Sandu gave the Lady Dubois a bow accompanied with a smile and excuse himself as she went on to unveil the last painting. In hindsight he should have expected the response. Like most any noble, Dubois did not care one iota about her guests as long as it did not affect her directly. After all this was her evening, her exhibition, and everyone else were mere spectators to see her flaunt her opulence. He waited in silence for the unveiling of the last painting.
Said unveiling defied all expectations. Were it not the unearthliness of the painting itself, surely it was the unexpected cold-blooded murder of Anthony Dubois at the hands of his wife Maribelle. That makes two murders. The thought flashed through Sandu's mind before he could properly process what had just transpired. Not that there was much time to do so. The room went dark, screams went up, and Sandu felt his entire body lifted off the ground by a cold, strong, unyielding arm. Dormark had grabbed him and was half carrying, half dragging him towards an exit where Sandu could vaguely make out the contours of a most unpleasant fellow: Rahadin.
Though Sandu's rancune for the man was palpable, there was something else that drew his focus. The mansion was, for lack of a better term, bleeding. Walls pulsed red like organs and the stench of death was everywhere. Dormark was still hauling Sandu around with ease, only allowing him back on his feet when Rahadin had locking himself in a room with them.
"Let us not mince words, for I know that our history runs deep,"he says, his voice laced with a hint of menace. "But if we are to have any chance at surviving this hellish realm, we must put our differences aside and work together. Our goals are aligned, for we both seek to break free from this cursed place and destroy the wicked force that holds sway over it."
'The enemy of my enemy is my friend.' Sandu replied. 'Or another enemy.'He added an often heard addendum. 'I don't like it but strange times makes for stranger allies.'
Dallid - Rahadin's lip curls up in a cynical sneer, his eyes glinting with dark amusement. "Fair, very fair,"he says, his voice lacking any hint of empathy. "Honestly, I do not know where your friend currently is. However, what I do know is that this place,"he gestures around at the twisted, infernal landscape that now dominates most of the mansion, "exists on a plane far different from Barovia. Whether it is some devilish underworld or shared nightmare, I cannot say for certain."
A sly grin spreads across his face. "Your bugbear friend was last seen with a companion, a woman with long red hair. It is my suspicion that this woman is not what she seems. An alluring beauty set out to whisk your friend off his feet? That matches the description of a particular type of fiend, does it not? Be careful, my friend. In this place, even the most innocent-looking creature can hide a dark, twisted soul."
Rahadin's voice drips with disdain as he continues. "I have reason to believe that the fiend you seek may be in league with the dark force that holds this realm in its grasp. And if we are to have any chance of escape, we must find a way to weaken its grip. Our first step should be to confront Maribelle. It was her actions that brought us to our current predicament, after all."
'Different plane? Fiend?'Sandu tried to make sense of the situation. It was a difficult thing to do all things considered. 'You want us to go back there?'He asked, hoping the dusk elf did not mean what Sandu thought he meant. 'Shouldn't we first seek our friends Galqarin and Ioben? Strength in numbers and all that.'
He was loathe to admit it but traversing the nightmare house was not very high on the list of Sandu's priorities. He reached for the silver raven icon around his neck. He did not know why, other than that he had always had it, but feeling the cold metal press into his hand calmed him down. Along with a couple of deep breaths it ensured that his legs stopped shaking enough to function.
'What's the plan?' Sandu's eyes grew resolute and his voice calm.
"Something came out of the paintings. Something dark and dangerous. We may need to destroy the paintings to fix this mess. Dallid... would it be possible to ask the creator what he did with his works of art," asks Dormark.
Dallid pulls out the moving, severed hand and a quill with ink from his pack to write in Dallid's book.
'What in the Nine Hells?!' Sandu scurried back upon the sight of the severed hand, the encounter with a bunch of them in Barovia still too fresh in his mind.
