Burr continued pulling his wards away towards the Inn, he had to believe his companions were alright....if he was wrong he would not forgive himself....but then that was already the case.....

Soren has never particularly grasped the concept of social tact, so his response to Viktor lacks it.

"If your mother was in the dining room, I believe she and her female guests were brutally slain by the Vampire Spawn before we were able to overcome it and before Izek attacked us.  We saw many, many corpses there, torn open savagely.  We saw your father the Baron too meet his fate at the hands of that undead abomination before we slew it.  Though I am not entirely certain whether it might not instead have been Izek's axe instead that felled him."

Assuming Nettle does not see any other potential survivors in need of rescue through the windows, Soren asks Viktor, "is there anyone else we must save?  Siblings or other family?  Several guards fled, as did servants.  And townsfolk who seemed to be, what is the word... looting?  Looting the man-den.  I believe they are all gone.  I do not know how to quell a fire like this and... I am... am ashamed to say that my panicked fear of it robbed me of what little I still have from Silvanus' magic in what would have likely been my futile attempt to put it out.  And from the inferno, something... something awful spoke to me in my mind.  I think it was the spirit of the fiend that possessed Izek.  Both taunting and cajoling me to seek it out."

He lets out a dejected sigh.  "If we have done what we can do here, let us put as much distance between this fire and ourselves as our legs allow."

Not caring much about the catatonic guard, Soren once again makes his offer to the mastiff to join their group using Speech of the Woods.  Either way, unless someone objects, he attempts to lead the group back to the Blue Water Inn as quickly and quietly as possible.

Soren, with his usual bluntness, delivers the news to Victor without the slightest attempt to soften the blow.

Victor’s face froze.  The usually sharp contours of his features seemed to soften as the words sank in.  He stared at Soren, then at the inferno that was once his home, and back again, the weight of the moment dragging him into silence.  Slowly, his hands tightened around the crumpled papers he still clutched.

“She…” Victor began, his voice quiet, almost detached.  “She invited them into our home.  For wine and idle chatter, and they—”  His words break off as his gaze turned to the manor.  Smoke billows from shattered windows, and the light of the flames paint his face in sharp relief.

“This wretched land claims everything.  Everyone,” he murmured bitterly.  His hand flexed as if to toss the bundle of papers away, but then he pulled them closer, his jaw tightening.  He turned back to Soren, though he could barely meet the druid’s eyes.

“My father…” Victor hesitated, a fleeting shadow of pain crossing his face.  “He was a fool.”  His voice dropped, becoming quieter, and the bitterness softened..   “And my mother—” He stopped himself, his lips pressing into a thin line.

He shook his head sharply, as though willing himself back to composure. “The servants?  They knew their place.  I'm certain they ran."

He looks back the burning edifice, his voice hardening again.  "I will mourn my parents later.  Right now, this fire consumes more than wood and stone—it burns away any hope of stability left in this gods-forsaken town.”  Victor inhaled sharply and squared his shoulders, though his expression remained haunted.

Victor glanced toward the others.  “And you—what do you intend to do?” he asked.  “With my father gone, Vallaki will descend into chaos.  Lady Wachter will almost certainly make a play for power.  She’s nearly as despised as my father was, but some may cling to her out of fear of the dangers outside the walls.”

He exhales.  “But I expect more will make their own claims. The town could break apart into warring neighborhoods, each led by desperate fools.  There will be violence, and the people—terrified and leaderless—will turn on each other.  That’s the future I see.”

Victor’s gaze swept over the party, his expression grim.  “So tell me—what will you do?  Where will we go?  Will you flee to safety and leave this place to rot? "

Giles has joined them and stands listening to the conversation, the burning house in the background, his jaw clenched in determination.  He looks around quickly, noting that Burr has left, worried about his degree of injuries.  Despite the disdain that he previously heard about his parents and the loathing of Izek, Giles contemplates that this young man has just learned of the death of both of his parents, and he listens to the description of the ensuing chaos.  He nods when Lady Wachter is mentioned.  She met with the business end of Burr's spear, he doesn't know, but her followers will make a play for it, try to become the leaders of the town, bend the knee to their master Strahd…

”I hear you Victor, and we need to think this out carefully.  But for now, several of us are severely injured, tired, spent.  We need to get to safety and think of our next steps.  I would say no, that we shouldn’t leave this town to the ways of Lady Wachter's followers.  She ah... is no more.  But we shouldn’t leave this place with no leadership, in utter chaos, that is as good as another notch in the belt of the dark one in the high castle.  But we don’t have the reserve to keep fighting at this time, we must withdraw and plan.  And get these two out of sight, to safety (pointing to Lady Bauer and Ireena).  I say we retreat to the Blue Water Inn and discuss how to go from here, rest up and prepare.  And then….and then I say we take the fight to them.  Victor, do you have any sway with the remaining guards in town?  Would they follow your lead?  Do you know who else followed Wachter?  Will you head with us, to the inn, right now?  I think you should stay with us.  As the last of the family line, you are a likely next target.  As I said before… we need each other.”

