09/02/2026: The Thin Cold Light (PG-13)

In the thin, cold light of morning, Vistani and guests mill around the remains of last night’s wine-soaked celebration of Viktor’s life and mourning of his passing. Even the fire seems wan and sickly.

A pale Berlioz approaches Dag as the group packs up to head back. “One of your number left in the night. The small one — a gnome? We warned him to wait, but he left going west. I suppose he is able to see at night. May the gods watch over him!”

Dag nods, and turns to go, but the hungover Vistani grasps his elbow. “The girl, Arabella, has asked to say goodbye to you. Will you see her?”

“Of course,” nods Dag, and moments later the girl wraps her arms around Dag’s legs to squeeze him. He hoists her up on his hip, and she says, “I will miss you when you leave. Will you return to visit me?”

“Probably not, little one,” he smiles kindly despite the painful truth of what the future holds.

She kisses his cheek and hops down, not looking back as she races to one of the caravans. She does not wish for Dag to see her weep.

⚔

Elvir and Violet Robin become ravens out of sight of the Vistani encampment. Stefania and Dag will accompany Vincent back to Vallaki.

The rain, misty at first, becomes steady. Dag spots an umbrella dropped by Zzizix, whose small footprints can be seen between the muddy puddles.

At the bridge spanning Tser Falls, they walk into a scene of recent violence: crows, and pieces of crows, torn apart and scattered across the span, feathers stuck wet to the stone. Whatever did this did it quickly, and is nowhere in sight now.

Further along the Old Svalich Road, near where it bends toward Castle Ravenloft’s western gate, they find him — a bundle of torn cloth hiding what remains of Zzizix. They pause to build a cairn from broken stone and deadfall along the roadside, and set the goblin to rest. Dag finds and pockets a leather bag holding a monocle, dropped in the mud beside him.

At the halfway point, the ruins of the windmill visible in the misty distance, the snap of a branch turns heads to the tree line. There, the hulking, violet-skinned hag glares at them, clambering free of the underbrush, followed by her sister.

“Where is the child?” she demands.

“Gone somewhere safe,” responds Dag. A look passes between him and Stefania.

“No kids here!” gloats Vincent, not realizing Dag has already shifted into a raven and lifted off over the hags’ heads.

Stefania calls to him, “Many apologies, Vincent, but we must think of our children!” Blue-black feathers overtake her as her body reshapes itself into something smaller and lighter.

Vincent finds himself alone with the two hags, who approach him, mouths gaping open and filled with needle-sharp teeth.

⚔

Komzin limps back into Vallaki midmorning to find the Sunset Gate in pieces and Wintersplinter’s corpse being dismantled by exhausted townsfolk with axes and two-man saws. 

He walks over and spits on it. The tree blight does not object, being dead. 

Father Lucian is pleased to see him alive and shares with him that his friends have gone away. Without him. The old priest shifts, ready to leave. “We must share our tales of surviving this terrible creature sometime,” he tells him, but does not stay to hear if Komzin replies. 

At Wachterhaus, the staff still remember him, and are perfunctory in their hospitality. He is given a room and a bowl of soup, and pointedly no wine — what’s left of the house’s stock has, per Krelldutt’s arrangement, been sent instead to the Blue Water Inn.

Komzin washes, sleeps, and wakes healed and rested, then heads to the Burgomaster’s office to explain himself.

Dunlarr does not offer him a chair. He does not offer him tea or a drink. He does not, strictly speaking, offer him anything except a very long, hard silence and the quiet implication that several dead guardsmen are somewhat Komzin’s fault.

Komzin apologizes, invokes Torgan as a witness to his story, and pivots — smoothly, if a little desperately — toward being useful to Vallaki: he knows the castle. He knows ways in. Dunlarr receives this offer the way one receives a foul smell. “We will both think of something more immediate that you might do for Vallaki. Return when you have something to suggest. You are dismissed.”  Before Komzin can grovel further, Dunlarr is back at the paperwork in front of him, pointedly ignoring him.

