10/22/2025: Plans in Vallaki and a Werewolf

The morning light filters weakly through the tall windows of the Burgomaster’s mansion as Deprimer sends for Gadof Blinsky to attend him. The toymaker arrives within the hour, his colorful patchwork coat a jarring splash of brightness against the mansion’s somber furnishings. Deprimer counts out the agreed-upon coin for the Rictavio’s sword, discovered in Blinsky’s attic. He then returns the confiscated toys to their grateful creator. The toymaker’s tremulous smile grows wide as he accepts the payment, his fingers trembling as he pockets the coins.

Heavy footsteps echo in the hall after Blinsky departs. The new Captain of the Guard, Wilhelm, strides into the room, his expression grave. He wastes no time with pleasantries. “My Lord Burgomaster, Krieger was not taken to the stocks as ordered. He is gone.” Wilhelm’s jaw tightens. “Worse still, many of the guards have abandoned their posts. I believe they have betrayed you and joined forces with Krieger.”

Deprimer’s face darkens, but Wilhelm continues. “Additionally, Scholtz has been spotted within the city walls. My men and I have begun house-to-house searches, but so far we have found nothing. I believe they are hiding somewhere in Vallaki.” He pauses, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “I believe, besides myself, only four of the city watch and three of the Red Knights still serve you.” Wilhelm’s expression remains carefully neutral to Deprimer’s dismay. 

The captain finishes, “Finally, the showman Rictavio has been spotted within the city walls. It is unknown when he arrived. Two of the three city gates have been left unguarded. It may have been any time.” 

The embattled Burgomaster turns to Krelldutt, who has been standing near the fireplace. “I may need your assistance.” They exchange a meaningful look. Both men are well aware that Rictavio lay dead many miles away from the city of Vallaki.

“I leave at first light to find Ireena,” Krelldutt replies, his voice carrying determination. He pauses, weighing his options. “However, I can delay my departure long enough to help you trap these traitors. And imposters.”

Wilhelm salutes and departs. As the door closes, Dunlar blurts out, “I thought you said Rictavio was dead!”

Krelldutt nods. “He is. Rictavio was not an elf. Whoever he was, Duster killed him and took his hat.” The hat allowed its owner to appear as a youthful, colorful elvish performer. The weight of the statement settles over them. Their former companion, Duster, has betrayed them.

Grimfaced, Deprimer, Dunlar, and Krelldutt lean over a table scattered with maps of Vallaki. Together, they devise a plan. The mansion will appear poorly guarded, a tempting target for Krieger or Scholtz to attack. Captain Wilhelm will post signs throughout the city offering amnesty to any guards who surrender and give up their arms. More importantly, he will make a public show of leaving with his remaining loyal men to continue the house-to-house searches, while secretly positioning a pair of guards nearby to spring the ambush.

“After I retrieve the sword from Blinsky’s shop,” Krelldutt adds, “I’ll return to help.”

Deprimer nods. “I’ll wait here in the mansion. I have a knight’s whistle ready to summon the guards the moment Krieger or Scholtz approaches.” He turns toward the door Wilhelm departed through. “And we need to find this false Rictavio. When Wilhelm brings him in, we’ll learn what he knows.”

⚔

The streets of Vallaki lie quiet as Krelldutt makes his way to Blinsky’s shop. The toymaker is attempting to repair his broken door. The bell over the newly glued frame chimes from Krelldutt’s head as he enters. Blinsky sets down his tools, his smile broad.

“I have come for the sword that belonged to Rictavio,” Krelldutt begins gently. “The one the Burgomaster paid you for earlier today.”

At the mention of the ringmaster’s name, Blinsky’s smile fades. His eyes brim with tears. “My dear friend,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “My dear, dear friend Rictavio.” His hands shake as he wipes at his face. “Piccolo and I have been in mourning since you shared news of his passing. He was so kind to us. Always had a story, always had time to admire my toys.” The toymaker’s voice cracks. “Is there no happiness in Barovia?”

Moved by Blinksy’s obvious grief, Krelldutt reaches into his coin purse and produces a platinum piece. He presses it into the toymaker’s trembling hand. “For your loss.”

