The dwarf Torgan was promised a magical greataxe by a Vistani woman he met while traveling along the forest road. In hindsight, following her directions through the massive gates seems ill-advised. The choking fumes of the fog that engulfed him as he tried to retrace his steps drove him forward into this dreary land. The road west offers his only hope of shelter from the penetrating rain and the distant howling of wolves.
He finds a grim and decaying settlement, the Village of Barovia, crouched in the shadow of an enormous castle that looms from distant cliffs.
Torgan feels tremendous relief upon discovering the Slaughtered Lamb Inn before what little light the low clouds permit disappears entirely. The innkeeper, sour-faced and gruff, informs him there will be no hot meal here—he must go to the tavern if he wishes to eat.
The man leads Torgan to a small room where dust lies thick on rickety, scuffed furniture. The close air reeks of unwashed linens. More offensive still, the unmade bed contains several black feathers scattered among rumpled sheets that might not have been changed in weeks.
Relieved to escape the inn, Torgan makes his way down the muddy main street toward the promise of a hot meal and cold ale. The Blood on the Vine Tavern couldn’t possibly be worse than the inn.
⚔
Duster ties his weary horse to the post behind the moss-covered building. The weathered sign reads “Blood of the Vine Tavern,” though someone has defaced it to say “Blood on the Vine.” He pushes through the door into warmth and lamplight. The place is small but crowded, each table occupied by pairs and trios of grim Barovians sitting in near-silence over their mugs. The air hangs heavy with pipe smoke and the sour smell of cheap wine.
A short, thickset man at the largest table waves Duster over. The kenku moves past three exotically dressed women—Vistani, likely—perched on barstools. Across the room near a sputtering fireplace, the man impatiently waves at Duster. He is attended by an enormously tall fellow in dirty overalls whose slack-jawed expression seems childlike. Duster settles into the proffered chair at the man’s elbow. The rogue's sharp eyes catch the glint of a heavy gold ring on the man’s finger. A Burgomaster’s ring.
“Hello, stranger!” the man bellows, grinning broadly, clapping Duster on the shoulder. “I am Bildrath Cantemir, the NEW Burgomaster of the Village of Barovia! Have you come to celebrate our change in leadership?”
Duster bobs his head. “I am here to meet a friend.”
“Arik!” the man shouts over his shoulder. “Get this honored guest a drink!” The dour barman pours wine into a pair of wooden goblets and sets them before the two men with barely a glance.
The man raises his cup. “To me, the new Burgomaster of the Village of Barovia, Bildrath the First!” He swigs from his cup, slopping wine down his front. The sour reek of alcohol on his breath makes it clear this is far from his first goblet today.
“Parriwimple!” the man snarls. “Bring me a towel!” The large man—broad-shouldered but wearing a frightened expression—scuttles to another table and returns very cautiously to offer a cloth, as if trying not to get too close to the new Burgomaster. Bildrath savagely snatches it from his hand. “Fool of a nephew,” he mutters at the cowering giant.
A dwarf, dressed as a warrior, bangs through the tavern door at that moment. Bildrath’s eyes narrow. “Is this the friend you are waiting for?” he murmurs to Duster from the side of his mouth.
“Not dwarf, turtle,” Duster responds, shaking his head as the newcomer makes his way to the bar.
Torgan strides to the bar and demands, “I’ll have an ale." His baritone voice carries in the hushed space. The three Vistani women on their barstools swivel to stare down at him.
“No ale,” the barman, leaning across the bar to stare down at the barbarian, says flatly, “Wine or fire whisky.”
The barbarian sputters in exasperation. “What kind of tavern has no ale?”
“Our brewer left town,” the barman explains without emotion. “Wine or whisky?”
“Better make it whisky,” Torgan grumbles. “And if you’re looking for someone to make you more ale, I’m a brewer. At least then I’ll have something decent to drink.”
One of the Vistani women slips from her stool and twines her arm around Torgan’s shoulder. “Come with me,” she purrs. “I have a business proposition for you to consider.”
She leads the dwarf, still carrying his goblet, down narrow, dark stairs into the musty cellar. The space is poorly lit by flickering oil lamps that cast dancing shadows across barrels and brewing equipment. The air is cool and damp, thick with the smell of earth and fermentation.
“I am Sorvia. If you brew ale for the tavern, I will pay you, give you a bed, and feed you two meals each day. Is it a deal?”
Torgan shakes her hand and surveys the room. After she returns with a straw mattress and bedding to drop them in a far corner, she gestures around the musty, damp space. “You are welcome to use any of the brewing supplies and to snack on the dried apples and sausage. But avoid the door to the storage room—it is usually kept locked. It is my sister’s office, nothing but records for the tavern kept there. She is very particular and will not wish her paperwork disturbed.”
