07/15/2025: The End of the Fight and Nike’s Tale

The ancient stone walls of Argynvostholt’s great hall stretch upward into darkness, where something sinister catches the sharp eyes of the group’s ranger. “Wait,” Novaril whispers, his keen eyes narrowing as he peers into the gloomier reaches of the vaulted chamber. “Something moves in the shadows. They are there!”

The words have barely left his lips when the darkness itself seems to come alive. Shadow demons materialize from the deepest recesses of the hall, their forms shifting and undulating like living smoke. Their presence fills the air with an oppressive chill that seeps into the very bones of the adventurers.

“There!” Shifty calls out, his voice echoing off the stone walls. With practiced precision, he moves his Guardian of Faith, the divine construct glowing with holy radiance as it positions itself between the party and their otherworldly foes.

The Guardian’s light engulfs one of the shadow demons, and the creature’s agonized screeches pierce the air. The sound reverberates through the stone corridors of the chateau.

“Now!” Novaril shouts, his bow singing as he releases arrow after arrow into the writhing mass of shadows. Beside him, Nike—the mysterious elf who appeared as if from nowhere—proves her worth with deadly accuracy. Her arrows find their marks with lethal precision.

Meanwhile, Zilk and Biblo work in perfect coordination, their weapons flashing as they drive one of the demons back against the southern wall. The creature thrashes desperately, its form beginning to dissipate even as it fights.

Two of the demons die, they unleash their final spite upon their killers. Tarry black ichor sprays across the stone floor, spattering the adventurers with the foul substance. The liquid burns like acid where it touches exposed skin, but Zilk only throws back his head and laughs with savage joy.

Without hesitation, the bugbear warrior lunges forward, attempting to harvest a portion of the demon’s corpse for his collection of morbid souvenirs. But the body of the demon dissolves before his very eyes, evaporating into a vile-smelling dark cloud that makes him gag and stumble backward.

“Cursed things,” Zilk mutters, wiping the black ichor from his blade. “Nothing left to claim.”

As the last of the shadow demons fades into nothingness, slipping out of the Great Hall to lay in wait for the allies, an uneasy silence settles over the party. They stand amid the aftermath, their breathing heavy, adrenaline still coursing through their veins. It is then that Crystal turns to Nike, her expression thoughtful and calculating.

“Before we venture deeper into this accursed place,” Crystal begins, her voice carrying the weight of recent trials, “you should know what brought us here, what we’ve endured to reach this point.”

Nike nods, settling herself against a fallen pillar as Crystal recounts their tale. “We began our journey in the Village of Barovia, traveling with a young woman named Ireena. She was… is… important to Strahd. We helped her escape his immediate grasp, though I fear it was only temporary. She is now being held by the Vampire Lord in the Castle Raveloft. He intends to make the girl his wife.”

“The Village of Barovia was a place of perpetual fear, and we gave her some relief” Crystal continues, her eyes distant with memory. “Every night brought her new terrors, and every dawn was a small miracle. From there, our group made our way to Vallaki, seeking answers and allies in our fight against the vampire lord.”

Nike’s eyes widen with recognition. “Vallaki… yes, I think I remember hearing whispers about strangers causing quite the stir there.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Crystal says with a wan smile. “We may have… disrupted certain established orders. But our actions were guided by Madam Eva, a Vistana woman with connections to the Dusk Elves. She read the Tarokka cards for us, revealing what she said would be our destiny.”

Crystal’s expression grows more serious. “The cards showed us three things we would need to defeat Strahd. Among them was the revelation that we would need Lady Wachter’s husband as an ally in our struggle against the vampire lord. His support, the cards claimed, would be essential to our success.”

Nike’s face darkens, and she shakes her head with grim finality. “You will never beat Strahd,” she says, her voice carrying a weight of absolute certainty. “And Lady Wachter’s husband is dead. He has been for more than a year.”

The words hang in the air like a death knell, and for a moment, the party falls silent. It is Novaril who breaks the stillness, her voice determined despite the grim news.

“We are here at Argynvost to find the treasure said to be hidden within these walls,” she declares. “We need a diamond, a large one, that might be in that horde. The cards spoke of it—a gem of great power that could aid us in our quest. With such a gem, Lady Wachter’s husband might be resurrected.”

Nike studies each of them carefully, her strange eyes seeming to pierce through to their very souls. “I think I have seen you around Vallaki,” she says slowly. “I certainly heard about some of what you did there! The whole city was buzzing with tales of your… adventures.”

