In frustration, Torgan stumps back down the cellar stairs. He has received no support from his new employers, who have gone to bed. With resolve, the brewer of drags Duster’s sleeping things into the front room of the cellar, ordering Duster to sleep in the other part of the cellar as he pulls the bed through the door.
Instead, Torgan returns to find the kenku reclining upon his own bed. Enraged, the brewer finds he cannot physically remove the dratted bird. Torgan takes a breath and uses his wiles, tricking Duster into leaving the room to collect his gear. While Duster is gone, Torgan locks him out. The back room of the cellar is now Torgan’s alone.
In the morning, as Sorvia brings down breakfast the next day, Duster shares bitter complaints about the dwarf, filling the musty space with his choppy words. Torgan unlocks his side of the cellar door to greet her with his own objections about Duster. The Vistana shrugs, “You two must work it out. You are hired both to brew ale and to teach the kenku your art, Torgan.”
Furious, Torgan grabs half of the food from the tray and locks himself into the back room.
He spends the morning furiously cleaning brewing equipment and checking the soaking grains. Midmorning, Torgan drops a part to one of the airlocks. It rolls beneath the locked office door. Frustrated, Torgan climbs the steps, returning with the exasperated Sorvia. The Vistana uses her key to open the door, returning the lost part to the brewer. As she climbs the stairs, Sorvia mutters under her breath, “What a butterfingers!” Duster is pleased to add this new word to his vocabulary.
Torgan fails to notice that, in her annoyance, Sorvia has neglected to re-lock the office door.
⚔
Krelldutt and his group pass over the River Ivlis, entering the outer reaches of the Village of Barovia. Udo and the two knights head on to the Slaughtered Lamb Inn to arrange for some rooms and to rest. Before parting, they agree to meet at the tavern for an evening meal and to make plans. Friedrich the dog wags his tail and looks mournfully up one of the side lanes. Krelldutt tells him to go on, but to return to the tavern later. The dog disappears into the mist.
The tortle and Blinsky pass Bildwrath’s Mercantile. On the door, in a childish scrawl, a note is stuck in the door: “Closed for Illness.” Krelldutt can see but a single light in a window on the second floor. He passes the only other house on the street that shows signs of life. On the wide, sagging porch, a red-eyed woman is sweeping in a halfhearted manner. She was crying last time Krelldutt was here, long again, and appears to be weeping again.
The pair continue past, on to the Burgomaster’s house at the end of the street.
Krelldutt climbs the steps to the Ismark's house, dreading that he must share with the Burgomaster a tale of an unsuccessful quest and a potential tragedy involving his stepsister, Ireena. Krelldutt notices that the house seems to have deteriorated even further than the last time he was here. He notes that the front door, scarred with what look like fresh claw marks, is only propped against the jamb, allowing entrance to anyone who wishes to access the house.
Krelldutt knocks and calls out for Ismark, but receives no answer. He walks around the outside of the house, but it appears to be abandoned. As he completes the circuit around the building back to the front porch stairs, he spies Blinksy. The toymaker has tied the reins of their horses to the rickety picket fence. His monkey, Piccolo, is entertaining two boys. The taller one holds a length of rope that is attached to the neck of Friedrich the dog.
The boy looks up as Krelldutt approaches, “Hey, Mister! Is this your animal?”
Krelldutt nods, taking the rope. The older boy explains, “He was growling in our yard. My step-father says he will kill him if the dog returns.”
Friedrich, whimpering, hides behind Krelldutt’s sturdy legs. The boys begin to walk away, and the tortle thinks to ask, “What happened to the man who lived in this house?”
The boy frowns, “The Ismark the Lesser is no longer here. He moved to the castle.” The boy gestures vaguely in the direction of Ravenloft, which looms ominously over the town. “The new Burgomaster, Mr Bildwrath, is at the Mercantile, if you need him. But he is ill today.” The boys vanish into the fog and Blinsky, Krelldutt and Friedrich go on to the Blood on the Vine Tavern.
Blinsky slips his damp cloak onto a hook by the door as they enter. As he spots Duster, his face creases into a grin. The toymaker crosses the creaking floor to sit down at Duster’s table. His monkey, Piccolo, chitters in alarm at rogue, vanishing upward into the roof timbers.
Krelldutt, ignoring Duster’s entreaties to join him, takes a seat by himself. Likewise, Torgen, at the bar, ignores Duster’s invitation. Friedrich is brought a plate of scraps by the Vistana woman, Alenka, who also gifts the ranger with a small cup of wine.
