After ensuring her children’s safety, Danika returns to Krelldutt, still standing on the damp, moss-covered doorstep with his mournful hound, Friedrich, pressed against his legs. The innkeeper’s wife is only as tall as Krelldutt’s chest, her breath misty in the chill night air. “There is a package waiting on one of the tables inside,” Danika whispers, blandly, her voice barely audible. “It bears your name.”
Krelldutt pushes through the heavy wooden door. In the dim light of the oil lamps, he finds a small, black kid skin bag in the center of a back table. It is tied closed with a red ribbon that is sealed with a glob of wax bearing the Von Zarovich seal, the castle and raven. With trepidation, Krelldutt breaks it and unwinds with scarlet tie to spill out nine pristine platinum pieces onto the worn tabletop. Each coin carries Count Strahd’s sharply etched aristocratic profile, while the imposing silhouette of Castle Ravenloft looms ominously on the reverse. Examining its towers that reach into a misty sky, Krelldutt shudders. The clouds on the coin seem to him to be like grasping fingers. Suddenly cold, Krelldutt returns the coin to the finely made bag, and ties it firmly closed.
Danika touches his elbow delicately, offering the tag that bears his name. She turns it over for him to read in the flickering lamp light. On the back of the name label, written in the same elegant and spidery script, a short message reads: “Our thanks. -S.”
Danika’s face, already pale from her earlier encounter with Strahd, tightens with a frightening realization. “It seems our goals—keeping Ireena from the traitors Komzin and that vile creature Conwan—align with the Vampire Lord’s own wishes.” She straightens, pulling her shawl tighter to hide the faded twin marks upon her throat, and flares in anger. “How could Komzin have betrayed her so completely? She trusted him with her very life! And Sheriff?” Her voice crackles with indignation. “Shame on him! She believed him to be a true friend!”
Krelldutt can only nod as he wonders what dark forces could have twisted loyalties so drastically.
⚔
The wagon moves through the sleeping city, the clopping of hooves and creaking of wheels amplified in the stillness of the night. They round a corner to meet one of the Burgomaster's red knights and two of the blue shirted city guards, who loaf against a brick wall. They straighten with the prospect of bribes to be accepted. One of the broad-backed men has an uncorked bottle of clear liquid. The red guard holds up a hand to the wagon, approaching with a swagger as Komzin reins the horses to a stop.
“Komzin,” the red knight says in a slurred voice suddenly wary, “what are you doing out past curfew?”
Komzin nods a greeting, and is ready with a lie: “We are on city business.” The red guard scans the party down the length of the wagon. His eyes pause on the coffin beneath Rakthe, then widen as he reaches the small form of Conwan. Fumes of whatever liquor he’s been drinking rise with his sudden exhale of surprise, making Komzin’s eyes water.
“Here,” the knight says, corking the bottle and handing it up to the fighter, “we’ve had enough tonight. May it keep you warm through whatever it is you must do.” Komzin, tucking the bottle beneath the driver’s bench, flicks the reins and the wagon continues through the empty streets of Vallaki.
With the Cow Gate in view, yet another patrol steps in front of the wagon. “Hold!” This red knight directs one of his men to take the reins from Komzin. “State your business!” His eyes also scan the wagon’s passengers. They narrow on spotting Conwan. “You,” he says, with ill-disguised distaste.
Conwan, grimacing back at him, agrees, “Me. Our task is confidential.” The knight’s brows rise, and his mouth hardens. “Papers,” he demands.
Komzin looks blankly at him. “Do we need papers?”
“There are always papers.” says the knight. “Under the old Burgomaster, there were papers for everything.”
Conwan cocks his head and blandly says, “Are we under the old Burgomaster?”
The knight further compresses his lips, “Of course not. We have a new Burgomaster since the old one was…assassinated.” The knight pauses, emphasizing the final word, then thinking better of it, changes the subject abruptly. “Who is in the box?” He gestures to the coffin that Rakthe sits upon.
“Perhaps,” Conwan suggests with silky menace, “you should direct such inquiries to the Burgomaster himself.”
The knight’s face flushes with anger and uncertainty before he barks orders to one of his men, who immediately departs at a hurried jog toward the Burgomaster’s mansion, his boots echoing against the cobblestones.
“We will wait to hear,” says the knight. The three remaining guards surround the wagon, but wear nervous expressions as they regard friends of the new Burgomaster in the wagon.
Conwan listens keenly for any noises coming from the coffin beneath Rakthe, aware that the Drow poison used to subdue Ireena will wear off quite soon. When it does, he suspects, she will object to being trapped inside of it.