Giles walks a few feet and then stops, a glint in his eye as you see the cogs turning.  “Or… should we strike her forces now, before they have had time to mount a defense…”  He turns to Zefla and Soren, appraising them.  “What do you think?”

Zefla watches the young man as he takes in the information.  She finds she feels for him a little bit.  As for the town?  She just wants to get out of there, though that possibility of finally going home?  Seems further and further away... she sighs heavily.

Not really having anything to add, and bleeding pretty good, she starts walking and then responds, "I need a break, heading towards the Inn.  And yes, Viktor, you should come with us."

Soren feels empathy for the young noble's predicament and strained grief, but finds it hard to muster words of sympathy given that when it was time to take the battle to the Vampire Spawn, Viktor himself had hung back in his secret attic, urging the pack to leave those downstairs to their fate.

He turns to Giles as the priest of Tymora appears to be hatching one of his tricky schemes to get the jump on Lady Wachter's allies.

"You joined the battle late, not-Father.  Your aid was much needed, but at that point, we had already fought and bled and spent our resources to overcome the Vampire Spawn and then Izek in his original form.  I am depleted like a she-bear at winter's end.  Too depleted for further battle.  And there may be more Vampire Spawn about.  At least one escaped as we saw from Viktor's secret den.  We should do as Zefla suggests and re-group."

Soren pauses for a moment, city-politics being far from his comfort zone, but...  "As you say not-Father, Lady Wachter is no more.  But her pack may not know that yet, just as Viktor did not.  The only one who I am sure knows, besides ourselves, is the female spy who saw us leave Wachter's den, then calmly watched the Vampire Spawn attack the Baron's man-den from afar, transforming into a swarm of bats after my Moonbeam seared her.  Surely a servant of Strahd as Wachter was.  She may be listening to us right now in the form of these bats around us."

Regardless, both Soren and Nettle proceed with Zefla (and hopefully Giles and Viktor) towards the Blue Water Inn, the owl keeping watch above and the druid along the streets of Vallaki below.  Bone-weary but determined, Soren reaches out for Silvanus' Guidance as he puts one foot in front of the other.

Victor looks at Giles, surprise piercing his melancholy.  "Lady Wachter is gone as well... I didn't..." he falls silent, seemingly working over something in his mind.  At Giles' question, he shakes his head.  "Most of the household guards were just bullies hand-picked by Izek.  And it seems most of them are dead, anyway.  I suppose I could try talking to some of the survivors..." though his tone did not suggest confidence in the idea.

The mastiff’s ears flicked toward Soren as the druid’s voice reached it, something primal in the magic allowing the meaning of the words to slip into the animal’s understanding.  Its dark eyes, wide and frantic moments ago, began to focus, though its body remained taut with tension.

 The others see the large dog approach Soren tentatively, bark a few times, but then settle in alongside the druid.

[For now, the dog has joined the group.  It has the stats of a mastiff.  As this isn't one of Soren's summonings, I will treat it like another NPC, under DM control.  Soren can speak with it and ask it to do things/give it instructions, though he doesn't have control of it.]

The night air is thick with smoke and dread as the party flees the burning burgomaster's mansion.  Shadows dance wildly on the cobblestones as flames licked the sky behind them.  It seems as though the fire grows behind them, the glow increasingly illuminating the night sky as if desperate not be left behind by them.  Burr leads Ireena and Tourmaline down the twisting, narrow streets of Vallaki, their cloaks and hoods pulled low.  The trio move swiftly, their footfalls echoing between the closely packed buildings, leaving the others several blocks behind.

Soren, Zefla, Father Giles, Victor, the mastiff, and just one of Victor’s skeletal cats follow in a grim procession, their movements hurried as they try to keep Burr's group in sight.  Overhead, Nettles circles vigilantly, its keen eyes scanning the darkness.  The winding streets, flanked by steeply pitched roofs, press in around them like the walls of a labyrinth.

