Galqarin does he can for the others, before tending to his own wounds (medicine: 19).
(The dice roller in the sheet isn't working, and on the app it would only roll 2 HD the first time, so I did it twice to get to 5 HD = 15 + 18 = 33. And even then it didn't add it up properly; Gal was on 22, so should have overcapped but instead it put total as 49/50. Corrected manually ::sigh::)
Sandu winced at the sudden return of light. He was glad to be able to see again yet part of him wished to remain blind upon seeing the surroundings. Ignorance could indeed be bliss. Only the lack of food in his stomach kept him from retching when he saw what had assaulted them in the dark. Sandu strained to stay on his feet. He was afraid that any place where he could sit, let alone lie down, would bring fresh horrors to an already sickening situation.
'What is this place?' His eyes fell on the throne. 'A throne room? A castle?'
"I miss my staff", says Galqarin ruefully as he passes the mace back to Dormark.
'You can use mine.' Sandu procured the staff from behind his back. He had honestly forgotten about it and wondered for a moment why he had it. The characters in the stories he liked to read tended to use one as a walking aid, perhaps that was why. But there would not be much leisurely walking in Barovia.
He peeked past the throne. 'Let's keep moving forward then?'He asked in a tone that suggested that he wanted to do anything else but that.
All - ((I assume the consensus is that this will be a short rest as opposed to long? A longer rest would obviously incur more risk.))
Dallid - Wasting no time, you set about cleaning the wounds both yourself and Ferelyon have sustained since finding yourself in this hell plane. As your hands navigate the matted fur of Ferelyon, you can't help but be struck by the disheartening realisation that the essence of your dear friend has been irrevocably altered. Once a companion whose thoughts and actions mirrored your own, he is now a mere vessel, his mind surrendered to the primal instincts of the wolf that now defines him. His vacant stare meets your gaze, devoid of any flicker of deeper understanding.
As you contemplate the enigma that Ferelyon has become, you cannot help but wonder if there are fragments of his former self that occasionally break through the veil of his wolfish instincts, moments when a flicker of recognition or a spark of familiarity illuminates his eyes, if only for an instant. Perhaps, in those fleeting moments, you catch a glimpse of the friend you once knew.
In the hushed silence that follows, a profound understanding passes between you and Ferelyon, transcending words. His mournful howl echoes through the chamber, carrying a hint of longing and sorrow. It is a desperate cry, a plea for salvation that reverberates in the depths of your soul.
Galqarin - You tend to your own wounds with the precision of a seasoned healer, fingers moving deftly as you cleanse and bind the injuries earned in this brutal battle. Blood stains the bandages, a testament to the violence endured. Your bugbear hands, calloused and steady, reflect the knowledge born from countless trials and tribulations, for yours has been a rough life.
As you pass the mighty mace back to Dormark, a question lingers in your mind -- how different are the intricate mechanisms that animate the warforged's frame from the inner workings of your own body? Certainly, you have basic knowledge of tendering those many of flesh and bone, but surely a mechanic would be better suited to repairing Dormark. Yet, a deeper instinct stirs within you, a sense of duty that surpasses logical calculations. Are you not duty-bound to offer solace and succour to your injured friend, to seek a way to alleviate his suffering?
The absence of the Gulthias Staff weighs heavily on your thoughts. Since the fateful moment when you were forcefully separated from your cherished artefact, an unexpected clarity has settled upon your mind. It is as if a fog has been lifted.
Sandu - You survey your surroundings with a discerning eye, realising that this decaying chamber was once a majestic throne room, now left to languish in the clutches of neglect. Yet, an unsettling realisation settles upon your thoughts. This throne room, so carefully crafted, is but an imitation, a deceptive mimicry conjured within the nightmarish realm that ensnares you. It prompts a vexing question to dance in your mind: Was the abomination you faced truly an amalgamation of fallen knights, remnants of the noble order of the silver dragon? Or was it a grotesque perversion, a cruel mockery concocted to derail your purpose and confound your path? The truth remains veiled, waiting to be unveiled in the treacherous depths that lie ahead.
You hand your staff to Galqarin, your countenance betraying a steely resolve. You cannot afford to linger in this realm, for the prospect of becoming a permanent resident looms like a spectre in your mind. The enigmatic Rahadin, his features etched with grim satisfaction, appears to share your sentiment. "There is wisdom in our swift departure,"he asserts, his tone brimming with pragmatism.
Dormark - ((I believe the party is choosing to take a short rest, feel free to roll any hit dice.)) Galqarin's outstretched hand returns your mace to its rightful grasp. The moment your metallic fingers make contact, a surge of energy courses through the weapon. A radiant glow, vivid as the golden sun, bathes the once-dreary hall, casting away the shadows that clung to its walls. As you hold the mace, an ethereal warmth envelops your metal frame, suffusing you with renewed vitality. The divine power resonates within, a beacon of hope amidst the encroaching darkness.
Dallid looks at Ferelyon and wraps him in a hug as he howls.
"I... If it costs my life, I'll get you back to yourself. I'm sorry. For what's happened to you. For bringing you here. For... For a lot of things. I'll fix it, I promise."
Dallid - In a fleeting instant, a shimmer of moisture glistens within the depths of Ferelyon's eye, as if a solitary tear longs to be shed. But the emotion, so transient, vanishes as swiftly as it arrived, leaving no trace but a memory. The faithful wolf, sensing your mood, leans in with gentle affection, his warm tongue grazing your cheek.
Dormark - Charged with newfound vigour, your resolve strengthens, prepared to face the menacing path that unfolds to the south of the grand hall. With your hand firmly gripping the mace, its radiant glow emanates as you forge ahead, illuminating the way for your companions.
Time (Unknown) - Day (Unknown) - Destination (Unknown)
A Realm, Alive
The party, rested and refreshed, ventured forth towards the southern reaches of the grand hall. Dormark, his mace ablaze with ethereal light, takes the lead, a towering figure resolute in his purpose, having once succumbed to the clutches of this infernal realm, now revitalised. As they neared the exit, a sight of abominable horror awaited them, shattering the illusion of grandeur. The faux-throne room disintegrates before their eyes, revealing a nightmarish tableau — an expanse of walls wet with crimson, pulsating and flesh-like, akin to the innards of a colossal worm or the twisted network of blood vessels.
