09/03/2025: Preparations and Reckonings

In the taproom of the Blue Water Inn, Danika and Urwin huddle together across from Krelldutt and Duster. Shadows gather around a weathered table where the four lean forward in hushed conversation. The tortle’s massive frame shifts restlessly as frustration bleeds into his voice. “I wish we had any sort of idea about when Strahd will act, how long Ireena has until he harms her. Will it be when she arrives? Tomorrow? Next week?”

Urwin’s weathered features darken with shared concern. “There is no knowing.” The words hang heavy before he deliberately shifts the conversation. “Have you heard of the Order of the Feather?”

Duster’s black eyes sharpen with interest as Krelldutt recounts their encounter with the cave of wereravens during their journey to Vallaki. Recognition flickers across Urwin’s face as he nods slowly. “Yes, associates of my father, who leads the Order. I can fly in raven form to my family’s vineyard and bring back assistance. I think he may wish to put our differences aside because of what is currently happening in Barovia.”

”Urwin and his father have not spoken in several years,” explains Danika. “It is his brothers who bring the wine…but not in a while. It is possible that the entire family is upset with Urwin, now.” Her gaze fixes on the tortle. “Where shall we meet you, Mr. Krelldutt?”

“Secret way into Ravenloft?” Duster suggests hopefully.

“You are coming, then, Duster?” asks Krelldutt, turning to the kenku.

Urwin chuckles, “Of course he will support his friends, won’t you, Mr Duster?”

“Yes,” Duster lies with practiced ease, the deception sliding past unnoticed. The kenku tilts his head. It seems that all around the table are familiar with asking the teleportation circle in the coffin maker’s house as a means of transport into Strahd’s dungeon.

Urwin regards the kenku a moment, also thinking of the dungeon and Duster’s rescue of him, then recalls, “The letter, Mr. Duster. What did the letter say?”

Duster produces the parchment that had been pinned to one of the velvet-covered chairs on the dungeon’s balcony overlook. As he unrolls it, the others press forward, their faces growing pale as they read:

My Dear Duster,

How predictably disappointing. Rahadin’s warning was quite explicit, yet here you are—feathers ruffled, talons bloody, playing the hero in my own dungeon. Did you truly believe I was unaware of your presence the moment you set foot in my castle?

The raven was bait, of course. A test to see if you possessed even a shred of wisdom. You have failed spectacularly.

I could have stopped you at any moment—a word to my gargoyles, a gesture to seal the passages. Instead, I watched with growing disappointment as you proved yourself to be exactly what I suspected: a common thief elevated beyond his station by circumstances.

Take your feathered friend. Fly away on whatever wings might carry you. But understand this—you have used the only mercy I will ever show you. When next we meet, there will be no dramatic speeches, no elaborate games. Only an end befitting a creature too foolish to recognize when he has been spared.

The hospitality of Castle Ravenloft is now permanently withdrawn.

—Count Strahd von Zarovich

P.S. The lock you so cleverly picked? It was never actually engaged.

The silence that follows presses against them. Krelldutt’s voice emerges as a grim rumble, ignoring the threat to Duster. “It sounds like he’ll know if we enter through the dungeon. And the main gate is well guarded.” The realization settles over them that their options have dwindled to almost nothing.

Urwin brightens slightly. “If we go by air? In through one of the higher towers?”

“Maybe,” Krelldutt mutters, knowing they must devise some plan before they meet in the Village of Barovia.

⚔

The afternoon finds Krelldutt moving through Vallaki’s streets, seeking fighters to join their desperate cause. His inquiries at the wolf hunters’ quarters yield only disappointment—Yvigny’s wife informs him that both hunters have departed on undetermined business for the city. However, Udo Lukavich, the simple shoemaker, agrees to honor his life debt to Krelldutt, swearing his blade and wagon to their cause despite his humble profession. Krelldutt realizes he must seek recruitment among the city guards, or if fortune favors him, the red knights themselves.

⚔

Meanwhile, Duster makes his way to the Burgomaster’s mansion, discovering Deprimer still abed despite the late morning hour. The kenku intimidates a guard into letting him in and climbs the steps to Deprimer’s chamber, opening the door without ceremony.

“Duster!” Deprimer startles awake from sleep plagued by terrible news and responsibilities.

Without preamble, Duster delivers his message. “Urwin is back. Come to Inn to see him!”

Deprimer shakes his head wearily. “Today is tax day, Duster. There’s no way I can see them today. Truthfully, I’m nervous about potential unrest.”

“Why unrest?” queries Duster.

“Well,” Deprimer explains, anxiety creeping into his voice, “there hasn’t been any tax collection for two years. They may find the collection shocking.”

“Shocking,” echoes Duster.

“Yes. The people may resist. Certainly the merchants might resist.” He changes the subject abruptly, unwilling to contemplate quelling a revolt so early in his administration. “I’ll find time in the next few days to visit Urwin and Danika. In the meantime, please send my congratulations to them.”

As he escorts Duster to the door, a guard appears bearing a message. “Burgomaster. Mr. Duster, a message from Captain Krieger. He wishes to see you.” He hands a scroll to Duster.