Blinsky clutches the coin to his chest, nodding wordlessly. Fresh tears streak down his round face as he gestures toward the stairs that lead to his attic. Krelldutt climbs the creaking steps, his broad frame barely fitting in the narrow stairwell. Dust motes dance in the thin light filtering through gaps in the roof. In a back room of the cluttered attic, he locates the magical sword resting in its scabbard. Beneath it lies a cloak that shimmers like liquid silver when he lifts it, and a large tome bound in dark leather. Opening it carefully, Krelldutt recognizes the flowing script as Drowish, a dark dialect of Elvish.

Krelldutt experiments with the cloak, swirling it around his shoulders. He offers a brief prayer to the gods that it is not cursed. An ancient, cracked full-length mirror propped in the corner shows him that his form has faded into the shadows. Not quite invisible, but certainly harder to see. A useful item.

Krelldutt gathers all three items and descends, nodding his thanks to Blinsky before beginning the return journey to the Burgomaster’s mansion.

⚔

Across the city, Duster stands perfectly still in shadow, his disguise as Rictavio complete down to the ringmaster’s flamboyant hat and colorful coat. The kenku’s mimicry is flawless, though limited by the very few conversations he overheard from the unfortunate real Rictavio before killing him. A sharp hiss from a nearby alley captures his attention. A figure emerges from the deeper gloom.

Krieger.

The knight’s armor is partially concealed beneath a dark cloak, but his bearing remains unmistakable. He gestures urgently for “Rictavio” to enter the alley. Duster obliges, stopping just within arm’s reach.

“Do you have the explosives?” Krieger’s voice carries urgency and desperation. “I have need for them. Now.”

Duster’s Rictavio face smiles broadly. He makes a show of pawing through his pack, buying time. Then, smiling more broadly, he withdraws the damaged healing kit, exhibiting its contents: wrinkled goodberries that have seen better days and healing potions whose contents have curdled within their bottles.

Krieger frowns, examining the items. “These are the explosives?” His hand reaches out, turning one of the bottles. “How are these to be used?” Duster can see from the knight’s face that he has no idea what the items actually are. Krieger leans closer, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “How much will I need to bring down a wall of a large building?” He pauses, then adds as if an afterthought, “One on my property needs to be demolished.”

Because Duster has only a limited repertoire of Rictavio’s words to draw from, he resorts to mime. He makes exaggerated gestures of mixing the berries into the liquid, demonstrating a crushing motion followed by stirring. His elegant Rictavio fingers pantomime an explosion.

“Are you certain it will bring down a large stone wall?” Krieger presses, skepticism clear in his tone. “The structure is quite solid. Built in better times than these.”

In response, Duster draws out the book he took from the lakeside tower where the real Rictavio met his fate. The tapered, elven fingers of his Rictavio disguise trace symbols on a dog-eared page, and he speaks words of summoning in Rictavio’s voice. A sharp pop of sulfurous smoke erupts between them, and the imp materializes clutching a wooden mallet and a sharpened stake.

The creature’s feline eyes widen in outrage as it recognizes Duster beneath the disguise. “Really? Now?” The imp’s voice drips with fury. It holds up a clawed finger and thumb an inch apart. “I was this close to killing the vampire. Just now. I swear on all the hells I was about to drive the stake through his heart.”

Duster, maintaining Rictavio’s voice, gestures firmly at Krieger. The meaning is clear: the imp is to accompany the knight and assist him with the “explosives.”

Krieger takes a step back, eyeing the imp warily. “Is this creature to help me demolish the… wall?” His hand moves toward his sword hilt, uncertain.

The Rictavio face Duster wears flexes into a wry smile. “The Burgomaster’s mansion?” he asks in Rictavio’s cultured tones.

Krieger’s eyes widen and then he recovers himself, shaking his head quickly. “Of course not. A house on my property needs to be cleared. An old servants’ quarters. Dangerous structure.” The lie comes smoothly, but his eyes betray his true intent.

Krieger turns to the imp. “Come. You will help me.”

The imp mutters a stream of infernal curses but complies, vanishing from sight with a soft shimmer. Krieger glances once more at Duster, nods curtly, then moves down the alley, his footsteps accompanied by the faint sound of the invisible imp’s continued grumbling.

Duster waits until they disappear around a corner before stepping back onto the main street. Almost immediately, shouts erupt behind him. A patrol of guards rounds the corner, and one points directly at him. “Rictavio! You are under arrest! Halt!”

