Games Logs

Morning in Berez arrives dim and damp, and it brings headaches. In Baba Lysaga's goat shed, Komzin and Vincent Yeager wake from a sleep that was not entirely their idea. Their heads are thick and throbbing. Their packs are gone. So are their weapons, and worst of all, so is Vincent's orb. Without it, whatever power he commands stays locked inside him.

Vincent arrives in the swamps of Berez the way most guests of hags do: dragged face-first through brambles and mud, lighter by one spellcasting focus and a good deal of skin. He is fairly sure the focus was a crystal orb. He is less sure of almost everything else, including how he came to be in Barovia at all. His last clear memory, before a night of too much wine with some travelers' camp, is a tavern in Waterdeep. Again, too much drink, and a strange man offering him passag

The fight continues in the subterranean room beneath the ruins of the Burgomaster of Berez's home. In front of the demonic shrine, the enormous, rubbery bulk of the moralith turns, its eye pits fixing on Shifty. The thing begins to speak without a mouth, straight into the kobold's mind. It offers strange gifts of insects and worse. Shifty refuses the offering. The moralith does not take refusal well. Its tentacle lashes out, gripping Shifty like a thick, tightening wet rope.

In the cellar, Soulfire hisses, “What ARE they doing up there?” The hammering on the organ far above them has resumed. Crystal merely shakes her head. Suddenly, there is an enormous crash from somewhere ahead of them. It is so large, so powerful, that the ground beneath their feet shakes and dust trickles down from overhead.

In the thin, cold light of morning, Vistani and guests mill around the remains of last night’s wine-soaked celebration of Viktor’s life and mourning of his passing. Even the fire seems wan and sickly. A pale Berlioz approaches Dag as the group packs up to head back. “One of your number left in the night. The small one — a gnome? We warned him to wait, but he left going west. I suppose he is able to see at night. May the gods watch over him!” Dag nods, and turns to go, but t

The last of the wolves goes down in a wash of fire, Crystal and Abi's spells silencing the pack's howls. Smoke curls off scorched fur and drifts low across the frost-stiffened grass near the windmill, and for a moment nobody speaks — just the tick of embers cooling and the distant creak of the mill's broken sails turning in the wind. They take stock. Packs are checked, blades wiped clean, potions counted against what's left of the road ahead. They set out on a curiously un

The city wakes before dawn. Word moves through Vallaki the way bad news always does — in whispers first, then in the clatter of boots on cobblestone, then in torchlight multiplying along the walls. Komzin finds Dunlar in the building that used to be Krieger's, a table spread with rough maps and a candle burning low. Dunlar doesn't look up when he enters. "I heard you were back," he says. "I also heard other things. We'll discuss them when this is over." Komzin pulls ou

On the floor of the Great Hall, Biblo is confronted by the arcanaloth, Neferon. “Exethanter, the lich, wants to see me?” The dragonborn gulps and regards the creature who stands before him. Some sort of infernal, Biblo guesses, looks jackal-like. With tawny fur, a bushy tail and a foxy face, Neferon’s odd, coppery eyes have horizontal slits for pupils. They are jagged, like a lightning bolt. He regards Biblo with an inscrutable expression. ”What does the lich want of me?”