11/19/2025 (Part 2): Several Endings in Vallaki and Ravenloft

I, Strahd

I am ancient. I am the land. I fear nothing.

Yet wisdom demands caution regarding certain matters. This is the benefit of being both intelligent and cunning. Running water, for instance. Sunlight. Under certain conditions, sharpened wood—though who would dare approach me in my repose? Stakes can only harm those such as I when we rest, and even then... I am protected by Vampyr, who has ensured my future, bound as we are as one.

The Greater Gods fail to realize the power they have granted me in creating this Demiplane of Dread. I create thick clouds that bring perpetual rain and snow, shielding me from the cursed brilliance of the sun. Ravenloft stands high above any river or lake that might touch me. My resting place is guarded by those unquestionably loyal.

I am invincible.

Only the boredom remains. The mindless, tedious boredom of endless years.

It is sometimes broken by the unwary brought into Barovia by my Vistani or one of my more trusted servants. Knights who once fought for me now serve as guards—what must they think of these playthings from the outside? I tell them that Barovia can only stay vital if new blood, new souls, come from beyond the mists.

And they believe me. The fools.

But the outsiders do provide respite from tedium. Particularly when they think themselves strong or noble or brave. Especially brave.

Then I enjoy myself. And their blood tastes all the sweeter.

The Fanes

My corrupting powers reach far. The Fanes amuse me now—bakers rather than minor goddesses, asserting control over pathetic mortals willing to trade their children for the oblivion brought by pastries. Pathetic.

Corrupting the Fanes has been one of the highlights of my time in Barovia. Their madness keeps what remains of the savage tribes from organizing—or from understanding how to use the wheel, much less a bathtub. They remain the barbarians they were when I marched at the head of my father's army so long ago.

I must send the wolves after whatever remains of the Hill Tribe and the Mountain Tribe. The Bog Tribe is being cared for by my former Baba, who has so sweetly sung them to their rest.

The Fanes, as lesser beings, bent the knee quickly enough to prevent their own extinction. Corruption naturally followed with the passage of time. It was amusing to witness their mounting desperation, to hear their pleas for mercy as their beauty and morals devolved. This has pleased me beyond words.

They are useful—for now. I have gifted them to Baba as daughters, giving her purpose now that Berez and the Bog Tribe are no more. That I have achieved such power to control these former goddesses—sweet nectar of success!

The Condemned

After my final day of freedom, acute observation revealed patterns and systems that have resulted in unusual—and I believe unintended—powers I now possess. Those who were sealed into my Barovia when it was created yet remain here, with me. If I must suffer the tedium and privations of this domain, at least I have servants and playthings. They return again and again at the end of their miserable lives. Even their souls have no respite.

Occasionally, one or another foments insurrection or displeases me in some other way. After the requisite amount of exquisite torture, I condemn them to return as something vile, something less than human. Choosing their forms—rat, hog, hound—proves so very amusing. And I make certain they recall their former lives to deepen their suffering.

The Vistani and the Outside World

The Greater Gods imprisoned me here, but they also condemned others who could not hope to escape if escape is impossible for one such as myself. Only the Vistani, my collaborators and servants, may come and go freely through the fog. Whether they have no souls to lose or my jailers wish me to have at least some access befitting my station, I do not care. Only that the Shadow Walker Clan are mine to command, that they return with playthings—additional souls—to add to the condemned of Barovia. That they fetch perfumes, silks, and other finery as well is beside the point. These only befit my rank.

More importantly, these outsiders pass the time. Sweet nectar!

That is, until I find my Tatiana. I must possess her.

The Deities

The Greater Gods cared not at all when they sealed lesser gods and goddesses in with me. This Demiplane of Dread is my kingdom, and I rule all who dwell here. If I suffer, so must they.

Only I choose who to release to serve me and who remains enslaved.

The creature Vampyr believes itself to be my master, but I recognize no master. It gave me eternal life, albeit at a price, and in return I restored its liberty—of a sort.

My Tatiana

Only Tatiana and Sergei, who return time and again, evade my sight.

I can see the boring and tedious lives of everyone else in Barovia, but I cannot see them. I do not understand why not. Why not? WHY NOT?

Yet I have found them again and again over the centuries, and always managed to eliminate Sergei before he finds and weds Tatiana.

At Vallaki, 370 years ago, as Eugenie and the idiotic Yuri.

At Krezk, 520 years ago, as Markovia and the foolish Ulrich.

At Berez, 770 years ago, as Marina and the gullible Maartin.

At Argynvostholt, 900 years ago, as Alia and the careless Vaslovich.

And the start of it all at Ravenloft, the seat of my power, nearly one thousand years ago, when the heart of the young and beautiful, witty and vivacious Tatiana was given to my worthless and undeserving brother, Sergei.

Always I am the shadow that falls between them. Why such long gaps, do you ask? Have they returned to wed, have children, grow old together and die under the shadow of Ravenloft? Impossible. I am far too intelligent and cunning to let them slip from my view.

She has chosen death over a future with me, again and again.

But I will win her heart. I must.

My spies tell me there have been three red-headed baby girls born in the past seven years. One called Olenka, born to peasants in Krezk beneath the mad Abbot's very nose. A second to one of the barbarians in the Mountain Clan known by the name Ulara. The third called Ireena, orphaned in Vallaki but raised in the Village of Barovia by its weak and useless Burgomaster.

I will watch them carefully. It will be easier for me to read them when they are older. She will be mine this time.

I swear by all the gods.