[DM was just waiting to see if anyone discussed what was found in the orphanage or what Milivoj said before the others arrived.  We can assume all those details were shared by Burr and Zefla.]

Arcana:  9

As the party departs the orphanage, Tourmaline listens intently to Soren's questions, her sharp features drawn into a pensive frown.  Beside her, Victor folds his arms, his brow furrowed in thought, but when the others turn to him expectantly, he only exhales sharply and shakes his head.  "I don’t know anything useful about witches.  She's a spellcaster, obviously.  Strong.  But beyond that…" He hesitates, then shrugs.  "I haven't studied hags."

Tourmaline, however, presses her fingertips together, thinking. "Hags…" she murmurs, "they’re all wicked, but from what you’re describing—this business of dream hauntings—it sounds like she may be a night hag."

She glances around at the others, her expression grave.  "Most hags are twisted, but night hags?  They’re fiends.  Creatures of the Lower Planes. Their power and cruelty don’t come from the capricious malice of the fey but from something far darker—the Nine Hells."

She folds her arms, voice growing heavier.  "Night hags are supposed to relish the slow corruption of good souls.  They don’t simply kill or curse; they break.  They whisper in dreams, worming their way into a mortal’s mind until they bring about their own suffering—until they despair, until they do dark deeds by their own hand.  And when the soul is tainted enough, they claim it, dragging it screaming into the Lower Planes."

"If she’s a night hag, she’s among the most dangerous of her kind.  And if she’s not working alone—if the others are the same—then we’re not just dealing with some local horror lurking in the woods.  We’re dealing with fiends who enjoy suffering and have likely been perfecting their craft for centuries."

Victor is watching her now, his expression unreadable, but his fingers tap idly against his arm. "Splendid.  Any weaknesses?"

Tourmaline exhales, shaking her head.  "Not specifics.  I never studied them in depth.  Most of what I know comes from a sea hag I interviewed for a writing assignment."

"How about we cut off Morgantha's head... see if that works," Ireena interjects, with an unfamiliar malice in her voice.

Tourmaline looks at her thoughtfully, then pats her on the shoulder.  "I like it.  Let's try that."

As they discuss hags, the party moves through the desolate streets of Vallaki, their footsteps echoing against the empty buildings.  The town feels hollowed out, its people mere ghosts slipping away down alleys and side streets at the sight of them.  With their strange and varied company—halflings, tieflings, druids, and more—they make an imposing force, one that the remaining citizens of Vallaki seem eager to avoid.

At last, they reach the eastern gate.  What had once been a heavily guarded checkpoint is now abandoned.  The old sign listing the town’s rules creaks on its chains in the cool wind, a forgotten relic of a law that no longer holds sway.  Here and there, dried blood stains the cobblestones, evidence of the vampire spawn that had torn through the guards here only a night before.

Opening and stepping through the gate into the grey wilds of Barovia, they find that another presence awaits them here.

Strahd’s carriage.

It is an elegant, dark thing—its polished black wood gleaming in the pale daylight, its wheels pristine despite the muddy road.  Two midnight-black horses stand hitched before it, their breath rising in faint clouds against the cold air.  The door is already open, beckoning. 

And then the driver speaks.  A hooded figure, its form barely distinct beneath heavy, shapeless robes, turns its head towards them.  Its voice is a rasping whisper, dry as old parchment.  “You are late.”

The words hang in the air like a blade waiting to drop.  The invitation to Castle Ravenloft had not been forgotten.  The Count was still expecting them.  And his servant—whatever it was—had been waiting, perhaps all morning.  Apparently uninformed that you have made other plans, the driver peers out from below his hood, expecting you to enter.  He watches and waits.

Burr continues walking past the carriage, and mutters, " Raincheck." over his shoulder as he passes.

Still mulling over the discussion of night hags, Soren is taken aback by the apparition of Strahd's carriage and its likely undead driver.

The druid is on the verge of launching into one of his earnest soliloquys using Giles' metaphor of a predator playing with their food when Burr takes the initiative.  Soren finds that even though he does not know what the city-folk phrase 'raincheck' means, he can make a fair guess.

He smiles inwardly (without changing his outward expression) and follows in Burr's footsteps, hefting his shield.  Watching only to make sure that the driver or anyone else within the carriage makes no hostile move.  Or an attempt to abduct Ireena.

Night hags?  What the two mages were discussing was worrisome.  And the one was already infiltrating her friends dreams?  It doesn't sound like she is planning to stop anytime soon.  So not only is this quest going to be worth getting these cubs back, but hopefully saving her friends' sanities as well.