Stepping forward into the fleshy corridor, Dormark's radiant mace cast an eerie glow upon the grotesque surroundings. Within the veiny walls, malevolent shadows dance and writhe, their distorted forms caught between ecstasy and torment, their true nature obscured by the macabre spectacle. The passage itself seems alive, undulating and shifting, guided by an unseen force. As the party press on through the repugnant pathway, they occasionally have to stoop beneath fleshy beams and gingerly traverse over massive, pustulent boils that litter the way. At this point, any semblance of pretence was shattered, for the corridor itself took on a will of its own, manoeuvring and guiding them toward an unknown destination dictated by the whims of this twisted realm.
A Pact, Broken
Emerging from the sinuous depths of the passageway, the party find themselves confronted by a grand concourse, leaving them momentarily awestruck. Before them, a magnificent sight unfolds -- a vast expanse dominated by a golden marble staircase, its black marble railing winding gracefully along the north wall. Like a serpent ascending, the staircase gracefully spiralled upward through a thirty-foot-wide shaft. Its opulence was not to be overshadowed, for the walls themselves were adorned with intricate artistry -- amber sculptures, masterfully fashioned to resemble sinuous tentacles, entwined around marble bas-reliefs depicting a regal procession of kings, queens, pharaohs, and sultans, accompanied by an entourage of countless slaves.
To the west and east, flanking the grand corridor, stand alcoves, each harbouring a pair of remarkable plinths. Upon those ebony pedestals, towering statues crafted from gleaming gold command attention, adorned with a cornucopia of rare and precious jewels. As the party stands amidst the grandeur of the temple, an undeniable sense of foreboding grips their hearts. Despite the opulence that surrounds them, they cannot help but feel insignificant, mere motes of dust in the presence of such magnificence.
As before, an ethereal voice reverberates through the air, its haunting words echoing in the hearts of the party as if an unseen narrator weaves their story for all to hear;
“I stood in the doorway between Light and Dark. The remanents of my sanity implored me not to enter. But the visions, how the shadows danced and beckoned. I was sure this moment was one I had been long prepared for… The Amber Temple, sitting high over the land of Barovia.”
“I knew then that this had been the root that he had traversed… the path to power. Such a wicked place to create such a wicked tyrant… He knew I was going there but he did not stop me… They had asked to see me.”
With a thunderous crack, an inexplicable light bursts forth, casting an eerie glow upon one of the statues to the left. "It's her..."Ioben's voice quivers with grief, his words barely audible amidst the chilling atmosphere that envelops the party. The air grows icy, and an otherworldly wind gusts through the confined space, sending shivers down their spines, penetrating to the very depths of their beings.
The golden statue, sculpted with masterful artistry, portrays a captivating woman of unparalleled beauty. Her visage is one of haughty elegance, her regal countenance exuding an air of superiority as she gazes down upon the party with a mixture of disdain and silent judgment. A dark crawling voice whispers; "Jeze'baal."
“Mine Mistress, the Queen of Excess. My life… now hers. Strahd’s lust and greed.”
A second resounding crack reverberates through the temple, casting its ethereal light upon the statue adjacent to the first, on the left. The sudden illumination reveals intricate details etched upon the cold, lifeless gold as if bringing forth a hidden story long forgotten.
"Thaddeus,"the voice resonates through the air with a venomous hiss, dripping with anger and resentment. The golden statue stands proudly, depicting a formidable nomadic warrior of immense stature. Resembling the Vistani, yet surpassing them in both height and brawn, his muscular form is a testament to years of battle-hardened strength. Every sinew and muscle is meticulously carved, capturing the raw power that emanates from his frame.
However, it is his right eye that draws attention, marred by a wicked claw mark etched upon his face. The scar stretches from his forehead, crossing his eye, and extending down to his right cheek, a symbol of a past encounter with unspeakable violence. The gaze from his remaining eye is fierce, the incarnation of unrestrained anger and violence.
“The Bleeding Eye! Strahd’s aggression, anger and hatred!”
The thunderous crescendo reaches its zenith, commanding the undivided attention of the party. With a blinding flash of light, a third statue, crafted from gleaming gold, is illuminated in a radiant glow. It stands apart from the others, shrouded in an air of mystery and foreboding. The statue's face is concealed by a golden cowl, obscuring its features and heightening the sense of intrigue and hidden malevolence that emanates from within its robes.
"Camorte!"the voice erupts, its tone now more akin to a resounding shout, filled with anger and a burning intensity that grips the very air. The word reverberates through the temple, carrying a weight of fear and trepidation. The name itself is enough to send a chill down the spines of those who hear it, evoking a sense of ancient power and the lingering presence of something dreadfully sinister.
In the presence of this enigmatic statue, the party can feel the presence of ancient darkness, as if the golden figure holds secrets that defy comprehension. Its hidden visage and the palpable aura of malice that surrounds it leave no doubt that the entity it represents is one to be feared and respected, for it is a force that can shape destinies and bring forth both salvation and damnation.
“Mention not the Hooded Man. Strahd’s anguish and despair!”
As another thunderous crack reverberates through the temple, the climactic moment arrives, casting its ethereal light upon the fourth and final golden statue. But this time, something peculiar unfolds before the party's eyes. The illuminated form appears fragmented as if shattered into countless shards that constantly shift and rearrange. No matter which angle they approach it from, the statue eludes their grasp, playing tricks on their senses.
The shape is humanoid, or so they believe, yet uncertainty grips their minds as they struggle to discern its true form. It defies their attempts to comprehend, an enigma that dances just beyond their reach. The more they focus on the elusive statue, the more an insidious throbbing pain builds within their heads, as though their very attempt to unravel its mysteries is tearing at the fabric of their sanity.
It is a maddening sight, one that tests the limits of their perception and defies their understanding. "Judai,"the voice screams.
“Deceiver! The Fabricator of Falsehoods! Strahd’s cunning and deceit!”
