21st March 2025 - The Road to the Chapel
Map of Barovia
General Summary
Morning came reluctantly to Krezk, the sun little more than a pale smear against the heavy grey sky. Snow clung stubbornly to the trees, their branches sagging under its weight, as the newcomers made ready for their next journey.
Battle-worn and wary, they gathered their resolve. Their goal loomed before them: the ancient chapel, and within it, the fabled Chalice of the Morninglord. A relic of light in this land of creeping shadows.
Lars seized the rare luxury of a proper kitchen. He cooked, his hands moving with the precision of a man who had spent too many nights hunched over campfires. The Baron, humbled by the gesture, joined them, breaking bread with these strangers who carried the weight of destiny upon their shoulders. The meal was… functional. Far from the grand feasts of tales, but a welcome reprieve from dried rations and the ever-present tang of road dust.
Marcus, however, did not share in the respite. His stomach rebelled, and he doubled over, retching.
Aeli frowned, watching as Marcus leaned against the table, pale and sweating. “Are you ill?” she asked, already reaching for the antitoxin in her pouch. Marcus waved her off, forcing a weak smile. “Bad sleep,” he muttered. “Nothing more.”
Aeli didn’t believe him. She let it go—for now.
The road stretched before them, a winding path through the snow-laden forest. The wagon rocked gently as they passed beyond the safety of Krezk’s gates. The Abbey’s bells rang out. Eight chimes. An omen. Of fortune? Of misfortune? No one could say.
The path was quiet but for the crunch of hooves on frozen dirt. That was, until Aeli’s keen eyes caught a flicker of movement above. A crow—black as ink, wings beating against the sky. At first, she thought nothing of it. But it did not leave. It followed.
More joined. One. Then another. Then dozens. A storm of wings and feathers, unnatural in its silence. Aeli frowned, uneasy. The Keepers of the Feather—the secretive order of wereravens—had watched over them before. But these were not ravens. They were something else.
Carefully, she whispered a warning to the others. Lars, always one to act first, pulled himself up through the wagon’s window, climbing onto the roof. He drew his bow, took aim—and promptly fell off when the wheel struck a hidden root.
The wagon rolled on. No one noticed he was gone.
An hour passed. The crows still shadowed them, but now—movement. A ripple in the flock. Then, like arrows loosed from an unseen bow, ravens tore into their midst. The crows scattered, their shrieks sharp with alarm. The ravens drove them back, relentless, until the sky cleared like a storm breaking.
Aeli turned to share the victory—only to freeze.
Lars wasn’t there.
Aeli tried to wheel the wagon around, but the road was too narrow. Ireena and Marcus set off on foot, not knowing how long it would take to reach their friend.
Aeli didn’t hesitate. She unhitched a horse, swung onto its back, and kicked it into a gallop. The wind whipped past her as she raced back down the road, toward the mist, toward whatever had taken Lars.
Lars, sprawled in the dirt, watched the cart disappear down the winding road. He sighed. Then he stood, dusted himself off, and began walking, enjoying the solitude at first. But the silence of the woods was thick, the mist curling at the edges of his vision made him uneasy. The woods were not empty. He knew that.
As he searched about, he noticed a shape had passed through here recently. He knelt, running his fingers over the tracks. Clawed footprints. Heavy. Unmistakable. His blood ran hot.
Werewolves.
He straightened, reaching for his bow—only to hear the sharp clatter of hooves against the frozen road. He turned, narrowing his eyes against the mist. The figure on horseback rode fast, a blur of motion, then slowing as it neared. Aeli.
For a heartbeat, they simply stared at one another—relief sharp in her eyes, grim determination in his. No words were needed. Lars vaulted onto the horse behind her, and they surged back toward the wagon.
But as they rode, his gaze kept returning to the forest’s edge. To those tracks, cutting west into the shadows.
“They’re close,” he said, voice low. “And I mean to end them.”
The words hung between them, heavy as a vow. Not a request. A warning.