Sandu - Rahadin speaks in a low and measured tone. "Pragmatism is key in our current predicament,"he drawls. "We cannot be certain of the fate of your missing companions. They may have met their demise, or worse yet, they could be being used as bait for a trap." He shifts nervously, his eyes darting around the room as if looking for hidden threats. "I had always suspected that your party were mere pawns in a much larger and more insidious game. But now, I fear that this entire exhibition was nothing more than an elaborate trap designed to bring you here. Though, to what ends, I do not know."
Dormark - Rahadin gives a slow, contemplative nod. "Indeed, Metalman. That thought has also crossed my mind. If those paintings are indeed a window between worlds, destroying them may be the easiest way to return to Barovia. Or it could lead to our ultimate demise. We simply cannot know for sure."
Dallid - You remove the severed hand from your backpack and place it on the ground along with your quill and book. The hand quickly snatches up the quill and begins to scratch a message in the book;
Silent witness, bound to a severed hand A soul betrayed, a fate most grand
Torn from a life once so serene Now bound to the painter's wild dream
A puppet in the master's play My true self lost in disarray
My mind is shattered, my thoughts unclear The hand now guides, the end is near
And all that remains is the name of the man Whose fate was sealed by Vauquelin's plan -
Alano... ALANO... AlaNO...
[the hand violently scribbles the name several more times]
"A most curious item," Rahadin says incredulously.
Ioben struggles to lift his head, his once strong frame now a mere shadow. Blood crusts around his mouth and nose as he speaks, his voice hollow and weak.
"I had given up hope," he says through tears. "Their damned, honeyed words, they led me into a trap. I met her, Gal - Jeze'baal. She spoke of Barovia's future and the role I could play in it. The temptation was too great, I should never have left you all."
"I hear things, Gal," Ioben whispers, his voice barely audible. "Whispers in the night, when they think I am too weak to hear. They speak of war, raging across Barovia. Of dark powers, granting Strahd the ability to rule. The delicate balance of power is shifting, and factions are forming. Some are loyal to the Count, while others plot his downfall. It seems the endgame is near," he trails off, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hope.
Ioben leans forward, the intensity of his words betraying his weakened state. "I heard whispers of a place of great power that could turn the tide of this conflict. That could grant immense power to those that seek it - The Amber Temple." His eyes widen as he speaks, his voice growing hoarse. "But it's a dangerous place, Gal. I've heard it's a place of ancient evils and forbidden knowledge. Even if we were to find this temple, who knows what kind of curse it could bring upon us."
Ioben's breaths become shallow, and his head slumps forward. "I don't know what to do, Gal. But I fear that our fates are now tied to the fate of this land."
You cannot help but question the veracity of Ioben's words, for the terrors he has experienced could have unhinged any man's mind. But one thing is certain, in his present condition, Ioben would be of little use in battle. His weakened body and shattered spirit are unlikely to withstand the rigours of combat, let alone the malevolent forces that reside within the borders of this hellscape.
"I fear you are delirious, friend", Galqarin lays a furry hand softly upon Ioben's brow. Energy flows from within him, the life-force snatched from the fallen fiend coursing into his stricken erstwhile companion. "I will get you out of here. The others are nearby and looking for you."
"Alano... wait wasn't that the name of the man who murder the other guest" says Dormark puzzling over the message.
'Going by this writing, it sounds like Alano is but a pawn in some grander scheme.' Sandu pointed at the relevant lines, all the while keeping wary of the severed hand. 'Taken at face value, I'd wager this Alano is being possessed by someone or something.'
"Maybe we need to find whatever is Alano's body to stop what is happening... Question is where would we begin to look? Any thoughts Dallid," asks Dormark
Dallid shrugs. "I found the hand upstairs. We could look up there. There were more rooms. However, I'm not sure we are still in the house based on the description as another plane."
Ioben's desperate gaze meets yours as you tend to his wounds with your healing hands. "Thank you, friend," he says meekly, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. His gaze then shifts towards his fellow inmate ((the one previously pictured)). "I fear you may be right. With only him for company, my sanity might have taken a hit." He attempts a smile, but it is weak and unconvincing. "Have you searched the demon you slew for a key?" His voice is barely a whisper, but the urgency in his tone is palpable.