As the ethereal lights fade into darkness, swallowed by the abyss, the chamber is engulfed in silence. The only illumination remains the faint reflection of Dormark's mace dancing upon the golden statues. The stillness in the air is thick with an eerie weight as if the very walls hold their breath in anticipation.
“Dark Powers all. Fractured and twisting. Wrenched apart, divided. Each vying for the land of mists… Barovia!”
A Vision, Remembered
All - Images swim before your eyes, their ethereal presence weaving into your consciousness like fragments of a vivid dream. The imposing silhouette of a grand temple perched atop a snow-clad mountain dominates the landscape. A sinuous path, etched through the icy terrain, winds its way toward the temple's entrance, beckoning those brave or foolish enough to tread upon it. An air of palpable foreboding hangs heavy in the frigid air as if the very elements themselves conspire to discourage further exploration. This is a place steeped in unfathomable power, an abode of ancient malevolence.
In the mind's eye, two figures materialise, their forms intertwined with the spectral tapestry. The first figure needs no introduction, his countenance unmistakable even in this intangible realm. Strahd Von Zarovich, the enigmatic lord of Barovia, strides with an air of regal detachment, his flowing locks framing a face that betrays neither warmth nor vulnerability. The weight of his realm rests upon his broad shoulders, and the fate of Barovia is held within his grasp.
Walking alongside Strahd, a loyal companion emerges from the mists of remembrance. Rahadin, ever vigilant and unyielding, matches his lord's stride with unwavering loyalty. As they approach the threshold of the temple, a moment of hesitation grips the air. Strahd's voice, tinged with a rare trace of understanding, breaks the silence. "No, Rahadin, I must face this trial alone," he utters with a depth of knowing. The words hang in the wintry air, resonating with an unspoken weight that Rahadin struggles to accept.
"But, my Lord!"Rahadin's voice interrupts, laden with earnest concern. His countenance betrays a mixture of unwavering dedication and unspoken fear. "I would have followed you to the end,"he grumbles, his words dripping with a gruff determination. The depth of his devotion to Strahd is palpable, his commitment unwavering in the face of any peril.
Strahd's response is measured, his tone steeped in a simplicity that belies the complexity of their connection. "I know," he acknowledges, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken history and shared experiences. In that fleeting moment, a lifetime of trust and unspoken understanding lingers, bridging the gap between lord and servant. The bond they share is forged in iron, tested by the crucible of Barovia's tormented existence.
The visions dissipate, leaving a haunting echo of their presence within your thoughts.
Dallid takes his notes diligently, but he is distracted with keeping an eye on Ferelyon more often than he once did.
He does stop to look to Rahadin. "Do you wonder what might have happened beyond the threshold? If you had gone with him? Somehow, I think your cruelty cares nothing for such thoughts..."
Sandu shivered with every step the party took down the hallway turned flesh. It was odd, he thought, that shivering was the only thing he did. Perhaps he had by now been desensitised to the horrors permeating this reality. Maybe his mind had been broken and insanity was the new normal. Or perhaps he still held onto the hope that all of this would turn out to be a bad nightmare and there was salvation ahead in the morning. If there ever was going to be another morning...
'What in the Nine Hells...'
Every time Sandu thought there was nothing more that could defy his sense of logic, Barovia had to prove him wrong. But perhaps he should be a bit more grateful: a golden staircase and golden statues were, all things considered, a significant upgrade over walking through the bowels of hell. For a brief second Sandu wondered if this was also part of the exhibition, before shaking his head: all notion of an artful evening had been abandoned long ago.
The voice shook Sandu out of his musing. It was eerily haunting yet captivating and Sandu found himself drawn into the narrative it spun. Those four statues, were they aspects of Strahd? His enemies? Something else? There was a certain allure to finding out the meaning behind it all that, to Sandu's surprise, held the despair of his situation at bay. It gave him something focus on, lest he go mad.
The final vision held his attention even more. Like the others he observed a moment, a memory, from Barovia's lord and tyrant's past. It left so many questions rattling in his mind: what and where was this temple? When was this? What trial did Strahd speak of?
'Anything you wish to add?' Sandu asked Rahadin when the vision faded from view.
Dallid - Rahadin's eyes narrow, his gaze filled with a mix of suspicion and curiosity. It becomes evident that the visions that unfolded within your mind have eluded his awareness. His voice, measured and deliberate, cuts through the air. "Happened to who? Vauquelin?"he queries, his words laden with a tinge of uncertainty. You feel his penetrating gaze as he seeks to grasp the significance of your words, to unravel the threads of a narrative that elude him.
A hint of frustration touches his voice as he continues, his tone tinged with a touch of regret. "I must confess, my knowledge of this realm,"he gestures toward the nightmarish surroundings that encompass you, "is grievously limited. The brazen machinations of these forces have eluded my gaze until now. Had I been aware of the extent of their influence, I assure you, I would have taken a greater interest." His words carry an air of determination, a silent oath to rectify his ignorance.
He pauses for a moment, his gaze drifting across the twisted landscape before he fixes his attention back on you. "As it stands, my duty lies in informing my Master of all that I have learned,"he asserts, his voice resolute. You get the sense that he was loathed to make the admission, as though he had somehow betrayed Strahd's trust in revealing the reason why he was at the Dubois' residence.
Sandu - Rahadin's eyebrow arches in a display of calculated indifference, a veil attempting to conceal his unease. His gaze shifts from Dallid to you, his voice laced with feigned nonchalance as he dismisses the significance of the statues before him. "I presume these figures hold some connection to Barovian history,"Rahadin asserts. "I fail to see how they would pertain to my Master. It all sounds a little far-fetched, does it not?"Rahadin's words hold a tinge of strained conviction, but his attempt to distance himself and his Master from these looming statues is feeble at best.
However, despite his words, you catch glimpses of a deeper truth in his fleeting expressions. The mask of indifference wavers, revealing an uncharacteristic tremor in his hands, concealed beneath his sleeves. The imposing presence of the statues has spooked him, unsettling his usual composure.
Dormark - "Indeed,"Rahadin agrees. "This place is cunning in its attempts to deceive. Be wary, for your eyes may betray you." A veneer of composed assurance returns to his demeanour as if he has regained control over the situation. "Escaping this accursed place would be wise," Rahadin suggests, his words laced with an air of authority. "Shall we ascend the staircase?"
