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07/0202025: The Two Deprimers

Jul 2

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Eric Belisle, Winter Eladrin, Mordenkanin Presents Monsters of the Multiverse, 2018
Eric Belisle, Winter Eladrin, Mordenkanin Presents Monsters of the Multiverse, 2018

The tension in the Burgomaster’s mansion reaches a breaking point as Conwan, his patience finally exhausted by yet another confrontation with Deprimer, turns his back and strides toward the staircase. The floorboards creak beneath his boots as he descends to the second story, shadows dancing along the walls from flickering torchlight. Behind him, Duster follows like a perfect mirror image of the Burgomaster. His disguise as the counterfeit Deprimer flawless in every detail.


Meanwhile, the actual Deprimer mounts the stairs with purposeful steps, his robes rustling as he returns to his quarters on the second floor. The relative comfort of his new domain surrounds him until he rounds the corner and freezes. There, standing in his hallway like a twisted reflection, stands another version of himself. His eyes narrow as recognition dawns.


“Seize this imposter!” Deprimer’s voice cuts through the air, commanding the two red guards stationed in the hallway.


Without missing a beat, Duster mirrors the words with chilling precision: “Seize this imposter!” The voice is identical, every inflection and tone a perfect match. The guards exchange uncertain glances, their hands hovering over their sword hilts as confusion clouds their faces.


Deprimer’s mind races. Thinking quickly, he raises his voice with authority: “Test your identity by conjuring the symbol of Goth to prove who you are!” His hands weave through the air, and a glowing symbol of his faith materializes, floating in ghostly light that bathes the hallway in ethereal radiance.


Duster doesn’t hesitate. With practiced ease, he casts Prestidigitation, conjuring an identical symbol that hovers beside the first. The two sacred emblems pulse with the same otherworldly light, indistinguishable from one another.


“I am the Burgomaster!” Deprimer’s voice cracks with frustration, his composure finally beginning to fray.


“No, I am the Burgomaster!” Duster responds with even greater conviction, his performance so compelling that doubt begins to creep into the guards’ eyes. Their training tells them to trust their superior, but which one is he?


The guards make their choice. Steel rings against leather as they draw their long swords and move toward the actual Deprimer. In desperation, he calls upon his magic, Fey Stepping down the hallway in a shimmer of otherworldly energy before casting Cause Fear. The spell strikes true, and one guard’s confidence shatters like glass, terror replacing duty in his eyes.


The second guard, however, stands firm. “The Burgomaster has ordered you to drop your disguise and come with us! Conwan, assist us!” His voice echoes down the corridor.


Behind the two identical figures, Conwan stands frozen in indecision. His eyes dart between the perfect duplicates, unable to determine which is his true master. His hands twitch at his sides as he wavers, caught in an impossible choice.


Deprimer begins to raise his hands again, arcane energy crackling at his fingertips, but hesitates. These are his guards, his men. The spell dies on his lips as he struggles with the thought of harming those sworn to protect him.


Inspiration strikes the remaining guard. “Show your ring of office! Show the Burgomaster’s ring!” His voice rings with newfound authority.


Without hesitation, the actual Deprimer flings his hand forward, the heavy golden ring catching the torchlight as it gleams on his finger. The guard steps forward and taps it hard, the satisfying metallic clink resonating through the hallway for all to hear.


But his sharp eyes catch Duster frantically inscribing a sigil in the air, trying to be furtive about his spellcasting. The guard’s gaze narrows like a hawk spotting prey. “And you,” he demands of Duster, “let me see your ring.”


The game is up. Duster’s confidence crumbles as the truth becomes apparent. With no other option, he rushes past the guards and the real Deprimer. Blades flash in the dim light, striking him as he passes. Blood seeps through his clothes as he throws himself desperately into Strazni’s room.


His cloak billows as he plucks the chalk from within its folds, his hands working with frantic precision to make final adjustments to the Teleportation Circle he had inscribed on the floor not half an hour earlier. The arcane symbols pulse with growing energy until the room erupts in a blinding flash of scarlet light. When the light fades, Duster has vanished, leaving only the acrid smell of magic and the echo of his escape.



Dawn breaks over Vallaki with gray light filtering through morning mist. Ireena approaches Komzin with quiet determination, her footsteps soft on the worn floorboards. “Will you accompany me to Kresk?” she asks, her voice carrying both hope and uncertainty.


Komzin considers her request carefully before nodding. “I agree, but it would be best for the entire group to go with you.” His practical nature seems to show through his concern for her safety.