Insight
You can sense the genuineness in Ioben's words, yet there is an aura of concealment surrounding him, especially when he mentions the role he was promised by Jeze'baal in the shaping of Barovia's future.
Dallid shrugs. "I found the hand upstairs. We could look up there. There were more rooms. However, I'm not sure we are still in the house based on the description as another plane."
'Best way to find out,'Sandu started but not really feeling up to finish the sentence, 'is to see for ourselves.'
He walked over to the door and reached for the handle. 'Let's find our friends, Alano and a way out of here.' He opened the door.
Rahadin nods in agreement. "Standing idle is the worse thing any of us could do," he says sagely. "Earlier, as I searched the halls of the mansion, I came upon a place deep beneath it, in the lowest reaches of the basement. Therein lay a makeshift laboratory, with symbols arcane and unknown adorning its walls. Within were strange and dark artefacts, devices and potions the likes of which I have never seen before." The way he describes it, in meticulous detail, makes it clear that this dusk elf is no stranger to the darker side of life - a seasoned veteran of both the battlefield and the shadowed craft of espionage.
Still, the whispers that emanate from Rahadin, the most loyal of Strahd's minions, are dire and unrelenting. They urge you not to trust him, insist that you must end his life, and plead with you to flee before it's too late. You cannot help but ponder the depths of malevolence and animosity that Rahadin must have wrought upon his victims that they now follow him even in the afterlife.
"Be warned," he cautions, his voice heavy with caution. "We do not know the true nature of this place, nor the foul magics that linger within its walls. Engaging in combat may prove deadly, so I implore you to stay in the shadows, to bide your time until the opportune moment presents itself for you to strike. I shall continue to scout the mansion in the meantime," Rahadin says with a nod. "And if I learn anything new, I shall seek you out." His voice is firm, betraying the conviction of his purpose.
Humble Beginnings
You depart from the sanctuary of the cramped quarters and step out into a desolate hallway. A profound darkness engulfs you, and the ominous shapes lurking in the shadows seem to twist and writhe with malice. The anguished cries of the other guests trapped in this infernal abyss echo through the halls, creating a haunting chorus that sends shivers down your spine. The air is dense and oppressively humid, clinging to your skin and filling your lungs with a nauseating miasma of decay and despair.
As you move forward, the darkness seems to seep into your bones, and you can feel the weight of it pressing down on you. The screams of the tormented guests grow louder, and you catch glimpses of their distorted, agonised faces in the dim light; aware that you are powerless to assist for fear of being caught. The walls around you are slick with some kind of viscous fluid, and you can smell the sickly sweet scent of decay and corruption. Certainly, very little of the original mansion remains intact.
Occasionally, you hear the sound of something moving in the darkness, but when you turn to look, there is nothing there. You feel as though you are being watched, and a cold sweat breaks out on your forehead. The air is thick with dread, and you wonder how much longer you can bear this torment. As you make your way through the twisting corridors of the mansion, you realise that the true horror of this place lies not in its physical form, but in the malevolent forces that reside within it. You feel as though you are walking through a nightmare, and the thought of ever finding your way out seems increasingly remote; was this the nightmare world that had haunted Vauquelin?
An opening through the gloom beckons, and you enter, only to be greeted by a dim, putrescent light. The illumination reveals an ancient ossuary, its limestone walls adorned with rows of mouldering human remains stacked with fine precision. A disorienting feeling of being in a different place hits you like a wave. This is not a mere extension of the mansion you thought you knew, but rather an aberration, a twisted splice of different spaces that should never have been joined.
In the centre of the room stands an archway, the epitaph etched upon it worn and battered through age. Faintly visible, they read:
All that we had we gave, All that was ours to give, Freely surrendered all.
Evil wrought across the land, If Von Zarovich is allowed to stand.
