10/28/2025: Negotiating With the Abbot

The afternoon air carries the acrid smell of singed hair as Arrigal stands before them, wounded and seething. The Vistani’s face twists with fury, one hand rising repeatedly to touch the charred remains of his once-proud mustache. His dark eyes fix on Crystal with undisguised malice, promising retribution for her fire spell that burned him.

The fight erupts.

Shifty channels divine energy, calling down Sacred Flame upon his enemy. Golden light blazes from above, but Arrigal moves with practiced grace, executing a dramatic backflip that carries him clear of the holy fire. He lands in a crouch, sneering at the kobold cleric.

Then Zilk strikes. The invisible blade dips in unseen, finding vulnerable flesh. Arrigal staggers, blood darkening his shirt as he whirls to face his unseen attacker. “Curse you!” he snarls, spittle flying.

The sky answers with a flash then a deafening crack. A bolt of lightning tears down from the heavens, striking a tree just outside Kresk’s walls. The smell of ozone and scorched wood fills the air. In the flash of light, Arrigal flings his hands upward and fixes Biblo with a venomous glare. “Strahd will avenge my death,” he sneers, voice dripping with certainty.

Biblo’s mind races. “Wait! Join us instead. We could form an alliance—working together against—”

Arrigal’s snarl cuts him off. Then the Vistani throws back his head and laughs, the sound harsh and mocking. “Foolish dragon man! What do you think Strahd would do to me if I turned against him? And what do you think he’d do to you and your pathetic friends for even suggesting I betray him?” He continues backing toward the gates, step by careful step. “You don’t understand what you’re dealing with.”

Before Biblo can formulate a response, Arrigal vanishes, Misty Stepping through the gate.

A guard’s voice rings out from the tower above. “He is there! He runs toward the Standing Stones!”

One heartbeat passes. Then another.

“He’s gone!” a second guard cries, disbelief coloring his words. “Vanished in a flash of light!”

⚔

The Burgomaster surveys the contents of Arrigal’s abandoned wagon with satisfaction. He gestures expansively at the cargo. “Choose your reward from the goods here. What remains will go to Kresk’s citizens.”

Nike’s fingers close around one of the two bags of holding, testing its weight. Crystal claims the other with a satisfied nod.

Novaril opens a small black sack, and his breath catches as he draws out an amulet on a heavy gold chain. A large blood-red stone dangles from it, catching the light. At its heart is a small black and amber imperfection, a flaw in otherwise perfect crystal. As Novaril pulls the amulet over his head, settling it against his chest, a voice whispers directly into his mind—smooth, ancient, and uncomfortably intimate.

“I am Meridian the Fane Killer. Who, pray tell, are you, mortal?”

Alarm shoots through Novaril. He tries desperately to still his racing thoughts, but it’s too late. The entity flows through his memories like water drains from a sieve, leaching out his history, his secrets, his past. Within moments, it knows everything. The ranger’s heart hammers against his ribs. He sends up a silent prayer that whatever this entity is, it’s not malicious—or if not beneficent, at least neutral. He cannot tell. And he discovers that he cannot remove the amulet from his neck.

He tucks it, for now, beneath his shirt.

Crystal, Zilk, and Ratrick sense the magic radiating from the amulet before it is hidden, their eyes narrowing with interest. But they don’t realize it’s communicating with Novaril, and the ranger doesn’t share this unsettling and one-sided interior conversation.

Zilk hefts a greathammer from the wagon, testing its balance. The handle is unusually long, and an idea sparks in his eyes. He turns to Crystal. “Could you forge this into a polearm? The magical longsword you made for me on one end, this hammer on the other?”

Crystal’s face lights up with the prospect of a challenge. “I’d love to try.”

Biblo selects an oblong object wrapped in canvas, his fingers working at the bindings with barely contained excitement. He suspects what it might be, and when he pulls away the wrapping, a jolt of magic races up his arm, making his scales rise. A broom. He straddles it immediately, and the broom responds, surging into the air with exhilarating speed. Biblo whoops as he zooms upward, though he quickly realizes the broom’s flight isn’t unlimited—he can feel the magic has boundaries.

Reality crashes back as they discuss their next move. They have a day, perhaps two at most, before Nicholai Wachter’s body decays completely.

