28th February 2025 - What Lies In Wait At Krezk
Map of Barovia
General Summary
Marcus awoke to the slow creak of wagon wheels and the gentle jostle of travel. His mind was sluggish, caught between the last tendrils of sleep and the waking world. Why had they stopped? The cold morning light bled through the canvas, sharp against his eyes. He sat up, rubbing the exhaustion from his face. Outside, voices carried on the crisp air. Something was... off.
Blinking away the blur, Marcus peered out, expecting his companions. Instead, he saw something that should not have been. A towering figure, broad as an ox, loomed over Lars and Aeli. It stood with the confidence of a warlord, its massive frame casting long shadows across the morning ground. Human, in form—but not. Its head bore the shape of a bull, crowned with great, curving horns that promised strength beyond reckoning. Aeli stood before it, unflinching.
Marcus felt a jolt of unease. His first instinct was to grab his weapon, but Lars, ever composed, turned back to him. "You're awake," Lars said. "Good. Meet Athun."
Athun. The name carried weight, though Marcus knew not why. Lars explained that they had met in the ruins of Argynvostholt, that Athun would be traveling with them now. Marcus studied their new companion, his every instinct screaming that something about this was... wrong. But he could not yet place it. So he held his tongue. For now.
Meanwhile, Kasimir and Lars worked to move the fallen horse from the road, the remnants of their previous battle still fresh. Marcus' stomach twisted—not at the sight of the carcass, but at the thought of rations. The mere idea of dried meat turned his stomach, though he could not say why. His thoughts scared him as he suddenly had a lust for the sweet taste of blood. He shook it off and hoped no one noticed.
They pressed on, their journey to Krezk made slower by the loss of their second horse. Along the way, Lars finally shared the letter—the invitation from Strahd. Marcus read the words, feeling the weight of unseen chains wrapping around his wrists. An invitation? A summons. And yet, there was a plan. While he, Lars, and Aeli entertained Strahd at dinner, Athun and Kasimir would slip through the castle’s shadows, seeking whatever knowledge could be torn from the dark.
Marcus' brows furrowed. The scheme was sound, but something gnawed at him. "Where did you find this?" he asked.
Lars hesitated. "In the belly of a wolf."
Marcus' expression darkened. "You forgot to mention that part."
The conversation stretched with them along the road, past the twisting branches and fog-laden paths. When at last they reached a weatherworn signpost, the road diverged into three paths—one leading to Krezk, one to Vallaki, and one to the enigmatic Wizard of Wines. No detours. Not today.
The road climbed, the mountain air growing thin. Krezk came into sight, perched upon a rocky escarpment. Walls of stone, reinforced with heavy buttresses, loomed above. Beyond them, only the whisper of smoke and the distant toll of a bell—a stark contrast to Barovia’s silence. The chime was... welcoming, in its own way.
Cold wind bit at them as they neared the gate. The settlement was quiet, but not lifeless. The walls, twenty feet high, were lined with sentries. At the gatehouse, ironbound doors loomed, flanked by guards in fur hats and clutching spears. They did not look like soldiers. They looked like men who had seen monsters.
Lars stepped forward, his voice firm. "We need entry."
One of the guards stiffened. "The Burgomaster has ordered the gates shut. No one enters without his permission."
Lars set his jaw, trying reason first. "We're here to bring Ireena to safety. We came from Vallaki."
A flicker of fear passed over the guard’s face. "Then you should leave. We’ve heard what happened there. We know what Strahd did to their priest. We won’t let the same happen here."
Frustration bristled in Lars' stance, but before he could speak again, a new voice cut through the conversation. "What’s this?" The Burgomaster himself approached, a plump man with a thick mustache, his expression hardened by years of hardship. "Who are you? Why are you here?"
Marcus leaned out of the wagon, meeting the lord’s gaze. "We are not allies of Strahd. We are seeking aid—and offering it in return."
The words hung in the air, tension thick between them. Finally, with a weary sigh, the Burgomaster nodded. The doors groaned as they were pulled open, granting entry at last. The travelers stepped inside, but the caution in the villagers’ eyes did not fade.
Within the walls, Krezk revealed itself—not a town, but a scattering of humble cottages set among the trees. Roads of dirt wove between pines dusted with snow, so thick they nearly swallowed the settlement whole. Grey cliffs rose in the distance, and above them, the abbey loomed. It was visible from anywhere in Krezk, its stone walls touched by the mist that curled at its base.
A prison. A sanctuary. Perhaps both.
The doors shut behind them, sealing them within yet another unknown. And ahead, waiting in the mist, Krezk watched.