Suddenly, a low, resonant DONG reverberates through the town.  It is followed by another... then another.  The bell at St. Andral’s cathedral begins to toll, its deep notes cutting through the smoke and darkness.  

“Who would be ringing it now?” Tourmaline murmured.

“Someone desperate… or something worse,” Ireena muttered, her hand brushing the hilt of her blade.

Burr, Ireena, and Tourmaline quicken their pace, the others needing to do the same to try and close the distance between them.

As Burr's group rounds a corner, their steps falter as they see a small cluster of hooded figures illuminated by the dim glow of a street oil lamp.  The men freeze like startled deer at the sound of approaching footfalls.  Without a word, they scatter into the alleys, their hurried steps fading into the night.

As Burr and the women reach the lamppost where the men had been gathered, the reason for their retreat becomes clear.  Hanging from the lamppost was a body in purple robes.  A crudely written sign was strapped to its chest.  The three of them hurry past. 

When the second group arrives at the scene, they are able to read the sign hung on the body:

“Ezra is a lie.”

The dead man sways gently in the night breeze, his lifeless eyes staring blankly into the void.

Victor shakes his head, muttering a curse under his breath. “My father hasn't been dead an hour, and already this town is coming apart at the seams.”

Soren’s owl screeched a warning overhead, pulling their attention from the grim spectacle.

Through the owl’s eyes, Soren sees a shadow dart across the rooftops, trailing Burr, Ireena, and Tourmaline.  His stomach sank as the figure resolved into the unmistakable form of a vampire spawn, its claws scraping against the tiles as it crept closer to the trio.

Alerting Zefla and Father Giles, they break into a run.

At the same time, ahead of Burr the Bluewater Inn comes into view, its sturdy frame a beacon of hope amid the haunting dark.  But the sight of a panicked crowd gathered outside the inn quickly doused any relief.  Men, women, and children shouted and shoved, clamoring for entry.  They obscure the entrance, which seems to be barred against them.

As Burr, Tourmaline, and Ireena lurk on the outskirts of the crowd, the tiefling is obviously hesitant to get to close.  "If this mob sees me, I'll join that other poor fool swinging from a lamppost," she hisses.  Then, the flock of ravens perched on the inn's rooftop erupt in caws and cries.  Suddenly, a shadow drops from above.

A vampire spawn lands between Burr and the Bluewater Inn, its claws scraping against the cobblestones as it hissed, baring fangs.  Someone in the crowd lets out a scream, and soon they are scattering in all directions, trampling one another in their panic.  Women grab their children, while men swing wildly at one another to clear their own path for escape.  In moments, the square has all but emptied, clearing the doorway, but for the lurking vampire.

As the rest of the party arrives breathlessly at the square, another vampire spawn emerges from an alleyway, cutting off the second group from the first.  The creature snarls, its predatory gaze locking onto them.  The mastiff lots out a growl that is almost a roar, as it sees another of the monsters that slew his old master.

It seems another pitched battle for survival is upon the party... until the distant pound of hoofbeats sounds, then quickly grows louder, echoing through the narrow streets of Vallaki.  The cobblestones seem to tremble as a great, dark carriage rumbles into view, midnight-black horses pulling it with terrifying speed.  A cloaked and cowled figure guides the carriage on, lashing the horses and steering down the curved road into the square.

The vampire spawn hiss in frustration, their eyes darting to the approaching vehicle.  The horses rear up on their hindlegs as the carriage comes to an abrupt halt in the square before the inn, the animals bellowing in voices that seem very un-horselike.  The spawn curse under their breath but yield, scrambling up the sides of buildings, leaping to the rooftops and disappearing into the night - though not before one turns back and cries, as if in pain, "We must have Tatyana... we WILL have Tatyana!"

At the inn, the ravens have fallen silent.  The door opens and Urwin Martikov steps out, flanked by two somewhat familiar faces - the wolf hunters that the party had dined with days ago.  Urwin stares grimly at the carriage, though he does not step down from the porch of the inn.

At the rear of the carriage, another vaguely familiar figure rests.  Back at the Vistani encampment where you had met Madame Eva, you spied a similar carriage, and the darklord's seneschal, Rahadin had been pointed out to you.  Here, the dusk elf appears again, bedecked in leather armor and wearing a fine fur cloak.  He doesn't step down from the footman's perch at the rear of the carriage, merely taking in the scene for now. 

