Madame Wachter needs a full day to prepare her husband’s body for transport, which leaves the friends with an unexpected gift: time, and pockets heavy with hard-won gold that clinks with promise in the perpetual twilight of Barovia.
The air in Vallaki’s cramped market square hangs thick with fog and the acrid smell of tallow candles. Zilk and Ratrick move together through the narrow streets, their boots squelching in mud that never quite dries. They find an armorer working by firelight in a shop that reeks of leather oil and metal polish. The studded armor they purchase is heavy, practical—the rivets cold and rough beneath their fingers as they test the weight. A wise investment in a land where death lurks behind every misty corner.
Crystal disappears into her own focused world, hunched over a workbench in the dim light of their lodgings. The rasp of file against steel fills the room as she works, transforming an ordinary dagger into something far more deadly. The blade catches what little light filters through the grimy windows, now wickedly sharp and perfectly balanced in her palm. But she doesn’t stop there. Her hands move with purpose as she crafts claws—first for Renaldo, Nike’s new animal companion whose eyes gleam with feral intelligence, then for the two bizarre reptiles that Biblo has somehow acquired.
One is a massive snapping turtle, its shell scarred and ancient, its jaws powerful enough to sever bone. The other defies explanation entirely—a land tortoise with the unsettling ability to vanish from sight. Biblo purchases a small saddle that smells of old leather and desperation from a bewildered merchant, strapping it to the tortoise’s broad shell. When he climbs aboard, testing his theory, both rider and mount shimmer and disappear completely. His delighted laughter echoes from thin air, disembodied and strange in the Barovian gloom.
⚔
They set off eastward toward Krezk as dawn—if it can be called that—breaks grey and listless over the valley. The road stretches before them, rutted and treacherous, winding through countryside where even the grass seems to shrink from the traveler’s touch.
Nike walks point, her eyes scanning the path ahead, but the monotony of endless grey fog and twisted trees dulls even the sharpest vigilance. She doesn’t notice the pit trap until it’s almost too late—a cunningly concealed gap in the center of the road, its edges camouflaged with rotting branches and brown leaves.
From the driver’s bench on the wagon, Crystal’s sharp intake of breath cuts through the creak of the wheels. “Stop!” Her warning comes just in time, halting Nike mid-step. They gather at the edge, peering down into darkness that seems to have no bottom, imagining the rusted spikes that surely wait below.
⚔
After crossing the Luna River—its waters running black and cold, lapping at the bridge stones with an almost hungry sound—they enter the countryside they remember all too well. These are the same haunted woods they cut through on their return from Argynvostholt, where the trees grow too close together and the shadows move independently of any light source.
The attack comes without warning.
Two hulking creatures that defy identification burst from the tree line, their movements jerky and unnatural. Behind them, six scarecrows lurch into motion, their burlap faces blank and terrible, their movements accompanied by the dry rustle of straw and the creak of wooden joints. The horse screams, wild-eyed with terror, nearly overturning the wagon as it tries to bolt.
Crystal and Shifty react in perfect synchronization. Fire blooms in their hands, bright and furious against the grey Barovian landscape. The heat washes over everyone in waves as flames arc through the air, hungry and consuming. The scarecrows shriek—a sound like wind through autumn leaves—as fire catches in their dry straw bodies. One by one they collapse, burning and writhing, the smell of scorched cloth and charred wood thick enough to taste.
⚔
Nike and Biblo have managed to corner the other two creatures, herding them away from the wagon. Up close, the things are even stranger—enormous pumpkins, orange and bulbous, supported on spindly root-like legs that dig into the earth with each step. Their carved faces flicker with an inner light that isn’t quite fire.
But they don’t attack. They stand there, swaying slightly, their jack-o’-lantern grins somehow more curious than menacing.
Nike extends a cautious hand, her voice low and calm. “Easy. We don’t want to hurt you.”
Biblo, still invisible atop his tortoise, speaks from somewhere nearby, his voice carrying an unexpected gentleness. “Would you… like to join us?”
The pumpkin creatures tilt toward each other as if conferring. Then, without warning, a voice blooms directly in everyone’s minds—wordless but somehow comprehensible, a feeling more than language. Images flicker through their consciousness: loneliness, wandering, the desire for companionship in this cursed land.
They don’t speak Common, but they don’t need to. The telepathic connection thrums between them all, strange and intimate, as the pumpkin creatures shuffle forward to accept the invitation, their spindly legs clicking softly against stone.
