isugi. The Abbot. Imgur. 2023.
The Abbot’s weeping gradually subsides into ragged sniffling. When he finally lifts his head, his pale eyes are red-rimmed and distant, focusing on something far beyond these stone walls. In a broken voice, he speaks haltingly, each word dragged up from some deep well of sorrow.
“I was sent here over a millennium ago to bring light to the darkness, to protect the native Barovians from the evil beings who were to be imprisoned in this land.” His voice cracks. “Then Strahd’s family marched their army into this valley in bloody conquest. I had hoped to negotiate a peace, to save the native Barovians from his cruelty…”
He drops to a whisper, staring off into the distance as if speaking to himself. The comrades lean in close to better hear the Abbot’s tale, their breath misting in the cold air.
“We were on the brink of finding a compromise. But then… Strahd committed his monstrous crime.” The Abbot’s hands tremble. “The Greater Gods punished him by shutting away Barovia, condemned the Count to isolation from the rest of the Multiverse. This was also meant to contain the minor gods of evil, those already imprisoned here. They did it to keep the world safe—this I understand.”
His voice rises with barely contained anguish. “But those of us who were already here in this land… in Kresk… in Vallaki… in the Village… we were trapped along with Count Strahd. Barovia became a prison for everyone. I have heard it called a ‘Domain of Dread.’ And it is ruled by a cruel lord, Count Strahd, who is indeed a monster. He had now become a vampire!”
The Abbot refocuses his pale blue eyes on his guests, and they see the weight of centuries in that gaze. “No one may come in nor go out from Barovia, excepting the Vistani, and then only on Strahd’s orders. Not that the Count himself can leave!”
His laugh is sudden and brittle, echoing off the stone walls. “He… and I… have been trapped in Barovia for one thousand years.” The laughter dies as quickly as it came. “Do you understand? One thousand years of this cursed mist, this endless damnation. I have tried everything—*everything*—to earn my freedom. I have healed the sick. I have created life where there was only suffering and death. I finally became a sculptor of flesh to give Strahd what he desires most.”
The Abbot’s voice turns sharp with accusation. “I had hoped to use your friend’s lovely red hair… the perfect shade… and she slipped through my hands. Thanks to you!” His glassy blue eyes flash with sudden anger, fixing on each adventurer in turn.
His hands clench into fists, knuckles white. “I was so close to completing my creation upstairs…”
“You mean the flesh golem in your laboratory?” Zilk asks, his voice carefully innocent.
The Abbot glares defiantly at the bugbear. “She is… was… to be the beautiful bride I was creating for Lord Strahd. He promised he would release me as a reward, so I might return to my home in the celestial spheres. But it was all for nothing.” His voice breaks again, and fresh tears spill down his pale cheeks. “All for nothing.”
Brother Yoshi shifts his massive weight, armor creaking and groaning with the movement. He lays one massive clawed paw gently on the Abbot’s back, the gesture surprisingly tender. When he speaks, his voice is a deep rumbling whisper, thick with sadness. “Master Abbot, all is not completely lost. You might still help them. And perhaps they might help us.”
“Yes!” Nike exclaims, stepping forward eagerly. “You can help us! Please!”
“Please,” Biblo echoes, his voice earnest. “With your help, we can defeat Strahd! We can end this nightmare for everyone!”
Yoshi clears his throat, a sound like distant thunder. “Maybe we might find a way to assist them, Master Abbot. The Ritual, perhaps? Something to kill the vampire and keep him from returning?”
A barking laugh explodes from the Abbot, harsh and humorless.
“How many before have gone to the Amber Temple to try and retrieve the Ritual? Tell me, Yoshi—how many have returned?” The question hangs in the air like a blade.
The polar bear’s shaggy head bows, and his massive shoulders slump in defeat.