He forces himself to be still and inscrutable, while they wait for the guard to return. Deprimer has expressly told them not to tie their activities to the Burgomaster’s office.
But some things could not be helped.
⚔
An hour before, Deprimer pushes back wearily at his document-laden desk, where a fresh mountain of scrolls and a leather-bound ledger join the city’s countless records and crumpled receipts. The candlelight flickers across columns of numbers that blur together after hours of meticulous work. Thanks to the unexpected windfall from the attic treasures, he has finally managed to settle the guards’ and knights’ overdue wages—payments that had grown shamefully and perilously late. The stone mason has been contacted, restoring her unfulfilled contract to repair the cracked fountain in Vallaki’s main square. And earlier in the day, Deprimer was very publically generous about the donations distributed among the city’s most desperately poor.
Sleep claims him quickly, but his rest proves brief. A gentle yet persistent tapping penetrates his dreams. “Burgomaster?” The voice drifts through the heavy oak door.
Deprimer lies motionless beneath his wool blankets, his breathing deliberately slow and even as he desperately hopes the interloper will abandon their mission. Perhaps if he remains perfectly still…
“Burgomaster!” The determination in the voice has grown, followed by the soft creak of door hinges. Footsteps cross the threshold, and a heavy hand settles on Deprimer’s shoulder, grasping him with gentle but insistent pressure.
Deprimer sits up, shaking his head to wake himself, squints up at the guard, whose pained expression is illuminated by the dying embers in the fireplace. “My deepest apologies for disturbing your rest, Burgomaster, but urgent matters demand your attention. A wagon bearing your known allies—Komzin and Conwan—seeks passage from the city under cover of darkness. They travel with the fierce female Dragonborn barbarian and the accountant, who asked for work here at the mansion earlier today.”
The guard pauses, his expression shifting to something unreadable—perhaps disgust, perhaps disbelief—before continuing. “They claim to possess your explicit permission for this departure through the closed gates. I seek confirmation of this authority.”
Deprimer’s mind reels as he takes this in, realizing the plan to get Ireena to Ravenloft has gone awry in some unknown way. He cannot be tied to the comrades lest he lose his tenuous power over Vallaki. He shakes his head slowly. “I cannot recall granting such permission…” Deprimer makes a show out of stumbling across the thick, musty carpet that deadens his footsteps to frantically shuffle through the chaos of papers scattered across his desk. He desperately hopes it appears as if he is searching for some forgotten authorization. “I have no memory of… Have you consulted with Krieger on this matter?” Deprimer hopes this ploy, the implication of Krieger of the order, will buy some time until he, Deprimer, can determine what is going on.
The guard bows respectfully, his voice heavy with renewed apology. “I will ask Captain Krieger, lordship. Again, my sincere regrets for disturbing your much-needed rest, Burgomaster.”
As the door closes behind the departing guard, Deprimer pulls the heavy blankets to his chin. He can hear the distant calls of inquiry, searching for Krieger. At least there is that.
But sleep still becomes impossible as a cold dread settles in his heart. He wonders whether Komzin’s group has somehow exposed his dangerous double life as a collaborator, and how much longer he will be the Burgomaster of Vallaki.
⚔
Duster, still maintaining his disguise as Deprimer, carefully tucks away the mysterious scroll along with the jeweled dagger that had pinned it to the brazier room door deep within Ravenloft’s shadowy undercroft. It bears his name, written in a distinctive spidery script, “Mr Duster.” The parchment crinkles softly as he secures it within his robes. The message will await his attention when circumstances allow for safer scrutiny.
His attention shifts to Urwin, who stands transfixed by nature’s spectacular display above their heads. The sky explodes in brilliant oranges, deep purples, and shimmering golds that illuminate clouds above. Urwin’s head tilts back in wonder, his mouth hanging open in childlike amazement as the beauty washes over his upturned face. Duster recognizes that Urwin is witnessing his first, and what may be his only, sunset.
Gradually shaking himself from the hypnotic spell, Urwin refocuses his attention on his mysterious companion. His eyes narrow with growing suspicion as he studies Duster’s form with the intensity of a scholar examining an ancient text. “You aren’t truly Deprimer, are you?” he asks, his voice carrying both curiosity and certainty.
Still maintaining his perfect illusion, Duster cocks his head with bird-like precision and croaks a simple, honest response: “No.”
Urwin absorbs this revelation with surprising calm, nodding thoughtfully before pressing gently, “Can you share your true identity with me?”
“Duster,” comes the straightforward reply.
Understanding passes between them like a shared secret. Urwin nods with newfound comprehension, but their moment of connection shatters as Duster’s keen eyes detect movement on the distant horizon. Two figures—or perhaps three, the shadows make counting difficult—crest the hill with purposeful strides, approaching the crumbling windmill ruins with predatory intent.
