09/10/2025: The Consorts and the Tax Collectors

The three companions stand in the vast undercroft of Castle Ravenloft, their breath echoing in the cavernous space. Scuttling sounds surround them from all directions as hidden creatures moving through the darkness. Conwan ignites his lantern, and Rakthe draws closer to share the flickering circle of light.

The wavering illumination reveals several small mausoleums lining both sides of a wide stone avenue. The nearest tomb bears an inscription carved deep into its marble door: “Ilka ~ Consort of Strahd von Zarovitch. She knew her place.” Cowan raises the lantern higher, counting four burial structures on each side of the corridor, each designed to house a single occupant.

From one of the sealed tombs, a hoarse voice hisses through the stone, “I can smell your blood!” The heavy door begins to scrape against the stone floor as an unseen being struggles to force it open from within. Across the corridor, another door slides open with disturbing ease, releasing a wave of putrid air. A slender, pale woman emerges from the foul-smelling darkness, her tattered gown trailing behind her. She smiles, revealing gleaming fangs.

“Now, sister, patience!” she purrs to the mausoleum that is but half open. “We have yet to welcome these newcomers to Lord Strahd’s City of the Dead. I am Leonore.” Her eyes scan the group before widening with recognition. “Komzin, is that truly you? You must have upset our master quite severely to have him send you to this place!”

Komzin responds warily, “I guess I must have.”

Leonore traces one pointed nail along the tomb wall, then she approaches, her voice dropping to a silky whisper. “You recall the last time we were together? What you did to me? What you did to Ilka?”

“I do,” Komzin acknowledges grimly.

“We will repay you for your cruelty!” Leonore lunges forward just as the struggling door finally gives way with a resounding crack. The vampire spawn called Ilka bursts from her prison, her own tattered gown whipping around her as she fixes her glare on the speakers. She screams Komzin’s name and rushes toward him with inhuman speed.

Conwan yanks a smoke grenade from beneath his cloak and hurls it onto the stone floor. Thick gray smoke billows instantly, blinding everyone in this section of the undercroft. The assassin vanishes into the choking darkness.

Ilka throws herself onto Komzin’s back, clawing ineffectually at his throat. The knight twists free and brings his great sword down in two savage strikes. Her shrieks of pain and rage reverberate around the stone chambers, echoing off distant walls. The sounds of additional tomb doors being forced open drift through the smoke.

Rakthe stumbles forward through the blinding haze toward the noise of Komzin’s grunts of effort, only to barrel directly into the fighter. They knock Komzin to the ground. In the confusion, Leonore strikes Rakthe, grappling them and sinking her fangs deep into their neck. Rakthe’s injury spurts into the mouth of the vicious creature.

Enraged, she throws the vampire spawn off and swings their battleaxe in a wide arc, but misses. Leonore recovers quickly, launching herself back at Rakthe with renewed fury. Her teeth find flesh again, and blood streams down Rakthe’s chest as they feel their strength ebbing with each passing moment.

Komzin rolls to his feet and swings at Ilka but misses in the swirling smoke. He bolts toward the nearest open tomb, reasoning the narrow entrance will force the spawn to attack one at a time. Inside, he discovers an inert figure draped in black silk lying upon a marble slab.

As Komzin backs deeper into the mausoleum, the shrouded body sits up abruptly. The black silk slides into the figure’s lap, revealing Deprimer’s familiar features. The Burgomaster of Vallaki regards Komzin with cold disdain.

“You were always expendable,” Deprimer sneers. “I’m glad you will die doing something useful.”

A third vampire spawn, also clad in a tattered robe, pads up to the tomb door. She sneers at Komzin, slamming it shut with finality. Komzin hears a bolt slide into place, trapping him inside.

⚔

Moving silently between the tombs, Conwan hears doors creaking open throughout the undercroft. He rounds one of the stone structures and stops short. A scarlet glow emanates from beneath an arch bearing the inscription “Bucephalus,” etched into the stone.  He is alert to yet another nightmare’s presence. The massive beast’s hooves smolder as it tears hay from a feeding rack, filling the air with the acrid stench of brimstone and manure.

Conwan draws his short bow and releases an arrow that buries itself deep in Bucephalus’s hock. The creature rears with a bone-chilling scream, twin jets of flame erupting from its nostrils. The chain tethering it to the wall snaps under the strain. Bucephalus wheels toward Conwan, its burning hooves striking sparks from the stone as it charges forward to trample the assassin. Conwan dodges, but the relentless nightmare continues its assault on him.

⚔

Back in the dreary safe house, Duster perches on a chair facing Krieger across the worn wooden table. The knight leers at the kenku, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Brilliant!” he exclaims. “The fool will never suspect you of anything now that you’ve visited him this morning. You are a cunning one, Mr. Duster… or should I say, ‘Burgomaster.’”