The Abbot’s gaze sweeps across the adventurers, his expression shifting to desperate sadness. “You seek to defeat Strahd. How many others have stood where you stand now, speaking those same bold words? How many have I watched march to face the Vampire, certain their righteousness will triumph?” He closes his eyes, and his voice drops to barely above a whisper. “In my thousand years trapped in Barovia, I have seen heroes such as you come and go like mayflies in summer. What makes you different? What makes you think you will succeed where even Markovia herself failed? Even those brave enough—or foolish enough—to venture to the Amber Temple hoping to find the Ritual have failed. And many were so very powerful, far more powerful than your little troupe.”
The long silence that follows is oppressive, broken only by the crackle of dying embers in the hearth. Finally, Nike’s quiet voice cuts through the gloom. “Will you still need my hair?” Her hand rises unconsciously to her black and purple tresses, the color newly revealed by the Abbot’s magic.
The Abbot’s strange and piercing blue eyes turn to regard the rogue. Nike thinks, disturbed, “He doesn’t blink. Why doesn’t he blink?”
In a voice cracking with sorrow, the Abbot sobs, “No. Of course not. What would be the point now?”
Abruptly, he pushes back his chair with a scrape of wood on stone and stands. “I am weary and must rest now. Yoshi, attend to their needs. I will see you in the morning.” He crosses the flagstone floor in graceful strides, but pauses before mounting the wooden staircase. Turning back to face them, silhouetted against the darkness above, he speaks one final warning. “Think well upon visiting the Amber Temple. It may well be your doom. Better you become Barovian farmers or weavers and accept your fate as fellow inmates of Strahd’s prison.”
He glides upward, disappearing into the gloom above like a ghost ascending.
Their attention is drawn to a bell that Brother Yoshi rings, its clear tone cutting through the heavy atmosphere. Moments later, a tall, slender woman with a lynx face enters through the courtyard door. Golden eyes regard them with feline curiosity.
“Sister Alina, prepare a meal for our guests, if you would. Soup? A haunch of wolf? Bread and cheese. And a bowl of fish for me, if you please.”
The silent woman blinks her golden eyes several times and bows before slipping back out the door to the courtyard. She lets in a blast of icy air and a swirl of snowflakes that do not melt even when they touch the warm stones of the floor.
Yoshi sets about building a fire in the massive hearth, his armored paws surprisingly dexterous with the logs and kindling. Soon the worst of the chill has been driven from the cavernous room, though shadows still lurk in the high corners. Sister Alina arrives with a cart laden with their supper and silently places heaping platters and steaming tureens upon the table. The smell of roasted meat and fresh bread fills the air—the first truly appetizing scent they’ve encountered in the abbey.
Yoshi invites them to sit before settling into a massive chair that must have been fashioned specifically for his bulk. The chair groans under his weight.
“Do not be too judgmental of the Master,” Yoshi begins, his deep voice thoughtful. “He has been… unwell… for a very long time now.” There is profound sadness in his words. “But he speaks one truth: Barovia is a dangerous place for those who challenge the Vampire Lord. Very dangerous indeed.”
He sips from a goblet that contains icy water, the liquid sloshing slightly. “Have you questions?”
Asking around a mouthful of wolf meat, Zilk queries, “What is the Amber Temple, exactly?”
Yoshi’s dark eyes grow thoughtful as he studies each adventurer in turn. “Understand,” the polar bear says between sips from his goblet, “I myself have not been there. But I am told it was once a great library filled with all magical knowledge, built high on the slopes of Mount Ghakis, far to the south of here. It is said to be guarded by the spirits of the wizards and monks who protected the library… that was before the Amber Temple was transformed into a prison by the Greater Gods.”
He pauses to tear a chunk of fish apart with his claws. “The Abbot was charged by these Greater Gods to protect the peasantry of Barovia from Strahd’s warlike father—an invader from the east—and to prevent him from releasing the inmates imprisoned there. Another, the head librarian, was tasked with the caretaking of those same inmates.”
“Who are the inmates imprisoned there?” Novaril asks, leaning forward with interest.
Chewing thoughtfully on his fish, Yoshi answers, “The Greater Gods condemned many of the Lesser Gods—evil ones, I believe. Who can say in what manner or for what reason they were judged, but their confinement… their imprisonment in the Amber Temple… somehow allowed Count Strahd to commit his heinous crime and become what he is today.”
