know what must be done. The hunter sleeps—defenseless. You are in his house. Fulfill the agreement."
The words slithered into his thoughts, coiling around his resolve. He sat upright, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold. His hand unconsciously reached toward the hilt of his blade.
Across the room, Piccolo's feline eyes glinted in the dim light of the stove's embers. The saber-toothed tiger stretched languidly, her muscles rippling beneath her fur, but her gaze was fixed—watchful. Ready. Her quiet presence radiated a warning: Try it, and you'll regret it.
The voice urged again, louder this time, pressing against the walls of Marcus's mind. But as the tiger's tail flicked, slicing through the silence, Marcus felt his resolve falter. The danger was too great, the timing too fragile. Slowly, he lay back down, his heart thudding against his ribs as he forced himself to drift into uneasy sleep.
When the pale, muted light of dawn seeped through the tower’s cracks, it brought no warmth—only the grim reminder of Barovia’s ceaseless gloom. Over a sparse breakfast, Marcus, Aeli, and Lars deliberated their next steps.
The Amber Temple loomed in their thoughts like a dark monolith, a place of ancient power and ruin. If the rumors were true, it was where Strahd had first made his bargain with the Dark Powers, the source of his monstrous transformation. They admitted they were not ready to set foot in there yet.
Strahd’s earlier invitation to dinner felt like a distant memory, a perfumed letter laced with poison. They had no intention of accepting right now.
Ezmerelda’s disappearance lingered in their minds, a puzzle they couldn’t yet solve. Van Richten frowned deeply when they told him she’d come searching for him in Vallaki.
“She would not have come without cause,” he mused, his eyes shadowed with worry. “Ezmerelda is no fool. If she risked seeking me out, it means she’s found something important—something Strahd doesn’t want her to have.”
The weight of his words hung in the air. Then, as if resolving to trust them fully, van Richten rose from his seat and unfastened a simple leather cord around his neck. From it hung a small, unassuming key.
He moved to a battered chest at the foot of his bed. The lid creaked open to reveal an ancient tome, its leather binding cracked with age. He laid it on the table with reverence.
“This,” he declared, “is the Tome of Strahd. A record of the vampire’s own hand—a tale of ambition, tragedy, and corruption. Within these pages are secrets, vulnerabilities, and truths that can aid you in his defeat.”
Lars ran a hand over the brittle pages, his fingers trembling slightly. The words, penned in a flowing but dark hand, seemed to pulse with an eerie power.
“What else?” Lars asked, his voice filled with a spark of determination. “Are there other tools we can use against him?”
Van Richten nodded solemnly. “Two relics,” he said, his voice grave. “The Sunsword and the Holy Symbol of Ravenkind. The first was once the blade of Strahd’s own brother, Sergei von Zarovich, before he was betrayed. The second is an ancient amulet, sacred to the people of Barovia.”
“Do you know where they are?” Aeli pressed, leaning forward.
“I do not,” van Richten admitted. “But if you can find them, they will be your greatest allies.”
Lars furrowed his brow, the name Sergei tugging at a distant memory. A traveller on the road, a knight of the Order of the Silver Dragon, had spoken of him in connection to Argynvostholt.
“Sergei was a knight?” Lars asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.
“Indeed,” van Richten confirmed. “Before Strahd’s fall, Sergei was a member of the Order. But his life—and death—were steeped in tragedy.”
He went on to explain the curse of Barovia: how the souls of its dead were trapped, unable to escape the realm’s cruel cycle. Some, too stubborn to fade, clung to life in broken forms—revenants.
“Could Sergei be one of them?” Lars asked, his mind racing. Van Richten shrugged.
“It’s possible. If so, he may reside at Argynvostholt. If you go there, you may find the blade—or, at the very least, the next piece of your puzzle.”
Aeli’s thoughts drifted to Madam Eva’s cryptic fortunes, the cards hinting at a sacred blade and the lair of a dragon.