A woman from the Kresk market approaches, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron. “The only person in all Barovia besides the Abbot who might cast such a powerful spell is Baba Lysaga,” she says, lowering her voice on the name. “A witch. She dwells in the ruins of Berez, they say.”

At the mention of that name, Nike’s face drains of color. She doesn’t share her personal history with the others—how seeing this witch who cursed her as a child again would be dangerous, potentially deadly.

Crystal’s expression darkens as well. She recalls the Barovian lore she’s learned during her time in this land. “Baba Lysaga is the mother of the three hags we defeated. We killed two of them outright.” she says quietly. “This witch will not be pleased to see us.”

The group exchanges grim looks.

“We take our chances with the Abbot,” Novaril voices for the group.

⚔

“Papa Ratrick?” Ilya’s small voice cuts through the preparations. The boy tugs gently at Ratrick’s sleeve, and when the ratling turns, he sees fear swimming in the eyes of his young ward. “I would like to stay here, if that’s alright with you, and not go back to the Abbey. I…want to spend time with my Mama and my other father.”

Ratrick’s voice softens to something tender. “Of course, my son. Enjoy your time with your parents. You’ve earned it.” The rogue can only guess the trauma the boy endured during his time at the Abbey before he rescued him.

He turns to leave, but Ilya’s voice stops him.

“Papa Ratrick! Please… be safe!”

Ratrick turns back. Tears streak down the boy’s face, and the sight hits the ratling harder than any blade.

⚔

The icy road leading to the Abbey of St. Markovia winds steeply upward, treacherous beneath the wagon wheels. Crystal drives with skill, keeping the horse steady as they climb, Nicholai Wachter’s shrouded body shifts slightly in its plain pine box in the wagon bed behind them. The cold bites at exposed skin, and their breath plumes in the frigid air.

Through the bars of the iron gate, they peer into the deserted abbey yard. The property sprawls before them, dotted with what seem like hundreds of tiny stone buildings—a miniature village of creatures that some of the group have seen the last time they were at the Abbey. 

Then, without warning, the bells begin.

The clangor erupts from the abbey’s belfry, harsh and discordant, echoing off the mountains. From the multiple small huts scattered across the landscape, an answering chorus begins—howling, yipping, screaming from throats of myriad species. The cacophony builds and builds, a symphony that crescendos until the bell finally ceases its tolling.

Silence crashes down around them.

Zilk reaches for the small bell dangling from a rusty chain on one of the gateposts. Its ring sounds thin and fragile after the previous noise.

They wait. Minutes stretch. The cold seeps deeper. Snowflakes swirl around them.

Finally, a figure emerges from the abbey building—the same small, dog-like creature who calls himself Zygfreck Bellview. He moves with a peculiar scuttling hop, and as he approaches, the early afternoon light reveals his grotesque form more clearly. One foot is unmistakably a wolf’s paw, the other the cloven foot of what might be a goat’s leg. His piebald face is patchy with coarse fur, and yellow eyes peer at them through the pointed iron bars with wariness.

Crystal, Ratrick, and Zilk have already pulled their hoods up, faces hidden in shadow.

“What business?” he rasps, seeming not to recall most of the party from their visit months ago.

Crystal speaks carefully, keeping her voice steady. “We wish to speak with the Abbot. We need a resurrection spell.”

Nike, also hooded, reaches through the bars impulsively, trying to touch Zygfreck.

The creature backpedals with a yelp, alarm flooding his mismatched features. “Go! Leave! You should not be here!”

But then he freezes. His yellow eyes fix on Nike’s hair, exposed when their hood slipped during the lunge at the gate. His expression transforms.

“The Master,” Zygfreck lisps, excitement and something like hunger in his voice, “will be interested in seeing you. Very interested.”

The group exchanges uncertain glances. Does he mean Nike specifically, or all of them?

Zygfreck’s clawed hands work the lock. The gate swings open with a rusty squeal, and they follow the creature’s hopping gait into the Abbey grounds.

⚔

The Great Hall looms around them, vast and cold. They stand beside the impossibly long dining table, before an enormous fireplace that holds only ashes. High above, two figures gaze down from tall, narrow stained glass windows—a red-headed female warrior and a winged angel. The colored glass filters what little light penetrates this place, painting everything in somber hues. There is a small hole near the angel’s feet, allowing an icy breeze and the occasion blast of snowflakes into the hall.

