10/14/2026: The Long Morning (Wednesday Curse of Strahd Game Log)

Krelldutt opens the negotiations by planting a field of invisible thorns around Baba Lysaga. Twisted spikes erupt from the ground and pierce the leather soles of her shoes, and she screeches. Morgantha sprints to her side without seeing what surrounds her mother, and soon she is shrieking too. In her fury she hurls lightning at Komzin. The knight arches his back as it tears through him.

The hut crashes closer like something out of a fever dream. One heavy root lashes out and slams into Vincent. Fiznik throws up a ward a beat too late to stop the blow, but in time to make it hurt slightly less.

Offalia steps neatly around the thorns and adds her own lightning. Komzin takes the full force of it and drops, dying, into the mud. Offalia cackles.

Baba screeches across the swamp to her daughters. "I want the intruders alive for my boy, Strahd. They are a gift for my son. Leave the traitor Komzin to die!"

No one in the party wishes to be gift-wrapped for Strahd. Running is the obvious answer, but Komzin is still bleeding in the mud, and nobody will leave him there.

Baba looks down at her own wounds and makes some private calculations. Then she vanishes into the Ethereal Plane and leaves her daughters behind. The coven breaks at once, and so do the daughters' voices. "Mother, no!" they shriek into the empty air.

Vincent dashes to Komzin and coaxes the breath back into him. The knight rolls over, coughs, and opens his eyes.

Orbart arrives at last. He wades into the scarecrows with his mace and the last of his divine patience, then charges horns-first at one and misses by a hair. It is a magnificent miss all the same. He wheels and snorts.

Inside the tottering hut, Krelldutt spies a lantern swinging from a ceiling timber, with a green gem glowing inside it. He draws, fires, and cleanly severs the cord. The lantern falls and the gem shatters. The hut freezes mid-stride.

Somewhere very far away, someone bellows in fury.

With their reach suddenly shortened, Morgantha and Offalia slip into the Ethereal Plane after their mother. Torgan cheers them out and calls them cowards.

Cowardice is not the likeliest explanation. But neither Torgan nor anyone else knows that yet.

Vincent's spellcasting focus is in the hags' hands, but he discovers that some of his magic never needed it. Two beams of crackling force reduce the last scarecrow to kindling. Everyone silently agrees this would have been useful about an hour earlier.

⚔

The party flees through the bog. Krelldutt's ranger instincts steer them around a patch of quicksand ringed with the bones of deer and smaller, less fortunate creatures. At the edge of Berez, the hag's eye they shattered weeks ago flickers to life for one brief moment.

"I will have my revenge," rasps Baba Lysaga from somewhere inside the broken crystal. Then it goes dark.

Nobody comments on this. Everyone walks faster.

Krelldutt spends the last of his healing magic on his companions. It does not stretch quite as far as anyone would like.

⚔

On the road, Krelldutt finds tracks: eight wolves, bigger than ordinary wolves but smaller than dire wolves, headed east toward the river. Everyone agrees not to go east toward the river.

A ways on, they come upon a wagon, a half-eaten horse, and a weeping woman named Marisha. She says wolves have dragged her husband Yuri toward the river. "Can't you hear him screaming?" she cries.

They can. They follow the sound, going east toward the river.

The blood trail is easy to follow, almost too easy. At the riverbank the screaming stops. A tall werewolf steps from the grass, caught halfway between beast and man. "Marisha," he growls. "Good work." Seven more follow him out.

"We might see our way to letting you pass," says the pack leader, "if you pay a toll."

Fiznik offers his magic lantern.

"We have no need for a lantern, gnome."

Fiznik starts to explain that it is magic, then gives up and offers his teleporting boots instead. These the werewolf finds useful. Krelldutt offers his enchanted barrister's wig, which is declined on aesthetic grounds. The relieved tortle settles it back on his head and hands over three platinum coins instead, freshly minted and sharp with the profile of Lord Strahd himself.

Torgan sizes up the pack, concludes he could take them, and is talked down. He contributes a bottle of ancient vintage instead.

It is poisoned. He has been saving it for just such an occasion.

The werewolves thank them for their business and melt into the trees with the boots, the coins, and the wine. The party limps back toward the vineyard with fewer valuables and every member still breathing.

They congratulate one another that nobody died.

Somewhere in the woods, eight werewolves are about to share a drink.

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