The kenku’s voice drops to an urgent hiss that cuts through the evening air like a blade. “We flee. Now.”
Urwin immediately grasps the gravity of their situation, his voice matching Duster’s hushed intensity. “Should I assume my alternate form?”
Duster’s sharp nod provides all the answer needed. Urwin’s transformation flows like liquid —bones reshaping, feathers sprouting, until a sleek raven stands where the man had been moments before. The unlikely pair move down the hill’s far side, one flying in increasingly large circles and one trotting straight ahead with desperate speed.
As Urwin soars beyond the mystical boundary of the ancient standing stones, he notices with profound sadness how the crystal-clear sky transforms into the familiar oppressive gloom of Barovia’s cursed clouds. He casts one last, wistful glance at the standing stones, somehow untouched by the land’s supernatural curse. He leads Duster safely to the gates of Vallaki hours later, where Urwin soars over the gate. From a perch on a housetop, he watches as Duster, still in the guise of the Burgomaster, is taken into custody.
⚔
Three guards, obeying explicit instructions regarding the Burgomaster’s movements, lead Duster to a foreboding stone building where iron bars cover every window. Behind a rickety desk sits the massive form of Krieger. His broad smile splits his scarred face as he takes in Duster’s approach. He smiles with the greeting, “ ‘Burgomaster’,” and Duster’s heart sinks. Kreiger’s eyes glitter with a knowledge that suggests that his Deprimer disguise may not be effective with the captain.
After the two guards depart, Krieger slides a weathered bit of parchment to Duster and gestures for him to read it aloud. It seems to be the legal code for Vallaki. Duster does not move. He is incapable of speaking most of the words he reads upon the scroll. The pair stare at one another for several long seconds.
Finally, Krieger smiles. “ ‘Burgomaster’,” he rumbles again in his gravelly voice, “How convenient that you’ve come to me directly through the Sunrise Gate, when I’ve only just left you in the village square, crowing about your gifts to the poor and fixing the roads instead of the mansion!”
Duster settles into the chair, maintaining the disguise even as he processes the captain’s unsubtle implications. “No,” says Duster in Deprimer’s voice, pushing the parchment away. “What is the meaning of this?” Duster makes the demand using Deprimer’s words, Deprimer’s voice speaking a phrase he's heard. Duster is desperately aware that his limited vocabulary will not stand up to close scrutiny.
Krieger, tipping back on his chair, barks out a laugh. “I thought you might be the kenku, because you are short, and I think I am correct! Scholtz was prudent to warn me to set my men to watch for anything strange. Such as a burgomaster returning from outside the city. A burgomaster who is in two places at once.”
The massive captain drops his chair back onto four legs with a bang, making Duster jump. He leans forward, closely watching the Deprimer face across from him for any sign of surprise, fear or indignation.
“Scholtz?” Duster attempts to keep his voice neutral, trying to calculate all that this implies, but he is alarmed by what he is hearing.
“Indeed, I have patched up my little squabble with Scholtz…a minor disagreement among friends.” Krieger’s laugh is a low, dangerous sound that echoes back from the stone walls themselves. “Water under the bridge, my dear ‘Burgomaster’,” Krieger waves a dismissive hand, knuckles scarred from countless skirmishes. “It is remarkable how shared ambitions can heal old wounds.”
Duster sits still as a statue, saying nothing.
“Oh, I think you understand perfectly well, ‘Burgomaster’. Just as I think you’ll be very interested to know that Scholtz and I have had a most illuminating conversation about the future of Vallaki’s leadership. You see, we’ve both grown concerned about certain… irregularities… in the current governance of Vallaki. Generous to a fault, one might even say. Before any other wealth is dispersed among the populace, we must consider what other things it might be used for. Who it might be used for.” Krieger’s grin spreads wider, revealing crooked, yellowed teeth. “Scholtz and I have a proposition for you—whoever you truly are. We know you’re not the real Deprimer. The question is: are you interested in becoming him permanently? For gold, of course.”
A chill runs down Duster’s spine. He nods, and croaks, “Gold.”
“I thought so. You’ve already proven your abilities. You’ve fooled the guards. You could fool the entire city, with the proper story. Scholtz and I can manage city resources effectively behind the scenes. We clearly possess skills the real Deprimer lacks entirely.” Krieger’s voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “We can make the transition seamless. An unfortunate accident befalls our current Burgomaster, an injury to explain your speech challenges after you take his place. You step forward after a few weeks of ‘recovery’ to restore order after the crisis of your ‘accident’. This will give us the chance to remove Komzin, the dwarf, the dragonborn, the tortle, the woman. And the assassin halfling, Conwan.”