Dedicated to all proud Barovians that fought, Lest their sacrifice be for nought.
If only you in honour of the slain, Shall surely see we did not die in vain.
Beneath the inscription, the year 347 BC is hewn into the stone. In the distance, the sounds of strife echo through the halls, gradually intensifying. It is the cacophony of war: of carnage, of demise, of agony, and of sorrow.
As you ascend the cracked stairwell beyond the archway, you step into a realm of war. The heavy downpour of rain soaks your clothes, mixing with the mud and blood that surrounds you. The air is thick with the putrid stench of decay and death, clinging to your every breath. As you observe the battlefield, you can't help but notice the strange, thick organic growths that encircle the area, obscuring your view of the carnage. It is as if you are experiencing a hazy, fragmented memory of some long-forgotten conflict.
Your mind is suddenly overtaken by a voice, not your own. It speaks with a whisper-like quality, but its words are clear and distinct. It is as if you are experiencing someone's internal thoughts, a monologue:
“My days at Castle Ravenloft seemed so long ago… I sought refuge from prying eyes and found myself in the company of the devil himself, high up on the peak, overlooking the town of Barovia.”
“Oh, I’d fought sleep for days at a time… For when I dreamt, the nightmares returned. Nightmares of darkness, of my homeland and the Evil which claimed it. I struggled to tell the difference between what was real and the Evil that plagued me so.”
“Names, names that illicited such pain and suffering… I dared not utter them… They had chosen him, clothed him in their power. When I saw him, I saw them… Dark Powers… As I watched him then… I… became convinced that I was truly mad.”
“Why did I accept his commision..? I don’t know. Why do things happen the way they do in dreams? All I know is that, when he asked… I had to accept. From that moment my fate was seal… intwined with the very powers from which I fled.”
Mindless spectres form around you, phantoms of a bygone conflict. Among them, a fearsome figure charges through the battlefield on his dark mount, carving through the opposing lines with ruthless abandon. His face is an icy mask of cruelty, and his attacks spare no one. The ghostly soldiers fighting against him wear expressions of terror and despair, their voices rising in curses against the dreaded name of Strahd Von Zarovich. Despite their overwhelming disadvantage, they fight on with grim determination, determined to honour their fallen comrades and stand against the forces of the oppressor.
Victory looms large, yet there is no joy or celebration on the young Strahd's face. Another figure, bearing a striking resemblance to the Count, emerges from the shadows, his eyes surveying the corpses that litter the field of battle. Pain and sorrow etch his face as he speaks to his brother. "We have won, brother," he declares, but his words are met with cold indifference.
The spectral soldiers vanish, and the field of battle dissolves into a storage room within the mansion. Two new phantoms manifest before you - one, unmistakably Strahd, and the other, an artist of some sort. Strahd begins to speak, the spectres playing out the scene are unaware of your presence.
"Master Vauquelin," Strahd intones, his voice laced with authority, "I require a masterpiece from you, one that tells the tale of how this land was civilized by my own forces. Do you comprehend the gravity of this task?"
"Perfectly, my Lord,"Vauquelin replies, bowing deeply. "And what of those who opposed you?"
"Barbarians, the lot of them,"Strahd sneers. "They were a pox on this land."
"Your memories shall be immortalised,"Vauquelin promises, his eyes glinting with artistic passion.
> "Have you searched the demon you slew for a key?" His voice is barely a whisper, but the urgency in his tone is palpable.
"I shall check right now", says Galqarin turning to that very task and, in doing so, concealing the troubled frown that creases his brow. I must consult Dormark - or perhaps even Sandu - about this role Ioben was promised by Jeze'baal in the shaping of Barovia's future.
With ease, you locate the key on Haribelle's lifeless form. The once enchanting beauty now revealed as a withered husk, her true nature laid bare. It seems Ioben's evaluation of the other man in the cell was accurate, for he remains unresponsive and without breath.
