05/26/2026: Back to the Vineyard

The smoldering ruins of the tree-blight are still sending thin threads of smoke into the grey Barovian sky as the party descends Yester Hill. The ground is soft underfoot, churned by the night's violence, and the air smells of char and wet earth. Somewhere on the slope, Biblo whistles to himself.

Nike spots them first — hoof prints pressed into the mud at the path's edge, the ground around each one singed dark. Four-legged, large, and burning. Crystal's eyes narrow. She knows exactly what this is, even if she can't quite explain how. A nightmare: a horse made of fire and shadow, its mane a living flame, its hooves scorching whatever they touch. Not the kind of creature that wanders loose.

Strahd's second-in-command, Rahadin, rides one. Crystal knows this too. She keeps the thought to herself.

The group walks a little faster.

The vineyard comes into view through the mist — low stone walls, a sprawling building that smells of fermented grapes and wood smoke, the faint sound of children somewhere inside. Dag Tomasescu steps out onto the porch to meet them, his face breaking into a broad smile.

"Greetings, friends. You are back." He takes them in with the practiced warmth of a man who considers hospitality a calling. "Very good to see a few of you again, and so nice to meet the rest of you. Do you need a meal and a place to stay?"

The Martikov family patriarch rises to his feet with the careful deliberateness of someone who has earned the right to move slowly, and raises his cup to toast his guests.

"I am Davian Martikov. I would like to thank you for joining us — and for your struggles against…" he glances at Crystal and Zilk, the veterans of earlier visits, "…you know." He straightens. "Here is to fighting the good fight. To you, heroes."

"To heroes," the group murmurs, and they drink. The portions poured for the family are modest, careful sips from small cups. The party's portions are considerably more generous and imbibed much more quickly. The wine is very good.

Dag holds a wooden cup out to Shifty. "How old are you, my friend?"

"Eleven," Shifty says, honestly. Young, even for a kobold.

Dag withdraws the wine immediately and sends one of the children to the barn for fresh milk. Biblo, who has received his own glass without difficulty, watches this exchange with the expression of someone having a very good idea. He passes his goblet to Shifty. Biblo must ask for another.

Shifty's constitution, as it turns out, is not designed for this.

The first fall from the porch is an embarrassment, and Crystal evades the intoxicated cleric's new Fangs of Venom. Shifty's second tumble, face-down in the mud, is more painful. Dag climbs down to help Shifty, who bites at Dag's hand — and misses, but manages to gulp down a large insect, making him feel nauseous.

"Why does your friend bite? Is he hungry? My hand is not a sandwich!" Dag exclaims, outraged.

Nike, covertly, casts Minor Illusion on Dag's hand to make it look like a sandwich. Amazed, he holds it up and shows the children, who ask to have a taste. To distract them from biting their father's hand, Crystal twins her own Minor Illusion spell and the effect appears on the children as well. They seize one another's arms, ready to take a large bite.

Startled, Crystal dismisses the spell, preventing the children from biting their own hands. They are devastated. Dag does a double take at his own hand, which flickers from sandwich back to his meaty fist. He pushes his wine goblet away. "I believe I have had quite enough wine for this evening." He looks at his hand for a long moment as if he is no longer entirely sure what it is.

Davian Martikov, who has seen a great deal of this country's particular brand of bad news, would like to know their plans. They are heading to Kresk, Crystal tells him — they carry a Resurrection scroll, and they need the Abbot. She does not mention the other reason they are heading there: Ratrick has decided to stay in Kresk with Ilya to keep him safe. The ratling says nothing further, but the weight of Neferon's warning — the empty coffin, the ring now on Ilya's finger — sits plainly on his face. The group understands. Davian nods, and offers a wagon and horses to speed them there. Someone from the vineyard will ride up to collect it in a day or two.

The body of Lord Wachter has been with the Abbot for nearly seven days now. They have time — but not much of it.

