Bayleaf the bard jolts awake on a stone shelf, wet and shivering. Water drips from his sodden clothing as consciousness slowly returns. Nearby, something large sloshes through liquid, the sound echoing off unseen walls. He swings his feet down to stand and gasps as frigid, filthy water rises to mid-thigh around him.
“Ah, my friend,” calls a deep voice from the darkness, “you are back among the living!”
Through the rusting iron bars of his cell, Bayleaf makes out a tall, dark-skinned man. The stranger is bald and heavily muscled, pressed close to his own set of bars. As Bayleaf explores his cell door with tentative hands, the stench of the place settles over him—something animal lurking beneath the reek of stagnant water, the smell of damp stone, and the sharp tang of corroding metal.
“Where is this place?” Bayleaf asks, his voice hoarse.
The man’s chuckle holds no mirth. “We are guests in the dungeons of the vampire lord of Barovia, Count Strahd. How did you come to be here? Was it a Vistani called Arrigal? Or perhaps that heartless knight, Komzin?”
Bayleaf shakes his head slowly. “I cannot remember.”
The man introduces himself as Emil Toranescu. Before Bayleaf can respond with his own name, a distant bang echoes through the dungeon, followed by a second. The water around their legs begins flowing away from them, pulling toward some unseen drain. Then the screaming starts.
⚔
Rakthe locates the source of the terrible sound. Doru, the vampire, stands screaming as the water rushing past him causes his submerged flesh to blister and peel. Rakthe strikes twice in the inky darkness, but both swings miss their mark. Even without the Darkness spell hampering them, Rakthe’s eyes cannot penetrate the gloom of this place.
Komzin sloshes back down the corridor, the water receding around his legs. Conwan’s body floats face-down ahead of him, bobbing gently in the rank liquid. The knight reads no sign of life in the halfling’s inert form as he hefts his axe high. It comes down once, twice, three times. Doru rears up in a desperate attempt to save himself and launches his body at Komzin. The powerful leap knocks the knight off his feet. He plunges beneath the oily surface. Doru struggles to hold him under as the blessed water continues its work. The vampire lets out a tremendous groan and falls sideways. Komzin scrambles to his feet and watches with horrified fascination as Doru’s body shrivels to nothing.
⚔
“Please, friend,” Emil’s voice carries urgency now, “see if you can pick the lock or break the door. I myself cannot, and I am weaker now than when I arrived, who knows how long ago. Please! I must get out!”
Bayleaf presses his weight against the bars of his cell door. The metal groans under the pressure, beginning to give. Rusty flakes rain down onto his head and shoulders. He pushes again with all his strength. With a shriek of failing bolts, the door crashes forward into the water with a tremendous splash.
Bayleaf steps into the narrow corridor and wades toward Emil Toranescu’s cell. The animal smell grows stronger with each step. Sweat stands out upon the big man’s bald scalp and forehead despite the chill pervading the cell block.
“Please open my door, friend,” Emil calls. “Don’t leave me here!”
Despite a growing sense of unease, Bayleaf grips the bars and wrenches hard. The door falls inward with a groan. Toranescu, pressed against the back wall of his cell, wipes rank water from his face. He moves into the doorway, hand extended in greeting.
“Thank you,” he says, reaching for Bayleaf’s hand.
He seizes the elf’s hand and attempts to pull him closer. But Bayleaf, a paladin, possesses considerable strength. As his hand is engulfed in Toranescu’s grip, he feels the limb morph and change within his grasp. Coarse fur sprouts between his fingers. Bayleaf finds himself staring into the feral, orange eyes of a very large werewolf.
⚔
They move into the Burgomaster’s bedroom to find no Liber Gothicus on the low, bedside table. Duster shrugs his Deprimer shoulders and turns to leave, the others trailing him. The group move back out into the tight hallway where two Burgomaster’s regard one another, the real Deprimer smug and the false Deprimer unreadable. “And now…?” questions the real Deprimer.
Duster, wearing the Burgomaster’s impassive, stolen face, lunges forward. His blade pierces the actual Deprimer with a savage blow. He collapses, dying, onto the threadbare carpet. With a hitch of breath, Deprimer’s chest ceases to rise. Noiselessly, blood pools beneath him.
