05/28/2025: Plans in Vallaki and Ireena Returns (Wednesday Strahd Game Log)

Strahd Game Log

The afternoon shadows stretches long across Vallaki’s cobblestone streets as Krieger makes his way through the merchant quarter back to the Burgomaster’s mansion commandeered by the Goth faction, his tread heavy with purpose. He finds Conwan throwing knives with deadly accuracy into the wooden mantle of the mansion’s parlor.  Krieger shuts the door behind himself, their conversation is best done in privacy.

“You remember how it was before,” Krieger began without preamble, settling into the chair across from Conwan. His voice carried the weight of nostalgia mixed with calculated persuasion. “Vallaki had order then. Barovian order. Our people made the decisions for our city, and the wealth flowed to the correct Barovian hands. And no...messages...from the Vampire Lord.” Kreiger hisses this last statement as if it is physically distasteful to him.

He leaned forward, his eyes intense. “Now we have an eladrin elf—an eladrin elf, Conwan—making proclamations about our governance. And beside him stands a dwarf, neither of them understanding the first thing about what makes this city truly work. They are outsiders!” Krieger’s fingers drummed against the arm of the chair. “They’re not just foreigners; they’re usurpers who’ve never shed blood for Vallaki’s soil or spent sleepless nights wondering how to keep our people fed through harsh winters.”

Kreiger grimaces, before continuing, “What would it take to eliminate our…problem? You would be well paid….”.

“Vallaki already owes me 500 GP,” observes Conwan, mildly.

Krieger narrows his eye, “We can do better. The dry goods merchant agrees with me and is promising gold. As does the grain trader—you know him, honest Barovian stock for three generations. The cloth weaver’s family has served this community since before either of us was born, and even the wool merchant, despite his usual caution in political matters, sees the wisdom in returning Vallaki to Barovian hands.”

Conwan’s eyes lock onto Krieger’s face, but he remains silent.

“And that’s not all,” Krieger continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “The coffin maker’s unfortunate end left behind more than just questions about his loyalty. His workshop held… significant resources, if one. knew where to look. Resources that could fund a proper restoration of order.”

Krieger’s next words came slowly, deliberately: “Five hundred and fifty gold pieces, Conwan. More than most men see in five years of honest work. Enough to set you up comfortably for life, perhaps even enough to leave Vallaki entirely if you choose.” He paused, letting the implications settle. “All for ensuring that Deprimer… finds himself unable to continue his misguided leadership. And naturally, his lieutenant Dunlar would need to meet a similar fate—can’t have loose ends creating problems later.”

Conwan’s weathered hands remained motionless on the table, but Krieger could see the calculations running behind his eyes. The weight of gold against the weight of conscience, the promise of comfort against the risk of consequences.

“I don’t need an answer now,” Krieger said finally, rising from his chair with the casual confidence of a man who had made such offers before. “But don’t take too long, my friend. Opportunities like this have a way of… expiring. And Vallaki’s problems won’t solve themselves.”

He pauses, meaty hand on the door: “It goes without saying that this business stays between us.” He waits for Conwan to nod back at him.

With that, he leaves the Burgomaster’s mansion, Deprimer’s voice echoing behind the study door, leaving Conwan alone with his thoughts and the tangible weight of temptation.

⚔

Meanwhile, in the office of the old Burgomaster, seated in the dead man's leather chair, Deprimer squints down at the annotated census documents Dunlar has spread before him across the vast desk. The dwarf’s methodical nature had served him well in this undertaking, though the results painted a troubling picture of the city’s true state.

“The people are forthcoming about their family members,” Dunlar reports, his finger tracing down columns of names and relationships. “They speak openly of their children, their elderly relatives, their connections to one another. That part of the census proceeded without significant difficulty.”

Deprimer nods, scanning the neat rows of information. The eladrin’s keen eyes catches subtle patterns that speak of a community still functioning despite recent upheavals.

“However,” Dunlar continued, his tone growing more serious, “there are… discrepancies. The merchant families, the larger household owners—they paint themselves as destitute. The grain trader claims his warehouses are nearly empty and he can barely feed his own family. The cloth merchant weeps poverty while wearing fine-threaded garments. The dry goods proprietor insists he needs governmental assistance to survive the season.”

“Tax avoidance,” Deprimer muses.

“That’s what I think,” Dunlar agrees. “We can check this against the last tax rolls for Vallaki, collected five years back. No doubt there will be a conflicting picture, especially with the wealthier families.” Deprimer nods, grimly.

“And there’s more.” The dwarf’s expression darkened. “Eight houses in the residential district were found abandoned, their owners fled or deceased. When our men investigated…” He paused, meeting Deprimer’s gaze directly. “Five of those houses contained zombies. Locked inside. Presumably, they are whoever lived there last. But with no one to maintain the houses, they are decaying...the locks, the doors... are failing. The creatures will escape into the city.”

The implications sends a chill through the room. Animate dead loose in a populated district will catastrophic, both for the citizens of Vallaki and its new government.

