24th January - Let's head to Argynvostholt
Map of Barovia
General Summary
Lars sat apart from the group, his shoulders hunched, the swatch of fabric still clutched in his trembling hand. The fire that had driven his blows moments ago was gone, replaced by a heavy sadness that seemed to dim the world around him. Aeli and Marcus exchanged a glance, concern etched on their faces. This was not the first time Lars’s emotions had roiled beneath the surface, but this was different—raw, unguarded.
“I know this fabric,” Lars murmured, his voice strained. “It’s from the dress my sister, Sigrit, wore the day she was taken.”
The weight of his words settled over the group. Aeli’s brow furrowed. “But why? Why bring her to Barovia? To lure you here?” She hesitated, glancing at Marcus. “What do they want with you, Lars? What significance do you hold?”
Lars’s gaze hardened, his grief twisting into suspicion as his eyes settled on Kasimir. “And what of you?” he said, his voice sharp as a blade. “You, who lived among the Vistani—those who serve Strahd. How can we trust you?”
Kasimir’s expression darkened, but he did not shy away from the accusation. “My allegiance to the Vistani was never to Strahd,” he replied, his voice steady, though a hint of old pain lingered there. “Velikov, the man who took me in after Strahd’s armies left me for dead, was my only allegiance. He offered me a home, a family.”
His words hung in the air like the lingering mist of Barovia. “Velikov is long dead,” Kasimir continued, his voice softer now. “But I stayed among his descendants, hiding my hatred for Strahd, biding my time. My sister’s soul is trapped in Castle Ravenloft, and for her, I would see Strahd undone.”
The tension in the air eased, though Lars’s suspicion lingered like the embers of a dying fire. The group turned their attention forward, to the road ahead. The path to Argynvostholt awaited, but Barovia’s shadows were ever watchful.
Inside Ezmerelda’s wagon, Marcus and Aeli searched for anything that could aid them. The wooden trunk bore claw marks, but within lay weapons touched by magic. They claimed a longsword, a hand axe, a club, a longbow with a quiver of arrows, and a mace, leaving behind a dagger and crossbow. The wardrobe yielded a feathered cloak and gloves made of mismatched hides, but the fine clothing and short sword were left untouched.
A small wooden box caught their eye. As Aeli opened it, she drew a sharp breath. Within was a tarokka deck, the same kind used by Madam Eva to reveal their fortunes. Its presence here was no accident.
In the larger chest, Aeli found vials of holy water and antitoxin, though she left behind a holy symbol, a rope, a wooden stake, and a spyglass. Each item felt charged with purpose, but time pressed them forward.
Marcus examined two scrolls, their magic potent and carefully penned. One would lift curses; the other could weave illusions of astonishing scale.
Aeli unfurled a map from a parchment sleeve, her eyes widening as she studied it. Unlike any map they’d seen, this one glowed faintly, its markings alive with magic. A green light shone where they stood. Blue marked Vallaki. Red markers loomed ominously over the Amber Temple and three other sites. But the purpose of these colors remained a mystery.
Not wanting to waste anymore time, they set off for Argnvostholt, Aeli watched the green marker on the map move as they did towards their destination.
Aeli’s attention was caught by a sparkle at the roadside. She stopped the wagon and stepped into the mist. Buried in the dirt was a picture frame, its edges worn but intact. Her breath hitched as she cleared away the debris. Within the frame was a crude but heartfelt drawing—one she had made for her brother on his tenth birthday. Two figures stood hand in hand, smiling as only siblings could. A single tear escaped her eye before she hardened herself once more. Whoever had placed it there wanted her to find it. But why?
Unable to find any sign of who had left the painful reminder, Aeli returned to the driver’s seat. The picture rested in her lap as the wagon rolled forward.
High above the river valley, Argynvostholt loomed. Its turrets rose like fairytale spires, defiant against the encroaching gloom. The mansion was battered but not broken—its roof partially caved, a third of its structure lost to time. Yet, it retained a grim majesty, its dark octagonal tower piercing the mist.
The group stared up at it in silence. Within those walls lay answers—or dangers. Perhaps both.
The air in the courtyard of Argynvostholt carried a chill more potent than Barovia's usual gloom, as if the very stones of the place remembered something they could not speak of. At its center stood a moss-covered statue of a dragon, weathered but imposing, perched atop a cube of granite. Its wings, tucked close to its body, gave it an aura of vigilance, a sentinel frozen in time. Aeli, Marcus, and Lars stepped down from the wagon as Kasimir and Ireena exchanged a quiet glance and offered to remain behind to guard their belongings.
The trio ascended the broad, flagstone steps flanked by stone railings. Above the double doors of dark, weathered wood, its iron bands streaked with rust, Marcus spotted a single word carved into the lintel: Argynvostholt. It confirmed they had arrived, though the oppressive air of the place felt more like a sentence than a destination.
As if to test their resolve, the dragon statue stirred—or seemed to. Its moss-covered mouth opened, releasing a frigid gust of air that swept over them. No harm came, but the breath felt like a warning, ancient and knowing.
The great wooden doors swung open without resistance as Marcus conjured his arcane hand. Inside, the manor's foyer stretched before them like a mausoleum to forgotten grandeur. A grand staircase curved upward, its stone balustrades still noble despite the passage of years. Above the landing hung a massive, faded tapestry depicting a man clad in gleaming silver armor, his expression proud yet haunted. Wrought-iron chandeliers dangled overhead, their spindly frames resembling monstrous spiders frozen mid-crawl. The air was still, but not silent—it seemed to hum with a tension that hinted at the unseen.
Then came the shadow. Winged and enormous, it moved along the walls as if watching, assessing. It vanished as quickly as it appeared, but its low, hissing growl lingered, soft and bestial, from somewhere beyond the dim light.
The walls bore pedestals, three of which displayed alabaster busts of knights whose features, though timeworn, were undeniably noble. A fourth pedestal lay shattered, its remains strewn across the mosaic floor like the remnants of a forgotten tragedy. Aeli knelt by the pieces, fitting them together with care, her brow furrowed. When the face came into focus, her breath caught. The resemblance to Lars was undeniable, and even Lars himself stared at the fragments in stunned silence.
"Ser Sergei von Zarovich," Aeli read aloud from the damaged placard, the name etched deep yet clawed at by hands that had sought to erase it.
The other knights, their busts still intact, bore names that spoke of glory lost to time: Ser Seraz Drakov, Ser Vladimir Horngaard, and Ser Godfrey Gwillem. The room seemed heavy with echoes of vows long broken.
But this was no time to linger. The group pressed forward, their boots clicking against the pink marble floor of a vast chamber. Rubble from above choked the space, chandeliers lay like broken skeletons among the debris, and thick webs hung from every corner, swaying faintly as if stirred by unseen movement. Then they saw them—spiders, their bloated forms shifting through the shadows, too numerous to count.
The creatures attacked with feral precision, crawling along walls and spitting threads of webbing that sought to ensnare the intruders. Aeli, Marcus, and Lars fought back with everything they had, their blades slicing through webs and chitin alike. Magic flared as Marcus unleashed arcane energy that shattered the nearest arachnid, while Lars’ blows struck true. Aeli’s sword found its mark again and again, her strikes guided by a determination that burned brighter than her fear.
When the last spider fell, silence returned, save for the trio’s ragged breathing. They stood among the carnage, their weapons dripping with ichor, and glanced at each other. The manor still loomed around them, oppressive and inscrutable, its secrets waiting in the shadows.
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