Marcus muttered something uncharitable under his breath as he trudged after Ireena. She moved with single-minded purpose, boots crunching in the frozen dirt, her gaze locked ahead. At any cost, her posture seemed to say. We find him.
Then—hoofbeats. A rhythmic thunder, distant at first, then closer. Aeli and Lars emerged from the mist, horse and riders both flecked with sweat and the morning’s chill. The reunion was swift, wordless. A clap on the shoulder, a shared glance. No time for celebration. They turned back toward the wagon, back toward their purpose.
The journey stretched, the woods pressing in around them like silent sentinels. Then—a break in the trees. A hill. And atop it, a building.
It hunched in the clearing like a wounded beast, its walls slumped, its roof sagging under the weight of years. The wind hissed through the skeletal branches, carrying an icy bite that made spines prickle. The chapel—if that’s what it was—stood alone, a scar upon the land. No other structures, no signs of life. Just the Svalich Woods, watching. Waiting.
The adventurers dismounted, their breath fogging in the air. Kasimir lingered by the wagon, his expression unreadable. The others ascended the hill, boots sinking into the frost-stitched earth.
Closer now, the chapel’s decay was undeniable. Statues lay shattered, their features worn smooth by time. Signs, once carved with devotion, were now illegible scars on the stone. There was no name here, no confirmation—just the weight of age, and the creeping certainty that this was the place.
The door loomed before them, half-rotted, barely clinging to its hinges. Beyond it, shadows pooled thick and still.
Aeli stepped through the broken threshold, her boots crunching on splintered wood and shattered stained glass. The air inside was thick with dust and the scent of damp rot. Collapsed pews lay like fallen soldiers, their once-polished surfaces now scarred by time and neglect. Faint light seeped through cracked windows, casting jagged shadows across the ruined sanctuary.
The others followed, their footsteps cautious, their hands never far from their weapons. Then—movement.
At the altar, a figure knelt in tattered vestments, its form flickering like a dying candle. A priest, or the ghost of one, its lips moving in silent prayer. Lars stepped forward, his voice steady. "We mean no harm—"
The spectre’s head snapped up. Its mouth stretched wide in a blood curdling scream before it twisted into nothingness, leaving only a lingering chill in its wake.
Aeli approached the altar, running her fingers over its cracked surface. Nothing. No hidden compartments, no sacred relics—just cold stone. Then, a whisper, so faint it might have been the wind, "Turn back before it's too late."
She spun, eyes scanning the shadows. No one. No movement. Only the creeping sense that something was watching.
Meanwhile, Lars pushed open a side door, revealing a cluttered storeroom. Barrels and crates, their wood warped with age, lined the walls. He pried open the nearest crate. A swarm of inky shadows burst forth, writhing like living smoke. They coiled around his face, clinging with phantom fingers. Lars staggered back, clawing at the darkness as it seeped into his mouth, his nose.
Athun and Marcus hesitated, scanning the room for unseen threats, but Aeli didn’t wait. She lunged forward, grabbing Lars by the arm and yanking him back. The shadows hissed, peeling away from him like oil from water and then slithered back into the crate, the lid slamming shut with a final, ominous thud.
Silence.
Lars brushed off the clinging dread of the shadows and strode into the next chamber—a small, time-worn bedroom. A simple desk, its wood warped with age, stood beside a bookshelf sagging under the weight of forgotten tomes. He rifled through the shelves, flipping pages with little reverence, but found only dust and decay. A handful of handwritten notes, brittle and yellowed, lay scattered across the desk. He skimmed them, shrugged, and tossed them aside as he left.
"Just some old scribbles," he muttered to Marcus.
But Marcus, ever the scholar, lingered. His fingers traced the charred edges of the parchment, carefully piecing together fragments of ink that had survived the years. The words were faded, the script elegant yet hurried—as though written in desperation. Sergei’s words.