As you loosen Ioben's shackles, he collapses into your powerful embrace. "You have my gratitude, friend," he murmurs with a deep sense of appreciation. "But we must make haste, for it won't be long until others arrive."
Sandu gave the Lady Dubois a bow accompanied with a smile and excuse himself as she went on to unveil the last painting. In hindsight he should have expected the response. Like most any noble, Dubois did not care one iota about her guests as long as it did not affect her directly. After all this was her evening, her exhibition, and everyone else were mere spectators to see her flaunt her opulence. He waited in silence for the unveiling of the last painting.
Said unveiling defied all expectations. Were it not the unearthliness of the painting itself, surely it was the unexpected cold-blooded murder of Anthony Dubois at the hands of his wife Maribelle. That makes two murders. The thought flashed through Sandu's mind before he could properly process what had just transpired. Not that there was much time to do so. The room went dark, screams went up, and Sandu felt his entire body lifted off the ground by a cold, strong, unyielding arm. Dormark had grabbed him and was half carrying, half dragging him towards an exit where Sandu could vaguely make out the contours of a most unpleasant fellow: Rahadin.
Though Sandu's rancune for the man was palpable, there was something else that drew his focus. The mansion was, for lack of a better term, bleeding. Walls pulsed red like organs and the stench of death was everywhere. Dormark was still hauling Sandu around with ease, only allowing him back on his feet when Rahadin had locking himself in a room with them.
'The enemy of my enemy is my friend.' Sandu replied. 'Or another enemy.' He added an often heard addendum. 'I don't like it but strange times makes for stranger allies.'
'Different plane? Fiend?' Sandu tried to make sense of the situation. It was a difficult thing to do all things considered. 'You want us to go back there?' He asked, hoping the dusk elf did not mean what Sandu thought he meant. 'Shouldn't we first seek our friends Galqarin and Ioben? Strength in numbers and all that.'
He was loathe to admit it but traversing the nightmare house was not very high on the list of Sandu's priorities. He reached for the silver raven icon around his neck. He did not know why, other than that he had always had it, but feeling the cold metal press into his hand calmed him down. Along with a couple of deep breaths it ensured that his legs stopped shaking enough to function.
'What's the plan?' Sandu's eyes grew resolute and his voice calm.
William Brackwater: Human Fighter - The Windward Isles
Tyrgram, the Butterfly Knight: Dwarf Warlock - Secret of Greenwold
Iòlinder Corrach: Half Elf War Cleric - Allansia Adventure
Valerius Sergius Publius: Dhampir Paladin - Vae Victus
"Ioben? Is it you? We came because we thought you were in danger... what happened to you?"
The rage dissipates as quickly as it came, replaced by confusion and concern.
"Something came out of the paintings. Something dark and dangerous. We may need to destroy the paintings to fix this mess. Dallid... would it be possible to ask the creator what he did with his works of art," asks Dormark.
Dormark Calling of Strahd (warforged cleric) 4
Dallid pulls out the moving, severed hand and a quill with ink from his pack to write in Dallid's book.
Paladin - warforged - orange
'What in the Nine Hells?!' Sandu scurried back upon the sight of the severed hand, the encounter with a bunch of them in Barovia still too fresh in his mind.
William Brackwater: Human Fighter - The Windward Isles
Tyrgram, the Butterfly Knight: Dwarf Warlock - Secret of Greenwold
Iòlinder Corrach: Half Elf War Cleric - Allansia Adventure
Valerius Sergius Publius: Dhampir Paladin - Vae Victus
Sandu - Rahadin speaks in a low and measured tone. "Pragmatism is key in our current predicament," he drawls. "We cannot be certain of the fate of your missing companions. They may have met their demise, or worse yet, they could be being used as bait for a trap." He shifts nervously, his eyes darting around the room as if looking for hidden threats. "I had always suspected that your party were mere pawns in a much larger and more insidious game. But now, I fear that this entire exhibition was nothing more than an elaborate trap designed to bring you here. Though, to what ends, I do not know."
