21st February 2025 - Finding an Ally
Map of Barovia
General Summary
Aeli moved through the ruined halls of Argynvostholt, her footfalls light, yet filled with purpose. The air here felt heavier, as if the stones themselves bore witness to too much sorrow. But she did not pause. She pressed forward, heart hammering, seeking something—anything—that could guide them.
Lars trailed her like a shadow, ever the silent sentinel, watching. Waiting. Guarding.
The chapel doors groaned as she pushed them open. The room beyond was empty, save for the shattered remains of pews and a long-cold altar. Light filtered through the high, stained-glass windows in fractured slivers, turning dust motes into drifting constellations. She approached the altar, her fingers trailing over the worn stone, and then, for the first time in her life, Aeli prayed.
“Please,” she whispered, sinking to her knees. “Someone. Anyone. I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I have fought. I have endured. I have clung to hope, but I can feel it slipping. I can feel myself slipping.”
Her breath hitched, but she forced herself to continue. “If there is a power that still listens, if there is anything beyond this torment that has not turned its back on us—please—I need a sign. A whisper. A hand in the dark. I don’t care what it is. I don’t care what it costs. Just… let me believe there is a way out for my friends and me. Because I don’t know how much more I can take. And I don’t know if I have the strength to keep fighting.”
She exhaled, her voice barely above a whisper. “I just want to go home.”
For a moment, there was nothing. No answering voice. No divine warmth. Just silence. Then, wings.
A shadow swept through the open windows, vast and imposing. It circled once, a great silhouette against the fractured light, before descending. Aeli’s breath caught as the form shifted, the dark shape drawing inward until it took on the form of a man—not flesh, not entirely, but something more. A spirit, shimmering with ethereal radiance.
His gaze found her, and in it, she saw something strange—recognition. Affection. The kind of fondness one reserved for an old friend. It was comforting, yet deeply unsettling. Aeli swallowed, unsure if she should bow, if she should kneel, if she should flee.
The figure tilted his head, studying her and called her The Blade of the Sanctum as though it were fact, as though it had always been so.
A knowing smile on his lips, “Your burden is great. But you do not carry it alone. If you would stand against the darkness, then take up the banner of light. Relight the beacon. Let Barovia know that the Order of the Silver Dragon still fights.”
Aeli hesitated. There was weight to those words. An unspoken promise.
“Will you restore the Order to it's former glory, and fulfil my mission of bringing light to this dark place?” he asked.
She nodded. “I will.”
The figure placed a hand on her shoulder. Power surged through her like a rising tide—magic ancient and untested, burning with a purpose that was not wholly her own. It did not ask if she was ready. It simply became.
As the light dimmed, he turned to Lars, offering a small, amused nod. “Do not worry, my Sentinel. I will see you soon.”
Then, he stepped backward, into the shattered glass, and faded into mist.
A loud bang shattered the silence. Aeli and Lars turned toward the chapel doors, where something heavy pounded against the wood. Lars moved first, bow ready, his stance rigid. Aeli tightened her grip on her sword. A single glance passed between them. Then, Lars opened the door.
Beyond it stood a creature that did not belong to this world—not fully. It towered over them, its form humanoid but warped. Its flesh hung loose, as though the life within it had been slowly drained. And its head—gods, its head was not a man’s at all. It was the head of a bull, its great curving horns absorbing what little light touched them. Its eyes, glowing embers in a dead forge, fixed upon them. And yet, for all its horror, it was not mindless. There was something behind those eyes—awareness. Purpose.
“I am Athun,” the creature rumbled, voice like stone grinding against stone. “Knight of the Order of the Silver Dragon.” Athun looked past them, into the ruins of the keep. “What has become of our bastion?”
His last memory, he explained, was of battle—of standing against Strahd’s forces alongside his sworn brothers. Of pain. And then… nothing. Until now. Lars studied him for a long moment, then finally nodded. “Join us, then. Strahd’s time is ending.”
At the mention of Strahd, something dark passed over Athun’s expression. A deep, festering fury. “You seek to destroy the monster that took Argynvost from us, Then I will stand at your side.”
As the three deliberated on their next move—whether to seek Sergei, whether to push onward toward Krezk—Athun’s expression darkened at the mention of the Sentinel Prime. “I knew him,” he said, his voice weighted with memory. “Sergei was… resourceful. Cunning. A master of secrecy.”
Lars hesitated, then confessed the truth of their battle with Sir Godfrey. Athun listened in silence, his hands tightening into fists. “You fought the Keeper of the Argent Vault,” he murmured, more to himself than to them. “Godfrey was honorable. Loyal. He would never—” He stopped, exhaling sharply. “Something has poisoned his mind.”