The gate is a sorrowful sight.  Not that she liked what greeted them when they got there, with their fake, 'All be well' and all that load of BS, but at least... at least there was a bit of life.  As they walked through it she barely noticed the carriage until she was right in front of the open door.  

Turning to the driver, she gives the hooded face her winningest smile and says, "Sorry, a more pressing matter has arisen, hate to keep the Lord waiting and all, but I'm sure he is content without us.  Perhaps another day as my friend has mentioned?"

Then making sure she was walking beside Ireena, she too follows the others, a chill creeping up her spine as she does.

Giles makes his telekinetic mage hand appear and he starts to walk by the carriage, ready to shove the door closed if any unseen inhabitant inside the carriage tries to lunge at them, but he remains silent, keeping his eye on the undead driver, ready to fight if needed.  He marches along with the others, tense as he passes the carriage, hurrying to keep up with the others and guide everyone around this carriage from the darklord.

There is no protest from the driver, or ambush.  As the party declines the invitation and walks away, the coachman does not linger.  Instead, with a silent command, the black horses lurch forward.  The carriage rumbles to life, its polished frame shuddering as the wheels catch the uneven road.  It moves past them, picking up speed, until the horses break into a full gallop.  The wind howls around it, and soon it vanishes down the road at a breakneck pace, swallowed by the thin mists and the twisting bends of the land.

They make for the windmill, having passed it once already.

The Old Svalich Road winds before them, its path familiar from their journey days before.  The road rises gradually, pulling them out of the central valley.  On either side, the land is scarred with ruined farms, most of the fields long since reclaimed by weeds and thorny underbrush.  Broken fences lean uselessly in the dirt, and sagging, burned-out houses stand as skeletons of what once was.  Among these remnants, a few fortified homesteads remain—distant stone cottages with squat walls and shuttered windows, where smoke still curls from the chimneys.

As they walk, Tourmaline warns them in a voice that sounds like she is reconsidering having remained at the inn.  “Prepare yourselves as best you can against magic.  Hags hold nothing back in a fight to the death.  If we mean to make this their last stand, they will make it hell for us.”

Her words provide bitter food for thought as the road bends, weaving through the haunted terrain.  The ever-present cloud cover does little to improve the mood.  Eventually, through the thinning trees ahead, a familiar sight emerges in the distance:  The windmill.

Perched upon a small rise several hundred yards off the road, the dilapidated structure looms against the gray sky, its wooden blades slowly spinning.  The rutted path leading to it diverges from the road, marked by an old wooden post.  Something is nailed to this post, fluttering in a faint breeze.

As they draw closer, they see it is a proclamation, freshly tacked onto the splintered wood.  The parchment is clean, unmarred by time or weather.  Bold, elegant script sprawls across the page, bearing a chilling decree:

By Order of Count Strahd von Zarovich

Let it be known throughout this land that the Lady Morgantha and her daughters, Bella and Ophalia, are henceforth declared outlaws.

For repeated violations of the peace and assorted crimes too numerous to name, they are now cast from the protection of Barovian law. No sanctuary shall be given to them. No justice will be afforded on their behalf.

Let none mourn their fate, for they have sown their own ruin.

And let none be mistaken: nothing done to them shall be considered a crime.

Strahd von Zarovich (signed in blood)

The ink glistens darkly, and for a moment, the air feels colder around them.  There is no sign of who might have placed it here.  The road remains empty, save for them.

Victor reads it and frowns, his voice full of his usual, irritated tone.  “Was this placed here for our benefit?  When?”

Before an answer can come, Ireena stiffens.  She turns, her gaze flickering beyond the road. “Wait… what is that?”

At first, it seems like nothing more than a trick of the air.  A creeping mist coils through the trees, snaking around the muddy path.  But then it thickens.  It gathers.

Even for a land cloaked in perpetual, sometimes dangerous mists, there is something clearly supernatural about this fog.

It is heavy, dense, clinging to the ground in rolling waves.  The chill in the air deepens, the moisture in it thick and suffocating.  It rises, shifting, swallowing the distant trees, obscuring the horizon.  The sky fades into a featureless gray above them.

Then, the shapes begin to emerge.

Within the mist, indistinct figures stir—writhing, stretching, dissolving and reforming.  Some stand tall, some crouch low, their outlines shifting like half-formed specters.  The ground beneath them grows soft, wet and uncertain, as though the very earth is fading into the fog.

The windmill ahead blurs, swallowed in the haze, though the slow creaking of its blades deepens somehow into thunderous, shuddering booms.

The shapes move closer.

[DM will need everyone to make DC 15 CHA saves, please.]

The instant that Tourmaline warns them about preparations against magic, Giles does not hesitate and he casts guidance on himself, worried that they could be placed under the effects of a spell.  

