29th November - The Path to the Bones Becomes Clear
General Summary
The storm clawed at the hilltop, rain slashing sideways, drenching the ragged figures. Lars stood in the deluge, his hand resting on the hilt of his weapon, eyes narrowed against the gloom. The distant cries of the others reached him—a commotion. Without hesitation, he joined the fray, his steps deliberate, his presence steady as a lodestone. The hill seemed alive with tension, the wind carrying whispers of danger.
Marcus, shadow-bound and watchful, melted into the gloom to keep an eye on their flanks.
They gathered in the rain-drenched tent—Sorrow, Aeli, Lars, and Vidar, the latter's body crumpled and pale, his vitality drained from the earlier skirmish. They lacked the means to restore him, so they did the next best thing: stabilized him, a fragile thread of life tethering him to the here and now.
The search continued. The tent offered no answers, its hollow space mocking their urgency. Aeli's keen eyes turned to Milivoj, a beaten man bound by his captors. She questioned him, her voice a blend of authority and empathy, but his answers were slow to come, his spirit battered as much as his body. He needed time, Aeli decided. Time they might not have.
Lars, resolute as a mountain, stood guard. He glanced down at Vidar’s still form, a flicker of memory crossing his face—Dragomir, back home, concocting tinctures to mend broken bodies. That knowledge felt so close and yet so distant.
Aeli and Sorrow moved moved among the wagons like shadows, each step cautious, each motion deliberate, their search methodical but yielding little. Iron padlocks secured one carriage, its promise tantalizing. Their search was interrupted when Lars called out to his companions, alerting them that Milivoj was trying to flee. Sorrow pursued and quickly subdued the grave digger, trudging through the mud to return him to the tent. To keep their only lead, Lars hog tied Milivoj and suspended him from the support beam in the tent mere inches from the ground.
Sorrow and Aeli returned to the colourful yet enigmatic Vistani wagon with the contents hidden behind sturdy locks and stout wood. Sorrow’s tools faltered against the mechanisms, leaving them jammed. Frustration mounting, Aeli took her crowbar and, with a Herculean effort, forced the doors open. The satisfying crack of wood splitting was a momentary triumph until poisoned needles lashed out, embedding themselves in Aeli’s arm.
Inside the wagon, the flickering lantern light revealed a hoard of treasures: gilded chests, an onyx jewelry box inlaid with gold filigree, a rolled-up rug bearing an exquisite unicorn motif, and even a wooden throne. Hopeful, Sorrow pried open a small box to find twelve potions, their contents sloshing within stoppered gourds. Yet, for all their searching, the sacred relic eluded them still.
The rain intensified as the group commandeered horses and the treasure-laden wagon, their path winding back to the village’s gates.
As they approached the gates, the guards halted them. Lars, ever the pragmatist, wove a tale of oaths taken and prisoners captured. He motioned to Vidar, still cloaked in his disguise, claiming he was the fugitive Lady Wachter. The ruse worked, the gates swinging open, their entry hurried and unquestioned.
At the inn, Kasimir awaited them, his worry etched deep. Inside, Danica’s sharp eyes took in the scene, her lips tightening at the sight of Milivoj. Without hesitation, she agreed to confine him in the attic.
Exhaustion weighed heavy on them as they settled in. Lars carried Vidar upstairs, laying him beside Ireena. Her presence, warm and steady, seemed a balm. Later that night, when she slipped into his bed, Lars deflected her advances with a quiet patience, sharing instead fragments of his past until she drifted into sleep. He found his place on the floor, a sentinel even in slumber.
Sorrow, unwilling to wait for dawn, sought the aid of Father Lucian at the church. The strong sense of urgency clawing at her, distracting her with thoughts only on her friend and the task at hand. The unwelcome interruption from Kasimir trying to help proved too great a distraction, and she dismissed the Dusk Elf who turned and walked off into the night, dejected. Sorrow's pounding on the doors echoed in the quiet streets, but no answer came. She circled to the back and deftly picked the lock, slipping inside to find the priest. His rebuke was swift but tempered by the urgency of her plea. Yet, he would not leave the church while it was without the protection of the bones. With a sigh of defeat, he handed Sorrow a restorative tea for her companion and promised to come at first light. Returning to the inn, Sorrow’s sharp eyes caught the ominous swirl of bats above the Vistani wagon. Their screeches sent shivers down her spine as she hurried to secure the treasures inside. As the bats fled eastward, her unease deepened.