Sandu leered warily at Rahadin from the corner of his eye. If what presented here was enough to unnerve even someone like him, then there must be some significant meaning or history behind it. He filed away the question for later: survival was their top priority right now. To that end Sandu followed Dallid up the staircase. He kept one hand in front of him ready to stave off an attack, the other he kept close to his chest clutching the silver raven pendant for comfort.
Time (Unknown) - Day (Unknown) - Destination (Unknown)
Madness, Unbound
With trepidation weighing heavily upon their hearts, the party ascends the winding staircase with hurried steps. Each footfall resonates like an echo from the depths of the infernal abyss as if clawing their way out of the very bowels of damnation. As they ascend, the statues below shrink into minuscule forms, dwarfed by the escalating ascent into the unknown.
Finally, they reach the apex, greeted by an elongated hallway that stretches before them like the spiral of a grotesque snail's shell. Its smooth plaster walls bear the scars of time, etched with cracks and gouges that multiply with every step taken; as though the realm itself is tearing apart. Through these macabre fissures, a sickly, oily light seeps, serving as distorted windows into the nightmarish locations they have already traversed—Strahd's battlefield, Argynvostholt's desolate throne room, the temple of haunting statues, and even Ioben's forsaken prison cell. The walls themselves are adorned with arcane runes, symbols of desperate protection against the encroaching malevolence. Shadows writhe upon every surface, like an inky tide, their amorphous forms shifting and undulating in a perverse dance. With each passing stride, the fabric of reality unravels, dissolving into an intangible haze.
After an interminable number of rotations, the hallway reveals a small, desolate chamber. Flickering candles cast feeble, flickering light, barely illuminating the space. The air hangs heavy with the stench of sweat and linseed, the stifling heat permeating from the very walls. In the centre of the room, a naked and paint-splattered man kneels in reverent supplication before the Tears of Lysaga. The other eight paintings of the Atrocity Exhibition hover around him in an eerie circle, suspended in mid-air.
As the party enters the chamber, Vauquelin completes a final brushstroke upon the triptych, his face streaked with tears of unholy ecstasy. The painting quivers, rippling with a grotesque organic life, pulsating with an unearthly power.
Sensing their presence, Vauquelin turns his head towards the intruders, his smile a rictus of elation. "Do you see it?" he exclaims through parched lips, his voice tinged with a mad fervour. "She has bestowed upon me the gift of sight!" With those words, he plunges the sharpened tip of the paintbrush into his left eye, then the right, an act of maddening devotion. Blood trickles in thin rivulets, eagerly absorbed by the paintings, staining them in sinister crimson. Empowered by this grotesque sacrifice, the canvases radiate with an aura of malevolence, their malign influence worming its way into the minds of those who gaze upon them, tempting them to join the artist in his twisted demise.
The Triumph Of Death
The world convulses in a tumultuous display of grotesque hues and visceral carnage, a maddening spectacle that threatens to unhinge the party's very sanity. The disorienting whirlpool of colours and gore churns with nauseating intensity, shaking their beings to their core. Abruptly, the frenetic motion subsides, replaced by an eerie calmness that settles upon the scene. By macabre candlelight, the party finds themselves back within the Dubois Residence, within the very heart of the exhibition hall itself. But what greets their horrified gaze is a nightmarish tableau of carnage and despair. The hall is transformed into a gruesome abattoir, strewn with the broken and lifeless bodies of multiple guests, their forms contorted in unnatural poses. The paintings that once adorned the walls now emanate an unholy luminescence, swirling with an otherworldly vitality that defies reason.
At the centre of the blood-soaked chamber stands the figure that was once Alano, then Vauquelin, now a twisted embodiment of something far more sinister. Its human facade has been discarded, its tattered skin hanging from its disfigured form, revealing the monstrous entity that lies beneath. The party recoils in horror as they realise that the mangled bodies scattered around the periphery of the exhibition hall are not merely hapless victims, but grotesque amalgamations of flesh, their limbs stitched together in a blasphemous mockery of creation. Some are repurposed as grotesque furniture, their forms grotesquely reshaped for their new purpose.
The demon painter, its form distorted and deformed, dips a massive appendage, repurposed as a brush, into a grotesque vessel resembling a creature with a hollowed-out chest, serving as a morbid paint pot. With a maniacal chuckle that chills the soul, the painter splashes the canvas with crimson pigment, eagerly crafting its new masterpiece for its dark mistress. The surroundings bear witness to the evil sorcery at play, for the canvas is adorned with a sinister tapestry of twisted magical runes, inscribed in blood. It becomes evident that the demon is in the midst of a malevolent ritual, weaving together the forces of blood and pigment to bring forth a profane creation of unimaginable horror. In this unholy chamber, the boundary between art and sacrilege blurs, and the party finds themselves trapped within the fiendish masterpiece of a maleficent artist, witnessing the culmination of a ritual that heralds unspeakable darkness.
A chilling realisation grips the party's hearts, as they understand the dire consequences that would unfold should the unholy ritual come to fruition. The nightmarish realm they recently traversed, with its abhorrent horrors and abominable entities, threatens to intertwine with the already blighted land of Barovia, forming a nefarious portal through which Jeze'baal could exert her influence.
All - Rahadin stands at your side, scimitars gleaming in his hands, his resolve mirroring your own. A grim determination etches lines upon his face as he casts disdainful glances at the abominations that surround you. With a sneer aimed at Dallid, he scoffs, his voice laden with bitter sarcasm, "What is my cruelty in relation to this?" Without hesitation, he brings down his blades upon a twisted, contorted creature that serves as a grotesque mockery of a desk, cleaving through its abhorrent form with a swift and deadly strike.
Galqarin does he can for the others, before tending to his own wounds (medicine: 19).
(The dice roller in the sheet isn't working, and on the app it would only roll 2 HD the first time, so I did it twice to get to 5 HD = 15 + 18 = 33. And even then it didn't add it up properly; Gal was on 22, so should have overcapped but instead it put total as 49/50. Corrected manually ::sigh::)
So this counts as a short rest?