The bear’s eyes grow distant with memory. “I fought beside Saint Markovia when she raised her holy rebellion against Strahd. We had an army—blessed knights, clerics of the Morninglord, even a Deva sent from the heavens themselves.”
“The Abbot is a Deva?” The question bursts from Novaril, who stares round-eyed with amazement.
Yoshi nods his great, shaggy head. “He was. Or is. What he has become after a thousand years of imprisonment…” The bear trails off, then continues. “We thought we could not fail. We thought righteousness and steel would be enough to win Markovia’s uprising. This was four hundred years ago.” His eyes carry a curious, distant look, as if seeing that long-ago battlefield.
Yoshi’s voice grows heavy with sorrow. “Strahd cut through our army like wheat before the scythe. Markovia herself fell, despite her holiness, despite her courage. The Abbot tried to intervene, to turn the tide with Heaven’s light. But Barovia is cut off from the divine realms. Even prayers, like souls, cannot leave this cursed place.” He shakes his massive head slowly. “When the battle was done, Strahd stood triumphant over the bodies of the righteous, and the Abbot… the Abbot found himself unable to leave the Abbey ever after. Something in him broke that day.”
Muttering partly to himself, partly to his guests, Yoshi muses, “I was torn apart in that battle. My body… broken beyond healing. Dying in the mud and blood. The Abbot wept over my dying form and reshaped me into this.” He lifts his armored paws, turning them slowly in the firelight. “He gave me life when death would have been kinder. That was when he still possessed mercy, before the centuries wore it away to nothing.”
Yoshi turns back to the party, his voice growing firm. “You asked him for resurrection magic, and he demands terrible prices. This is what we have become—sellers of miracles, traffickers in flesh and despair. But perhaps there is another way.” He glances toward the darkened staircase where the Abbot disappeared. “Perhaps if you could find proof that Strahd can be defeated—true proof—it might break the spell of despair that has claimed my Master’s mind. It is said the Amber Temple holds a Ritual that will condemn Strahd to true oblivion, preventing his return even in death.”
His voice drops lower, almost conspiratorial. “Or perhaps it would be better to let sleeping dogs lie. The resurrection spell you seek—it will bind Nicholai Wachter’s soul back to his body in this cursed land rather than let him be reborn as a Barovian infant with a chance at a new life. Is that truly mercy? Or is it simply renewing the suffering of another prisoner in Strahd’s domain?”
The bear knight’s eyes are ancient and impossibly sad. “Choose carefully what you wish for here. The Abbot may grant it, but every gift in Barovia carries a price. Every single one. I learned this truth four hundred years ago on a battlefield soaked with holy blood, and I carry it still in this body of fur and iron.”
By now the fire has burned down low, red embers glowing like distant eyes in the darkness. Yoshi pushes his massive chair back from the table with a groan of wood and stands, towering over them. “I bid you all a good night. May your dreams be kinder than your waking hours.” He lumbers toward a doorway, and they hear his heavy footsteps fade into silence.
Swirls of snow and icy air continue to slip through the gaps around the door to the courtyard of the Abbey, making the shadows dance.
⚔
Unable to sleep despite their weariness, the group prowls through the abbey’s darkened halls. Nike’s sharp eyes catch on something in the corner of the dining hall—an iron ring set into the flagstones. She pulls at it, and a trap door lifts with a reluctant creak, revealing steep wooden stairs descending into darkness.
The group cautiously descends into a wine cellar. The air is thick with the smell damp and yeasty. Racks of bottles with labels from the Wizard of Wines—Urwin Martikov’s family vineyard—fill the wooden cradles that line the walls. Ratrick holds his candle close to read the dates on the bottles, and his breath catches. These vintages are ancient: 400 years old, 600, even 800 years ago. Some of these bottles pre-date Strahd’s curse itself.
Novaril notes that the bottles and casks are covered in thick dust, undisturbed for decades. Except one.
He lifts the bottle carefully to find a small, leather-bound journal hidden in the small space beneath it. Novaril draws it out, blowing dust from its cover, and flips through it briefly. The pages are yellowed but intact. “It’s dated five years ago,” he murmurs.
