The table groans under the weight of the feast—thick wolf steaks still sizzling, rich stew sending up clouds of savory steam, earthy mushrooms glistening with butter, roasted potatoes with crispy edges, and bread so fresh the crust crackles when torn. The scent of it all mingles with the wood smoke from the hearth, warm and welcoming.
Burgomaster Dimitri Kreskov rises, candlelight catching on his goblet as he raises it high. “To Ratrick! For bringing my son home safely, and for training him in the ways of defense. We are in your debt.”
The group echoes back enthusiastically, “To Ratrick!” Their voices bounce off the inn’s low ceiling.
The rogue shifts in his seat, cheeks flushing as all eyes turn to him. He waves a hand dismissively, but there’s a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“So, my friends,” the Burgomaster leans forward, genuine interest lighting his weathered face, “what comes next for you? Where does your road lead from here?”
Zilk chews thoughtfully, taking his time with a particularly tender piece of steak. He swallows, then meets the Burgomaster’s gaze. “We need a high-level cleric. Someone powerful enough to resurrect the body we’re carrying in our wagon.” He pauses, grimacing slightly. “And honestly? We’d rather not visit the Abbot again if we can help it.”
Dimitri’s expression darkens, and he nods slowly. “I don’t blame you one bit. We have as little to do with the abbey as we can manage.” His jaw tightens. “If I could move all of Kresk—every building, every stone—I would order it done in a heartbeat.”
Anna Kreskova, seated beside her husband, cradles a cup of tea in both hands. Steam rises from it, carrying hints of chamomile and honey. She speaks quietly, but everyone falls silent to hear her. “I was raised by a healer, a wise woman who knew the old ways. She told me something once, when I was very young.” She looks up, meeting each of their eyes in turn. “She said that the only person in the entire land of Barovia who might return someone from the land of the dead was the Abbot. But she warned me, too—the cost for doing such a thing would be very, very steep.”
The comrades exchange weighted glances across the flickering candles.
“I wonder,” Novaril begins, his brow furrowing in thought, “if there’s a way to find out what god the Abbot actually serves. I mean, depending upon the deity, we might be able to convince him that his god would want this resurrection. That it would serve the greater purpose of defeating Strahd.”
“Or,” Zilk suggests, leaning back in his chair with a thoughtful expression, “maybe the Vistani will know of someone else. Someone who has that kind of power but doesn’t come with the Abbot’s particular… complications.”
“Well, my friends, you have my best wishes for good luck. And fortune may already be smiling on you.” The Burgomaster pushes back from the table, his chair scraping against the worn floorboards. “The Vistani wagon that travels to the outside world—it’s due any day now. If you stay in Kresk, you can ask the driver yourself when they come through.” He gestures to his family. “But for now, I must take my family home. It’s quite late, and the streets grow dark. Come, Ilya!”
Ilya’s gaze finds Ratrick, lingering there with unspoken gratitude and something like reluctance. Ratrick offers a small wave, nodding toward the door. Go on. Ilya sighs but follows the Burgomaster and his mother out into the deepening dusk, the door closing softly behind them.
⚔
Ratrick, followed closely by Zilk, steps out into the dying light. The air has turned cool and crisp, tinged with the scent of pine and distant woodsmoke. The rogue pulls out his longicle, extending it with a soft click, and trains it on the abbey’s bell tower looming against the darkening sky.
“There’s something up there,” he murmurs, adjusting the focus. “A rusted symbol, high atop the bell tower. Looks like… a road, maybe? Heading into a sunset. Or a sunrise. Hard to tell with all the rust. And the mists.”
The pair returns to the warmth of the inn, and Crystal leans in to examine Ratrick’s description. Her eyes widen with recognition. “That’s the symbol of Lathander,” she says softly, scales catching the firelight. “The Morninglord. My own deity.”
⚔
Morning breaks over Kresk with pale, watery light filtering through heavy clouds. The group scatters to pass the time, each pursuing their own interests through the small mountain village.
Novaril finds a merchant and barters successfully for a sturdy grappling hook and fifty feet of good hemp rope. Nike, meanwhile, spots a particularly large, orange carrot sitting unattended in a vendor’s cart. The temptation proves too much—they snatch it up and dart away. Watching this unfold with weary resignation, Zilk sighs and pays the irritated vendor… pulling the coins directly from Nike’s own gold pouch, which he’s been carrying for safekeeping.
⚔
Across the town square, near a weathered barn, an older woman with silver-streaked hair watches Shifty carefully feeding his cats. She approaches, wringing her hands.
“Excuse me, young man? Would you… would your cats be willing to clear my barn of rodents? They’ve gotten quite out of hand, I’m afraid.”
Soon enough, Steve the Cat prowls through the dim barn, whiskers twitching. She pounces, lightning-quick, and emerges victorious with a fat rat clamped in her jaws. She settles down to share her prize with Kitten, who purrs enthusiastically.
Other rats, sensing the danger, flee in panic from the barn. One particularly large specimen races past Nike in a gray blur. Rinaldo the Rabbit’s ears perk up, and he darts after it, giving chase with single-minded determination. Nike bolts after them both, boots pounding the packed earth.
The prey and predator dash between the legs of a man hauling his washing from the clothesline, his arms full of clean linens. He does not notice the two creature that race between his legs as he enters his house. The door slams shut just as Nike reaches it—*BANG*—right in their face.
Nike pounds on the door, urgency in each thump. “Open up! My rabbit!” through the door they can hear surprised cries and the crashing of fallen crockery.
The door flies open. The man glares, gesturing wildly at a pile of smoldering cloth on his floor—apparently knocked into his hearth during the chaos. But before anyone can say anything, the rat and rabbit race back through his legs, disappearing across the green. The man slams the door again with an exasperated shout.
Nike turns away, scanning the square for any sign of Rinaldo, when a new sound catches everyone’s attention.
The rattle and creak of the Kresk gate opening echoes across the village. Every head turns.
A wagon rolls through—gaudily painted in swirls of crimson and gold, purple and green, covered in symbols and patterns that seem to shift and dance in the light. The driver wears a coat of green and purple that practically shouts his presence. He’s grinning broadly, but there’s something cruel in the expression, something mocking.
“So good to see you again, friends,” he calls out, his voice dripping with false warmth. His sneer widens as his eyes sweep over the group. “And I see you’ve brought other companions with you this time. How… delightful.”
Recognition hits like a punch to the gut.
Arrigal.
Crystal’s eyes blaze with sudden fury, flames literally licking over her scales. The temperature around her spikes. Without hesitation, without warning, she unleashes a powerful fire spell. The flames roar through the air and strike Arrigal square in the chest with a WHOOSH of superheated air.
In the distance, running toward them across the square, the familiar voice of the Burgomaster rings out. “What are you doing? Stop this! Stop!!”
But it’s too late to stop now.
Arrigal staggers back in the wagon seat, smoke rising from his scorched coat in gray tendrils. But instead of crying out, instead of fleeing, his grin only widens. His hand darts to a leather pouch at his waist, fingers closing around something within. He draws out a small object—too small to see clearly—and hurls it directly at Crystal.
Time seems to slow as the object spins through the air toward the dragonborn…