As they prepared to leave, the tower’s creaking staircase echoed under their boots. Outside, the mist pressed against the world like a suffocating veil, and the distant howl of wolves promised no safe roads.
Van Richten stood at the door, his figure framed by the dim light. His expression was equal parts solemn and hopeful. “I’ve done all I can,” he said, his voice steady. “The rest is up to you. Find the relics. Defeat Strahd. Free Barovia.”
With the Tome of Strahd in hand and a flicker of hope ignited in their hearts, the party descended the steps, their path shrouded in uncertainty but fortified by purpose.
Lars crouched beneath the trapdoor of Ezmerelda's wagon. With a steadying breath, he reached for the latch and gently eased it open, half-expecting the sharp hiss of an unseen trap. But silence greeted him, save for the faint clink of a flask swaying above—a flask of alchemist’s fire, suspended by a web of wire that could ignite catastrophe with the flick of a careless hand.
Relief washed over him as he slipped inside, eyes scanning the wagon’s shadowy interior. Here was no ordinary abode, but a treasure trove of utility and mystery, each item whispering of lives lived on the edge of peril. A wooden trunk bore scars like the talons of some long-dead beast. A narrow wardrobe, standing silent sentinel, hinted at disguises yet to be donned. Kits for climbing, healing, and poisoning were neatly arrayed, tools of survival in a land where death walked freely.
Among the more peculiar finds, a lyre with strings of spun gold rested in a corner, alongside a sculpted wooden cage housing a chicken—a living, clucking anachronism—and a silver ewer cradling five eggs, gleaming like treasures of a forgotten age. A tiny wooden box caught Lars’s attention, its latch a whisper of secrets, but before he could delve deeper, the mournful cry of a wolf shattered the forest's fragile peace.
He froze. Outside, the others—Aeli, Marcus, Ireena, and Kasimir—turned as the sound echoed across the land bridge. The wolf’s cry was answered, not by one but many. From the mist, the pack emerged, their eyes burning with feral intelligence. The leader, a massive, slate-gray beast, stood at the vanguard, its gaze locked on the group. Seconds stretched into an eternity before the pack joined it, their bodies a wall of snarling menace.
Lars’s anger flared like a spark to dry tinder. He drew his bow, the string taut as he loosed an arrow with unerring precision. The wolves surged forward, the air alive with their snarls.
Marcus raised his hands, summoning a torrent of flame that erupted across the bridge, the inferno illuminating the feral forms. Some wolves faltered, but others pushed through, their shapes twisting grotesquely as fur gave way to muscle and claws elongated into wicked talons. These were no ordinary wolves.
Werewolves. The battle unfolded in brutal clarity. Lars fought with a ferocity that matched the beasts’, his club and sword finding purchase in flesh and bone. Aeli moved like a whirlwind, her longsword cleaving through hide and sinew. Ireena, defiant, wielded her club with surprising force, her strikes ringing out amidst the chaos. Kasimir stood at the rear, his hands weaving arcane sigils that summoned ice and fire to crash against the attackers. And Marcus—deadly and precise—alternated between searing flames and the cold bite of his daggers, his movements a dance of lethal efficiency.
When the final werewolf fell, the battlefield stilled, leaving only the rasp of labored breaths and the coppery scent of blood. Lars knelt beside the fallen beast, his eyes catching a swatch of fabric clinging to its tattered clothing. He knew that pattern—Sigrit's dress. The realization struck like a hammer, his mind spiraling into fury.
With a guttural growl, he lashed out at the already defeated enemy, his strikes fueled by something primal and raw. Each blow echoed with an unspoken rage, a fury that felt larger than himself, as though it belonged to the land itself, this cursed and unyielding Barovia.
"Lars," Aeli’s voice cut through the haze, firm but not unkind. Her hand on his shoulder steadied him, pulling him back from the brink.
The swatch of fabric dangled from his clenched fist, a clue and a curse. The forest seemed to hold its breath, as if waiting to see what would unfold next.
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