31st January 2025 - Dinner and a Fight
Map of Barovia
General Summary
After vanquishing the monstrous spiders, Aeli, Lars, and Marcus withdrew to the foyer, the echoes of their battle still clinging to the ruined halls of Argynvostholt. They stood in silent contemplation, the weight of the past pressing upon them as they traced dust-covered footprints over the mosaic floor. The mansion, once grand, now lay in disrepair—its memories held hostage by time and shadow.
They selected a door, its handle cold beneath Aeli’s fingers. She hesitated. A warmth seeped from the wood, subtle yet unmistakable, and for the briefest moment, she was elsewhere. Sunlight kissed her skin, the scent of the training yard filling her senses. She could almost hear the echoes of laughter, of swords clashing in friendly competition. But then the illusion shattered, and she was back in Barovia, where no true warmth could reach. Swallowing the ache in her chest, she pushed the door open.
The wood-paneled den had been ravaged long ago. Rotting divans slumped against the walls, their stuffing spilling like entrails. Broken chairs and overturned ottomans lay scattered, the remains of a forgotten life. Against the north wall stood a black wooden sarcophagus, its lid carved with an intricate effigy. Once a vessel for the dead, it had been repurposed into a wine cabinet—now just as ruined. Shattered decanters and broken glass littered the shelves, their contents long since turned to dust.
Lars stepped toward the cold hearth on the western wall, its gaping maw a hollow wound in the room. No embers smoldered, no sign of warmth lingered—only the weight of abandonment. And yet, as he neared, fire erupted from the ashes. It twisted and curled, forming a draconic shape that spread its wings in defiance. The flames hissed and snarled, its presence a whisper of old rage, before it lunged.
The battle was swift. Their steel and magic tore through the apparition, causing it to explode, filling the room with searing flames. The heat lasted seconds yet felt like hours, before reducing to nothing but heat and fading embers. The room fell silent once more.
Marcus, ever observant, caught sight of a peculiar seam in the wood paneling. With a gentle press, a hidden door creaked open, revealing an adjoining chamber. Within, five barrels sat in wooden braces, the scent of mold thick in the stagnant air.
Behind the barrels, something stirred.
A wounded Dusk Elf—Savid. His golden eyes flicked to them, wary at first, but exhaustion had stolen his strength to resist. He spoke in hushed tones, revealing that he hailed from the dusk elf enclave near Vallaki, nestled within the Vistani camp. He had been searching for a missing girl, a Vistani child named Arabelle, when the needle blights descended upon him. Wounded and alone, he had sought refuge in the ruined halls of Argynvostholt.
Lars knelt, offering quiet comfort as he tended to Savid’s wounds. The elf, grateful for the aid, repaid them with knowledge. He spoke of Argynvost—once a mighty silver dragon, who had walked these halls in human guise. He had led the Order of the Silver Dragon, sworn to protect those who fled Strahd’s rule. But the vampire’s armies had come. They had slaughtered the knights, slain the dragon, and desecrated the mansion. Now, the ruins stood as a mausoleum to the past, haunted by the echoes of those who had fallen. The Vistani and dusk elves alike gave the place a wide berth, fearing the dragon’s vengeful spirit still lurked within.
As Savid finished his tale, hope flickered in his tired eyes. He turned to one of the barrels, twisting the tap in the hopes of filling his waterskin with something precious—a taste of the Wizard of Wines’ finest, the fabled Champagne du le Stomp. But only disappointment greeted him. The liquid that dripped from the spout was nothing but the ghost of what once was. Vinegar. Evaporated memories.
The weight of Barovia settled once more.
Lars, Aeli, and Marcus knew the path ahead in the mansion would only darken. But for now, they let themselves take a short rest, finding solace in the quiet, in the company of the living, before the ghosts of Argynvostholt called to them once more.
Lars eased the next door open. The kitchen beyond was a battlefield of shattered crockery and overturned tables. Rusted utensils littered the floor like the discarded weapons of long-forgotten soldiers. An iron pot swung gently over the cold hearth, its motion unnatural, bobbing up and down as if disturbed by some unseen force.