“We need to act immediately,” Deprimer sighs. They gather the remaining loyal guards and clear all five houses. Eight zombies total—some fresh enough that they might have once been residents, others older and more decayed. Fortunately, they manage to eliminate them all zombies without losses to their forces.

After the unpleasant work is behind them, they receive some good news amid the grim discoveries. Dunlar consults his notes, “Two of the properties have living relatives who can prove legitimate claims—family members who had fled during the troubles but have now returned. We’ve restored those houses to their rightful owners.”

“And the other three?” Deprimer again stands at the window of the Burgomaster’s study, looking out over the city he is trying to govern.

“No legitimate claimants can yet be found. By right of abandonment and public safety, they now belong to Vallaki itself.” Dunlar’s voice carried a note of satisfaction. “As you've requested, I’ve already identified three families among our neediest citizens—families with multiple children currently crowded into single rooms, elderly couples who’ve been sleeping in shop doorways. They’ll have proper homes by week’s end.”

Deprimer turned back to his lieutenant, a rare smile crossing his features. “Well done. What of the contents?”

“We’ll auction what can be salvaged and cleaned,” Dunlar reported. “The previous residents left behind furniture, some tools, even a few items of value. After setting aside what the new families need, we’ll try to raise a respectable sum for the city’s coffers. Not enough to solve our financial concerns, but every copper helps.”

The eladrin druid returned to his desk, studying the census documents with renewed interest. Behind the numbers and names lay the complex web of loyalties, desperation, and opportunity that defined Vallaki’s current predicament. Somewhere in this information might be the key to securing the city’s future—or the warning signs of its next crisis.

⚔

In the shadowed upper chamber of the ancient tower, Duster stands again before Morach the Devil. The contract lay between them on the stone table. Duster’s own signature is bold and clear, on parchment that seems to absorb the flickering candlelight. Above it, Duster’s carefully forged signatures of his companions, which appear authentic enough to fool mortal, and so far, immortal, eyes.

Morach smiles as he raises his hand, knobby fingers poised with theatrical precision. “A masterwork of persuasion, Brother Duster. Your companions trust you implicitly.” The snap of his fingers echoed like breaking bones befroe the kenku's face.

The contract shimmers, then splits, duplicating itself with supernatural perfection. Both copies are identical down to the smallest detail—the same ink stains, the same slight tear in one corner, even the same subtle variations in the undetected forged signatures. No examination can detect the copy from the original.

“Insurance,” Morach explained, gathering one copy and secreting it within the leather pouch at his waist. 

“I cannot take her with me,” Morach gestures to Ireena, who lay still and unconscious against the far wall. “Instead, consider her a gift. An advance payment for services yet to be rendered. She is yours now, Brother Duster—to do with as you see fit.”

The implications weren’t lost on Duster. Gifted property has a way of binding the recipient to the giver in ways that simple theft never could. But it also means freedom of action—no need to sneak or hide or justify. He could walk openly into Ravenloft with Ireena at his side, presenting her to Strahd as fulfillment of the task the Vampire Lord had charged them with. Then Duster can depart on his true mission to earn his 50,000 gp from Morach. Of course, he will share a fraction of this treasure with his colleagues...if they are fortunate enough to survive.

 Duster cautiously walks over to the still bodies. He avoids looking at Strazni, whose eyes and mouth gape open as though in surprise. Ireena, a few feet away, is breathing shallowly. Dark bruises mar her pale skin and dried blood crust at the corner of one eye.

“The Amber Temple awaits,” Duster said, hefting the unconscious woman over his shoulder. It does not appear that Morach hears the rest of Duster’s whispered statement, “...but Ravenloft first.”

“Indeed it does.” The devil’s form began to waver, becoming more translucent with each passing moment. “But Brother Duster, you must prepare properly. The Lord of Stygia’s prison lies in the heart of eternal winter. Your traveler’s garb will serve you poorly against those winds. Cold weather clothing is not a suggestion—it is a necessity for survival.”

The devil’s eyes gleam with something that might have been genuine concern, though more likely it is merely the protection of his investment. “And exercise the utmost caution when you encounter Exethanter. The Great Lich has guarded that prison for millennia. While vast age has touched even him, do not mistake weariness for weakness. He commands powers that predate kingdoms, and his patience with intruders is… limited.”

The warning hangs in the air as Morach’s form dissolved entirely, leaving only the faint scent of brimstone and the echo of his final words: “Do not disappoint me, Brother Duster. The consequences of failure extend far beyond your own demise.”

⚔

The spiral staircase seems endless as Duster descends with his burden, each step causing Ireena to shift slightly on his shoulder. More than once, he hears footsteps or bits of conversation between his companions echoing from below.

He set her down with surprising gentleness, steadying her as she swayed on unsteady legs. The jarring of stone against broken ribs finally rouses Ireena from unconsciousness. She awakens with a groan, then the sharp intake of breath as pain reminds her of her circumstances. She looks up to Duster with confusion and hurt.

