Curse of Strahd epilogue

General Summary

The body before you materializes, then you hammer the stake down. Strahd can't hide his surprise as death takes him into the black abyss. Surprise turns to rage, and the Pillarstone of Ravenloft trembles with fury, shaking dust from the ceiling of the vampire's tomb. The shudders abate as Strahd's burning hatred melts away, replaced at last with relief. The dark orbs of his eyes wither and sink into his skull as his corpse deteriorates before you. In a matter of moments, only bones, dust, and noble garb remain. Strahd von Zarovich, the dark lord of Barovia, is no more.
You reach the courtyard without much struggle. Corpses litter the way, some fresh and others not so much, these once shambling undead now truly lifeless. A group of commoners and berserkers dashes after a remaining spawn, torches and pitchforks ready. A heap of empty and tattered burgundy armour lies in the main hall, a broken sword still in its gauntleted hands. You push through the doors, out into the courtyard where the first rays of sunlight now pierce through the diminishing clouds, burning away whatever fog it touches.
You make your way through Barovia, its once so oppressive woods and lands now almost pleasant, picturesque below the tall and jagged mountains on either side of the vale. As you stop by Vallaki, the Martikovs throw you a great celebration with heavy partying deep into the night, the first such celebration in a long time that Vallaki’s inhabitants gladly participate in. Darzin opts to remain here, taking over the church of the Morninglord as the head priest, with Millivoj as faithful servant. Andrius and Ansgar stick around for a while longer. Andrius mostly to party, whereas Ansgar seeks out the collection of tomes from Ravenloft from its newly appointed ruler: Fidchell the First. Gix has had quite enough of the adventuring life, opting to go home as soon as possible, only taking Pidlwick II with him from these lands.
After finishing your business, you set off towards home. The travel is uneventful, pleasant even as you bask in the warming sun. Even the once dreadful village of Barovia has something in the air it hasn’t had in a long, long time: hope. You push through, set on leaving, and before long you reach the eastern gates. The gates soundlessly swing open, and you travel onwards, into the still swirling wall of now thin mist. It still obscures your vision, yet you press on. Before long, the fog fades away slowly, and the smell of the ocean hits you. A gull sounds in the distance. Before long you reach the docks, your borrowed ship looking as it was left there only yesterday. You look back once more upon the lands behind you, its majestic mountains shrouded in a thinning fog. My dear friends, you have survived Barovia.

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A short man with a monkey on his shoulders clutches a moth-eaten jester’s cap as he looks longingly at his now closed shop. He shakes his head to cast away his doubts, then walks over to a cart piled high with all kinds of trinkets and toys. Alas, it is time for the wizard of tiny wonders to depart Barovia as well. Peace has returned here, but elsewhere many children might still despair, and who better than him to aid. A soft whisper carries his last goodbye to the store: “Fjarewell, yhomeland of mjine, and remjember, is nyo fun, is nyo Blinsky.”
The yowling and howling descending upon the now desolate village of Krezk slowly subdues over weeks, the Abbey growing increasingly quieter until one morning only silence remains in the village. One day an unfamiliar man walks down the hill, leaving the village. In the following days, more people are seen leaving, some inhabitants of Krezk, others strangers to these lands. None of them remember much about their time in the abbey. Finally, a handsome young man wearing a priests garb follows, requesting a meeting with the newly returned burgomaster. He explains that his service at the Abbey will be drawing to a close, and that he would like to arrange for a new steward to take over.
High above the valley of Barovia, a hooded figure steps onto the crumbling stone bridge of the Tsolenka Pass. Onward he hikes, deeper into the sunlit mountains, light reflecting off of ice and snow. Despite this, the clearing before the temple is eerily dark. Smooth amber columns line the front of a large structure rising up from the snowdrifts, the entrance only revealing darkness within. The figure approaches the steps and pauses for a moment, looking back upon the valley. He removes his hood to reveal black-streaked silver thistledown hair, and casts his draconic eyes over the entrance once more before braving the darkness.
An old crone grins a toothless grin as she lays out her Tarokka cards. Content she looks down upon the first four cards: the Innocent, the Executioner, the Healer, and the Avenger. Good sings in the current lay, the Innocent and the Executioner facing off, the Healer overlooking the Avenger, all centered on the center yet. An eternal wheel of power, She turns over the last card, the center of the others, and quietly gasps. Upon the table lies the Darklord, face-up, grinning.
And finally, Fidchell the First sits upon the throne of Ravenloft. Countless years have passed since, and age has marred his once-handsome features. His hair is white, his face wrinkled and thin. Ah, his youth, his adventures, his friends, how many years has it been since they first came to this horrible land and against all odds cleansed it from a vampire lord. He even managed to get a throne and a long reign out of it just by waving a card around. He looks upon the stained glass window gifted long ago by a friend, the last rays of sunshine illuminating the jack-in-a-box image. The Barovians might not all like his reign, but he brought prosperity to these lands. If only these dimwitted peasants understood the burdens of ruling. He looks up as something stirs in the corner of his eye. The sound of wood tearing comes next, then a piercing pain in his upper back. Blood spurts out of his mouth as a clawed hand bursts through the back of his throne and through his heart. He slumps over, the soft light in his eyes diminishing as blood pours down to stain the throne and the floor. A man, handsome and well-dressed walks towards a stained glass window, his hands splattering droplets of blood over the floor as he softly applauds you one last time.

Report Date

11 Aug 2019