Something inside the pot skittered. Lars moved with practiced efficiency, snatching a lid from the floor and slamming it down. A high-pitched screech, cut short. The bat had been faster than he expected—but not fast enough. A wet crunch. Guts sprayed from the gap where the lid hadn’t quite sealed.
Aeli led the way deeper into the mansion, her steps precise, movements measured. They paused at a window, where the rolling fog outside revealed glimpses of a cemetery, its wrought-iron fence like black teeth against the mist. In the northeast corner, a mausoleum loomed, silent and waiting.
Stealth seemed the wisest course. They moved room by room, ghosting through the mansion’s ground floor. The dining hall yawned before them, dominated by a massive, twenty-foot-long table. Its sculpted dragon-leg supports stood in defiance of time, though many of the chairs had not fared as well. Some remained upright, their backs carved to resemble folded dragon wings, while others had been reduced to splinters. Overhead, a crystal chandelier glowed, its light soft but steady.
Marcus’s boot slipped. Aeli turned just in time to see him hit the floor, the impact sending a wave of stagnant water rippling across the rotted boards. The ceiling above wept through unseen cracks. Silence followed. No enemies stirred. Marcus exhaled and pushed himself upright, cursing under his breath.
Beyond a pair of cracked glass doors, silver dragons soared across stained-glass panels, their elegance marred by time and neglect. The doors gaped open, revealing a chapel shrouded in mist. At its far end, a stone altar stood flanked by iron candelabras. The rising sun carved into its surface marked it as a dedication to the Morninglord. In Barovia, such symbols held little comfort.
One of the stained-glass windows behind the altar had been shattered. Fog poured through the opening, coiling along the floor like a living thing. But even through the thick mist, the figures before the altar were clear as day.
Three armored shapes, kneeling in reverence. Their chainmail hung in tatters, rusted and broken. And when they spoke, their voices were steel wrapped in shadow. "Leave this place. We see the darkness in you."
The fight was inevitable. The fallen knights were relentless, striking with a fury that spoke of old vows and older regrets. But in the end, they too fell, their bodies still as the grave.
Beyond the chapel, narrow archways led to curling staircases. Aeli studied them, brow furrowed. "They don't reach the landing above."
Upstairs, the wooden balcony overlooked the chapel below. At its center sat an exquisitely carved wooden throne, dust gathering in its intricate patterns. A second chandelier hung from the ceiling, its silver-dragon candle holders gleaming dully in the dim light.
Lars stepped forward, attention drawn to a red velvet curtain in an alcove. He pulled it aside. The space beyond was empty save for narrow windows in the back wall. Nothing more.
Aeli found another curtain, identical in make, though this one stirred. Not a trick of the light—something moved it, ever so slightly. The window behind it was broken, allowing a soft breeze to whisper through. Her breath hitched. Something sat atop a white marble pedestal, hidden beneath a black cloth.
She hesitated. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she pulled the cloth away.
Marcus’s severed head stared back at her.
His eyes were wide with agony, his mouth twisted in a silent scream. The sight hollowed her, turned her limbs to lead. Aeli stumbled back, her boot scuffing against the floor. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the still air.
Lars moved to her side, eyes darting between her and the alcove. "What is it?"
She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t force the words past the horror clogging her throat. But Lars—Lars saw nothing. Just an alabaster bust of a middle-aged man, his neatly trimmed mustache and beard carved with exquisite detail. He let the curtain fall closed, blocking the sight from Aeli’s trembling gaze.
Marcus stepped forward, his expression dark. He yanked the curtain aside once more.
This time, Strahd’s face greeted them. The bust was gone.
In its place, the vampire lord’s gaze met theirs, sharp and amused.
And then he laughed.
The menacing sound of his taunting pierced their souls, Strahd's laughter growing louder and louder, like a fierce storm challenging a sea captain to brave the elements.
Lars stood, hand gripping his weapon tightly as he raised the mace high above his head and slammed it down with all his might.
The laughter stopped. Silence filled the hallway, broken only by the echoing sound of dripping water.
Looking down, pieces of alabaster splayed about. No remnant of Strahd remained. Just the memory.
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