Eventually, the kenku saunters over to Krelldutt’s table.
As Duster stands over him, Krelldutt frowns, asking the kenku about some pointed questions. “What do you want, Duster?” the tortle sighs in thinly disguised exasperation.
”Friends!” croaks the kenku, bobbing his head. He spreads his wings in what is likely meant to be a welcoming gesture but instead only seems ominous.
Krelldutt spins on his chair, staring hard at the rogue and demands, “Then why did you try to have me arrested back in Vallaki, Duster?” The kenku feigns shock and outrage at the accusation. Krelldutt continues, demanding to know Duster’s motives, particularly why he betrayed Deprimer.
Duster drops any attempt to feign innocence, and instead begins to explain: “For money. For power.”
“You know he’s dead, don’t you? You’re ultimately responsible for Deprimer’s death. I have nothing else to say to you, Duster.” Krelldutt returns to his untouched wine, ignoring the kenku at his elbow.
Torgan approaches, having heard all of this conversation. He introduces himself to Krelldutt, explaining that he has been tasked with teaching Duster the art of brewing. He is glad to have been warned about Duster's trustworthiness, and now is aware of the kenku’s ability to mimic voices and use disguises.
Duster is left standing at the table, as if he weren’t there while the two bond over their mutual dislike of the disheveled kenku.
⚔
Neferon is summoned by a screech from behind the door where the lich is said to be resting. The aracnaloth bows, excusing himself, and leaves the connecting doors open.
Left alone in Great Library, Rakthe, Komzin and Bayleaf, the group stands, awed by the vast number of books, scrolls and other artifacts slowly moving by on the ascending shelves. Bayleaf’s head snaps around toward the stairwell. “Did. You hear that? No, not the lich. Another voice.”
Neither Rakthe nor Komzin have the same keen hearing as the elf. Bayleaf, leaning over the railing to peer down into the darkness, reports, “Very faintly, it sounded like someone…a man?…screaming, ‘Why have you forsaken me?”
Before they can decide what comes next, they all are able to hear quite clearly the complaints of the lich, Exethanter. From somewhere in nearby rooms, a creaky, cranky voice is scolding Neferon. “And you have left them alone! In the library! After the scroll…a very powerful scroll, I might add…disappeared when you left the last visitor left unsupervised in the Great Library! How will we ever replace the Conjure Inferno scroll? Have you no sense of responsibility? Go, you fool! Watch them!”
Returning, a chastened Neferon stands before them, long hands with their extra digits crossed at his waist. He observes the group, unblinking. They receive the arcanaloth’s attention uncomfortably.
”We could have a staring contest,” grumbles Rakthe, louder than they anticipated. Sound travels strangely in the Great Library, and Rakthe, alarmed, looks at Neferon, who is exuberant.
”Oh, I would LOVE a staring competition! Yes, Please. I have not had one in such a long time, because it is no fun to play against the librarians any longer. Exethanter cannot blink therefore cannot lose, and the other librarians…well, let’s just say they are no longer interested in games.”
The arcanaloth strides uncomfortably close to Rakthe, his backward jointed legs lowered until his foxy face is level with Rakthe’s draconic one.
“Alright,” Neferon, “On three…one, two, three!”
Rakthe, opens their eyes widely and stared into the strange eyes of their opponent. Nefereon’s eyes are catlike, with vertically slitted pupils set into golden irises. There are fleck of deepest red, the color of wine, that speckle them. Rakthe, stares into them, trying not to blink.
After what seems like a very long time, Neferon pulls away from Rakthe, scrubbing at his face with his balled fists. “Oh, well done, Master Rakthe! Well done! I yield!”
The conversation is cut short by the slamming of a door behind them. The lich, making his way stiffly into the Great Library, clears his throat, getting the attention of everyone in the space.
Neferon drops Rakthe’s hand from its congratulatory shake and steps away quickly. The arcanaloth also drops his eyes, taking on a sober demeanor.
The others regard the lich, Exethanter, for the first time. The lich is small, almost tiny, and wears tattered ebony wizard’s robes that might once had a badge of office upon the chest. He move like an ancient creature, stiff and cautious about where his next step is placed, lest he fall.
“I will get no rest with the noise you make. And so I rouse myself to greet you. I am Exethanter, Head Keeper of the Great Library, repository of all arcane knowledge of the Multiverse.”
Names are given, echoing in the vast space. The lich nods with the receipt of each, his candle flame eyes smolder in the deep set sockets in his skull-like face.