The carriage door swings open slowly, and for a moment, the world seems to hold its breath. A figure steps out... her movements deliberate and regal.

It is not the darklord Strahd von Zarovich, as some may have feared.  Instead, it is a striking woman with black skin and a fine white dress that shimmers as though made of scales or tiny fragments of crystal.  Rings adorned her fingers, and her golden-red eyes scanned the scene with a calm, assessing gaze.  When she speaks at last, it is first to Ireena, her voice smooth and composed.  The attempted disguise seems have been both ineffective and unnoticed.

“Miss Kolyana,” she begins, inclining her head.  “Let me first say how very sorry we all are.  Count Strahd von Zarovich extends his deepest condolences for the loss of your father.  He had expected to attend the funeral...  but he found your decision to bury your father in your family’s rose garden to be a most fitting tribute.”

"Furthermore, sweet sister," she continued, looking chastened, "he grieves the mistreatment you have endured these last nights.  It is an outrage which will punished.  Expediently."

"I know it will warm his heart when I report that you have been delivered safely from captivity."  Ireena lowers her head and won't make eye contact with the party, as if in shame.

Her eyes sweep over the party, lingering for a moment on each member.

“To you, brave souls,” she said, “Strahd von Zarovich offers his eternal gratitude for rescuing Miss Kolyana from her tormentor.  I am Ludmilla Vilisevic, and know that you have my thanks as well.  Tonight, however, Vallaki is no place for celebration.  See her safely into the inn, for the morning light will bring a reprieve from these horrors.”

She holds up a letter, the parchment catching the dim light.

“But before you retire, humor me a moment longer."  Her tone was polite, almost warm, but there was no mistaking the weight of the command beneath her words.  "My master has a message for you.  It is not for me to share.  He prefers to share this invitation written in his own hand, as is his custom.”

The letter, rolled and sealed in wax, lifts up from her hand and levitates across the space to the now-gathered party, waiting for someone to grasp it.

Soren acknowledges the mastiff's word solemnly using Speech of the Woods:

Events fly by almost faster than Soren can follow.  The crowd around the hanged man... the mysterious Cult of Ezra?  Unwitting followers of Strahd?

The panicked crowd around the Blue Water Inn, scattering as the Vampire Spawn threaten.  Then the undead abominations withdrawing as Strahd's carriage appears.  Why do they call Ireena Tatyana?  The unnatural horses, the darklord's alpha henchman, Rahadin...

The dark-skinned woman.  Ludmilla Vilisevic.  As clear a servant of Strahd as Rahadin beside her.  Clearer even than Lady Wachter was.  Yet they are plainly too much for the party to fight.  Soren tries to relay the message to the mastiff that they will avoid a fight if able.

He does not reach for the floating letter, leaving it to one of his companions, perhaps Giles, to do so.  Instead he addresses the dark-skinned woman.  Soren's raw wounds and burns stand out, starkly unhealed, as do those of his companions, most likely, but his eyes are steady and unblinking like a wolf's.  His voice is quiet, matter-of-fact, devoid of anger in its tone, carrying only a touch of resigned fatalism.  But his message is blunt as always.

"Ludmilla Vilisevic.  I am Soren Thornpaw.  By no means did we free Ireena Kolyana on the darklord's behalf.  We freed Ireena because she is our pack, she has a good heart, and we would not abandon her.  In the end, she fought her tormentor, as you call him, as fiercely as any of us."

"That tormentor, Izek Strazni, is gone, slain by us not once but twice, both the man and the fiery fiendish avatar he transformed into once we felled him.  The Baron and his wife lie dead, slain by Vampire Spawn, in their burning pyre of a man-den which Izek ignited.  What further 'expedient' punishment does the darklord seek?  More slaughter of innocents?  And why do you call Ireena sister, just as Izek did?  Only Ismark should call her a sister."

"Speaking of innocents and those of good heart, all is not well in Vallaki. Father Lucien lies fallen too.  A good man.  A victim of the massacre at Saint Andral's Cathedral the previous night while the darklord knew we were away at the Wizard of Wines.  Father Lucien never mistreated Ireena.  He welcomed and sheltered her.  Yet we know he was slain by the same undead abominations that we saw retreating at your approach just now."