Sandu winced at the sudden return of light. He was glad to be able to see again yet part of him wished to remain blind upon seeing the surroundings. Ignorance could indeed be bliss. Only the lack of food in his stomach kept him from retching when he saw what had assaulted them in the dark. Sandu strained to stay on his feet. He was afraid that any place where he could sit, let alone lie down, would bring fresh horrors to an already sickening situation.
'What is this place?' His eyes fell on the throne. 'A throne room? A castle?'
Spending 4 Hit Dice for 32 healing.
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
“I am in rough shape. We may need to take longer rest… I am throughly spent,” says Dormark standing back up to take his mace from Gal.
Dormark Calling of Strahd (warforged cleric) 4
"I miss my staff", says Galqarin ruefully as he passes the mace back to Dormark.
'Don't think we can afford to stay any longer than absolutely necessary, my friend.' Sandu replied.
'You can use mine.' Sandu procured the staff from behind his back. He had honestly forgotten about it and wondered for a moment why he had it. The characters in the stories he liked to read tended to use one as a walking aid, perhaps that was why. But there would not be much leisurely walking in Barovia.
He peeked past the throne. 'Let's keep moving forward then?' He asked in a tone that suggested that he wanted to do anything else but that.
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
Time (Unknown) - Day (Unknown) - A Reprieve?
All - ((I assume the consensus is that this will be a short rest as opposed to long? A longer rest would obviously incur more risk.))
Dallid - Wasting no time, you set about cleaning the wounds both yourself and Ferelyon have sustained since finding yourself in this hell plane. As your hands navigate the matted fur of Ferelyon, you can't help but be struck by the disheartening realisation that the essence of your dear friend has been irrevocably altered. Once a companion whose thoughts and actions mirrored your own, he is now a mere vessel, his mind surrendered to the primal instincts of the wolf that now defines him. His vacant stare meets your gaze, devoid of any flicker of deeper understanding.
As you contemplate the enigma that Ferelyon has become, you cannot help but wonder if there are fragments of his former self that occasionally break through the veil of his wolfish instincts, moments when a flicker of recognition or a spark of familiarity illuminates his eyes, if only for an instant. Perhaps, in those fleeting moments, you catch a glimpse of the friend you once knew.
In the hushed silence that follows, a profound understanding passes between you and Ferelyon, transcending words. His mournful howl echoes through the chamber, carrying a hint of longing and sorrow. It is a desperate cry, a plea for salvation that reverberates in the depths of your soul.
Galqarin - You tend to your own wounds with the precision of a seasoned healer, fingers moving deftly as you cleanse and bind the injuries earned in this brutal battle. Blood stains the bandages, a testament to the violence endured. Your bugbear hands, calloused and steady, reflect the knowledge born from countless trials and tribulations, for yours has been a rough life.
As you pass the mighty mace back to Dormark, a question lingers in your mind -- how different are the intricate mechanisms that animate the warforged's frame from the inner workings of your own body? Certainly, you have basic knowledge of tendering those many of flesh and bone, but surely a mechanic would be better suited to repairing Dormark. Yet, a deeper instinct stirs within you, a sense of duty that surpasses logical calculations. Are you not duty-bound to offer solace and succour to your injured friend, to seek a way to alleviate his suffering?
The absence of the Gulthias Staff weighs heavily on your thoughts. Since the fateful moment when you were forcefully separated from your cherished artefact, an unexpected clarity has settled upon your mind. It is as if a fog has been lifted.
Sandu - You survey your surroundings with a discerning eye, realising that this decaying chamber was once a majestic throne room, now left to languish in the clutches of neglect. Yet, an unsettling realisation settles upon your thoughts. This throne room, so carefully crafted, is but an imitation, a deceptive mimicry conjured within the nightmarish realm that ensnares you. It prompts a vexing question to dance in your mind: Was the abomination you faced truly an amalgamation of fallen knights, remnants of the noble order of the silver dragon? Or was it a grotesque perversion, a cruel mockery concocted to derail your purpose and confound your path? The truth remains veiled, waiting to be unveiled in the treacherous depths that lie ahead.
You hand your staff to Galqarin, your countenance betraying a steely resolve. You cannot afford to linger in this realm, for the prospect of becoming a permanent resident looms like a spectre in your mind. The enigmatic Rahadin, his features etched with grim satisfaction, appears to share your sentiment. "There is wisdom in our swift departure," he asserts, his tone brimming with pragmatism.
Dormark - ((I believe the party is choosing to take a short rest, feel free to roll any hit dice.)) Galqarin's outstretched hand returns your mace to its rightful grasp. The moment your metallic fingers make contact, a surge of energy courses through the weapon. A radiant glow, vivid as the golden sun, bathes the once-dreary hall, casting away the shadows that clung to its walls. As you hold the mace, an ethereal warmth envelops your metal frame, suffusing you with renewed vitality. The divine power resonates within, a beacon of hope amidst the encroaching darkness.
DM - The Call of Strahd (CoS); Feyrealm Campaign, Chapter 0 - Bleak Prospect (BP), Chapter 1 - Destination Unknown (DU)
Dallid looks at Ferelyon and wraps him in a hug as he howls.
"I... If it costs my life, I'll get you back to yourself. I'm sorry. For what's happened to you. For bringing you here. For... For a lot of things. I'll fix it, I promise."
Paladin - warforged - orange
(Got 35 for short rest HP. Dormark can mostly provide is body att this point Magic is now reserve for emergencies. )
Dormark Calling of Strahd (warforged cleric) 4
Dallid - In a fleeting instant, a shimmer of moisture glistens within the depths of Ferelyon's eye, as if a solitary tear longs to be shed. But the emotion, so transient, vanishes as swiftly as it arrived, leaving no trace but a memory. The faithful wolf, sensing your mood, leans in with gentle affection, his warm tongue grazing your cheek.
Dormark - Charged with newfound vigour, your resolve strengthens, prepared to face the menacing path that unfolds to the south of the grand hall. With your hand firmly gripping the mace, its radiant glow emanates as you forge ahead, illuminating the way for your companions.