Exethanter demands to know what they are doing in the Great Library, arriving by teleportation, no less. Exethanter’s eyes are pinpricks of orange light.
Komzin responds, “We are here to retrieve a ritual scroll, The Ritual of Permanent Banishment.”
The points of light in Exethanter’s sockets expand to full blown flame, and begin to whirl. “Who has tasked you to obtain such a powerful relic?” he demands, coldly.
Hesitating for only a fraction of a moment, Komzin decides against sharing this information. Instead, he intones with false confidence, "A very important person, one who wishes to remain anonymous" He is hesitant to reveal that it is Count Strahd, his master…former master?… is the one who sent them. And much relies upon their success.
Indignant, Exethanter screeches, “It wouldn’t be the Lord of Ravenloft, would it?”
”Of course not,” stutters Komzin, but it is clear from the Exethanter’s demeanor that there is some skepticism about his denial.
The lich begins to speak: “Let me tell you of the history of this ritual and the Great Library that houses it.”
The comrades grow still as Exethanter begins, his voice a rusty growl and pupils tiny pinwheels of flame. “Long before Strahd conquered the valley of Barovia, the Amber Temple stood as a repository of…and a monument to… all arcane knowledge. I, the head librarian, worked along with my fellow librarians to extend and keep this knowledge secure.
“But in other places in the Multiverse, the Greater Gods sought ascendancy. Many of the Elder Gods simply faded away, allowing the Greater Gods to exert their influence. But some of the Elder Gods, the corrupt, the dissolute, the power hungry, waged war against the Great Gods. When it was over, the Elder Gods were vanquished. But being gods, these older deities could not die.
“They could, however, be imprisoned. It was decided that the Amber Temple — remote, secure, filled with every known piece of abjuration magic — would house them.” The lich looks into the middle distance, his already ragged voice cracking.
“I became a warden as well as a librarian.” Exethanter’s eyes find the comrades, his eyes pinpricks of embers, no longer awhirl. “Shards— the essence of these Elder Gods— were embedded in amber and warehoused in vaults here at the Amber Temple. Their inherent evil, was concentrated in the stone and shut away for all eternity.
“Or so the Greater Gods thought.
“Over time, the essence of evil from these incarcerated Lesser Gods seeped from the prison blocks and pervaded the living spaces of the Amber Temple. Any who passed time here were affected. My fellow librarians, residents of the Amber Temple, were—changed— by this penetrating evil. Gradually, they forgot their responsibilities, forgot their names, forgot their very nature. I also began to change, but before I lost myself, I commissioned my assistant, Neferon, to help me as I performed my own ritual, becoming the creature you see before you. Only Neferon and myself were left to guard the prisoners. And we did so…until.”
”You became a lich?” whispers Bayleaf.
The skull creakily swivels to regard the elf. “Yes, to protect myself from the effects of the shards.” Exethanter hisses. “Later, with the coming of Strahd to this land, the Amber Temple remained aloof, untouched, above the armies.”
Neferon continues, picking up the tale. “Until Count Strahd came to the Amber Temple, demanding a corrective to aging and a potion to enamor the woman he desired. Exethanter declined to help him locate these items in the Library’s holdings. So Strahd went to the vaults and bound himself to Vampyr, the shard of the Elder God that he released. The two vanished from the Amber Temple. Each got what they wished: Vampyr received liberty, of a sort. And Count Strahd received endless life, but at a terrible cost.”
”Strahd exists eternally while Vampyr is bound to him,” whispers Exethanter.
“Strahd sealed his pact to Vampyr with his first victim. On the day he was to wed, his brother, Sergei, was murdered by Strahd himself. Sergei’s bride chose self-slaughter rather than bind herself to the vampire who killed her love. But before she could end her own life, the Greater Gods,” Neferon finishes, “sealed the Land of Barovia as a demiplane, separate and excluded from the Multiverse. Strahd and Vampyr were trapped, along with the souls of Tatiana and Sergei. And the souls of eve. ryone else in Barovia.”
No one moves. Every eye is on the lich and his assistant.
“The ritual you seek, to banish Vampyr permanently from this plane, must be performed to prevent Strahd from resurrecting himself, should you be able to kill him. But be warned, until this Elder God is killed, Strahd remains eternal.”
Bayleaf gasps, “So in order to kill Strahd, we must kill a god?”
Exethanter nods, “Not kill. Impossible to kill. You must banish Vampyr before Strahd can be vanquished.”
In shock, the comrades consider this in silence.