The Burgomaster of Krezk emerged from the shadowed gates of the village, his figure framed by the pale light of a sun that seemed perpetually muted, as though the sky itself were afraid to shine too brightly. Behind him trailed a retinue of guards, their hands gripping wooden stakes with a tension that spoke of both fear and readiness. The Burgomaster’s voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease as he welcomed the newcomers to Krezk. He offered them the safety of his village, the warmth of its hearths, and the hospitality of its people—but first, he made an unusual request.
“Show me your teeth,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind.
Aeli, ever observant, noted the way the guards tightened their grips on their stakes, their knuckles whitening. She exchanged a glance with her companions, her mind racing. What kind of place was this, where a smile was a test of trust?
Lars stepped down from the wagon first, his movements deliberate, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Ireena clung to his arm, her presence a silent reminder of the stakes they carried with them. Marcus and Kasimir followed, their whispers drawing murmurs from the guards, who began to invent their own stories about these strange travellers. Then came Athun.
The guards gasped as he emerged from the wagon, weapons were drawn in an instant, the air thick with tension, but the Burgomaster’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade.
“Stand down!” Lord Krezkov commanded, his tone brooking no argument. “These guests are under my protection. Sheathe your weapons and show them the courtesy they deserve.”
The guards obeyed, though their eyes remained wary, their hands never straying far from their stakes. The Burgomaster’s relief was palpable, though he masked it well. One by one, Lars, Aeli, Marcus, and Athun bared their teeth, a gesture that seemed to satisfy the Burgomaster’s unspoken fears. With a nod, he led them toward his home, a large but modest dwelling that stood as a bastion of warmth in the cold, oppressive air of Krezk.
Inside, they were greeted by Lady Krezkov, a woman whose beauty was tempered by the weight of hardship. Her eyes, sharp and discerning, swept over the group before landing on Athun. For a moment, she froze, the bottle of wine in her hands slipping from her grasp and shattering on the floor. She recovered quickly, her movements brisk as she cleaned the mess and fetched another bottle, but the moment lingered in the air like a storm waiting to break.
The fire in the hearth crackled, its warmth a welcome reprieve, though it did little to dispel the chill that seemed to seep into their bones. Wine was poured, its aroma rich with the promise of fruit and spice, but the taste was another matter entirely. Marcus took a sip and immediately recoiled, the bitter, sickening flavor forcing him to spit it onto the floor. The Burgomaster’s expression tightened, but he said nothing, his focus shifting to the purpose of their visit.
Lars spoke first, his voice steady as he explained their search for Sergei—Sergei von Zarovich. The name hung in the air like a curse, and the sound of a glass bottle shattering in the kitchen underscored its weight. The Burgomaster’s face darkened, his confusion giving way to a grim understanding.
“Sergei is dead,” he said, his voice heavy with the weight of history. “Slain by Strahd himself, many years ago.”
Lars pressed on, explaining their belief that Sergei’s soul still lingered in Barovia, that he might hold the key to defeating the self-proclaimed lord of this cursed land. The Burgomaster listened, his expression troubled, before admitting he knew nothing of Sergei’s whereabouts. He urged them to keep their quest a secret, fearing the consequences if the townsfolk were given hope only to have it torn away.
When asked about resistance to Strahd, the Burgomaster’s voice grew sombre. He spoke of adventurers who had come and gone, their ambitions crushed beneath Strahd’s heel. He mentioned a charismatic mage who had rallied the people of Barovia, only to lead them to their doom. Krezk, he explained, had survived by avoiding Strahd’s notice, its connection to the Abbot and the Morninglord serving as a fragile shield.
The tolling of the abbey’s bell interrupted their conversation, its deep, resonant note sending a shiver through the room. Aeli seized the moment, pressing the Burgomaster for information about the Abbey of Saint Markovia. He spoke of Markovia, a priestess of the Morninglord who had dared to challenge Strahd, only to meet a grim end. He spoke of the Abbot, a figure shrouded in mystery, who had arrived generations ago and had not aged a day since. The abbey, he said, was a place of screams and laughter, its bell ringing at odd hours, its secrets best left undisturbed.
Aeli’s eyes narrowed, her voice sharp as she challenged the Burgomaster’s leadership. If he truly cared for the safety of his people, why had he not investigated the abbey? Why had he allowed fear to dictate his actions? The Burgomaster faltered, his defences crumbling as he admitted his fear of upsetting the fragile balance that kept Krezk safe.
Unsatisfied and driven by a growing sense of urgency, Aeli led her companions toward the abbey, their steps echoing in the quiet streets of Krezk. The bell tolled again, its sound a harbinger of the mysteries that awaited them, and the shadows seemed to deepen as they walked, as though the very land were watching, waiting, and biding its time.