The wizard’s breath caught as the truth settled over him. These weren’t just notes. They were confessions. A brother’s grief, a lover’s plea, a man torn between hope and despair. - "My brother is not beyond redemption. Or is he?" - "Tatyana’s soul is caught in this land’s cruel grip. Until she is freed, I will not forgive Strahd." - "There is power here—something the Morninglord himself may have left behind. But it is hidden, buried in shadow." - "I considered making a deal with Strahd. If he would let her go, I would… But no. I cannot."
Then, faint but unmistakable, the sound of weeping, drifted up from somewhere deeper in the chapel. The party exchanged glances. No words were needed. They pressed forward, descending worn stone steps into the dark, where the air grew colder, heavier.
And the weeping grew louder.
With weapons drawn, the party descended into the crypt below. The air was thick with the scent of old earth and candle wax, the walls lined with alcoves housing coffins and shrouded corpses. Some niches gaped empty, their occupants long gone—or perhaps never laid to rest at all. The weeping still echoed, mournful and directionless, seeming to seep from the very stone.
Aeli moved toward the nearest coffin, its nameplate deliberately defaced, the letters gouged away as if by claws or a blade. Her fingers brushed the rough wood.
Then, a flicker. One of the crypt’s candles flared to life, its flame dancing wildly despite the stagnant air. Lars and Athun tensed, eyes darting for the source of the disturbance. Lars strode forward and blew out the candle.
Darkness. Every flame snuffed out at once.
For a heartbeat, the crypt was pitch-black. Then, light returned—candles igniting anew, their glow revealing figures kneeling in prayer. Ghostly priests, translucent and sorrowful, their murmured devotions filling the chamber. Before anyone could react, a deeper shadow moved among them.
It struck like a wolf among sheep—swift, brutal. One priest fell, then another, their spectral forms dissolving into mist under the assault. The attacker’s hood fell back, revealing a face they knew all too well.
Strahd.
His laughter boomed through the crypt, triumphant and cruel, before the vision shattered like glass. The candles burned normally once more, the priests gone as if they had never been. Aeli’s hand tightened around her hatchet—then froze. The weapon trembled in her grip, vibrating as though alive.
"Not ghosts," Marcus murmured, eyes narrowing. "An illusion. A magical echo of what happened here."
The crypt fell silent again, save for the distant, unending weeping.
Athun pushed open the heavy door, revealing a chamber lined with six stone sarcophagi. The moment the door groaned on its hinges, the spectral weeping ceased—as if the very air had been holding its breath. The others filed in behind him, their footsteps echoing in the hollow silence.
Lars’ gaze swept over the coffins. The nameplates had been savaged, claw marks rending the inscriptions into illegibility. Then—movement. Faded spirits materialized above each sarcophagus, their forms wisp-thin and flickering like candle flames in a draft.
One spirit turned its hollow gaze toward them. Its voice was a whisper of wind through dead leaves, speaking in a tongue only Lars understood.
"Find the Chalice," it pleaded. "Cleanse this place. Let the light return."
Lars’ pulse quickened. “Where is it?” The spirit’s translucent hand gestured weakly. "The crypt of Father Turol. Locked. The key… lies in the font by the altar."
Before the others could react, Lars was already moving, bolting back up the stairs with a shout that was half-triumph, half-warning. The party scrambled after him, their confusion giving way to urgency.
Back in the ruined chapel, they skidded to a halt before the altar—where a baptismal font now stood, filled with inky black liquid. It hadn’t been there before.
Marcus didn’t hesitate. He plunged his hand into the dark water, fingers groping through the unnatural cold until they closed around metal. He pulled the key free, dripping shadow.
And the shadows stirred. The darkness coalesced, twisting up from the font like smoke given purpose. It swirled, thickened, until a humanoid figure loomed before Marcus, its features shifting like a nightmare given form.
"My master doesn’t want you here," it hissed, voice a chorus of whispers. "You were fools to think you could leave."
The party braced, weapons raised. The thing of shadow grinned, its maw stretching too wide.
And the real fight began.
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