The cemetery air hangs thick with mist and the smell of wet earth. Ancient headstones lean at drunken angles through the fog, their weathered inscriptions barely visible in the pale moonlight filtering through gnarled oak branches. The clatter of bone against bone echoes off the crumbling mausoleums as the battle with the skeletal guardians reaches its crescendo.
Ratrick darts between two skeleton warriors, his blade flashing silver in the ghostly light. The undead creatures move with unnatural jerky motions, their empty eye sockets glowing with malevolent green fire. One swipes at him with yellowed claws, and there is a sharp intake of breath as bone rakes across leather armor. Ratrick fall, lifeless.
The cemetery seems to pulse with dark energy. The very ground beneath them feels unstable, as if more restless dead below might rise at any moment to join their bony brethren.
Zilk stumbles backward, blood streaming from a gash across his forehead where a skeleton’s rusty sword found its mark. His usually nimble footwork falters on the uneven ground littered with fallen leaves and broken grave markers. His eyes roll back as he collapses beside a moss-covered effigy, its stone wings spread protectively over his still form.
“Ratrick will owe me more caterpillars!” Shifty’s voice cracks with panic as he scurries across the treacherous terrain, dodging grasping skeleton hands. His small form moves like shadow between the tombstones, finally reaching the fallen ratling just as another undead warrior bears down on Biblo.
Shifty’s healing magic glows warm gold against the cold cemetery night, a beacon of life in this place of death. The ozone scent of divine energy mixing with the musty odor of decay rises as he works frantically over Ratrick’s prone form.
Novaril’s voice rises in melodic incantation, and suddenly eight perfect berries materialize in his palm, each one glowing with soft green light like tiny lanterns. The sight is almost surreal against the backdrop of crumbling stone and twisted iron. He presses them into Zilk’s mouth as Biblo steadies the bugbear’s head. Color slowly returns to his gray-tinged cheeks.
The last skeleton crumbles to dust with a sound like wind through dry leaves, and sudden silence falls over the cemetery. Even the ever-present whisper of wind through the trees seems to hold its breath. The mist swirls around them, carrying the scent of some long-forgotten grave.
“Well done, Papa,” Ilya says, his voice warm with pride as he claps Ratrick on the shoulder. The sound echoes off the nearby mausoleum walls. “Now we can claim what Argynvost promised us.”
They turn toward the treasury door, expecting the familiar sight of hinges and locks, see only smooth, featureless steel. The surface reflects the cemetery’s ghostly atmosphere like a dark mirror, showing tired faces and the mist curling around muddy feet. Ratrick runs his hands over the cold metal, feeling for any imperfection, any clue. Nothing.
Zilk’s lockpicks click uselessly against the seamless surface of the cold steel. His tools are useless against this magical barrier.
“Step aside,” Crystal growls, her dragon heritage evident in the slight rasp of her voice. Her breath weapon erupts in a torrent of orange flame that turns the door a blazing angry color, but when the fire dies away, the surface remains unmarked. The very air shimmers with heat. The contrast between the searing heat and the cold cemetery air makes Zilk’s skin tingle.
“Darn it, door, open for us!” Crystal snaps, frustration evident in every line of her scaled form.
The change is immediate and unsettling. The smooth steel surface begins to ripple like water as a face emerges from the metal. First comes a long, hooked nose that seems to sniff disdainfully at the group, then a pointed chin sharp enough to cut glass. Two eyes snap open with an audible click, fixing Crystal with a stare that could freeze the blood in her veins.
“You shall not enter!!” The voice booms across the cemetery, causing several ravens to take flight from nearby headstones with indignant caws. The door’s chin juts forward belligerently, and its metallic brows lower in a scowl.
The group stumbles backward instinctively, boots crunching on fallen leaves, loose gravel and shards of shattered bones. The very air around the door seems to thicken with menace.
Nike recovers first, not noticing that her hood has slipped down. “Who are you, door?” they demand. Ilya makes a sharp intake of breath as he notices the changed color of Nike’s hair.
“Papa,” Ilya whispers, tugging on Ratrick’s sleeve with the persistence, “when did they change their hair?”
Crystal, ever protective of Nike’s secrets that she has only just discovered, quickly interrupts. “No, you are mistaken, Ilya.” Her voice carries a note that ends the conversation before it can begin.
The door’s eyes shift to focus on Nike with unsettling intensity. “I am the Guardian Spirit of the Treasury of Argynvostholt,” it intones, its voice echoing off the cemetery stones. “Set to protect the trove that lies within. You shall not enter at the command of my Master!”
“The master of this place, the dragon Argynvost, has given us permission to enter,” Crystal responds firmly, her voice carrying the authority. “We enter his treasury in exchange for service rendered!”
The face melts back into the steel surface like a reflection in disturbed water, then shoots forward again with violent intensity. “Count Strahd is my Master!” The words hit like a physical blow. The temperature in the cemetery seems to drop another few degrees.
Ratrick begins rummaging through his pack. The sound of clinking metal and rustling leather fills the tense silence. Finally, he produces the sentient doorknob claimed from the hags’ windmill, its brass surface gleaming dully in the cemetery’s spectral light.
The knob’s tiny eyes blink to awareness, focusing on the door’s face with recognition that seems almost comical in this surreal situation. The door’s expression shifts immediately – its eyes widen to the size of dinner plates, and its mouth forms a perfect circle of surprise.
“Jimmy?” the knob sputters, its voice high with excitement and disbelief. “Let these travelers in, old friend!”
The door’s indignation is palpable, its metallic features twisting with what can only be described as betrayal. “You know I cannot do that, Burl!” The name comes out like a curse, echoing off the cemetery walls.
Zilk shakes his head with the weary acceptance of someone who has seen too much. “They know one another,” he says to no one in particular, his voice dry as the autumn leaves beneath his feet. “Of course they do.”
“What must I do to convince you, Jimmy?” Burl the doorknob’s voice takes on a wheedling tone. “You owe me, you know… I keep your secret, but I will share it unless you let them in…”
The door actually gasps, a sound like steam escaping from a kettle. “You wouldn’t dare, Burl…”
But Burl has already begun recounting some tale in a voice that carries clearly across the silent cemetery. The door’s expression grows more mortified with each syllable.
Finally, with a sound like a sigh made of metal, the door clicks open. The sound echoes.
Inside the dim space, treasure chests overflow with gold pieces that catch even the very low light. The air here is warm and dry, a welcome contrast to the cemetery’s damp chill. They divide the wealth into individual backpacks, but the slighter party members find they cannot lift the weight of the many coins..
Crystal’s keen eyes locate a small ornate box nestled among the larger treasures. Inside, cushioned on midnight-blue velvet, lies a single diamond the size of a hen’s egg. The gem captures and amplifies the treasury’s golden light, casting rainbow sparkles across the walls like scattered hope.
She holds the diamond up to the light, feeling its weight in her palm. This precious stone will allow them to resurrect Fiona Wachter’s deceased husband – a gift that might help change the very balance of power in this cursed land.
From somewhere in the mist, an owl calls mournfully, and they shiver despite the exertion from the recent battle. They have what they came for, but in this land of eternal shadows, every victory feels temporary.