DM - The Call of Strahd (CoS); Feyrealm Campaign, Chapter 0 - Bleak Prospect (BP), Chapter 1 - Destination Unknown (DU)
Time (Unknown) - Day (Unknown) - Destination (Unknown)
A Realm, Alive
The party, rested and refreshed, ventured forth towards the southern reaches of the grand hall. Dormark, his mace ablaze with ethereal light, takes the lead, a towering figure resolute in his purpose, having once succumbed to the clutches of this infernal realm, now revitalised. As they neared the exit, a sight of abominable horror awaited them, shattering the illusion of grandeur. The faux-throne room disintegrates before their eyes, revealing a nightmarish tableau — an expanse of walls wet with crimson, pulsating and flesh-like, akin to the innards of a colossal worm or the twisted network of blood vessels.
Stepping forward into the fleshy corridor, Dormark's radiant mace cast an eerie glow upon the grotesque surroundings. Within the veiny walls, malevolent shadows dance and writhe, their distorted forms caught between ecstasy and torment, their true nature obscured by the macabre spectacle. The passage itself seems alive, undulating and shifting, guided by an unseen force. As the party press on through the repugnant pathway, they occasionally have to stoop beneath fleshy beams and gingerly traverse over massive, pustulent boils that litter the way. At this point, any semblance of pretence was shattered, for the corridor itself took on a will of its own, manoeuvring and guiding them toward an unknown destination dictated by the whims of this twisted realm.
A Pact, Broken
Emerging from the sinuous depths of the passageway, the party find themselves confronted by a grand concourse, leaving them momentarily awestruck. Before them, a magnificent sight unfolds -- a vast expanse dominated by a golden marble staircase, its black marble railing winding gracefully along the north wall. Like a serpent ascending, the staircase gracefully spiralled upward through a thirty-foot-wide shaft. Its opulence was not to be overshadowed, for the walls themselves were adorned with intricate artistry -- amber sculptures, masterfully fashioned to resemble sinuous tentacles, entwined around marble bas-reliefs depicting a regal procession of kings, queens, pharaohs, and sultans, accompanied by an entourage of countless slaves.
To the west and east, flanking the grand corridor, stand alcoves, each harbouring a pair of remarkable plinths. Upon those ebony pedestals, towering statues crafted from gleaming gold command attention, adorned with a cornucopia of rare and precious jewels. As the party stands amidst the grandeur of the temple, an undeniable sense of foreboding grips their hearts. Despite the opulence that surrounds them, they cannot help but feel insignificant, mere motes of dust in the presence of such magnificence.
As before, an ethereal voice reverberates through the air, its haunting words echoing in the hearts of the party as if an unseen narrator weaves their story for all to hear;
With a thunderous crack, an inexplicable light bursts forth, casting an eerie glow upon one of the statues to the left. "It's her..." Ioben's voice quivers with grief, his words barely audible amidst the chilling atmosphere that envelops the party. The air grows icy, and an otherworldly wind gusts through the confined space, sending shivers down their spines, penetrating to the very depths of their beings.
The golden statue, sculpted with masterful artistry, portrays a captivating woman of unparalleled beauty. Her visage is one of haughty elegance, her regal countenance exuding an air of superiority as she gazes down upon the party with a mixture of disdain and silent judgment. A dark crawling voice whispers; "Jeze'baal."
A second resounding crack reverberates through the temple, casting its ethereal light upon the statue adjacent to the first, on the left. The sudden illumination reveals intricate details etched upon the cold, lifeless gold as if bringing forth a hidden story long forgotten.
"Thaddeus," the voice resonates through the air with a venomous hiss, dripping with anger and resentment. The golden statue stands proudly, depicting a formidable nomadic warrior of immense stature. Resembling the Vistani, yet surpassing them in both height and brawn, his muscular form is a testament to years of battle-hardened strength. Every sinew and muscle is meticulously carved, capturing the raw power that emanates from his frame.
However, it is his right eye that draws attention, marred by a wicked claw mark etched upon his face. The scar stretches from his forehead, crossing his eye, and extending down to his right cheek, a symbol of a past encounter with unspeakable violence. The gaze from his remaining eye is fierce, the incarnation of unrestrained anger and violence.
The thunderous crescendo reaches its zenith, commanding the undivided attention of the party. With a blinding flash of light, a third statue, crafted from gleaming gold, is illuminated in a radiant glow. It stands apart from the others, shrouded in an air of mystery and foreboding. The statue's face is concealed by a golden cowl, obscuring its features and heightening the sense of intrigue and hidden malevolence that emanates from within its robes.
"Camorte!" the voice erupts, its tone now more akin to a resounding shout, filled with anger and a burning intensity that grips the very air. The word reverberates through the temple, carrying a weight of fear and trepidation. The name itself is enough to send a chill down the spines of those who hear it, evoking a sense of ancient power and the lingering presence of something dreadfully sinister.
In the presence of this enigmatic statue, the party can feel the presence of ancient darkness, as if the golden figure holds secrets that defy comprehension. Its hidden visage and the palpable aura of malice that surrounds it leave no doubt that the entity it represents is one to be feared and respected, for it is a force that can shape destinies and bring forth both salvation and damnation.
As another thunderous crack reverberates through the temple, the climactic moment arrives, casting its ethereal light upon the fourth and final golden statue. But this time, something peculiar unfolds before the party's eyes. The illuminated form appears fragmented as if shattered into countless shards that constantly shift and rearrange. No matter which angle they approach it from, the statue eludes their grasp, playing tricks on their senses.
The shape is humanoid, or so they believe, yet uncertainty grips their minds as they struggle to discern its true form. It defies their attempts to comprehend, an enigma that dances just beyond their reach. The more they focus on the elusive statue, the more an insidious throbbing pain builds within their heads, as though their very attempt to unravel its mysteries is tearing at the fabric of their sanity.
It is a maddening sight, one that tests the limits of their perception and defies their understanding. "Judai," the voice screams.
As the ethereal lights fade into darkness, swallowed by the abyss, the chamber is engulfed in silence. The only illumination remains the faint reflection of Dormark's mace dancing upon the golden statues. The stillness in the air is thick with an eerie weight as if the very walls hold their breath in anticipation.