⚔

The Martikovs retire for the night after offering various spaces for their guests to bed down. Ratrick pulls Ilya into the vineyard's office, one of the few rooms with a locking door. The others scatter: Zilk and Shifty take the porch. Crystal, Biblo, and Nike bed down in the barn, where a pair of horses and the Martikov cow stand placidly while the adventurers spread their bedrolls in the sweet straw.

Stefania Martikov brings oat cakes and tea in the evening — honey and raisins, still warm from the oven. She leaves them quietly and goes back inside.

⚔

In the night, the animals wake them. Nike calms one of the horses, but Crystal is kicked severely by the other. The cow kicks open her stall, noses the barn door wide, and lumbers out into the rain. Biblo follows to bring her back.

He is not prepared for what is waiting in the yard.

The tall dark man sits atop a horse that is not really a horse — or rather, it is a horse the way that a burning building is still technically a structure. Flames lick along its mane and neck. Its hooves leave blackened craters in the mud. It stands absolutely still, which is somehow more threatening than if it had been moving.

The man on its back watches Biblo emerge from the barn with piercing black eyes. His face is still, unmoving, but the barbarian understands that he is being watched. Closely.

"Ah," the man says. "Mr. Biblo, is it? I need you to deliver a message to your companions. It is from my employer."

Biblo takes in the nightmare. The rider. The flaming hoofprints leading up the path from the vineyard road. "You're employed by Strahd, aren't you?"

"That is very observant of you," Rahadin says. "Yes. My employer is Count von Zarovich."

Biblo squares up. "And why should I listen to you?"

"Because if you don't," Rahadin says pleasantly, "I will have to kill you. Would you like me to kill you? I can."

"What is the message?" demands Biblo.

"Count Strahd is displeased in the extreme that you and your companions have rendered not one but two tree blights — inoperable."

"The tree monster?" Biblo is incredulous.

"Correct. Know that the druids are quite skilled at creating such a creature. A third will be sent to Vallaki. By this time next week, the city will cease to exist."

By now, Nike has come out of the barn. Crystal has also emerged.

Rahadin regards Nike with something that might generously be called fondness, though it is the fondness one might reserve for a tasty meal. "Nike, is it not? I am Rahadin. Steward to Castle Ravenloft. I have been sent by Count Strahd, whom you know." A pause. "He has fond memories of you, my dear." Another pause, shorter. "He would like his item back. What you took from his pocket. He would like it returned."

Nike's expression does not change, but she begins to sweat. "What item?"

"You know what item."

She does. She plunges a hand into her pocket and produces an amulet. She holds it out. As Rahadin reaches for it, she yanks it back, throws it on the ground, and stamps on it with her boot.

Rahadin moves to retrieve it. Nike crits her dexterity check and keeps it under her foot. The amulet bends.

Crystal steps forward and casts Immolation.

In moments, the amulet becomes a puddle of molten metal. Rahadin watches this happen without comment or expression.

He takes a water skin from his saddle, pours it over the cooling metal, scoops the hardened lump into a leather pouch, and tucks it away. Eyes flashing, he looks at Crystal. He looks at Nike. He looks, briefly, at Biblo.

"I will let the master know what your message is." A beat. "And — oh, by the way. By this time next week, the city of Vallaki will cease to exist."

He climbs back onto Bucephalus. The nightmare turns and they gallop off into the dark.

Nike watches it go with complicated feelings.

Zilk, from the porch, has heard enough to understand that Rahadin has come and gone, and that Vallaki — and the third tree-blight already under construction atop Yester Hill — has a deadline now.

But Kresk is close. The wagon is waiting. And the third tree-blight still needs builders and time.

The party looks at each other in the rain, all but Shifty, who is tucked into a corner of the porch and profoundly unwell, sleeping the sleep of someone who will make better decisions tomorrow.

Outside, somewhere down the road, the hoofbeats of a burning horse fade into the dark.