At the foot of the winding path, they came upon the pool.
Even beneath the ever-present gloom of Barovia, its waters shimmered. Light, fractured by rolling gray clouds, danced upon the surface like the last gasps of a dying sun. At the northern edge of the village, cradled by twisted trees, the pool stood silent, untouched by the bleakness that had long since strangled the land. Nearby, a gazebo hunched forward as if weary from years of neglect. The wood was splintered, its roof sagging beneath the weight of countless seasons. At its heart stood a statue—a bare-chested man with outstretched arms, his paint faded and peeling, his posture one of longing, of quiet grief.
Lars stepped forward, his eyes tracing the weather-worn symbols carved into the figure’s chest. The Morninglord. Facing east, arms wide, forever awaiting the sun’s embrace. He knelt at the shrine and dipped his hands into the water. Cool, pure. The moment it touched his lips, warmth bloomed in his chest. The exhaustion of travel, the aches of battle—gone. He exhaled, invigorated.
Aeli followed. She drank deeply, savoring the crisp clarity of the water. But Marcus—Marcus hesitated.
His hands trembled slightly as he cupped the liquid, his wariness plain. He lifted it to his lips and drank. The effect was immediate. His body recoiled, muscles tensing, face twisting in revulsion. He spat most of it out, gagging, forcing himself to swallow the rest. It curdled in his gut like something tainted. He glanced at Lars, his expression unreadable.
The road to the Abbey was carved into the side of a cliff that seemed eager to shake loose its passengers. Loose gravel shifted beneath their boots, and the air turned sharp, thin. With every step upward, the cold deepened, curling around them, whispering through the folds of their cloaks.
Then, at last—the Abbey.
The mist lay below them now, like a rolling sea. The path crested a wide ledge where the Abbey perched, ancient and unmoving. A dusting of fresh snow clung to gnarled trees and rocky earth. Ahead, two squat outbuildings flanked the path, their crumbling stonework held together with stubborn mortar. Between them, a set of iron gates, rusting at the hinges, barred the way.
Beyond the gates, the Abbey loomed, a fortress of quiet menace. Its two wings were bound together by a towering wall. A belfry stretched toward the sky, and from a nearby chimney, smoke curled lazily, proof of life within.
Athun prowled forward, eyes keen, searching for a way in that would not betray their presence. But after a moment’s deliberation, he exhaled and called out instead, voice carrying through the still air.
A rustle. Then movement.
Two figures emerged from the outbuildings. Misshapen. Unnatural.
Otto was first—a squat, hunched creature barely scraping five feet tall. At a glance, he might have been mistaken for a dwarf, but the truth of him was something else entirely. Patches of donkey hide stretched across his skin. One ear was human, the other that of a wolf. His mouth, extended into a lupine snout, revealed sharp, protruding fangs. Though his arms remained human, his legs were those of a lion, complete with a donkey’s twitching tail.
Zygfrek followed. Smaller than Otto, but no less unsettling. The left side of her face was blanketed in reptilian scales, the right marred by tufts of gray wolf fur, the bare skin between a stark contrast. One eye was slitted, feline. Her hands, twisted into something resembling a cat’s paws, flexed with quiet anticipation.
Otto spoke first, his voice gravel-rough. "Wait here. I will fetch the Abbot."
The words held no room for negotiation. He vanished into the Abbey, leaving the group to stand in uneasy silence beneath the weight of the place.
Minutes stretched, but when Otto returned, he gestured for them to follow. All but Marcus.
Something in Otto’s animalistic gaze darkened as he regarded the wizard. There was distrust there. No—fear. An instinctual wariness, the kind bred into beasts who knew the scent of danger.
Athun did not give Otto the chance to act on that fear. He stepped forward, voice low, laced with unspoken menace. "He comes with us."
A pause. Otto clenched his jaw. Then, reluctantly, he stepped aside.
The Abbey’s walls wrapped around them as they entered, ancient stone swallowing them whole. A graveyard sprawled near the foundation, stunted pine trees pushing through rocky soil, their roots tangled with the long-dead. The windows of the Abbey were fractured, their leaded panes long since weakened by time. In the yard, half-buried gravestones jutted from the snow, each one a story lost to time.
And beyond the low wall, the ground fell away into nothingness.
The village of Krezk lay four hundred feet below. It seemed distant now, small, fragile. A different world entirely.
For a moment, they stood there, silent, taking in the sight.
Then, as one, they turned toward the Abbey doors and stepped forward into the unknown.
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