22nd November - The Fight in the Night
General Summary
The storm lashed against the cobblestones of Vallaki as the party followed the trail of blood, their steps weighted by urgency. Rain slicked their cloaks, and the smell of wet earth mingled with something darker, more foreboding. The air felt charged, as though the tension had woven itself into the very fabric of the night.
When they reached the gates, Vidar stepped forward, his voice cutting through the downpour. "Have you seen anything unusual tonight?"
One of the guards, drenched and shivering, glanced around nervously before muttering, "Vistani came through a while back. Didn’t look close; they come and go often enough."
That small clue spurred the party onward. But as they neared the Vistani camp, something felt off. The usual sounds of revelry—the songs, the laughter, the clinking of mugs—were conspicuously absent. In their place was an eerie silence, broken only by the rhythmic drumming of rain against the earth.
The camp loomed ahead, shadows shifting against flickering campfires. The wagons that encircled the central tent stood empty, their interiors dark and lifeless. Horses tethered nearby stamped their hooves uneasily, their ears twitching as if sensing the tension.
Aeli and Marcus moved with practiced stealth, slipping between the wagons. From a vantage point, Aeli caught sight of Milivoj inside the central tent. He was bound, beaten, his face streaked with blood. Around him stood a group of armed Vistani, their voices low but serious. Concentrating, Aeli caught fragments of their conversation through the storm: something about bones, and a grim assertion that *“the boy won’t leave here alive. He knows too much.”*
Meanwhile, Sorrow and Vidar executed their distraction. Sorrow approached one of the horses, slicing through its reins and giving it a sharp prod. The animal bolted, whinnying loudly as it raced down the hill. The noise drew one of the Vistani from the tent, and the group held their breath as he pursued the fleeing horse into the darkness.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the night—and Vidar found himself face-to-face with a figure that made his blood run cold. Yet the moment passed, and Vidar’s mind shifted back to their plan. He donned the illusion of Lady Wachter, her face and fine clothing an eerie echo of the woman they had bested only hours ago.
The party regrouped in the shadows. Aeli relayed what she and Marcus had overheard, and together they formed their plan. Sorrow and Aeli would approach the tent’s entrance, Marcus would hold position for support, and Vidar would use his illusory guise to draw the Vistani out.
The trap was sprung when Vidar’s illusion strode boldly into the camp. One by one, the Vistani emerged, suspicion etched on their faces. But before their ruse could be fully realized, a returning Vistani leading a horse spotted them, and the game was up.
Battle erupted. The storm roared as steel clashed against steel. Vistani surged from the tent, their numbers threatening to overwhelm. At their head stood Arrigal, his presence commanding and familiar. It was he who had first drawn the party together with a mysterious letter, and now his blades turned against them.
The fight unfolded in a chaotic blur. Aeli was separated from her companions, fighting fiercely to hold her ground. Sorrow darted between the wagons, her twin swords a whirlwind of steel and blood. Vidar, still clad in the guise of Lady Wachter, moved to support his companions with radiant healing and searing celestial power. Marcus summoned a fiery prism that burned their foes, scattering the horses and sending chaos rippling through the camp.
But Arrigal and his lieutenant fought with grim determination, their strikes deadly and precise. Sorrow fell to the ground. Marcus rushed to her side, stabilizing her until Vidar’s magic brought her back to her feet. Yet even Vidar could not escape unscathed—Arrigal struck him down with a brutal blow, his offer of surrender ringing out over the battlefield.
The party refused.
In the storm’s fury, under the unrelenting darkness of Barovia’s skies, they fought on. Arrigal’s strength began to falter, his movements slowing as the adventurers pressed their advantage. And then, at last, the decisive blow landed. Arrigal fell, and silence descended once more.
The adventurers stood in the aftermath, their breaths ragged, their wounds stinging. Rain washed away the blood, but not the memory of the fight. They had won, but the price of survival in Barovia was always steep. For a moment, they simply breathed, the storm above mirroring the tempest of emotions within.
Report Date
22 Nov 2024
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