Outside, he runs into Blinsky, who greets him like a long-lost friend and immediately proposes wine, seemingly unaware that seemingly half of Vallaki currently wants Komzin fed to something with teeth. The Blue Water Inn confirms this theory. Danika refuses to so much as look at him, tucks her tray under her arm, and delivers a monologue on exactly whose fault Ireena’s kidnapping and likely suffering is (his) before storming out. Komzin, to his credit, does not argue the point.

He offers instead to fix it, mumbling to her back that he possesses knowledge of Castle Ravenloft, in service of a rescue.

“Hush,” It’s Urwin who pulls up a chair after Danika’s dramatic exit, “You should not speak loudly of such things!”

In hushed whispers, Urwin gets the useful information out of him: Strahd once sent Komzin after a scroll that would prevent the vampire lord’s permanent banishment. Komzin was never able to retrieve it. Which means the banishment is still on the table — the scroll remains at the Amber Temple, two or three days’ walk south, in the keeping of its Keeper, Exethanter, and Komzin is still on decent terms with him. He hopes.

A trip is proposed — Dunlarr, Komzin, and presumably Krelldutt, once the tortle returns to Vallaki. For now, Komzin will stay here at Wachterhaus, waiting to see what services Dunlarr wants from him. With a sigh, he slides Blinsky a gold coin by way of apology. It lies between them, face up, showing Strahd’s profile.

The toymaker leans toward Komzin and whispers, “I wish to go with you when you leave for Ravenloft to save Miss Ireena!”

Komzin peers into Blinsky’s earnest face. “You may regret that wish. It will be dangerous, my friend.”

Indignant, Blinsky insists, then offers to buy Komzin a goblet of wine, which he uncomfortably declines. “I should go,” he mumbles, not wishing to incur another tongue lashing by Danika.

Urwin fills a bottle to go from the large vat with the name “Wachter” chalked on its end. The two of them head off to see Piccolo.

⚔

West, at the vineyard, Krelldutt, Torgan, and Orbart leave for Yester Hill in the few hours of daylight left to them. They are looking for the druids — not to provoke anything. Krelldutt just wishes to confirm nobody’s planning a repeat of Wintersplinter.

The hour’s walk south, down the muddy road, passes without incident — which counts as a good day in Barovia.

But on the way, Krelldutt does spy an outsized ring of keys in a puddle near one scorched hoofprint. They’ve been following tracks that, the ranger guesses, run down and back to Yester Hill. 

Six matching keys, each as long as a man’s hand, are stamped on the grip with a castle and a raven. Five are iron. A sixth is golden brass, its teeth far more elaborate. They jingle as Krelldutt lifts the ring free of the mud and wipes it with the hem of his cloak. To it, he adds to it the plain key of similar size he’d found earlier. This one bears no mark on its bow and so will be easy to tell from the rest. Krelldutt tucks the ring safely into his pack.

“The hoofprints belong to a nightmare — likely the one Rahadin was riding when we met him at the bridge,” Krelldutt announces. “It looks like he rode down and back toward the druid camp, not long ago.”

The trail leads them to the base of Yester Hill, where they climb the five hundred steps to the crest. The path Wintersplinter tore across the hilltop and down the far side is easy to mark, a scar left through the forest where the blight passed. They move beyond the standing stones at the summit, and the moss-covered, larger-than-life statue of Strahd, facing west.

Ahead of them, the enormous Gulthias Tree looms out of the mist. Unsettled, Krelldutt points out that the spear Torgan removed only days ago has been reinserted near its top. Below it, a long, viscous stream of blood-colored sap runs down the unhealthy-looking bark. Cocoons holding blights of every size sway in the cold breeze, pale and unripe. 

At the foot of the tree there is no door, only a tunnel mouth yawning between two massive roots.

Krelldutt calls down into it.