From his hiding place in the kitchen below, Krelldutt hears only fragments of what transpires upstairs—muffled voices, sudden movement, a cry of pain. He climbs the back stairs with care, each step measured and silent. At the landing, he spots Dunlar standing near a Vallaki city guard and a pair of the Burgomaster’s red knights. And two Deprimers—one of them sprawled and still, bleeding profusely onto the carpet.
Distracted by this impossible sight, Krelldutt’s foot catches on the top stair. He pitches forward with a clatter, landing hard near the upstairs landing.
The uninjured Deprimer spins to face the prone tortle. Without hesitation, he launches himself at the window. Both Dunlar and Krelldutt swing at the fleeing figure as glass explodes outward in a shower of glittering shards. They hear the heavy thud of impact below and Dunlar, at the damaged sash, watches as the figure scrambles to his feet and disappears around the back of the mansion.
⚔
Duster realizes his disguise is likely ruined by his passage through the glass. A blue-uniformed guard stationed at the rear of the mansion rushes toward him. The man’s eyes widen in confusion.
“Burgomaster! Are you alright? What is happening?”
Duster gestures frantically toward the broken window above, forcing words through his stolen lips. “Imposter! Upstairs! Go now!”
The guard’s gaze fixes on the blood seeping through Duster’s shoulder where broken glass has slashed him. The man turns on his heels and sprints toward the front of the mansion, his voice rising in alarm.
⚔
Duster continues moving, slipping into a narrow alley where he can retrieve Rictavio’s distinctive top hat from his pack. He settles it onto his head and steps out into the street with practiced nonchalance. Several citizens call out to him in friendly greeting.
“Rictavio! Welcome back!”
Others prove more troubling, their questions requiring responses Duster cannot provide. “What happened to your wagon? How came it to be so damaged?”
Duster waves away their questions with vague gestures, careful not to speak in a voice so unlike Rictavio’s own. He continues down a Vallakian side street, leaving the growing commotion at Wachterhaus behind him.
⚔
Dunlar drops to his knees beside his fallen friend and presses his hands against the worst of the wounds. Blood seeps between his fingers as he works to stanch the flow. From across the, hallway Krelldutt moves to Deprimer’s side and places both palms against the injured man’s chest. A faint golden light flows from the tortle’s hands into Deprimer’s body. His eyelids begin to flutter.
The blue guard, one who alerted the false Deprimer to their arrival, regards this event wide-eyed. He silently backs down the hallway and slips into the Burgomaster’s bedroom.
Also unseen, one of the red silently turns and moves down the main staircase of the mansion, unmolested.
After several minutes, Deprimer sits up slowly, one hand pressed to his bloodied tunic. His eyes struggle to focus as Dunlar and Krelldutt explain what occurred—the imposter, the leap through the window, the escape into the night.
Sergeant Wilhelm helps Deprimer to his feet. The Burgomaster sways slightly, then steadies himself. Across the room, Krelldutt crouches by the shattered window, examining the evidence left behind. Bloodied feathers cling to the jagged glass. Tattered scraps of clothing hang from the frame. A fine powder—perhaps makeup—smears across the wood.
Deprimer’s eyes narrow as he watches the tortle’s investigation. Krelldutt speaks quietly, his voice careful. “Are there other aarakocra in Vallaki?”
The two men turn to regard Sergeant Wilhelm, who shifts uncomfortably under their scrutiny. He shrugs. “I think only your Mr. Duster, Burgomaster.”
Deprimer’s mouth compresses into a thin line. He stands straighter, ignoring the pain in his chest, and makes his decision.
“Wilhelm, you are promoted to Captain of the Vallakian Guard.” His voice carries the weight of authority despite his weakened state. “Take some men and find the imposter. Keep an eye out for Duster, or any other feathered person in Vallaki.”
The newly appointed captain’s eyes widen in surprise. He snaps a sharp salute to Deprimer and barks orders to three nearby guards. The men fall in behind him as he strides toward the stairs. Their boots thunder down the steps of the Burgomaster’s mansion and out into the darkening streets of Vallaki.