She gathers a silver tray laden with steaming tea, the porcelain cups clinking gently as she carries it up to Krelldutt. The warm aroma fills the air as she makes her request to him as well. He agrees readily, understanding the weight of her situation.


“Kresk has an abbey,” Ireena explains, her eyes lighting with hope. “I believe the religious community there will be able to keep me safe from the Vampire Lord.” The words hang in the air like a prayer.


Krelldutt nods solemnly, recognizing the wisdom in her plan. “This might be the best thing for you,” he affirms.


“I would like to ask my new friend, Sheriff, to accompany us,” Ireena continues, her voice gaining confidence. “He seems like a very handy person, as well as one who is very kind. I think his service to me would recommend him to Deprimer for a job in his new government.”


Meanwhile, Sheriff navigates his way through the morning bustle to the Burgomaster’s mansion. The household hums with activity, but underneath the routine runs an undercurrent of excitement. Soldiers cluster in corners, their voices animated as they share gossip about the previous night’s extraordinary events - the counterfeit Deprimer and his impossible escape into thin air.


Sheriff absorbs every detail before making his way back to the Blue Water Inn. The familiar warmth and comfort of the tavern greets him as he finds two of the regulars, wolf hunters both, sitting over their morning tea and toast. The steam rises from their cups as he shares the night’s incredible news.


Yvigni Krushkin leans back in his chair, processing the events with the practiced mind of a tracker. “Perhaps Szoldzar and I, maybe you as well if you wish, should hunt down the invader, or maybe the runaway Scholtz, who no doubt sent him.” His weathered hand gestures toward Rakthe, who initially nods agreement before thinking better of it. Instead of joining the hunt, they choose to wander the gloomy, mist-shrouded streets of Vallaki, lost in their own thoughts.


Back at the mansion, Conwan climbs to the attic room, his mind still reeling from the night’s events. Something catches his eye - the round rug in the corner seems to be hiding something beneath. He pulls the rug aside, exposing another arcane circle chalked onto the weathered planks. The symbols seem to pulse with residual magic.


He brings Deprimer to see, and together they study the mysterious markings. The Burgomaster’s face darkens as he examines the circle, recognizing its sinister purpose. Without ceremony, he uses his foot to destroy the Teleportation Circle, grinding the chalk into powder. It’s similar but not identical to the one they discovered on the floor of Strazni’s room one floor below.


After Deprimer leaves, Conwan discovers a small box full of handwritten books. They are all written in the same hand, all seem slanted towards experimentation with teleportation magic. Each small book is inscribed with the name “Valdimir Vallakovich,” the dead son ofthe former Burgomaster. Curious. Conwan takes the books away for later study.


Neither Komzin nor Dunlar can locate the missing Duster, though they search with growing concern. Their worry is tempered by practical acceptance - in their line of work, disappearances happen. Dunlar eventually takes his concerns to Deprimer, seeking answers in the aftermath of chaos.


“Who do you think is behind the intrusion last night?” Dunlar asks, his voice heavy with implication.


Deprimer’s expression grows grim, shadows seeming to deepen around his eyes. “I’ve made enemies.”


Grimly, Dunlar responds, “There’s only one with such powerful magic in Barovia that I’m aware of.” He doesn’t speak the name, but it hangs in the air between them like a curse. Strahd. The very syllables seem too dangerous to voice aloud.



In the depths of Castle Ravenloft, Duster lands hard on cold stone, his knees buckling as the teleportation spell completes. The dank air fills his lungs as he steadies himself in the vaulted chamber. Above him, the ceiling arches into shadows where two great iron statues stand eternal guard over a vast copper basin. Within the basin burns the strange, magical fire that casts dancing shadows on the walls - fire that gives no warmth, only an otherworldly light that seems to feed on darkness itself.


He has been here before. The memory sends a chill down his spine that has nothing to do with the castle’s perpetual cold.


Somewhere behind the twin doors, a raven’s caw pierces the silence - not the normal call of a bird, but something hysterical, almost human in its panic. The sound echoes off the stone walls, multiplying until it seems to come from everywhere at once.


From behind one of the three doors that face him, footsteps begin to approach. Measured, deliberate steps that suggest whoever approaches has become very much aware of his unexpected arrival in the undercroft of Castle Ravenloft. Each footfall seems to count down the seconds until his fate will be decided, the sound growing closer with each heartbeat that thunders in his chest.

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