Duster bolts. His Rictavio disguise gives him longer legs and an edge in speed over the heavily armored guards. The guards give chase, their chain mail rattling and thick boots echoing from the cobblestoned street. Duster’s borrowed legs carry him swiftly through the winding streets, but the guards are relentless. As they close the distance, Duster pivots, extends a tapered hand, and releases a Fire Bolt spell. The crackling flame streaks past the lead guard’s head, scorching the wall behind him and forcing the pair to scatter.

Duster seizes the opportunity and sprints toward the Blue Water Inn. He leaps up the exterior stairs two at a time, praying the door at the top is unlocked. It is. He flings it open and sees the first room’s door slightly ajar. Ireena’s room. Duster throws himself inside and closes the door as quietly as possible. He slides first one wardrobe, then a second against the door, pressing his back against the wall and forcing his breathing to slow.

The room shows signs of violence. A window has been broken out and boarded roughly to keep out the ever-present Barovian rain. One of the mattresses has been stripped of its sheets, its slashed and bloodstained surface leaking horsehair. One of the wardrobe doors swings open, revealing Ireena’s breastplate and her finely made rapier bearing the crest of the house of Kolyan, her adopted father’s family.

Duster’s Rictavio eyes glitter with avarice as his elegant Rictavio fingers wrap around the hilt of the weapon. As an afterthought, he removes his hat to resumes his kenku form, the rapier still gripped in his taloned hand.

Outside, the sounds of pursuit grow louder, then pass by the inn. For now, he believes he is safe.

Duster does not hear the tavern’s front door opening below. Nor does he hear the demand by the Red Knight to search the building. And he does not hear the stealthy tread of armored feet climbing the exterior stairs.

⚔

Bayleaf, Rakthe, and Komzin regard one another in the dim light of the cellblock. The newly arrived Bayleaf sloshes toward the open door of his cell, his feet striking objects hidden in the icy, grey water. He bends, plucking out a dripping, rusty longsword and a black clay container sealed with blood-red wax. He shakes it, estimating it contains maybe a pint of fluid.

Before any further introductions or explanations can occur, Komzin’s head swivels, his eyes focusing on something in the far distance beyond the cellblock. “A door,” he gasps. His words are barely out when something large and unseen begins battering the warped door at the cellblock’s entrance. “What’s happening?” cries Rakthe, who stands blindly at Komzin’s elbow. Bayleaf tucks away his newly found treasures and move to the back of his cell.

The cellblock door gives way with a shriek of tearing bolts and an enormous splash of foul water. Both Bayleaf and Komzin can see a huge figure standing in the doorway, its shaggy head swinging slowly from side to side as if scenting the air. It strides into the cellblock and releases an ear-splitting howl that echoes off the stone walls. Mad, yellow eyes lock onto Komzin as it peels back its lips, revealing yellowing fangs. Threads of saliva swing from the creature’s jaws.

“Komzin, what’s happening?” Rakthae demands, their voice tight with frustration at their blindness.

“Werewolf,” Komzin mutters without taking his eyes from the beast.

Without hesitation, Rakthe strides forward, blind in the darkness of the cell. They thrust their trident twice toward where they heard the growl, but the werewolf easily weaves away from the attacks, its movements fluid despite its bulk. It snarls and lunges, its claws slashing savagely across Rakthe’s shoulder.

From across the cellblock, Bayleaf’s hands weave through the air as he casts a Hold Person spell. The werewolf freezes mid-lunge, its body locked in place, rage burning in its yellow eyes.

Komzin strides forward and grapples the paralyzed werewolf, his powerful arms wrapping around the creature’s torso. He bends it toward the surface of the chill, oily water. Fear ignites in the lycanthrope’s eyes, and with an amazing force of will, the creature breaks free of Bayleaf’s spell. The werewolf brings its snout around viciously, its fangs clamping onto Komzin’s arm. Blood sheets down the knight’s limb and mingles with the foul water, but Komzin cannot spare time to worry if he has been infected with lycanthropy.

Komzin struggles, his muscles straining, blood streaming from his wound. With a final surge of strength, he forces the struggling creature beneath the opaque surface of the foul water. The werewolf thrashes, sending up sprays of filthy liquid, its claws raking at Komzin’s armor as it fights for air that will not come.