"We destroyed two of these Vampire Spawn at the Baron's man-den and sent another fleeing into the dark.  We know they seek her, naming her 'Tatyana'.  I am merely a druid, unfamiliar with city-ways, but pardon me if I do not believe that such creatures' wanton slaughter, the horrors you so lightly and passively dismiss, are not also part of the darklord's manipulations.  His left paw, just as you, Lady Wachter, and those like you are his right paw."

The druid's voice becomes even softer, while still carrying through the momentary quiet of the night.

"I have no power to dispense true justice in any land, let alone this cursed and forsaken one.  Yet Father Lucien's blood, and the blood of countless other innocents is on the darklord's hands, and by extension on yours and those of the silent, brooding henchman beside you.  I hear your words tonight and bow my head with no choice but to accept them.  But know this.  Though you may slay or enslave or control us all, none of you are forgiven."

Burr let Soren talk, he was ragged and bleeding but he gripped the Bloodspear tightly, focused on Rahadin but knowing he would be dead before he got five feet....he looked to Ireena and Tourmaline and stepped between them and the carriage.

Keeping the Bloodspear raised in his right hand he stretched out his left and clasped Sorens shoulder.

" It is as my pack mate states."

Zefla had expected chaos after what happened to the main manor of the village, but the mobs already gathering still surprised her.  When they get to the Inn, she wonders who is barring the people from getting in?  And there are so many... were they some of the people that got away or saw what happened at the Barron's house?  Seeking shelter as they were, knowing the church was no longer an option?

As the carriage scene unfolds, all she can think about is how beautiful the woman is.  The way her voice is laced with such a smoothness, but holds command.. she was a dangerous foe indeed.  Seeing that Soren, nor Burr grabbed for the scroll, she jumps up and snatches it from the air.  Figuring there was no time to waste, she opens it and reads it to herself, holding it so that anyone can read over her shoulder if they would like.

She doesn't say anything to Ludmilla, figuring Soren had said enough.

Giles walks over and stands beside Zefla, taking in all that Ludmilla had to say, then hearing Soren's response, he reaches up with his hand to cover a smile, standing with the other hand on his hip, slouched over to read the parchment over Zefla's shoulder.  Speaks his mind, doesn't he?  Pulls no punches, that one, no subtlety there...

"So you don't know what it is, but you know that it is an invitation.  What, is he going to.. have us for dinner?  Are we to be the main course, then?  You are pleased that we saved Ireena from her tormentor back there - - but you make no mention of the horrible things that crawled up the side of the house and tried to kill us?"  Giles chuckles to himself at the dark joke, then continues to read the contents of the letter along with Zefla.  

Zefla holds the letter aloft and slowly unrolls it, allowing her and Giles to read its message:

Zefla Shadowquick,

Burr, Wielder of the Bloodspear,

Soren Thornpaw, of Neverwinter Wood,

Father Giles, Devoted Servant of Tymora,

Greetings, noble visitors,

Allow me to extend to you my earnest commendation for the fortitude you have displayed since your arrival in my realm.  Your deeds do not pass unnoticed, and I feel compelled to acknowledge your valor in delivering my beloved Ireena from harm.  So too, your glorious victory in the battle of Yester Hill.  Such acts bespeak a rare strength of both arms and character, one worthy of commendation.

I am troubled, however, by the plight of Vallaki.  The desecration of St. Andral's Church and the infestation of undead weigh heavily upon my brow.  Such calamities do not arise unbidden, and there are forces at play that both threaten Ireena's life, and seek to unravel the delicate balance that allows for any to survive in this haunted land.  Though I endeavor to stand between the people of Barovia and the horrors of the mists, even I cannot always stem the tide alone.

It is for this reason that I invite you to visit my castle, for tea.  Let us speak plainly, away from the distortions of rumor and fear.  Despite what you may have heard from others, I assure you I am not your enemy.  Barovia is a harsh land, and the dark powers thrive upon misunderstandings and deceit.  I am a reasonable and honorable man, as you will come to see.  I think we may be able to help each other.  Should you accept my invitation to parley, my carriage will await you at the eastern gate of Vallaki one hour after dawn, tomorrow.  You have my word that you will be treated with the utmost respect and hospitality, as befits guests of Castle Ravenloft.

If you choose to decline, I will understand your caution, though I will admit I shall be gravely disappointed.  I urge you not to judge me by the words of those who hate and fear what they do not understand.  You may find that in truth, we are all after the same thing, and that together, we might accomplish what none of us alone can.