The group, led by Komzin, welcome her back and bind the worst of her wounds with the few medical supplies they yet possess. The healing kit in Duster’s pack, ruined by the cold or the mysterious holy symbol, contains only spoiled goodberries and inert potions. The absence of healing magic in the party ensures that Ireena’s pains will remain with her until time or arcana cure them. Each breath seems to cause her discomfort, and she holds herself in a way that wordlessly speak of unseen injuries not yet mended.

Finally, Ireena sputters out, “My brother, my twin,” her voice hoarse but urgent. “Izek Strazni—have you seen him? Is he safe? We have finally found one another after a lifetime, and I cannot bear to lose him again!” Her eyes search each companion’s face desperately, landing finally upon Duster’s, looking for any sign of hope or reassurance.

The lie comes from the kenku too quickly, too smoothly. “Not seen. Gone to Vallaki?” But even as the words leave his mouth, Duster knows they ring false. His expression was too studied, his tone too carefully modulated. After everything she’d been through, Ireena has been lied to before by another one of Duster's kind, the kenku called Therai. She has developed an unfortunate talent for recognizing their deception.

Her face shifted from desperate hope to weary disappointment, then to something approaching disgust. She opened her mouth to respond, perhaps to call him out on the obvious falsehood, when the world explodes around them.

The vast sound of a thunderbolt comes unexpectedly. It’s not the distant rumble of a brewing storm, but the immediate, bone-deep crack of lightning striking mere feet away, telling them someone has attempted to enter the tower. The ancient tower trembles, centuries of accumulated dust raining down from the rafters.

The group rush down the central stairs of the tower even before the echoes have faded and their hearing begins to return. An acrid smell fills the air—ozone and burned flesh and something else, something that makes the hair on their arms stand on end even after the lightning had passed.

They approached the door together, Ireena leaning heavily on Krelldutt’s arm. The heavy wooden portal, which had seemed so secure when they entered, now feels inadequate against whatever force had just announced itself outside. Duster flings it open.

The scene that greeted them defies immediate comprehension. Where earlier there had been only an empty clearing and Rictavio’s waiting wagon, now a carbonized form lay steaming on the threshold. The body is twisted and blackened. The flagstones around it have been scorched in a perfect circle, and ash atop what had been the corpse’s hair sifts to the ground in the slight breeze.

Near the wagon, a figure in the colors of Vallaki crouched behind one of the wheels. The soldier’s entire body shakes with terror, his shield held before him like a talisman against forces beyond mortal understanding. His eyes are wide and terrified, and he has the look of a man who has witnessed something that challenged his understanding of the natural world.

“Hello?” Duster calls out, though he keeps his distance from both the body and the traumatized soldier.

The man’s response is nearly incoherent—fragments about being struck down by Goth’s own fury. Through the babbling, one thing becomes clear: the man and his partner have been sent by Deprimer to return them to Vallaki. The action by one of the soldiers to attempt opening the tower door has once again called lightning. 

Working together despite the tension between them, Komzin and the soldier wrap the remains in canvas from their supplies. The body is lighter than the men expect, as if the lightning had burned away more than just flesh and clothing. They load it carefully into the back of the wagon after dragging out the remains of dead saber toothed cat. The soldier watches the cat’s corpse with the wide-eyed fascination of someone expecting that it may bite him if he is not careful.

As they prepare to make camp for the night—none of them willing to travel in darkness after what they’d witnessed—the soldier and Duster get into a vociferous spat over religion. The man touches his Goth septum piercing as Duster, hands protected by clothing, draws out the religious symbol he found within the tower. No one in the circle is impressed; no one can identify the faith it represents.

In the upstairs room claimed by the Rictavio, the group prepare to bed down. “We’ll return the body to Vallaki in the morning,” Komzin says, his voice full of weariness. The group wrap themselves in their bedrolls and lay upon the floor. Before them, a fire prepared but unlit by the unfortunate Rictavio, burns low, providing more smoke than warmth.  Sleep overtakes them quickly.

Later, dawn filters through the dirty glass. Outside, the perpetual mist clings to mountaintops and across the glass-smooth surface of the lake. The wagon sits exactly where they had left it, but the canvas that had covered their grisly cargo now lies flat against the wooden bed. No body, no remains, not even the ash that should have been left behind from something so thoroughly burned.

Rakthe emerged from the tower to check the mud around the wagon. The ranger’s features showed concern at finding their cargo missing. “Gone on his own, looks like,” Rakthe observed, crouching beside the wagon to examine the ground with practiced eyes. Their fingers trace patterns in the mud that were invisible to their companions.

The marks are subtle but unmistakable once pointed out. Footprints—if they could be called that—lead away from the wagon in an unsteady line toward the forest’s edge. 

“Headed into the forest,” Rakthe continues, their voice carrying that of someone reporting on predator tracks or game trails. “Moving with purpose, not wandering. It’s got a destination in mind.”

Ireena pulls her cloak tighter around her shoulders, though the morning chill is nothing compared to the scene before her. The companions stare into the forest where the tracks disappeared among the ancient trees. Somewhere in those shadows, a thing that had once been human walks toward an appointment with something unknown. 

They hitch the horses up to their shattered wagon, preparing to depart back to Vallaki.