“Then Vallaki is your home?” Crystal asks with interest.

“Yes, it is,” Nike replies, though her expression grows troubled. “Though I must confess, I have no memory of how I came to be here at Argynvostholt. The last thing I clearly remember is walking the streets of Vallaki, and then… nothing. It’s as if I simply awakened in this place with no recollection of the journey.”

She pauses, her hands trembling slightly as she continues. “I also have no idea how to find my way back home. The mists of Barovia seem to have claimed even that knowledge from me.”

The elf’s voice grows bitter as she speaks of her hometown. “Vallaki may be my home, but it has never been kind to me. There is inherent prejudice there against fey races—against anyone who is different. I have always been an outsider, looked upon with suspicion and disdain.”

The party members exchange glances, and Nike notices the compassion in their eyes. For the first time since they’ve met her, she seems genuinely vulnerable.

“The truth is,” Nike continues, her voice barely above a whisper, “I am under a curse. It is a curse so terrible that it drove my own parents to abandon me. They could not bear to look upon what I was becoming, could not stand the shame of having a cursed daughter.”

“What manner of curse?” Novaril asks, though his tone suggests he already fears the answer.

Nike’s laugh is hollow and bitter. “I was always an outsider, as I said. I survived on the streets of Vallaki, living by my wits and my talents as a pickpocket. I was good at it—perhaps too good. I grew overconfident, careless.”

She stands and begins pacing, her movements agitated. “One evening, I spotted what I thought was a wealthy Vallakian merchant. Well-dressed, carrying a purse that seemed heavy with coin. I followed him through the winding streets, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.”

The party listens in rapt attention as Nike’s tale unfolds.

“I succeeded in lifting his purse,” she continues, “but as I turned to flee, he caught my wrist. When I looked up into his face…” She shudders visibly. “I found myself staring into the eyes of Count Strahd himself. He had been disguised, walking among the people of Vallaki for his own dark purposes.”

The comrades watch the elf, silent and breathless.

“He smiled at me,” Nike continues, her voice growing distant. “Such a terrible smile. ‘Little thief,’ he said, ‘you have stolen from the wrong man. But perhaps this was no accident. Perhaps this was destiny.’ Then he spoke words in a language I didn’t recognize, and I felt something cold and terrible settle into my very soul.”

When she speaks again, her voice is choked with emotion. “He commanded a trio of hags to inflict black spells upon me. My teeth began to change, becoming pointed like fangs. My eyes…” She looks up at them, and they can see that her irises seem to shift color even as they watch. “My eyes began changing color, to something unnatural.”

The revelation hits the party like a physical blow, but Nike is not finished.

“And then,” she whispers, “he bit me. His fangs pierced my throat, and I felt my life force being drained away. But he didn’t take it all—he left me alive, cursed to bear the mark of his bite and the changes it would bring.” Nike’s hand instinctively moves to her neck.

Novaril leaps backward, her hand going instinctively to her weapon. “You’re one of them!” she exclaims, suspicion and fear warring in her voice. “You’re his spawn!”

“Wait,” Ilya interjects, stepping between Nike and Novaril. “She is neither vampire nor spawn. She left to go out during daylight hours while we fought the shadow demons. I saw her with my own eyes, walked outside without harm. If she were truly a vampire, wouldn’t the daylight have destroyed her?”

Nike nods gratefully at Ilya’s words.

Despite Ilya’s reasoning, Novaril remains unconvinced. His eyes never leave Nike’s face, watching for any sign of deception or supernatural threat. “Spawn or not,” he says carefully, “you bear his mark. How can we trust you? How do we know this isn’t part of his plan?”

Nike meets her gaze steadily. “You don’t,” she says simply. “You can only judge me by my actions. I fought beside you against the shadow demons. I could have fled, could have left you to face them alone. Instead, I chose to stand with you.”

The tension in the great hall is palpable as the party weighs Nike’s words. Outside, the wind howls through the broken windows of Argynvostholt, and somewhere in the distance, they can hear the mournful cry of a raven.

“Whatever we decide about trust,” Novaril says finally, “we cannot ignore the danger you represent. Strahd’s influence runs deeper than we know, and his plans are beyond our understanding.”

The diamond they seek awaits somewhere in the depths of the castle, but first, they must decide whether their newest companion is a blessing or a curse in disguise.