Until such time as fate decrees our paths should cross,

Lord and Master of Barovia
Count Strahd von Zarovich

At Soren's words, there is a snort from the back of the carriage, as of one trying desperately to choke back a laugh.  Rahadin shakes his head, pops something into his mouth, and begins to chew.

Ludmilla regards Soren with an expression that blends patience with faint disdain, her gold-crimson eyes narrowing slightly.  When she speaks, her voice remains smooth and polished, as cool as the mist that clings to Barovia's crags.

"Oh... Soren Thornpaw.  Your words bear the passion of one who loves fiercely, though they cut with the crudeness of an untempered blade.  Perhaps such fire serves you well in the wilds, but here, in the heart of Barovia, it risks igniting more than you intend."

She takes a slow, deliberate step forward, her hands folded calmly in front of her.

"I take no pleasure in the tragedies that have befallen Vallaki.  Indeed, there is much about this land that wounds my heart.  But let me assure you, druid, neither I nor my lord have orchestrated the events you so vehemently decry.  You accuse blindly, a man clawing at shadows and calling them beasts.  Do you truly know what forces move in this land?  Or do you merely assume?"

Her gaze shifts briefly to Giles before returning to Soren.

"Yes, Father Lucien's death was a loss, and the massacre at St. Andral's is a stain on this land’s fragile veneer of peace.  But tell me, is it the fault of the dam when the waters rage, or does the storm bear some blame?  My master has held these lands in his grip for centuries, not to bring suffering, but to ensure that all who dwell here might survive amidst forces you scarcely comprehend.  Forces that would see all consumed in darkness if not for his vigilance."

She allows a pause, her tone softening slightly, as though addressing a child caught in the midst of a tantrum.

"You speak of forgiveness, Soren Thornpaw, but forgiveness presupposes understanding.  You claim Ireena as your 'pack,' yet you know not her true name; her true nature; her true heart.  You hurl insults at my lord while owing your survival—however ungrateful you may be—to his restraint.  I do not seek to persuade you of his benevolence tonight.  Your minds, I see, are as closed as the gates of Krezk to a wanderer.  But I would implore you to reflect upon this: In Barovia, strength alone does not guarantee survival.  Wisdom is the greater ally."

She straightens, turning slightly to include Giles in her gaze.

"As for the invitation, Father Giles, it is precisely as it appears: an opportunity for discourse, for understanding.  Whatever else you imagine it to be lies in your own fears, not in my words or my lord's intent.  He offers you respect; something all are owed, but few are privileged to receive.  It would serve you well to consider this carefully before casting aspersions so freely."

Ludmilla’s gaze lingers on Soren for a moment longer, her expression cool and impenetrable, before she steps back.

"Now, I have fulfilled my task here, delivering his lordship’s message.  The night grows long, and the choice before you is yours to make.  I bid you consider it with more deliberation than you’ve given to your thoughtless words tonight.  May the mists part in your favor, however you decide."

She bows with icy grace, then turns back toward her carriage.  She pauses briefly before entering, to await any further response.

Burr spits on the ground, " Threats, Condescension and Lies. Typical of the ruling class in every land."

He levelled his gaze at Rahadin,  and gave a slight nod and smile, " At least this one does not attempt to hide the truth of himself behind flowery words."

" As one murderer to another, Good Evening."

Giles gives a little golf clap with his hands and chimes in, “Well said, Burr, to the point as always.  Just love the condescension and the gamesmanship at work here.  A little bit of the ole misdirection as you slip the knife in and twist it.  Or… instead of a knife, a fang, perhaps?  What a load of bullsh….manure, ma’am.  I’ve dealt enough in my time to know what it smells like, even if coming from someone so prim and proper, and with such eloquence!  You are especially dangerous, my dear.  Just like the dark lord himself.  But he does like to play with his food, doesn’t he?  I’m with ole Burr here.  Give me the honest, laughing-openly-at-us Rahadin any day, even as he sits back and eats an eyeball or something.  Sheesh….”  Giles pauses and bows properly to Ludmilla, saying with civility “My lady, a good day to you.  And uh, oh yes, All Will Be Well!  Ta - ta!  My companions and I will discuss your offer and you will know our decision soon enough, I’m sure.”  Giles takes both hands and makes pointing fingers touching the side of his mouth on either side, twisting back and forth and making a large, cheesy grin… before turning around to ignore them.   