The group huddles close as he reads aloud by candlelight, his voice echoing slightly in the confined space:
I am Miya Musashi. My companion Reata and I are the last alive of the party drawn into Barovia by a Vistani called Arrigal. Tomorrow we leave for the Amber Temple with our new companions from Vallaki—Aloy, Aquwan, and Bigglesworth. I believe that the Abbot is mad, and I leave this note here for any who, like us, find themselves hiding from his rage. May Lathander grant us the courage to slip out before sunset. Wish us luck against the vampire. We go to find the Ritual, or die trying.
The silence that follows is oppressive. Five years ago. None of them need to say what they’re all thinking—that Miya Musashi and her companions did not succeed. Strahd remains in Barovia.
Depressed by this grim discovery, the group climbs the stairs back to the Great Hall. They venture out into the Abbey’s courtyard, where the snow has stopped falling. The crystal-cold air bites at fingers and toes, burning exposed skin. The stars above are sharp and pitiless.
Crystal oversees the investigation of the Abbot’s storage lockers that line the courtyard walls. “We’re guests here,” she says firmly. “No one takes anything of true value. We’re not thieves.”
But she cannot police everyone, and Ratrick—ever the opportunist—loads his pockets with silverware he finds in one of the cupboards. The weight is satisfying. He then slips through a doorway across the courtyard, moving with practiced stealth.
He is immediately struck by a familiar smell—chemicals and rot mixed together in a nauseating combination. This is the same odor he recalls from his rescue of Ilya. The memory surfaces: there might have been a valuable item in one of the rooms off the corridor just ahead. He stands outside each door, listening intently, trying to recall which room held the treasure.
With resolve, he stealthily opens the third door, hinges creaking softly.
Across the darkened room, Ratrick sees a tall figure sit up abruptly on a cot, calling out sharply, “Who is there? Who dares disturb me?”
Ratrick freezes, his heart hammering.
There is a snuffling sound from across the room—the figure is smelling the air. The voice calls again, losing its suspicious edge and taking on a note of pleased surprise. “Mr. Ratrick? Is that you? I had given up hope of your returning, especially after the theft of the Abbot’s material.”
“You mean Ilya?” Ratrick snaps, indignation overcoming caution. “He’s a boy, not ‘material.’”
“If you say so.” The woman rises—Sister Sorvina, Ratrick remembers now. She has the head of a trout, with jowls that flair into gills, and glassy eyes. “Where are my manners? You have come for tea, haven’t you?” She bustles out of her chamber with surprising energy and beckons Ratrick to follow across the hallway. “Come, come! I’ll put the kettle on. It’s been so long since I’ve had a proper guest for tea!”
Ratrick follows, torn between wariness and curiosity, as Sister Sorvina leads him into a surprisingly cozy kitchen that smells of dried herbs and old memories.
Sister Sorvina fills a kettle from an indoor pump and pulls down a large, corked jug. With webbed fingers, she pulls a fistful of mossy herbs and stuffs them into a chipped china teapot. “Honey?”Asks Sorvina, her large, glassy fish eyes blink slowly at him, reflecting the stove’s flame.
After their tea, Sister Sorvina walks Ratrick to the door of the kitchen, her scaled trout head catching the torchlight that provides dim illumination for the hallway.
“Thank you for the company, Mr. Ratrick,” she says, her voice carrying genuine warmth despite the strange whistling quality her fish mouth gives it. “It has been a very long time since anyone has sat and shared tea with me properly. I did not mean to call the boy ‘material,’ but that is how the Abbot thinks of unfortunates like your Ilya.”
She adjusts her apron, a gesture that seems almost nervous. “Please, do not be angry with me. I would hate to think of you never returning.”
Her gill slits flutter slightly—perhaps the trout equivalent of a sigh. “Good night, Mr. Ratrick. May the morning find you well.”
She closes the door gently, and Ratrick hears the soft shuffle of her footsteps retreating into the kitchen as he begins to make his way back through the dark corridors to rejoin his companions.