Guidance : 4

When he sees shapes coming toward them out of the mist, he puts himself in a ready stance, adjusting his shield, focusing his vision to make out what is coming toward them.  

Charisma save : 21

As Lady Bauer speaks of the peril in engaging with Night Hags in a fight for their fiendish lives, Soren almost thinks to beseech Silvanus' for Protection from Evil and Good, yet hesitates, distracted as the group see the note pinned to the post.  Perhaps a fatal hesitation.

As Victor muses about the purpose of the note, Soren can only mutter grimly.  "No, it was posted to our detriment.  If the hags were not forewarned before of our hunt, they surely are now.  Should we prevail, we will likely hear from Ludmilla, or from the darklord himself, how he was 'helping' us."

Yet the druid's own words serve only to distract him at the most inopportune moment, as he is taken aback by the strange, formless threat approaching.

Soren's CHA Save (fail either way, whether at advantage against charm effects):  4 or 6 if at advantage.

Burr lifted an eyebrow at the notice then sighed in annoyance as the sorcery began......

CHA Save- 15

Zefla sighs as the situation starts to unfold.  She knows Burr took some damage at that orphanage, should they have let him heal up a bit before coming here?

CHA save 9

The fog presses in, thick and suffocating, curling around their legs and obscuring the ground beneath their feet. It moves with an unnatural sentience, shifting like a living thing, whispering with countless unseen voices.   Ireena draws her sword, but Tourmaline places a hand on her shoulder, and on Victor's as well.  "It isn't real.  They are trying to get inside out heads - don't let them!"

Those who resist its pull—Victor, Ireena, Tourmaline, and Father Giles—keep their gazes forward, refusing to acknowledge the half-formed figures lurking at the edges of the mist.  Their expressions are grim, their postures rigid, resisting the insidious pull of whatever spell has been woven into the air around them.

But not all of them are so fortunate.

Soren stiffens, his breath catching in his throat.  The mists shimmer, and suddenly, the damp chill of Barovia is replaced by an unbearable heat.  Flickering shadows dance at the edges of his vision—fire.  The scent of burning wood fills his nostrils, acrid and thick with death.  Through the haze, he sees them—stag-like forms wreathed in flame, their eyes wide with terror as they bolt through the spectral trees, tongues of fire licking at their fur.  Wolves, foxes, all the wild things he once knew, howling and shrieking as they burn, their eyes fixed upon him, pleading... asking him to help them; to flee; to do something.  The echoes of Neverwinter Wood’s destruction surge back, his mind slipping between past and present.

Burr stumbles, his fingers tightening instinctively around the shaft of the Bloodspear, but it offers him no comfort.  The mist coils around him, shifting and distorting, and suddenly, he is alone.  The shapes of his companions waver and dissolve—one moment present, the next vanishing into the abyss.  Voices call out, desperate and pained. " Burr, help us!"  He turns, but there is no one there.  Then—"You failed us."  The voice twists, familiar and filled with contempt.  He whirls around, and through the swirling gray, the ghostly form of Kavan looms.  The spectral warrior grips the Bloodspear as though reclaiming it, his expression unreadable but his presence oppressive.  "You are not worthy."   The spear grows heavy in Burr’s hands, as if slipping away from his grasp.

Zefla gasps and reaches out for something to hold onto, her stomach twisting violently.  The world beneath her shifts.  The solid ground she once stood on is gone. The mist stretches endlessly below her like a vast, swirling abyss.  The shapes of her companions blur, becoming impossibly distant—one moment near enough to touch, the next miles away, barely visible through the thick veil.  Her balance wavers, her head spinning as the mists mock her, pulling her between crushing closeness and dizzying heights.  Her legs tremble.  The abyss yawns beneath her, unseen but felt, the edge somewhere just beside her in the fog, waiting to swallow her whole.

The nightmare lasts only moments.

Then, just as swiftly as it came, the fog begins to recede, peeling away like the retreating tide.  The whispering voices fade, the twisted visions unravel, and the world slowly comes back into focus.

Father Giles stands firm, unshaken.  He looks to the others, receiving a nod from Tourmaline.

But for Soren, Burr, and Zefla, the mists have left their mark.  Though the haze has lifted, shadows and fog still linger at the edges of their vision—flickers of flame, shifting figures, an uneasy vertigo.  Even as they try to shake off the illusions, they cannot escape the sense that something remains.

[Soren, Burr and Zefla are under the influence of a curse.  They have disadvantage on Perception checks and on Attack rolls, as foggy hallucinations distract and torment them.]