Briefly, Soren wonders what Burr means by 'ruling class'.  Is it perhaps some kind of school that kings or town leaders attend to learn how to be the pack leader of a city or nation?  Pushing the thought aside, the druid remains unblinking and nearly expressionless as he faces Strahd's ... spokeswoman (?)

"It is true, I lack your knowledge of this land, Ludmilla Vilisevic.  Yet you have said something that is demonstrably false."

"You claim few receive respect.  This is not true.  My companions have my respect for their steadfastness through our travails across worlds.  Father Lucien had my respect for his selfless compassion.  Urwin Martikov behind me has my respect for providing what he can for this beleaguered town, as do the two hunters in their own way.  Even Urwin's sire, the gruff Davian Martikov has my respect for his evident dedication to his land and his craft.  And yes, Ireena has our respect for her courage and good heart, whatever her true name or identity may be.  Ireena or Tatyana, whether Ismark's sister or Izek's or yours.  Many deserve and receive respect when earned, contrary to your words, whether in Barovia or our homeland of Faerun."

"Yet your master has demonstrated only power, which earns fear, subservience or compliance, but not respect.  Your vague claims of his good works are self-serving.  Just now two of the Vampire Spawn which have ravaged this town first threatened us, then fled at your approach.  Either because they fear you or obey you, or both.  So for the past day and night, their reign of terror here might have been prevented by your presence or his.  Does the darklord somehow lack the power to have won our battle on Yester Hill against the dark druids, barbarians and blighted plant abominations with ease if he so chose?  I think not.  He may stay the hand of other, subservient evils that infest this land, hags and werewolves, but only as it serves his interests.  Such as our freeing Ireena.  As my companions say, you could learn from Rahadin's lack of pretense.  You do not grieve Father Lucien's death as I do."

"When we rejected the patronage of Lady Wachter, another servant of the darklord, she promised that he would exact terrible retribution on Vallaki if he was not satisfied.  Such threats do not befit a guardian.  They befit a bully, with his only restraint being to withhold his own violence or predation.  Until such time as we cease to be useful or to amuse him, perhaps.  And then he may slay or enslave us.  Spare me your protestations to the contrary."

"We recognize his power.  And yours.  So we must consider any offer he makes, such as the one in the letter you presented, out of pragmatism, not respect.  In the meantime, I would only suggest this.  If you ask a druid of Neverwinter Wood whether he blames the dam or the storm for the flood, you should already know that he blames the city-folk who would thoughtlessly dam a natural river to serve their own ends at least as much as blaming wild Talos of the storm.  Yet in this comparison, you and I both know that your master, the darklord, is not the dam.  He is the storm."

At the rear of the carriage, Rahadin gives Burr the briefest of nods, continuing to chew.

Ignoring the mockery of Father Giles, Ludmilla remains poised as Soren concludes his lengthy rebuke, her expression one of polite detachment.  She does cast an eye toward Urwin Martikov when Soren name-drops the family.  She waits a moment, letting the weight of his words linger in the chilled night air before responding.

"Such fervor, Soren Thornpaw.  Passion like yours often walks hand in hand with recklessness.  Perhaps that explains why you were so swift to end Lady Wachter’s life when she offered you only hospitality and discourse.  Diplomacy, it seems, is not a virtue you admire."

Turning away, she ascends the steps of her carriage with practiced elegance.

"Nevertheless, I trust you will consider my lord’s invitation with greater deliberation than you gave hers.  Until then, travelers."

As she shuts the door, the shadowy carriage driver cracks his whip and the two black horses rear up, roaring like bears.  The wagon turns and begins to pull away, rumbling back down the streets toward the east gate.  As it departs, the last thing you see is the form of Rahadin, standing on the back of the carriage, holding on with one hand.  As he watches you, his chewing pauses and he blows a great pink bubble, which pops just as the carriage rolls out of sight in the creeping fog.

With the wagon gone, Urwin descends from the steps of the inn, lowering his crossbow.  "Bloody hells," he says, wiping nervous sweat from his brow.  "What has happened?  The crowd claimed the Baron's manse had been attacked by monsters, and now Strahd's agents are moving openly in the city?  What - "  He stops suddenly, his eyes falling on Victor Vallakovich.  His expression shows his mind trying to work through the different possible implications.  Then he sighs.  "All of you, let's get inside, quickly.  You can catch me up later."

(OOC:  hoping the following retcon is allowed... it was my intention prior to the end of the dialog, but if not, understood).