Deprimer’s eyes narrow suspiciously at Duster. “I didn’t know you were working for Krieger, Duster.”

Duster bobs his head. “Serving the city. With Krieger,” he lies smoothly.

“I don’t think of you as a fighter, Duster.”

Duster displays the jeweled dagger from his time in Strahd’s dungeon, though Deprimer fails to notice the Ravenloft crest adorning its hilt. “I got Urwin from Strahd. I brought Urwin back.”

Deprimer regards the kenku with newfound respect. “I didn’t know you’d left Vallaki. But well done, Duster. The city and Krieger are lucky to have you.”

⚔

Cold mist falls steadily as Komzin follows the mounted Rahadin across the narrow bridge, his mouth dry despite the dampness. Sparks fly from the hooves of the nightmare beneath the chamberlain as they pass between the massive, silent knights. Their dozen halberds arch away from the procession, scarlet banners snapping violently in the frigid wind. The wagon rolls through the guardhouse and onto the barbican, where the massive wooden doors—ornately carved and bound with iron—swing open without human touch.

Before them stands Count Strahd von Zarovich, hands crossed before his waist, expression utterly impassive. Komzin and Rakthe carry the coffin into the entry hall, where the massive painted face of Strahd glares down from the domed ceiling, surrounded by four terrifyingly motionless gargoyles. Komzin remembers the last time he stood in this space—when one of those stone creatures had suddenly descended to seize Duster by the leg, violently shaking loose the spoons the rogue had pilfered from their dinner. Rahadin had watched that scene unfold with the same cold attention he displays now.

The seneschal bows deeply to Strahd, “My Lord.” He turns to gesture for Komzin and Rakthe to lower the coffin from their shoulders onto the slate floor.

Strahd kneels beside the simple pine box. His eyes remain fixed on Komzin for a long moment before dropping to regard Ireena’s inert form. His gaze sweeps the length of her bloodied, catatonic body. “My beloved Tatyana… what have these animals done to you?” Two elegant, pale fingers find an unmarred portion of her face and withdraw quickly, as if burned.

Strahd’s voice becomes silk and steel as he stares down at the unmoving Ireena. “She does not see me. Does not know me. You have stolen her very soul from me!” He rises slowly, his eyes never leaving the party. “You brought her to me in a coffin! Like a corpse! You have treated my love as cargo to be transported!”

His smile becomes razor-thin, but his eyes blaze with fury as his voice drops to barely audible. “You will learn what it means to be buried alive, to feel the walls closing in, to scream into darkness that swallows sound. When you have experienced every moment of terror you inflicted upon her, perhaps I will consider your deaths.”

The threat hangs in the air for long minutes before Strahd wheels to face Komzin. “You have bungled this, Komzin…”

The knight sputters, “My Lord, I…I did not mean for the girl to be injured…it happened so fast that…”

“Silence!” Strahd cuts him off and turns away abruptly. He paces the length of the coffin as Komzin continues more quietly, “The kidnapping was ruined by two fools…”

Rakthe’s panicky voice interjects, “Hey, I wasn’t even there!”

Komzin speaks over him. “Blood was shed even before I knew what was happening…it was not my fault!”

Strahd glares furiously at Komzin, but the sound of Conwan clearing his throat snaps the vampire’s attention to the thief. The thought “No one told me that we were not supposed to hurt her,” darts through Conwan’s mind.

The vampire’s dark eyes fix on the halfling as he sneers, “You should have been able to guess I would not wish my beloved to be injured.” The vampire, it seems, reads thoughts with ease. “You are the assassin of Vallaki, no? You serve that idiot Burgomaster.”

Conwan voices his denial aloud, “Komzin didn’t tell me we weren’t supposed to hurt her. My damage to her was minimal, only enough to deliver the poison meant to subdue her…”

Komzin wrestles control of the account back from Conwan. “The violence used was from others, Lord, foolish others…I never intended…my humblest apologies, Lord. I wish to make this up to you, I will do anything…” He stands before the vampire, head bowed in submission.

Count Strahd von Zarovich becomes still as one of his gargoyles, his voice a deadly hiss. “I have waited four hundred years for her return. Four hundred years of patience, of careful planning, of hope. And you… you destroyed her in a single journey.” His voice drops to a whisper that carries the weight of centuries. “Your punishment will span centuries. You will serve me as mindless thralls, watching as I attempt again and again to restore what you have broken, knowing that your cruelty may have cost me my one chance at…”

The count inscribes a sigil with his left hand. In a flash of light, Komzin and Rakthe vanish.

Strahd shows no surprise that Conwan still stands before him. The halfling speaks quietly, defiantly. “I might be useful to you.”

Strahd studies him for several beats before responding, “Yes, you might. Your price? It is gold that you wish, yes? Tell me how much you want to betray your current master. What is your life worth?”

Conwan calculates quickly. “Twenty-seven thousand gold pieces.”

Strahd allows himself a mirthless smile. “You are not worth that much.” He performs the same sigil, and this time, Conwan vanishes.

He materializes alongside Rakthe and Komzin in a dank, dark vaulted space reeking of decay. From the blackness surrounding them comes the sound of scuttling as whatever dwells in this place becomes aware of their presence.