Upstairs, Duster sips his wine and waits, listening to the low murmur of Barovian conversations and the occasional clink of goblets.
⚔
Komzin, Bayleaf, and Rakthe stand in the ruins of the wedding cake, crumbs and flakes of dried frosting dusting their clothes. Beneath the long dining table, they can hear Piddlewick the puppet dragging itself across the floor, its wooden joints scraping against threadbare carpet.
Komzin yanks the thick curtain aside, brass rings jingling, and a tall window is revealed. He seizes an elaborately carved chair and swings it hard—the glass shatters explosively, shards scattering outward onto the ramparts as damp wind rushes in, carrying the smell of rain and decay.
From behind them in the library, a door opens and slams shut. A feeble, female voice calls out. “Who is there? Where are you?” An old nurse appears, silhouetted in the dining room doorway. She squints into the darkness, her eyes struggling to adjust. “Are you the healers? It is about time you arrived! The Lord Strahd impatiently awaits your help for this poor girl. She lies through here.” The old woman gestures vaguely behind her. If she notices their weapons, she gives no sign.
Bayleaf clears his throat. “What young woman needs help?”
The woman points to the portrait over the fireplace in the library—the one titled “Tatiana.”
“We were just leaving,” Komzin interrupts, throwing back the heavy velvet curtains that have fallen again across the now-broken window. Rakthe climbs through, followed by Bayleaf.
“Wait!” the old woman calls as Komzin climbs over the low sill, her voice rising. “She needs your help!” The words crack with outrage and desperation.
They emerge onto the ramparts, squinting against the chill wind and stinging rain.
To their left, the wall walk leads into a darkened barrel tower where one leg of a tall ladder disappears upward into shadow.
Before them stretches a perilously narrow span that reaches toward the outer curtain wall. Near the far end of this bridge, a pale green figure glows faintly in the gloom, repeating the same motion endlessly—pushing something unseen over the side of the low wall where, eighty feet below, are the slick cobbles of the bailey.
To their right, ten yards away, a narrow spiral stair disappears downward into darkness of Ravenloft.
Komzin squints through the rain. “These must be the guards’ stairs. They will lead down to the dormitory and past, I think, to the dungeon. If we are fortunate, we will encounter no one. We can try to reach the bottom and use the brazier to travel to the Amber Temple.”
Down they follow the turning of the stairs, their boots scraping against worn stone. They hear distant echoes—distant voices, the slam of a door, once a snatch of humming—but meet no one. Finally, they can see the bottom through the gloom. They reach the staircase where they sheltered after the fight with the vampire spawn. The group slogs past the chamber that imprisoned them through sticky mud. Finally, they enter a vast torture chamber. A rope still hangs limply from the balcony above, swaying slightly in some unfelt draft.
At the top waits the teleportation brazier that will carry them to the Amber Temple and the ritual scroll that they might trade for a reprieve from Strahd.
⚔
In the darkened taproom of the Blue Water Inn, Krelldutt stares down at Danika, whose eyes glisten with unshed tears. Her boys, Bray and Brom, stand nearby, each clutching a small bundle of possessions. Their mother will leave them with friends before traveling west to join her husband, Urwin.
“If all goes well,” Danika says, her voice catching, “we will meet you in a few days at the Village of Barovia.” She dabs at her eyes, then suddenly rises on her toes to peck the tortle’s cheek. “Lock the tavern when you leave, Krelldutt. I pray you will travel safely.” She turns to take her sons’ hands, not looking back as they disappear through the kitchen door of the tavern.
As Krelldutt waits for his party to assemble, he examines the broken hilt of the Sunsword. The moment his fingers close around it, he feels vibrations of emotion emanating from within the shattered blade—hatred and fear directed at the vampire Strahd, mingled with a strange certainty that their meeting is inevitable and fast approaching.
As Blinsky and Udo arrive, Krelldutt tucks the hilt into his belt. Soon after, Hoolian and Feesh appear, leading a string of horses whose hooves clatter on the cobblestones. Krelldutt pays these two red guard the balance of what he owes them, and they help Udo and Blinsky into their borrowed armor, checking straps and buckles. Krelldutt inspects the sixth horse, securing packs and saddlebags containing provisions, rope, and extra weapons.
They depart, heading east toward the Village of Barovia. With any luck, they will arrive by midday. What little sun there is behind the misting clouds begins to lighten the skies of Vallaki.