During the conversation with Ludmilla, Nettle observes both her and Rahadin closely.  Her main focus is to see whether they breathe warm air while they are not speaking.  Slight rising of the chest or throat, misting of the air (even when they are speaking) or other such clues.

Soren also attempts the same, but is distracted by his focus on the verbal back-and-forth with Strahd's messenger and advocate.

Nettle's Perception at advantage due to Keen Hearing and Sight:  17
Soren's Perception plus Guidance if still active (from Post 2006):  8 + 4 = 12

His jaw aching from speaking so much, Soren moves to follow Urwin Martikov inside the Blue Water Inn, as does Nettle, alighting on his shoulder.  The owl briefly nuzzles foreheads with the druid, conveying what she has seen telepathically, before gradually fading away back to the feywild.

(Wild Companion lasts 2 hours for Soren currently, and I am estimating that it has been roughly that long?)

Burr began to move inside making sure everyone else preceeded him, he frowned slightly at Viktors presence....something about the boy angered him greatly but he couldn't put his finger on why....

Giles nods to Urwin, saying, "You don't need to say it twice. There is too much to go over. I think we are going to need a couple of bottles of wine." He jumps up the steps into the inn, pulling out his coin. It rolls down the length of his fingers and back with double its usual speed.  

The Bluewater Inn, usually a refuge for weary souls, now feels like a funeral parlor.  The hearth flickers with a dim, uneasy glow.   The room’s usual sounds of subdued conversation and clinking glasses have been replaced by silence, broken only by the occasional crack of the fire.

Danika Martikov stands behind the bar, her eyes wide and anxious.  Her children, huddled at a corner table, watch the door as their father and the party enter.  Adrian Martikov, Urwin’s brother from the Wizard of Wines, leans against the far wall, his hand resting on the hilt of his weapon.

The wolf hunters, Szoldar and Yevgeni, have moved near the fire, their expressions grim.  They exchange glances, clearly aware that something far worse than wolves stalks the streets tonight.

At a table near the door, the Wachter twins, Nikolai and Karl, lounge with an oblivious arrogance.  They sip wine, their laughter crude and ill-timed, though without malice.  Other townsfolk, friends of the Martikovs, sit nervously in clusters, whispering amongst themselves, but they fall silent as the party enters.

The door swings shut behind the group with a heavy finality, and Urwin Martikov immediately steps forward.  He glances between the party members, taking in their haggard appearance and the weight of the night on their shoulders.  His gaze lingers briefly on Tourmaline, whose hood is drawn low, and Ireena, whose despondence seems to deepen with every passing moment.

"Danika," Urwin says, his voice firm and urgent, "take the children upstairs. Now."  Danika hesitates, looking at her husband with worry etched across her face, but she nods and gently ushers the children up the stairs, throwing a final glance back before disappearing.  

"Adrian," Urwin continues, his voice quieter but no less commanding, "guard the door.  No one gets in without my blessing."  Adrian nods silently, stepping to the door and securing it, his posture rigid as he stands watch.

Urwin turns back to the party, his expression a mixture of worry and urgency.  "I know who that was," he says, his voice low but intense. "Ludmilla and Rahadin.  What did they want with you?  Its been ages since Strahd's agents moved openly in Vallaki."  He glances toward the bar, grabbing a pair of bottles from the rack and setting them down with a solid clink.  "They say there was an attack on the Baron's home.  And you've got his boy with you."

"You know more about this than I do, that much is clear," he says, pouring wine into glasses and pushing them toward the party.  "I don’t need guesses or half-truths.  Tell me.  What in the name of the Morninglord is happening out there?"

The room falls into silence, the Martikovs and their patrons watching intently.

"Some of those outside said the Baron's house was on fire."  Nikolai Wachter asks, his voice tinged with curiosity rather than concern.  "And what’s with all the shouting?"  Karl adds, smirking faintly, "Yeah, people were all hot and bothered out there.  What’s got them so spooked?"

Urwin’s hand slams the bar, the sudden sound cutting through the room.  "Quiet," he growls, his eyes snapping toward the twins.   Then his tone softens.  "Here.  Take this... on the house."  He tosses an unopened bottle of vodka to Nikolai, and the twins head back to their table to celebrate.  

Turning back to the party.  "I don’t know what you’ve done—or what you’ve seen—but whatever it is, it’s brought the Devil’s shadows down on this town.  Speak, and speak plainly.  We’ve little time to waste."