Dormark - Rahadin gives a slow, contemplative nod. "Indeed, Metalman. That thought has also crossed my mind. If those paintings are indeed a window between worlds, destroying them may be the easiest way to return to Barovia. Or it could lead to our ultimate demise. We simply cannot know for sure."
Dallid - You remove the severed hand from your backpack and place it on the ground along with your quill and book. The hand quickly snatches up the quill and begins to scratch a message in the book;
"A most curious item," Rahadin says incredulously.
DM - The Call of Strahd (CoS); Feyrealm Campaign, Chapter 0 - Bleak Prospect (BP), Chapter 1 - Destination Unknown (DU)
"Alano... wait wasn't that the name of the man who murder the other guest" says Dormark puzzling over the message.
Dormark Calling of Strahd (warforged cleric) 4
Galqarin -
Ioben struggles to lift his head, his once strong frame now a mere shadow. Blood crusts around his mouth and nose as he speaks, his voice hollow and weak.
"I had given up hope," he says through tears. "Their damned, honeyed words, they led me into a trap. I met her, Gal - Jeze'baal. She spoke of Barovia's future and the role I could play in it. The temptation was too great, I should never have left you all."
Galqarin - Please make an Insight check.
"I hear things, Gal," Ioben whispers, his voice barely audible. "Whispers in the night, when they think I am too weak to hear. They speak of war, raging across Barovia. Of dark powers, granting Strahd the ability to rule. The delicate balance of power is shifting, and factions are forming. Some are loyal to the Count, while others plot his downfall. It seems the endgame is near," he trails off, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hope.
Ioben leans forward, the intensity of his words betraying his weakened state. "I heard whispers of a place of great power that could turn the tide of this conflict. That could grant immense power to those that seek it - The Amber Temple." His eyes widen as he speaks, his voice growing hoarse. "But it's a dangerous place, Gal. I've heard it's a place of ancient evils and forbidden knowledge. Even if we were to find this temple, who knows what kind of curse it could bring upon us."
Ioben's breaths become shallow, and his head slumps forward. "I don't know what to do, Gal. But I fear that our fates are now tied to the fate of this land."
You cannot help but question the veracity of Ioben's words, for the terrors he has experienced could have unhinged any man's mind. But one thing is certain, in his present condition, Ioben would be of little use in battle. His weakened body and shattered spirit are unlikely to withstand the rigours of combat, let alone the malevolent forces that reside within the borders of this hellscape.
DM - The Call of Strahd (CoS); Feyrealm Campaign, Chapter 0 - Bleak Prospect (BP), Chapter 1 - Destination Unknown (DU)
Insight: 15
Hand of Healing: 4 hp
"I fear you are delirious, friend", Galqarin lays a furry hand softly upon Ioben's brow. Energy flows from within him, the life-force snatched from the fallen fiend coursing into his stricken erstwhile companion. "I will get you out of here. The others are nearby and looking for you."
'Going by this writing, it sounds like Alano is but a pawn in some grander scheme.' Sandu pointed at the relevant lines, all the while keeping wary of the severed hand. 'Taken at face value, I'd wager this Alano is being possessed by someone or something.'
William Brackwater: Human Fighter - The Windward Isles
Tyrgram, the Butterfly Knight: Dwarf Warlock - Secret of Greenwold
Iòlinder Corrach: Half Elf War Cleric - Allansia Adventure
Valerius Sergius Publius: Dhampir Paladin - Vae Victus
"Maybe we need to find whatever is Alano's body to stop what is happening... Question is where would we begin to look? Any thoughts Dallid," asks Dormark
Dormark Calling of Strahd (warforged cleric) 4
Dallid shrugs. "I found the hand upstairs. We could look up there. There were more rooms. However, I'm not sure we are still in the house based on the description as another plane."