Morning arrived sluggishly, rain giving way to a cold mist. Father Lucian entered the inn, his expression grave. The interrogation of Milivoj resumed, Vidar’s calm words laced with veiled menace. The gravedigger crumbled, confessing his role in the theft of the bones. His story wove a thread toward a new lead—Henrik van der Voort, the coffin maker. They moved hurriedly through the streets of Vallaki, noticing that today was the day was to be a day of celebration and festivities - the Festival of Blazing Sun was going to start soon. The Coffin Maker’s Shop loomed before them, an unwelcoming silhouette against the ashen sky. Their demands for entry met resistance. Lars and Aeli wasted no time, axes biting into the door until it yielded. Henrik, cowed and shaking, spilled his story—a tale of fear and coercion, of deals struck in desperation with a man named Vasili von Holtz who promised the coffin maker “good business” in exchange for his help. The name sent ripples through the group, and when Henrik revealed that the Bones of St Andral were being stored upstairs, Aeli surged ahead. Vidar connected the dots, making a terrifying realisation. Trying to help Henrik see the error of his ways, Vidar revealed that Vasili was no mere man but an alias for Strahd himself. Henrik however was not phased upon hearing this, he had known for some time that it was Strahd, sharing that it didn't take long for his workshop to become the lair of a pack of vampire spawn. Alarmed, Vidar called out to Aeli to quickly end from her solitary search upstairs. They continue their search for the holy relic together, their movements deliberate as they ascended the narrow stairway. The room above was a mausoleum of dust and decay, its silence oppressive. Sorrow’s misstep sent planks tumbling, the noise reverberating like a gong. When nothing stirred, they pressed on, finding only more stacks of wood and several crates marked “JUNK.” Sorrow climbed onto one the crates to try and open a window to the outside world, and seeing that it would be near impossible climbed back down paying little attention to her surroundings—until the crate burst open. A creature emerged with a feral snarl, its jerky movements inhuman. Pale, luminous eyes locked onto Sorrow as its claws tore into her. She cried out, a gurgle of pain as its fangs sank deep, draining her blood. The creature licked its lips, a grotesque mockery of satisfaction, and Sorrow’s body crumpled. The others stood frozen for a heartbeat, calculating the best course of action, as the stakes rise and they faced this harbinger of doom.
Sorrow, unwilling to wait for dawn, sought the aid of Father Lucian at the church. The strong sense of urgency clawing at her, distracting her with thoughts only on her friend and the task at hand. The unwelcome interruption from Kasimir trying to help proved too great a distraction, and she dismissed the Dusk Elf who turned and walked off into the night, dejected. Sorrow's pounding on the doors echoed in the quiet streets, but no answer came. She circled to the back and deftly picked the lock, slipping inside to find the priest. His rebuke was swift but tempered by the urgency of her plea. Yet, he would not leave the church while it was without the protection of the bones. With a sigh of defeat, he handed Sorrow a restorative tea for her companion and promised to come at first light. Returning to the inn, Sorrow’s sharp eyes caught the ominous swirl of bats above the Vistani wagon. Their screeches sent shivers down her spine as she hurried to secure the treasures inside. As the bats fled eastward, her unease deepened.
Morning arrived sluggishly, rain giving way to a cold mist. Father Lucian entered the inn, his expression grave. The interrogation of Milivoj resumed, Vidar’s calm words laced with veiled menace. The gravedigger crumbled, confessing his role in the theft of the bones. His story wove a thread toward a new lead—Henrik van der Voort, the coffin maker. They moved hurriedly through the streets of Vallaki, noticing that today was the day was to be a day of celebration and festivities - the Festival of Blazing Sun was going to start soon. The Coffin Maker’s Shop loomed before them, an unwelcoming silhouette against the ashen sky. Their demands for entry met resistance. Lars and Aeli wasted no time, axes biting into the door until it yielded. Henrik, cowed and shaking, spilled his story—a tale of fear and coercion, of deals struck in desperation with a man named Vasili von Holtz who promised the coffin maker “good business” in exchange for his help. The name sent ripples through the group, and when Henrik revealed that the Bones of St Andral were being stored upstairs, Aeli surged ahead. Vidar connected the dots, making a terrifying realisation. Trying to help Henrik see the error of his ways, Vidar revealed that Vasili was no mere man but an alias for Strahd himself. Henrik however was not phased upon hearing this, he had known for some time that it was Strahd, sharing that it didn't take long for his workshop to become the lair of a pack of vampire spawn. Alarmed, Vidar called out to Aeli to quickly end from her solitary search upstairs. They continue their search for the holy relic together, their movements deliberate as they ascended the narrow stairway. The room above was a mausoleum of dust and decay, its silence oppressive. Sorrow’s misstep sent planks tumbling, the noise reverberating like a gong. When nothing stirred, they pressed on, finding only more stacks of wood and several crates marked “JUNK.” Sorrow climbed onto one the crates to try and open a window to the outside world, and seeing that it would be near impossible climbed back down paying little attention to her surroundings—until the crate burst open. A creature emerged with a feral snarl, its jerky movements inhuman. Pale, luminous eyes locked onto Sorrow as its claws tore into her. She cried out, a gurgle of pain as its fangs sank deep, draining her blood. The creature licked its lips, a grotesque mockery of satisfaction, and Sorrow’s body crumpled. The others stood frozen for a heartbeat, calculating the best course of action, as the stakes rise and they faced this harbinger of doom.
Report Date
29 Nov 2024
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