A Vision, Remembered
All - Images swim before your eyes, their ethereal presence weaving into your consciousness like fragments of a vivid dream. The imposing silhouette of a grand temple perched atop a snow-clad mountain dominates the landscape. A sinuous path, etched through the icy terrain, winds its way toward the temple's entrance, beckoning those brave or foolish enough to tread upon it. An air of palpable foreboding hangs heavy in the frigid air as if the very elements themselves conspire to discourage further exploration. This is a place steeped in unfathomable power, an abode of ancient malevolence.
In the mind's eye, two figures materialise, their forms intertwined with the spectral tapestry. The first figure needs no introduction, his countenance unmistakable even in this intangible realm. Strahd Von Zarovich, the enigmatic lord of Barovia, strides with an air of regal detachment, his flowing locks framing a face that betrays neither warmth nor vulnerability. The weight of his realm rests upon his broad shoulders, and the fate of Barovia is held within his grasp.
Walking alongside Strahd, a loyal companion emerges from the mists of remembrance. Rahadin, ever vigilant and unyielding, matches his lord's stride with unwavering loyalty. As they approach the threshold of the temple, a moment of hesitation grips the air. Strahd's voice, tinged with a rare trace of understanding, breaks the silence. "No, Rahadin, I must face this trial alone," he utters with a depth of knowing. The words hang in the wintry air, resonating with an unspoken weight that Rahadin struggles to accept.
"But, my Lord!" Rahadin's voice interrupts, laden with earnest concern. His countenance betrays a mixture of unwavering dedication and unspoken fear. "I would have followed you to the end," he grumbles, his words dripping with a gruff determination. The depth of his devotion to Strahd is palpable, his commitment unwavering in the face of any peril.
Strahd's response is measured, his tone steeped in a simplicity that belies the complexity of their connection. "I know," he acknowledges, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken history and shared experiences. In that fleeting moment, a lifetime of trust and unspoken understanding lingers, bridging the gap between lord and servant. The bond they share is forged in iron, tested by the crucible of Barovia's tormented existence.
The visions dissipate, leaving a haunting echo of their presence within your thoughts.
DM - The Call of Strahd (CoS); Feyrealm Campaign, Chapter 0 - Bleak Prospect (BP), Chapter 1 - Destination Unknown (DU)
Dallid takes his notes diligently, but he is distracted with keeping an eye on Ferelyon more often than he once did.
He does stop to look to Rahadin. "Do you wonder what might have happened beyond the threshold? If you had gone with him? Somehow, I think your cruelty cares nothing for such thoughts..."
Paladin - warforged - orange
Sandu shivered with every step the party took down the hallway turned flesh. It was odd, he thought, that shivering was the only thing he did. Perhaps he had by now been desensitised to the horrors permeating this reality. Maybe his mind had been broken and insanity was the new normal. Or perhaps he still held onto the hope that all of this would turn out to be a bad nightmare and there was salvation ahead in the morning. If there ever was going to be another morning...
'What in the Nine Hells...'
Every time Sandu thought there was nothing more that could defy his sense of logic, Barovia had to prove him wrong. But perhaps he should be a bit more grateful: a golden staircase and golden statues were, all things considered, a significant upgrade over walking through the bowels of hell. For a brief second Sandu wondered if this was also part of the exhibition, before shaking his head: all notion of an artful evening had been abandoned long ago.
The voice shook Sandu out of his musing. It was eerily haunting yet captivating and Sandu found himself drawn into the narrative it spun. Those four statues, were they aspects of Strahd? His enemies? Something else? There was a certain allure to finding out the meaning behind it all that, to Sandu's surprise, held the despair of his situation at bay. It gave him something focus on, lest he go mad.
The final vision held his attention even more. Like the others he observed a moment, a memory, from Barovia's lord and tyrant's past. It left so many questions rattling in his mind: what and where was this temple? When was this? What trial did Strahd speak of?
'Anything you wish to add?' Sandu asked Rahadin when the vision faded from view.
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
“What is all this we are seeing? I don’t understand this place,” says Dormark.
Dormark Calling of Strahd (warforged cleric) 4
Dallid - Rahadin's eyes narrow, his gaze filled with a mix of suspicion and curiosity. It becomes evident that the visions that unfolded within your mind have eluded his awareness. His voice, measured and deliberate, cuts through the air. "Happened to who? Vauquelin?" he queries, his words laden with a tinge of uncertainty. You feel his penetrating gaze as he seeks to grasp the significance of your words, to unravel the threads of a narrative that elude him.
A hint of frustration touches his voice as he continues, his tone tinged with a touch of regret. "I must confess, my knowledge of this realm," he gestures toward the nightmarish surroundings that encompass you, "is grievously limited. The brazen machinations of these forces have eluded my gaze until now. Had I been aware of the extent of their influence, I assure you, I would have taken a greater interest." His words carry an air of determination, a silent oath to rectify his ignorance.
He pauses for a moment, his gaze drifting across the twisted landscape before he fixes his attention back on you. "As it stands, my duty lies in informing my Master of all that I have learned," he asserts, his voice resolute. You get the sense that he was loathed to make the admission, as though he had somehow betrayed Strahd's trust in revealing the reason why he was at the Dubois' residence.
Sandu - Rahadin's eyebrow arches in a display of calculated indifference, a veil attempting to conceal his unease. His gaze shifts from Dallid to you, his voice laced with feigned nonchalance as he dismisses the significance of the statues before him. "I presume these figures hold some connection to Barovian history," Rahadin asserts. "I fail to see how they would pertain to my Master. It all sounds a little far-fetched, does it not?" Rahadin's words hold a tinge of strained conviction, but his attempt to distance himself and his Master from these looming statues is feeble at best.
However, despite his words, you catch glimpses of a deeper truth in his fleeting expressions. The mask of indifference wavers, revealing an uncharacteristic tremor in his hands, concealed beneath his sleeves. The imposing presence of the statues has spooked him, unsettling his usual composure.
Dormark - "Indeed," Rahadin agrees. "This place is cunning in its attempts to deceive. Be wary, for your eyes may betray you." A veneer of composed assurance returns to his demeanour as if he has regained control over the situation. "Escaping this accursed place would be wise," Rahadin suggests, his words laced with an air of authority. "Shall we ascend the staircase?"