Paladin - warforged - orange
Galqarin -
Ioben's desperate gaze meets yours as you tend to his wounds with your healing hands. "Thank you, friend," he says meekly, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. His gaze then shifts towards his fellow inmate ((the one previously pictured)). "I fear you may be right. With only him for company, my sanity might have taken a hit." He attempts a smile, but it is weak and unconvincing. "Have you searched the demon you slew for a key?" His voice is barely a whisper, but the urgency in his tone is palpable.
Insight
You can sense the genuineness in Ioben's words, yet there is an aura of concealment surrounding him, especially when he mentions the role he was promised by Jeze'baal in the shaping of Barovia's future.
DM - The Call of Strahd (CoS); Feyrealm Campaign, Chapter 0 - Bleak Prospect (BP), Chapter 1 - Destination Unknown (DU)
'Best way to find out,' Sandu started but not really feeling up to finish the sentence, 'is to see for ourselves.'
He walked over to the door and reached for the handle. 'Let's find our friends, Alano and a way out of here.' He opened the door.
William Brackwater: Human Fighter - The Windward Isles
Tyrgram, the Butterfly Knight: Dwarf Warlock - Secret of Greenwold
Iòlinder Corrach: Half Elf War Cleric - Allansia Adventure
Valerius Sergius Publius: Dhampir Paladin - Vae Victus
Night (Unknown) - Day 8 -
His Most Loyal Servant
Rahadin nods in agreement. "Standing idle is the worse thing any of us could do," he says sagely. "Earlier, as I searched the halls of the mansion, I came upon a place deep beneath it, in the lowest reaches of the basement. Therein lay a makeshift laboratory, with symbols arcane and unknown adorning its walls. Within were strange and dark artefacts, devices and potions the likes of which I have never seen before." The way he describes it, in meticulous detail, makes it clear that this dusk elf is no stranger to the darker side of life - a seasoned veteran of both the battlefield and the shadowed craft of espionage.
Still, the whispers that emanate from Rahadin, the most loyal of Strahd's minions, are dire and unrelenting. They urge you not to trust him, insist that you must end his life, and plead with you to flee before it's too late. You cannot help but ponder the depths of malevolence and animosity that Rahadin must have wrought upon his victims that they now follow him even in the afterlife.
"Be warned," he cautions, his voice heavy with caution. "We do not know the true nature of this place, nor the foul magics that linger within its walls. Engaging in combat may prove deadly, so I implore you to stay in the shadows, to bide your time until the opportune moment presents itself for you to strike. I shall continue to scout the mansion in the meantime," Rahadin says with a nod. "And if I learn anything new, I shall seek you out." His voice is firm, betraying the conviction of his purpose.
Humble Beginnings
You depart from the sanctuary of the cramped quarters and step out into a desolate hallway. A profound darkness engulfs you, and the ominous shapes lurking in the shadows seem to twist and writhe with malice. The anguished cries of the other guests trapped in this infernal abyss echo through the halls, creating a haunting chorus that sends shivers down your spine. The air is dense and oppressively humid, clinging to your skin and filling your lungs with a nauseating miasma of decay and despair.
As you move forward, the darkness seems to seep into your bones, and you can feel the weight of it pressing down on you. The screams of the tormented guests grow louder, and you catch glimpses of their distorted, agonised faces in the dim light; aware that you are powerless to assist for fear of being caught. The walls around you are slick with some kind of viscous fluid, and you can smell the sickly sweet scent of decay and corruption. Certainly, very little of the original mansion remains intact.
Occasionally, you hear the sound of something moving in the darkness, but when you turn to look, there is nothing there. You feel as though you are being watched, and a cold sweat breaks out on your forehead. The air is thick with dread, and you wonder how much longer you can bear this torment. As you make your way through the twisting corridors of the mansion, you realise that the true horror of this place lies not in its physical form, but in the malevolent forces that reside within it. You feel as though you are walking through a nightmare, and the thought of ever finding your way out seems increasingly remote; was this the nightmare world that had haunted Vauquelin?