Krieger notes a flinch from Duster, and nods once. “You are right, of course, 'Burgomaster.' The assassin can be of use to us, maybe even to take care of those we’ve listed. Then, Scholtz will control the merchant council, I continue command of the guards. And you are the face of the city.Together, we ensure Vallaki’s prosperity… and our own.”
The weight of the offer settles over the room like a heavy blanket. Outside, the wind whistles through the barred windows. Krieger’s eyes gleam with avarice and ambition. “Your loyalty, Mr Duster, is foremost on my mind. You do as Scholtz and I say. Or else.”
The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees.
“Do you accept our terms to betray your former associates?”
Despite himself, Duster bobs the Deprimer head in a very birdlike manner. “Yes,” he croaks.
Krieger’s grin, a sneer, really, is triumphant. “Now you’re speaking my language, 'Burgomaster.' ”
⚔
In the stillness of the Vallaki street, only the jingling of the horses’ harnesses echoes back from the Cow Gate. The red knight’s impatience has made them nervous, and they shake their heads, tugging the reins from his gloved hands.
Yanking the reins back to himself, Komzin brings them under control as the knight sends yet another of his guards off into the darkness. “We really must go,” Komzin mutters to the back of his head. “We…,” but Conwan leaps to supply a ready lie.
”There is, within the coffin, a vampiric creature we must dispose of well outside the city before it awakens. We wish to be well away before any can see us, so we don’t cause panic among the citizens.”
The red knight’s voice drops to the level of Conwan’s. “But where….the coffin maker’s shop? I thought that all of the vampire spawn had…”.
Conwan cuts him off. “You thought wrong. We must see to this. Now.”
The knight calls to the two remaining guards, “Open the gate!” Relieved, the comrades find themselves in the stillness of the Old Svalich Road. They point their wagon east.
Quite soon, Rakthe becomes aware of banging and demands from Ireena, who has regained consciousness from within the closed coffin. Then the screaming and banging commence. Muffled though these noises are, the passengers are quite grateful that they are now away from Vallaki’s gates and unlikely to meet any on the road at this time of night.
Eventually, the piercing screams become hoarse, subsiding into pleas then begging and, finally, silence.
Relieved that relative peace has returned to their journey, their wagon climbs a long, rock slope. Somewhere, further along the ridge, Komzin knows there are the ruins of the hags’ murderous windmill.
As if conjuring them, Komzin pulls the reins up short, stopping the horses abruptly.
Two elderly women stand in the road, blocking the wagon’s path. The horses’ ears lay flat against their heads and Komzin struggles to control them. One woman, Morgantha, moves forward to call, “It is Komzin, no? So good of you to pass this way. My sister and I owe you a ‘debt’ for your services to Ofallia…”
The other crone, peering around the side of the wagon, cackles, “Ask him who is inside the box, sister!”
Rakthe looks puzzled but not alarmed by the presence of these two elders. Ugly, yes, but they don’t appear dangerous. Conwan and Sheriff also rise to their feet but both are stilled by Komzin. “These are hags! I’m not sure we can defeat them!”
Morgantha, in an unearthly bellow, demands, “Who is in the box, Komzin?” Her voice, deep and threateningly resonant, rips through the dawn, making the occupants of the wagon flinch.
“We carry a bride for Count Strahd. Let us pass.” Komzin’s voice is low but steady.
Morgantha’s brows rise, though Komzin cannot tell if this is from surprise or delight.
“A bride, eh?” She seems to consider for a moment before demanding, “Let us have a lock of her hair!”
Behind Komzin, Conwan hisses, “That may give them power over Ireena!”
Morgantha crows a coarse laugh and Bella screeches, “It is THE bride! Give us a lock of Tatiana’s hair!”
”Tatiana?” repeats Conwan, looking at Rakthe. Sheriff shrugs, unable to guess what the name means.
”Give us her hair!” The aged sisters clamour, approaching the wagon. They are suddenly much larger and more frightening than they were only seconds before.
Refusing to back down, Komzin calls, “I cannot give you anything from her now. We must get her to Ravenloft as quickly as possible, and opening the box will cause a delay. I promise that we will return with a piece of her hair later.”
“Your promises are worthless, Komzin. Give us a hostage to ensure your return! Give us him…”
The blood drains from Sheriff’s face, but he climbs down from the wagon. “You’ll come back for me, soon, right?” His round face is turned hopefully up at Komzin.
And Komzin, unable to meet Sheriff’s eyes, assures him they will. He watches the two hags, forms restored to elderly women, walk Sheriff up the lane that leads to the ruined windmill.