After Zygfreck departs to fetch the Abbot, they huddle together, voices low.

“Last time we were here, we caused quite a bit of trouble,” Novaril states quietly.

“But we also rescued Ilya,” Ratrick volunteers, “Not all bad…”.

“You rescued him, Ratrick,” says Zilk, plainly. “Let’s hope we are fortunate with the Abbot this time.”

A door on the eastern wall opens. What enters is a nine-foot-tall polar bear knight, armor gleaming dully in the gloom. Brother Yoshi. His ursine face twists into an unmistakable scowl—he clearly remembers them.

Then the Abbot enters.

A faint, golden glow surrounds him, pushing back the shadows of the Great Hall. His pale eyes, utterly unblinking, scan across each member of the group. When he speaks, his voice has an oddly hollow quality, as if echoing from somewhere distant.

“You have not returned my specimen. The one you took from my laboratory.” A pause, weighted with accusation. “I require the specimen to complete my work on Vasilka. And the red haired one. Has that subject changed their mind? Are they ready to donate?”

The group doesn’t acknowledge his demands. Instead, Crystal steps forward. “We need you to perform a resurrection ritual. The man we need to bring back—Nicholai Wachter—was prophesied by Madam Eva to help us defeat Strahd.”

She produces several of her own shed scales, iridescent in the light emanating from the Abbot. Crystal holds them up to catch the light. Novaril pulls out a pouch and shakes it, the rattle of drake scales audible. “We’re offering payment.”

The Abbot’s unblinking gaze drifts past them all, fixing on Nike. His head tilts with unearthly interest, studying her hair with a strange intensity. “I am willing to consider a trade for the Ritual of Resurrection,” he says slowly. “But not for scales.”

Nike’s stomach drops. “Absolutely not,” she says firmly. “Whatever you’re thinking—no. But… I could give you a small portion from the ends of my hair. Just the tips.”

The Abbot shakes his head, the faint glow around him pulsing once. He reaches out to touch Nike.

She evades him, twisting aside with practiced reflexes.

The Abbot doesn’t seem to care. His hands move in an arcane pattern through the space Nike just occupied, fingers tracing symbols in the air. Nike’s hair suddenly erupts in pale, peach-colored light. The dye she’d applied burns away like morning mist, and her hair reverts from the shades she was born with to the contrasting colors she awoke with at Argynvostholdt. 

The Abbot’s hollow voice cuts through her shock. “I will take this one’s scalp, hair and all, in exchange for the Resurrection Ritual.”

“No!” Nike’s voice cracks with horror.

Crystal steps between them quickly. “We already offered you my scales—shed scales, freely given. Surely that’s worth—”

“Three things,” the Abbot interrupts, and his pale eyes reflect no mercy, no negotiation. “I require three things for the restoration of Nicholai Wachter.”

He counts them off on long, pale fingers.

“First: this one’s hair. The scalp. All of it.” He gestures at Nike, who shrinks back.

“Second: the long, auburn hair from Ireena Kolyana.”

“Third: the skin from the boy, Ilya. I need the last two to complete my flesh automaton, Vasilka. Once she is complete and perfect, I can trade her to Count Strahd. Only then will he grant me freedom from this cursed land of Barovia. This one’s fine hair,” the Abbot’s elegant glowing fingers gestured to the rogue, “I will use for another project.”

Zilk’s shock manifests as a harsh, bitter laugh. “You really want to know something, Abbot? Strahd has already captured Ireena. He has her now. Your mannequin—your bargaining chip—it’s worthless. Strahd doesn’t need Vasilka anymore.”

The Abbot, tall and flawless and glowing with divine light, simply stares at Zilk. His eyes are round, uncomprehending. For a long moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe.

Then his perfect face crumbles.

A cry tears from his throat—raw, broken, utterly human, yet not. He staggers to a chair and collapses into it, folding in on himself. His head drops onto his crossed arms. His shoulders shake violently with the force of his weeping.

“Trapped!” The word comes out choked with despair. “Trapped! Forever trapped, never to return to my home!”

The sound of his sobs echoes through the Great Hall, bouncing off stone and stained glass.

The adventurers stand in uncomfortable silence, watching a celestial being break apart before their eyes. They’re beginning to understand exactly how the Abbot feels—the crushing weight of being imprisoned in Barovia, with no escape in sight.

They know that feeling all too well.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​