Then Lars and Aeli spoke of Vladimir and Seraz. They did not reveal all, but enough. Athun lowered his head. The Herald of the Silver Dawn. The Warden Commander. Their names were not merely names to him. They were kin. Brothers in arms. And now they were lost. Silence stretched between them, but it was not empty. It was heavy, laden with grief and the promise of vengeance.
The morning light, pale and hesitant, bled through the Barovian mist, casting long shadows over the damp earth as the party prepared for their next move. Aeli adjusted the straps on her pack, eyes set toward the road ahead, but before they could depart, Kasimir stepped forward, his expression a mask of quiet warning.
"The Amber Temple is not a place one simply walks into," he said, voice low, grave. "You are strong, but the evils within are older than Barovia itself. Wait until you are ready."
Athun kept his concern hidden, but inwardly, he agreed. He had heard whispers of the horrors that lay entombed within those dark halls, ancient forces whose names had been scoured from history. When the group ultimately decided to set their course for Krezk instead, he allowed himself a breath of relief.
With Kasimir’s guidance, the map was updated, ink forming shapes that corresponded to the glowing red circles on their magical parchment. The road to Krezk was clear, winding through twisted forests and barren stretches of land where the world itself seemed to hold its breath. They packed their supplies, secured their wagon, and set forth, the morning sun breaking through the iron-gray clouds in fleeting slivers of gold.
The journey was uneventful at first. The road stretched ahead like a promise, distant yet tangible. But then Lars, ever the keen-eyed hunter, noticed something amiss. A wolf trap, old and rusted, sat off to the side of the road. He turned to Aeli with a smirk, lamenting the lack of wolves.
And that was when the wolves appeared.
They stood in the trees, watching. Their silver eyes gleamed with an intelligence that set them apart from mere beasts. They did not snarl or snap, but simply observed, as though toying with the party, waiting for the first move.
Lars did not hesitate. His bowstring sang, an arrow loosed. The fight erupted in an instant, a blur of fur and fang. The wolves were swift, ruthless, and before they fell, they managed to take down one of the party’s horses. When the last of them lay dead, Aeli stepped forward, drawn by something unnatural within the remains.
The stomach of one of the creatures had been cut open in the skirmish, its insides a ruin of half-digested flesh. And among the carnage lay a letter. Addressed to Aeli, Lars, and Marcus.
Silence settled over them like a shroud. They gathered around, eyes dark with suspicion. The invitation was unmistakable, penned in elegant, deliberate script.
Strahd.
They debated, wary of the vampire lord’s intentions, questioning the sincerity behind his words. Lars was firm—whatever game Strahd played, they could not risk Ireena. She had to be somewhere safe.
Athun turned his gaze upon Ireena, and something within him shifted. A memory, long buried, clawed its way to the surface. He had seen a face like hers before. Tatyana.
He did not speak immediately, the weight of revelation pressing against his tongue. He saw it now, the full, tragic arc of Barovia’s curse. Strahd’s descent had not begun with darkness—it had begun with love. Or what he had mistaken for love. A young woman of noble birth, beauty beyond compare. Tatyana.
She had been meant for another. Sergei von Zarovich—Strahd’s own brother. The warmth that had drawn her to Sergei was the same warmth that had driven Strahd to madness. On the day of their wedding, Strahd had given in to his own obsession. He had murdered his brother, drank his blood, and pursued Tatyana through the castle gardens, determined to claim her for himself.
But she had chosen death over him. Her body had vanished into the mist, lost to the depths below.
And Strahd, for all his newfound immortality, had not been able to stop what came next. The sky had darkened, arrows piercing the night as the Order of the Silver Dragon made their move. Strahd should have died that night. He should have been just another tyrant struck down before his time.
But he hadn’t. The land had turned against them all, the mists rolling in like a closing fist. Strahd had risen anew—eyes burning, fangs bared, a monster fully born.
Athun exhaled, pushing the memory away. He turned to Ireena. "You look exactly like her."
She stiffened. "Like who?"
"Tatyana."
A shadow passed over her features, a flicker of something she did not understand but could not deny. "Strahd called me that," she admitted. "But I don’t know why. I don’t know that name."
The words felt hollow, even to her. There was something, deep within, that recognized what Athun had said. A feeling, a pull, an ache that had no name.
She turned to Lars, jaw set. "We go to Krezk. Perhaps there, I will be safe."
The road stretched onward. The mist whispered. And in the distance, unseen but always watching, the darkness stirred.
Comments