28th March 2025 - The Ritual of Dawn's Return
Map of Barovia
General Summary
The air was thick with decay, shadows curling along the chapel walls like hungry fingers. Lars, Ireena, Marcus, Aeli, and Athun stood ready, weapons drawn, as the wraith loomed before them. It was not merely a spirit—it was something worse, something twisted by a malevolence that clung to it like a second skin.
It moved first, gliding through the air with unnatural grace, tendrils of darkness trailing in its wake. But the party was ready. They closed in, cutting off its escape. Each strike found purchase—Aeli’s longsword, gleaming silver against the darkness; Lars’ mace, burning with divine light; Athun’s scimitar, swift and relentless; Marcus’ arcane fire, a stark contrast to the abyss the creature had become.
The chapel did not sit idly by. The walls themselves wept black ichor, dripping down in thick, necrotic rivulets. Darkness surged, swallowing their vision whole—an oppressive, tangible force. Only Lars’ weapon cut through it, a beacon in the void.
The wraith shrieked as a final blow tore through its essence. But death was no longer an end in this place. More shadows slithered forth, drawn to Marcus like vultures to carrion.
He fell first. Aeli spun, eyes wide as she saw his body collapse. "Marcus!"
They fought harder. Steel clashed, radiant energy crackled, and the air sizzled with raw power. One by one, the shadows dispersed—vanquished, but not forgotten.
Marcus gasped as he was pulled back from the brink, the necrotic chill still clinging to his skin. The key. They had the key.
No time to waste. They ran, descending the stone stairs to the crypt below. The air was thick with dust and the weight of time. The door groaned as it opened, revealing the final resting place of Father Turol.
Lars stepped forward, placing his hands on the sarcophagus. He pushed. The lid slid back, releasing a rush of stale air and centuries-old dust. There, resting in the hands of the long-dead priest, lay the Chalice. It was pristine, untouched by time, glowing with a soft, golden light. Lars exhaled. They had it. But victory was never so simple.
The spectral figure of the priest lingered nearby, waiting. Watching. "You have done what I could not," the ghost murmured. "But it is not enough." Lars swallowed. "Then tell us what must be done."
The spirit raised a translucent hand. "This place is not yet cleansed. The darkness remains. The ritual must be completed, or the corruption will return. The chapel must become hallowed ground once more."
Silence. The weight of the task pressed down on them like a hand on their shoulders, heavy with consequence. If they succeeded, the chapel would be cleansed. No undead, no servant of Strahd, no soul bound by darkness would ever set foot within its walls again. The corruption would be purged.
They had uncovered Father Turol’s instructions. The ritual was clear. Simple, even.
- Fill the chalice with the blackened liquid from the baptismal font.
- Sacrifice three drops of untainted blood into the chalice, an offering of life to counter death's grip.
- Drink from the Chalice, binding the ritualist to the sacred act.
- Return the Remaining Liquid to the font, completing the cycle.
Marcus stepped forward, eager to take the lead, but Aeli’s hand shot out, gripping his arm. Her eyes held a silent warning. We don’t know what stains your soul carries.
The wizard hesitated, then nodded, yielding to her.
Aeli took the chalice. She dipped it into the font, watching as the blackened liquid slithered up and filled the cup. Thick, viscous. It smelled of rot and something older than decay—something wrong. The liquid inside swirled as if alive. With careful precision, she pricked her finger, letting three crimson drops fall into the cup. Each one struck the surface like a hammer against an anvil, the blackness within shifting, changing colour—as if her blood were purging the corruption. She raised the chalice to her lips and drank. Then, she poured the rest back into the font.
The explosion came instantly, a shockwave of radiant energy blasted outward, throwing them all back. Athun’s legs locked as if turned to stone, his muscles refusing to obey. Marcus collapsed, unconscious before he even hit the ground. Lars was at his side in an instant, shaking him awake—only for the wizard to slump again as the expanding aura of sacred energy overwhelmed him.
"Out! Now!" Lars barked, hefting Marcus over his shoulder as Ireena flung open the chapel doors. They barely made it beyond the threshold before the radiance swelled, engulfing the entire structure in a blazing corona of purity.
Inside, Aeli stood transfixed. The murals—once faded, defaced—now gleamed as if newly painted. Saints and martyrs gazed down in benediction, their colours vibrant, their eyes alight with divine presence. One image stood apart: the Abbot of Krezk, depicted as a figure of reverence, standing before a congregation of priests.
When she re-joined the others outside, the air itself felt different lighter, as if Barovia’s oppressive weight with unseen threats had lessened. There was safety here.
Unfurling their map, they stared in disbelief. The red circle that had marked this region had turned blue.
Aeli tightened her grip on the edge of the map. Hope, fragile but undeniable, kindled in their chests. Perhaps, just perhaps, this was only the beginning.
They climbed back into the wagon, the wheels creaking as they turned toward Krezk. The road stretched ahead of them, winding and uncertain, but for the first time since arriving in this cursed land, they spoke not of survival, but of victory.
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