Soren is down on his hands and knees, hugging himself with one arm and dry heaving, the whites of his eyes prominent.  He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and swallows, still breathing hard.  He spits on the ground, saliva red with blood where he has bitten his tongue.  Slowly, he gets to one knee and staggers upright, tears having trailed ragged tracks down his grim, haggard face.

"This land is cursed, as I myself have been just now by that illusory hell.  And perhaps Zefla and Burr too.  Harrowed by their greatest fears, I can only guess, as I have been by mine.  We must utterly eradicate these hags like a contagion taking root in the wood, and save the cubs if we can, or die trying."

"My strength as ever comes from my pack.  All of you, and more.  Though I am weakened, I may yet help in the battle to come through those I summon.  Not-father or either of you two mages, if there is anything you can do to reverse these effects, focus on the other two.  I will endure."

Steadying himself, Soren closes his eyes.  Wild Companion:  Nettle appears upon his shoulder, the owl's round eyes concerned as she gazes at the druid.

"A larger pack will join when battle begins.  They will not be subject to the curse."  Soren grimaces and is ready to approach the windmill with the others.

Giles hears Soren and nods, putting his hand on his shoulder, he can see the torment in his eyes.  “I utterly hate this place… it is cursed.  Very well, let me attend to Burr and Zefla, but I can try to help you as well, as soon as I can.”  Turning, he says “Burr, come here.  Hold onto your spear.  Look into my eyes.”  Giles brings his coin into his hand, placing his hand over it and onto the back of Burr’s hand.  

“These images are not real.  What you see, what you hear, it is not real.  Come back to us, to reality, join with us and help us to leave this evil place.  Hear me Burr, it is Father Giles, follow my voice!”  

Giles casts remove curse on Burr, looking to see if his breathing slows down, to see if his eyes start to focus properly again.  

Casting remove curse immediately eases the burdens on Burr's mind.  

[Burr is no longer cursed.]

Zefla drops to her knees, eyes wide and shifting her head around as she looks in every direction frantically.  She doesn't quite believe that the vision is gone, that she stands on solid ground once again.  She leans over, her palms on the ground and her breaths come in heaving waves.  Her wild hair falls around her face and she stays in this position for awhile, hearing Soren's voice as she does, realizing it wasn't just her that had experienced this nightmare.

Finally getting her breathing under control, she leans back on her haunches and looks to her friends.  Seeing Giles work with Burr, she hopes he is able to help their fearsome friend.  But she wonders what other terrors this windmill holds for them.  And she also worries that the ground is going to slip away at any moment.

Giles looks once more to Soren, saying, "Are you sure?  I can help one more, ease their burden, end this curse.  If you are sure...."  

Giles waits for Soren to confirm, then he kneels down beside Zefla, saying "Take my hand.  Feel this coin on the back of your hand.  Dear Lady Tymora, heal Zefla, end this affliction of her mind.  Give her strength and resolve to face what lies ahead.  Show her your true power, dear Lady.  We need your help, your grace, and we need it now."  

Giles casts remove curse on Zefla.  He looks a little drained after calling upon his Lady for her favor again.

Soren looks sick but shakes his head and gestures at Zefla.

”Heal the warriors.  They will be attacking.  As will the others who will join us soon…”

Burr looks up again into Giles eyes, " Thankyou.........that will be tallied against them as well."

" Soren, can your abilities get eyes within the building.....are they in there?"

Quote from Damian_May >>

"Soren, can your abilities get eyes within the building.....are they in there?"

Soren considers Burr's entreaty, trying to ignore the pounding stress-headache building at his temples.  He hesitates.

"I can transform myself into a small beast to scout inside the windmill, perhaps a rat or a spider, and will do so if you all think it best.  But this curse has addled my senses and I may not see much.  Particularly hags who can become invisible at will as Morgantha did the last time.  The beasts I plan to summon are better fighters than scouts, and while they will act as I implore them, I cannot link minds with them to report back as I can with Nettle."

Soren looks fondly at the brave little owl on his shoulder.  "As for her, I could send her in, but the hags are forewarned.  If they are lurking there, we will discover it only through Nettle's demise.  I think we should circle the area to ensure they have not gone to ground nearby, and then simply enter cautiously, looking for what traps we can.  Even if we see no hags, the cubs may be there.  If so, we can free them and then destroy the windmill."

(Soren shudders, imagining with irrational dread that this will likely mean setting the structure on fire).

Zefla shakily gets up and looking at Giles with immense gratitude, she offers him her hand to help him to his feet.  Once he is standing she rushes in for a hug, "Thank you.  So much."  She still trembles a bit, but she is getting over it and after the embrace is over, she looks to the broken down windmill.  "They must be here."