03/25/2026: I Have Been Waiting For You (A Curse of Strahd campaign log)

The Amber Temple settles into quiet. The flame skull that had been harassing Rakthe withdraws, vanishing into the darkness, and the oppressive silence of the temple reasserts itself. Vilnius is dead. His mummified remains lie near the entrance to the chamber — skin tight and leathery over the bones beneath, pocked and discolored from whatever illness had been eating him long before his final moments. He crumbles wherever he is touched, fragments of him dropping to the marble floor and crumbling to dust.

Lying near the body, catching the pale light that filters through the hall's narrow window, is the amulet Vilnius had tried to press upon the party before his death. No one had wanted it then. It glitters now, unclaimed, in the cold stillness.

Bayleaf receives the prickle of a warning from his Divine Sense. The amulet registers immediately — a profound, unambiguous reading of fiend. Not merely tainted. Not simply cursed. The thing radiates demonic corruption with a clarity that leaves no room for interpretation. He picks it up on the flat of his sword blade and carries it to the balcony's edge, then tips it over. It clatters down thirty feet to the black marble floor below, skitters into shadow, and lies still. Through his darkvision he watches it settle. 

Behind him, from the hole in the marble floor, something pulses.

The hole drops roughly thirty feet to another level of the temple — far enough to see the floor below, not far enough to see much else. Komzin ties a length of rope to a stone outcropping at the balcony's edge and descends first. He slips partway down and falls the last stretch, taking the impact hard on the floor below. He rolls to his knees.

A woman reclines on a stone shelf across the room. She is tall and long-limbed, dressed in a wine-dark gown so old it has begun to fray at its edges. Her hair is the color of old bone, pulled back severely from a face covered by diseased skin, the seared flesh cracked, mottled, oozing. She wears a diadem of black metal that curls into points along her hairline, the prongs pressing into her skin in a way that looks deliberate and painful. What might be dried blood marks where the tines of the diadem press into her flesh. Her face is turned toward Komzin. Her eyes are closed. They do not open.

“I have been waiting for you,” she says, voice carrying easily through the dark. “I am so glad you have found me. You have friends. Invite them down… or don’t, as you wish.”

Bayleaf misty-steps to the lower level. The descent puts him within sixty feet of where the amulet landed, and his Divine Sense catches it again — the same demonic signature, singing up from the dark floor. He notes where it is and draws his longsword. Without further deliberation, he closes the distance to the woman and attacks.

The blade connects. She does not flinch — her eyes snap open instead, and they are solid black, no iris, no white, no depth. She is angry. Her gaze finds Bayleaf and locks onto him, and he feels the weight of it pressing against his will. He pushes back and holds.

She turns her attention to Rakthe, who has descended to join the group. Her voice drops below what the others can make out — meant only for Rakthe's ears.

“I can cure whatever is ailing you, friend. In exchange for… a ride.”

Rakthe agrees. The woman’s form appears to vanish from the shelf. From that moment, a great deal of the unwell feeling that has been building in Rakthe since her encounter with Vilnius simply stops. The feverish feeling lifts. She feels, for the first time in hours, clear-headed.

Fekre—the goddess, for that is what she is, or was—is gone from the shelf. The space she occupied is empty. On the far wall, a large block of amber sits on a ledge, its center hollowed out. The gap is fresh. Nearby, a set of tools that look almost new are stacked against the wall, the kind used for stone and masonry. Someone broke her out. The amber block chips easily when Bayleaf takes to it with the tools and comes away warm in his hand, faintly resinous, smelling of pine sap. He wraps a forearm-length piece in leather and stows it in his pack.

Komzin and Bayleaf emerge from the lower level to find the temple quiet. Rakthe is ravenous—hungry in a way that goes past discomfort into something closer to urgency. The three of them leave the amber chamber behind. 

⚔

Morning comes cold and grey to Vallaki. Duster, disguised as a small merchant and moving on nerve rather than health, slips through the city’s streets ahead of the guards who are actively looking for him. The disguise is imperfect—he is very short, a kenku passing for human, which only holds up when no one is paying attention. Today, no one is. He reaches the Sunset Gate and is waved through without incident by guards who have never seen his face.

⚔

Torgan spends the night on a pew at St. Andral’s church. Father Lucian, accustomed by now to strays appearing at the door in the dark, passes him a thin blanket and a place to sleep without comment. He prays for Torgan in the old way, but the dwarf hears the name ‘Lathander’ echo through the church as the old man chants. Torgan says nothing. 

In the night, another figure comes in from the cold—small, wrapped up, keeping to the far side of the church. Torgan wakes briefly, clocks the newcomer as a stranger, turns over, and sleeps again. Duster, for his part, keeps his distance and keeps his face covered.

At first light, Father Lucian opens the doors and gestures his overnight guests back into the world. Torgan makes his way to the Sunset Gate. Sauriv is already there with Blinski and his monkey, and Feesh. Udo sends word that his mother is unwell and he cannot join them. Torgan arrives at the gate and falls into negotiation with Sauriv—five gold up front, one week, terms to be renegotiated after. It is, as arrangements go, reasonable. Torgan accepts.

They ride out. Duster has left ahead of them on foot, keeping to the tree line on the western road. He passes where the body of Thuurk lies, picked over by carrion birds just off the road. He recognizes the shape of him. Duster has already looted the bugbear’s body when Thuurk fell. There is nothing left worth stopping for. He walks on.

