09/02/2025: The Unquiet Dead of Argynvostholdt

The acrid smell of undeath fills the chapel as Ratrick gropes in the fog to find his adopted son. Finally, his hand discovers young Ilya’s crumpled form. He can feel the boy’s blood seeping through torn fabric, dark stains spreading across the chapel’s cracked stone floor. 

Ratrick roars, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling as he drags the boy away from further harm. Dust motes dance in the sickly light filtering through broken stained glass, and somewhere in the shadows, ancient timbers creak ominously.

Shifty steps forward, divine energy crackling between scaly fingers. The healing magic flows like warm honey through the air, settling over Ilya’s wounds with a golden shimmer. The boy’s eyes flutter open, consciousness returning with a sharp gasp. He rolls to his side, muscles trembling as he struggles to his feet, and his hand instinctively finds the familiar grip of his short bow.

Through the swirling mist that clings to every corner of the chapel, Nike moves quiet as a whisper. Her boots make no sound on the stone as she circles behind one of the revenants, twin weapons gleaming in the pale light—a curved sickle in her left hand, the magical dagger pulsing with arcane energy in her right. The creature doesn’t sense her approach until it’s far too late.

Their sickle bites deep into rotted flesh on its left side, while the dagger finds gaps between ancient ribs on the right. Ichor sprays across the back of Nike’s hand. The revenant shrieks—a sound like rusted metal scraping against bone—and staggers backward. Its hollow gaze fixes on Nike with pure hatred before it wheels and flees into the concealing fog, leaving a trail of putrid fluid in its wake.

Crystal raises both hands skyward, her voice cutting through the chapel’s oppressive atmosphere as she calls upon divine wrath. The air itself ignites above the second revenant, a pillar of sacred fire erupting from the ceiling to engulf the creature. The smell of charred bone and burning grave cloth fills the space as the revenant writhes in agony.

Enraged, Biblo seizes the moment, his flame tongue trident blazing to life with magical fire. The weapon strikes twice in rapid succession—first piercing through the creature’s torso with a spray of sparks, then driving deep into what remains of its skull. The revenant collapses in a heap of smoldering bones and ash, its final shriek cut short.

“Drop your weapon!” Biblo shouts into the fog-shrouded chapel, his voice carrying both authority and desperate hope. “Become our ally, and we will let you live!”

Nike’s voice joins his, slightly breathless from the exertion of combat. “Yes! Leave your master and you can live!”

Lightning splits the sky outside, its brilliant flash illuminating the chapel’s interior for one stark moment. Thunder follows immediately—a bone-deep rumble that shakes dust from the rafters and sends small stones tumbling from cracked walls. The very foundations of the ancient building seem to groan.

From somewhere in the mist comes the remaining revenant’s response, its hollow voice intoning: “I cannot leave my Master! Lord Strahd commands all and will grind you beneath his boot, subcreature!”

Another thunderclap strikes, so close that the great stained glass windows rattle in their frames. Without warning, the fog that has cloaked the chapel begins to dissipate, swirling away like water down a drain. The mist reveals the final revenant standing upon the raised dais near the altar, its skeletal form searching the shadows with desperate intensity. It has been seeking the source of Argynvost’s voice, never suspecting that the dragon’s words originated from Nike’s clever illusion.

Crystal steps forward, her voice carrying genuine compassion despite the circumstances. “Can we speak, maybe privately?”

The revenant’s jaw unhinges in a snarl of pure contempt. “Trouble me not again, subcreature! I will not approach you! The Lord Strahd is my lord and master! I will not betray him!”

Crystal’s expression shifts, sadness replacing hope as she pulls back her sleeves with deliberate precision. “Then,” she says with genuine regret, “you will die at our hands!”

Arcane energy builds at her fingertips like captured sunlight. Three bolts of searing fire arc through the chapel’s interior—one goes wide, striking an ancient pew and setting it ablaze; another punches through the tall, narrow stained glass window behind the altar in an explosion of colored fragments; but the third finds its mark. The revenant arches backward as fire courses through its form.

Glass rains down in deadly shards, each sliver catching the light as it falls. Several pieces slash across the revenant’s exposed bones, and black ichor wells from dozens of cuts. With a final, defiant shriek, the creature spins and hurls itself through the shattered window into the misty rain of the cemetery beyond.

As the echoes of battle fade, Crystal moves across the chapel floor to drag out the smoldering remains of one of the defeated revenants. The stench of burned bone and ancient grave dirt clings to everything. From the corner of her eye, she notices Nike tugging their hood far over their head, as though trying to disappear into it..

“Is everything okay?” Crystal queries, genuine concern in her voice as she approaches the rogue.

Nike hesitates, then slowly pulls back their cloak just enough to reveal hair that has somehow transformed—no longer the familiar color it was mere moments ago, but something entirely different. The change is subtle but unmistakable in the chapel’s dim light.

Crystal takes in the sight with surprising equanimity. “The group is colorful,” she says with attempted humor, “you’ll fit right in.”

The joke falls flat in the oppressive atmosphere, but Nike manages a small smile in appreciation. As their lips part, newly pointed teeth catch the light—another transformation that speaks of deeper changes taking place.

“Can you not tell Novaril?” Nike asks quietly, vulnerability creeping into their voice.

“Sure,” Crystal agrees without hesitation, understanding the weight of secrets in a place like this.

The surviving revenant’s voice suddenly cuts through their conversation from somewhere outside. It points toward a squat tower rising behind the weathered gravestones, its arm stretched accusingly. “You’re here for the treasure of Argynvost! There it is!”

“Treasure?” Ratrick perks up immediately, his eyes gleaming with sudden avarice. Without waiting for the others, he races toward the broken window, his boots crunching on scattered glass as he prepares to leap through.

Zilk follows close behind, his magical longsword humming with power as he easily dispatches the wounded revenant with a single, decisive blow. The creature crumbles to dust that the wind immediately scatters across the cemetery grounds.

From his position at the window, young Ilya suddenly calls out, his voice tight with alarm: “Papa, the grass! It’s moving!”

Ratrick, already halfway across the graveyard and approaching the tower’s entrance, turns back toward his adopted son. “What do you mean?”

But as he turns, Ratrick can see for himself what has captured the boy’s attention. The very earth beneath his feet begins to churn and boil, as something stirs from below. Skeletal arms burst through the soil with wet, tearing sounds—dozens of them, each dragging a complete warrior from its unholy rest. Ancient swords gleam with grave-cold light, and weathered bows creak as they’re drawn by fleshless fingers.

The skeletal horde wheels and charges toward the living, their bones rattling like hail on stone, their empty sockets blazing with the same malevolent fire that burned in their revenant commander.

From the broken chapel window, Shifty and Crystal react with practiced efficiency. Crystal’s Cone of Cold erupts in a crystalline spray that turns several skeletons to frozen fragments, followed by her Fireball that detonates among the charging ranks with a roar of superheated air. Shifty rains Sacred Flames down like divine judgment, each one reducing another undead warrior to scattered bones.

Biblo contributes his own brand of chaos, conjuring an illusory tin warrior that immediately draws the attention of several skeletons. They wheel to attack the false target with savage intensity, their weapons passing harmlessly through the magical construct while leaving them exposed to real attacks.

The graveyard becomes a battlefield littered with shattered bone and grave dirt, but for every skeleton destroyed, more seem to claw their way from the cursed earth. The battle is far from over, and the tower’s promised treasure waits beyond the endless ranks of Barovia’s restless dead.