An opening through the gloom beckons, and you enter, only to be greeted by a dim, putrescent light. The illumination reveals an ancient ossuary, its limestone walls adorned with rows of mouldering human remains stacked with fine precision. A disorienting feeling of being in a different place hits you like a wave. This is not a mere extension of the mansion you thought you knew, but rather an aberration, a twisted splice of different spaces that should never have been joined.
In the centre of the room stands an archway, the epitaph etched upon it worn and battered through age. Faintly visible, they read:
Beneath the inscription, the year 347 BC is hewn into the stone. In the distance, the sounds of strife echo through the halls, gradually intensifying. It is the cacophony of war: of carnage, of demise, of agony, and of sorrow.
As you ascend the cracked stairwell beyond the archway, you step into a realm of war. The heavy downpour of rain soaks your clothes, mixing with the mud and blood that surrounds you. The air is thick with the putrid stench of decay and death, clinging to your every breath. As you observe the battlefield, you can't help but notice the strange, thick organic growths that encircle the area, obscuring your view of the carnage. It is as if you are experiencing a hazy, fragmented memory of some long-forgotten conflict.
Your mind is suddenly overtaken by a voice, not your own. It speaks with a whisper-like quality, but its words are clear and distinct. It is as if you are experiencing someone's internal thoughts, a monologue:
Mindless spectres form around you, phantoms of a bygone conflict. Among them, a fearsome figure charges through the battlefield on his dark mount, carving through the opposing lines with ruthless abandon. His face is an icy mask of cruelty, and his attacks spare no one. The ghostly soldiers fighting against him wear expressions of terror and despair, their voices rising in curses against the dreaded name of Strahd Von Zarovich. Despite their overwhelming disadvantage, they fight on with grim determination, determined to honour their fallen comrades and stand against the forces of the oppressor.
Victory looms large, yet there is no joy or celebration on the young Strahd's face. Another figure, bearing a striking resemblance to the Count, emerges from the shadows, his eyes surveying the corpses that litter the field of battle. Pain and sorrow etch his face as he speaks to his brother. "We have won, brother," he declares, but his words are met with cold indifference.
The spectral soldiers vanish, and the field of battle dissolves into a storage room within the mansion. Two new phantoms manifest before you - one, unmistakably Strahd, and the other, an artist of some sort. Strahd begins to speak, the spectres playing out the scene are unaware of your presence.
All - Please make Perception checks.
DM - The Call of Strahd (CoS); Feyrealm Campaign, Chapter 0 - Bleak Prospect (BP), Chapter 1 - Destination Unknown (DU)
> "Have you searched the demon you slew for a key?" His voice is barely a whisper, but the urgency in his tone is palpable.
"I shall check right now", says Galqarin turning to that very task and, in doing so, concealing the troubled frown that creases his brow. I must consult Dormark - or perhaps even Sandu - about this role Ioben was promised by Jeze'baal in the shaping of Barovia's future.
Galqarin -
With ease, you locate the key on Haribelle's lifeless form. The once enchanting beauty now revealed as a withered husk, her true nature laid bare. It seems Ioben's evaluation of the other man in the cell was accurate, for he remains unresponsive and without breath.
As you loosen Ioben's shackles, he collapses into your powerful embrace. "You have my gratitude, friend," he murmurs with a deep sense of appreciation. "But we must make haste, for it won't be long until others arrive."
Galqarin - Perception check, please.
DM - The Call of Strahd (CoS); Feyrealm Campaign, Chapter 0 - Bleak Prospect (BP), Chapter 1 - Destination Unknown (DU)
Dallid perception 4
Ferelyon 9
Paladin - warforged - orange
Perception: 11
William Brackwater: Human Fighter - The Windward Isles
Tyrgram, the Butterfly Knight: Dwarf Warlock - Secret of Greenwold
Iòlinder Corrach: Half Elf War Cleric - Allansia Adventure
Valerius Sergius Publius: Dhampir Paladin - Vae Victus
Galqarin's perception: 12