On foot, he comes to a rotted road sign fallen over in the grass. The faded lettering reads BEREZ. A moment later, the nickering of a horse. He turns. Coming up from the southern road at a slow walk is a skeleton astride a skeleton horse. The riders in the distance pass him on the road without slowing. Sauriv’s group does not register him—just a small merchant talking to himself by the side of the road. They ride on.

⚔

The ride to the Wizards of Wine vineyard is six hours on roads that run through thinning forest and scrub. The road delivers them to the winery with still much daylight left and ahead of any significant trouble. But as they turn down the road into the vineyard, a familiar voice calls from cover.

It is Urwin Martikov, and he is frightened. He gestures sharply: “Off the road, now, quiet!” 

From the height of the saddle, the party can see why. Eight needle blights move through the vineyard rows, scratching through the dirt, thorned limbs raking the soil. One kicks up something metallic—a ring, or a disc—and moves past without interest. Sauriv and Feesh hold their horses still, keeping the animals calm; the blights circle and eventually move back into the vines.

When the blights are gone, Torgan crosses to where the metal caught the light and digs it out of the dirt. It is a diadem or crown—a thin platinum band set with a large stone. He turns it over. It is warm in his hand despite the cold, damp soil it has lain in. He senses arcane power, confirmed by the heat of the object in his hand: it is magical. He puts it on.

The effect is immediate. Things that had been unclear in his mind slot into place. Connections he had been reaching for resolve into something ridiculously obvious. With a start, he realizes that he found a Headband of Intellect. He is, without question, the smartest barbarian in all of Barovia, maybe the smartest barbarian anywhere. Grinning, he pulls his hood up to hide his treasure and rejoins the group.

Urwin Martikov clasps Krelldutt’s hand and draws him aside. His family is camped beneath tarps near the wagon—his father Davian, his brothers Adrian and Elvir, his brother-in-law Dag and sister Stefania, their children sleeping in the shelter of a cart. The Martikovs are damp and tired, having been displaced from their home now for several weeks. The vineyard has been overrun by blights, he explains. The wine has stopped coming to Vallaki because there is no wine to send.

He offers what hospitality he can: venison, and — remarkably — wine. He would be grateful for help with the blights, though he understands if Sauriv has other pressing obligations. Before they settle in, Urwin draws Sauriv close and drops his voice. The Order of the Feather. He asks that it remain unspoken around the others who have come with them. Sauriv confirms the secret is one he will keep. Urwin relaxes slightly. His father,  Davian, he says, would be willing to speak with Sauriv when the time is right.

The group leaves it there, bedding down with the Martikovs. 

Somewhere back along the road, Duster stands looking south, watching the skeleton rider approach from the direction of Berez.

⚔

Bayleaf and Komzin move past the amber golem, which ignores them. The token carried by Komzin does indeed allow them protection from the Amber Temple’s guardians. As they approach the blazing Rakthe, the flameskull veers away and down the stairs. A second, appearing from an alcove behind them, darts into a hole in the floor. 

Bayleaf pokes at the remains of Vilnius, flinging the amulet over the balustrade with the blade of his sword. The amulet radiates evil and Bayleaf cannot bear to have it close. As the clattering echo dissipates,  Bayleaf detects a querulous female voice. He hears a very faint complaining command, “Begone!” 

The flameskull emerges rapidly from the hole and flees down the hall past the amber golem. Bayleaf strides over to peer into the hole, becoming progressively more aware of the presence of a fiend someplace beneath his feet. He is joined by Komzin, who secures a rope to the wall and drops the length into the hole.

Komzin begins to rappel into the darkness, but his hands slip. He tumbles into the darkness, landing heavily on the marble floor.

A rich contralto voice purrs at the dazed knight. A very tall and slender woman reclines against a shelf. She is clad in a tattered, wine-colored gown. A black metal diadem digs into the skin of her forehead and temples, pulling her pale hair back. The woman’s eyes are closed, but her face is turned to Komzin.

“I am Fekre. I have been waiting for you.”

Pushing himself up on his elbows, Komzin stammers, “I am…”

”I know who you are, Komzin!” The woman, eyes still closed, snaps at him. “You are here with your comrades. Command them to join us!”

Bayleaf Misty Steps into the space, drawing his sword and swinging to Divine Smite the goddess. The sword bites, not as deep as Bayleaf would like, and the goddess snarls in pain. Her eyes fly open, revealing twin pools of the deepest blackness that pin Bayleaf in their focus.

”I…,” begins Komzin, but his mind becomes flooded by the woman’s voice. Thirty feet above, Rakthe and Bayleaf have a similar experience. The voice, honey over glass, invites each to be the one to take Fekre into themself. Promises of vengeance, power and health flood the minds of each of the three.

One acquiesces.

In a blink, the goddess vanishes from her shelf. One moment she is there, and the next–gone.

A feeling of deep well-being and strength, as well as something else, surges through Rakthe. It is subtle, and only somewhat on the brink, just within their control. But they know it can easily cross over into…something else. 

But for now, the feverish sensation, the itching on their hands where Vilnius had touched them, is receding.

The barbarian turns to smile broadly at both Bayleaf and Komzin, who is rising unsteadily to his feet. The shelf is empty, and the comrades regard one another, faces expressionless and unreadable as they stare at Rakthe.

I Have Been Waiting For You (A Curse of Strahd campaign log)