Duster remains motionless as Krieger continues his explanation. “I have assigned you to accompany the Burgomaster’s tax collection group. You’ll go with two Red Guards to the Schmidt mansion. Schmidt is that loudmouthed lumber merchant who publicly humiliated Deprimer, so everyone knows he despises the current Burgomaster, so an assassination attempt will not be unexpected. Schmidt will resist the tax demand, naturally. He’s been supplied with poison and a blade by Scholtz and will attack Deprimer. Even if Schmidt fails to kill him outright, Scholtz can step in and ‘save’ Deprimer. He’ll be welcomed as the returning hero, forgiven for all past transgressions. But sadly, the Burgomaster will still meet an untimely end, conveniently out of sight of the rest of Vallaki.” Krieger fixes his stare on the kenku. “Then you, Mr. Duster, will assume the role of Burgomaster. You have the disguise ready?”

Duster bobs his head.

“Excellent. Go now to meet the Red Guards and Deprimer. Stay alert. I must ensure the regular guards are given full cooperation as our tax collectors. Their coffers will be overflowing and ripe for the taking. Do you understand, Mr. Duster? I mean, ‘Burgomaster’?”

Again, Duster nods.

⚔

“But it is income, Krelldutt.” Deprimer struggles to keep irritation from his voice as the tortle stubbornly resists. “It was a gift, Deprimer. Not income from employment!”

“It was a substantial gift, Krelldutt. You owe Vallaki taxes on Strahd’s largesse.” The two men glare at each other until Krelldutt reluctantly leaves four gold pieces and a handful of silver with Deprimer. The eladrin watches his traveling companion depart without emotion, then turns to find the two Red Guards assigned to accompany him to the lumber merchant’s residence.

A short while later, one of the guards pounds on the carved door of the Schmidt house. Duster stands at Deprimer’s elbow. The four present an imposing presence to the timid servant who opens the door.

The mansion sprawls before them, nearly as grand as the Burgomaster’s own residence despite Vallaki’s general decay. They are escorted to Schmidt’s study and offered refreshments while they wait. Deprimer declines on behalf of the group, and the servant withdraws, leaving them alone.

The wait stretches endlessly. Deprimer shifts with growing impatience while the bored guards stare out windows overlooking one of the city’s main streets. The Wachterhaus squats across the way, dark and silent. Duster examines items on shelves and tables, picking up objects and replacing them with apparent casualness. Thirty minutes drag by.

Finally, Schmidt bustles in without apology for his tardiness. He settles behind his carved desk and dispenses with pleasantries immediately. “You have wasted your time, ‘Burgomaster.’ I will pay you nothing.”

“You are refusing to pay your taxes, Schmidt?” Deprimer’s voice carries deceptive calm.

Schmidt juts his chin defiantly and he begins rummaging through a desk drawer, producing a ledger which he slams onto the desktop. “I will pay you nothing, Deprimer!” He opens the ledger with theatrical flourish.

“You owe taxes, Schmidt. Everyone in Vallaki is paying their taxes, and you owe your share.” Schmidt retrieves a pen from the drawer and slams it down onto the open ledger.

“As I said, ‘Burgomaster,’” Schmidt spits the title like an oath, “I will pay you nothing!”

From the drawer, the merchant unexpectedly produces a blade. It drips with some sort of pale, viscous liquid, and Schmidt flicks it inexpertly at Deprimer. The weapon embeds itself in a cushion on the overstuffed settee behind the eladrin, sending up a cloud of feathers. Deprimer flinches in disbelief while the guards and Duster stand frozen.

The door to the office opens, drawing everyone’s attention to a massive man in a Red Guard chest plate crosses to stand behind Schmidt. The lumber merchant gazes up sheepishly as the newcomer sneers down at him. “You missed him. Fool.”

“Scholtz.” Deprimer masks his surprise. “Guards, arrest him.”

Scholtz raises one hand with an evil smile, staying the guards’ approach. “My friends,” he purrs to the armored men, “are you certain you wish to follow this… elf… rather than a native Vallakian?.”

Deprimer speaks in a low, steady voice, “Remember, I made sure your back pay was distributed to every guardsman. Every copper reached all the guards.”

Scholtz barks harsh laughter. “Deprimer is a stranger who will never understand our ways. Follow me and you’ll earn more gold than any mere Red Guard wages!”

Reading the guards’ faces, Deprimer knows he has lost them to Scholtz. The druid draws his weapon and ignites a Flame Blade spell, wreathing his sword in crackling green fire. He casts Misty Step, teleporting past Schmidt’s servant and into the front door. He darts through it, and leaps down the porch stairs. Deprimer dashes into the nearly empty street toward a familiar approaching figure.

“Krieger, thank the gods you’re here…” Deprimer gasps, breathless from his escape.

A cold smile spreads across Krieger’s face, never reaching his eyes. He advances toward the Burgomaster with predatory purpose.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​