DM - The Call of Strahd (CoS); Feyrealm Campaign, Chapter 0 - Bleak Prospect (BP), Chapter 1 - Destination Unknown (DU)
Dallid ascends the staircase. "I pity the man you were."
Paladin - warforged - orange
'Yes, let's'
Sandu leered warily at Rahadin from the corner of his eye. If what presented here was enough to unnerve even someone like him, then there must be some significant meaning or history behind it. He filed away the question for later: survival was their top priority right now. To that end Sandu followed Dallid up the staircase. He kept one hand in front of him ready to stave off an attack, the other he kept close to his chest clutching the silver raven pendant for comfort.
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
Time (Unknown) - Day (Unknown) - Destination (Unknown)
Madness, Unbound
With trepidation weighing heavily upon their hearts, the party ascends the winding staircase with hurried steps. Each footfall resonates like an echo from the depths of the infernal abyss as if clawing their way out of the very bowels of damnation. As they ascend, the statues below shrink into minuscule forms, dwarfed by the escalating ascent into the unknown.
Finally, they reach the apex, greeted by an elongated hallway that stretches before them like the spiral of a grotesque snail's shell. Its smooth plaster walls bear the scars of time, etched with cracks and gouges that multiply with every step taken; as though the realm itself is tearing apart. Through these macabre fissures, a sickly, oily light seeps, serving as distorted windows into the nightmarish locations they have already traversed—Strahd's battlefield, Argynvostholt's desolate throne room, the temple of haunting statues, and even Ioben's forsaken prison cell. The walls themselves are adorned with arcane runes, symbols of desperate protection against the encroaching malevolence. Shadows writhe upon every surface, like an inky tide, their amorphous forms shifting and undulating in a perverse dance. With each passing stride, the fabric of reality unravels, dissolving into an intangible haze.
After an interminable number of rotations, the hallway reveals a small, desolate chamber. Flickering candles cast feeble, flickering light, barely illuminating the space. The air hangs heavy with the stench of sweat and linseed, the stifling heat permeating from the very walls. In the centre of the room, a naked and paint-splattered man kneels in reverent supplication before the Tears of Lysaga. The other eight paintings of the Atrocity Exhibition hover around him in an eerie circle, suspended in mid-air.
As the party enters the chamber, Vauquelin completes a final brushstroke upon the triptych, his face streaked with tears of unholy ecstasy. The painting quivers, rippling with a grotesque organic life, pulsating with an unearthly power.
Sensing their presence, Vauquelin turns his head towards the intruders, his smile a rictus of elation. "Do you see it?" he exclaims through parched lips, his voice tinged with a mad fervour. "She has bestowed upon me the gift of sight!" With those words, he plunges the sharpened tip of the paintbrush into his left eye, then the right, an act of maddening devotion. Blood trickles in thin rivulets, eagerly absorbed by the paintings, staining them in sinister crimson. Empowered by this grotesque sacrifice, the canvases radiate with an aura of malevolence, their malign influence worming its way into the minds of those who gaze upon them, tempting them to join the artist in his twisted demise.
The Triumph Of Death
The world convulses in a tumultuous display of grotesque hues and visceral carnage, a maddening spectacle that threatens to unhinge the party's very sanity. The disorienting whirlpool of colours and gore churns with nauseating intensity, shaking their beings to their core. Abruptly, the frenetic motion subsides, replaced by an eerie calmness that settles upon the scene. By macabre candlelight, the party finds themselves back within the Dubois Residence, within the very heart of the exhibition hall itself. But what greets their horrified gaze is a nightmarish tableau of carnage and despair. The hall is transformed into a gruesome abattoir, strewn with the broken and lifeless bodies of multiple guests, their forms contorted in unnatural poses. The paintings that once adorned the walls now emanate an unholy luminescence, swirling with an otherworldly vitality that defies reason.
At the centre of the blood-soaked chamber stands the figure that was once Alano, then Vauquelin, now a twisted embodiment of something far more sinister. Its human facade has been discarded, its tattered skin hanging from its disfigured form, revealing the monstrous entity that lies beneath. The party recoils in horror as they realise that the mangled bodies scattered around the periphery of the exhibition hall are not merely hapless victims, but grotesque amalgamations of flesh, their limbs stitched together in a blasphemous mockery of creation. Some are repurposed as grotesque furniture, their forms grotesquely reshaped for their new purpose.
The demon painter, its form distorted and deformed, dips a massive appendage, repurposed as a brush, into a grotesque vessel resembling a creature with a hollowed-out chest, serving as a morbid paint pot. With a maniacal chuckle that chills the soul, the painter splashes the canvas with crimson pigment, eagerly crafting its new masterpiece for its dark mistress. The surroundings bear witness to the evil sorcery at play, for the canvas is adorned with a sinister tapestry of twisted magical runes, inscribed in blood. It becomes evident that the demon is in the midst of a malevolent ritual, weaving together the forces of blood and pigment to bring forth a profane creation of unimaginable horror. In this unholy chamber, the boundary between art and sacrilege blurs, and the party finds themselves trapped within the fiendish masterpiece of a maleficent artist, witnessing the culmination of a ritual that heralds unspeakable darkness.
All - Rahadin stands at your side, scimitars gleaming in his hands, his resolve mirroring your own. A grim determination etches lines upon his face as he casts disdainful glances at the abominations that surround you. With a sneer aimed at Dallid, he scoffs, his voice laden with bitter sarcasm, "What is my cruelty in relation to this?" Without hesitation, he brings down his blades upon a twisted, contorted creature that serves as a grotesque mockery of a desk, cleaving through its abhorrent form with a swift and deadly strike.
All - Please roll initiative.
DM - The Call of Strahd (CoS); Feyrealm Campaign, Chapter 0 - Bleak Prospect (BP), Chapter 1 - Destination Unknown (DU)
Aw. Rahadin does care.
Dallid initiative 9
Paladin - warforged - orange
Galqarin's initiative: 8
That's... certainly an image painted with words.
Will appropriately react after initiative is rolled
Initiative roll: 18 (campaign log)
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