11/18/2025: Preparations for the Quest

Dim light seeps through the stained glass windows that tower over the long dining table in the Great Hall of the Abbey. The scent of woodsmoke mingles with the aroma of fresh bread as Yoshi pushes a cart laden with breakfast toward the table—eggs still steaming, cheese, toast glistening with butter, tea and honey that catches the meager light. The polar bear warrior lays out each dish on the comically long table, where the companions cluster at one end. He then turns to the hearth, building the fire back to blazing life. Flames crackle and snap, throwing a small amount of heat to take the chill from the vast, shadowed room.

The party dig into the hot meal with grateful fervor, the simple food a welcome comfort. When the Abbot arrives later, they note immediately that he is drawn and pale, his skin almost translucent despite the golden glow that surrounds him like a fading halo. Dark circles shadow his very blue eyes. Yoshi gently sets a cup of tea before him, steam curling upward into the cold air, and the Abbot murmurs his thanks but does not sip.

“I have a proposal for you adventurers.” The Abbot’s voice is strong despite his wan appearance, cutting through the quiet sounds of the meal.

“A proposal?” Ratrick pauses mid-bite, a piece of toasted bread still in his paw. He swallows quickly. “What kind of proposal?”

The Abbot turns his pale, impossibly blue eyes toward the ratling. “I will keep fresh the body you have brought to me with Gentle Repose. It will rot no further. The spell will preserve what remains.” He pauses, and something ancient and weary flickers across his features. “You will travel to the Amber Temple to find and return with the ritual that will put an end, once and for all, to Count Strahd.”

“That sounds fair,” Zilk states, setting down his fork with a definitive clink against the plate.

The Abbot turns to face the bugbear fully. “You will have fifteen days to travel—no more, no less. If you find this ritual and return here with it, I will perform a Resurrection on the unfortunate man whose body you have brought to these sacred walls. The spell will restore what was lost, and any… spoilage… will be reversed completely.” His voice drops lower, heavy with regret. “Strahd has forbidden me from passing outside of the Abbey’s walls. I am bound here by forces you cannot comprehend. You will be entirely on your own in fighting the vampire lord.”

The silence in the Great Hall is broken only by the snapping of the fire and the distant howl of wind against stone.

“If you do not return from the Amber Temple—and you may not, for no one I have sent to the Temple for the ritual ever has—we will give the body a burial in sacred ground. It is the very least we can offer.”

“This is acceptable,” Crystal says quietly, reaching into her pack. She produces the small journal she found in the wine cellar the previous night and hands it across the table to the Abbot. “You should see this.”

The Abbot takes it with trembling fingers, scanning what is upon the page she has marked. As the deva reads, all present see that his shoulders slump, as though an invisible weight has settled upon them. The golden light around him dims noticeably. Wordlessly, he hands the book back to the dragonborn, his movements slow and defeated. Tears brim in the pale blue eyes of the Abbot, threatening to spill. He does not ask how Crystal came by it.

“I recall these travelers,” he sighs, his voice barely above a whisper. “Five years, perhaps six years past. They came seeking refuge from the storms.” He closes his eyes briefly. “The gnome… the one called Bigglesworth… contributed a leg to one of my smaller projects.” The words are hollow, haunted.

The Abbot stands suddenly, his chair scraping harshly against stone. The sound echoes through the hall. “I again urge you to accept your fate in Barovia. To become farmers or bakers or whatever your skills dictate. Build lives here. Stop fighting.” His voice cracks slightly. “But if you must go to the Amber Temple, then go. You have fifteen days before we bury the body.” He turns toward the stairs, his celestial glow flickering like a candle in wind. “I must go now. I have to say farewell to someone dear to me.”

With this, the Abbot moves toward the stairs that lead up into darkness. A few of the party notice that the Abbot wipes away tears as he goes, his hand trembling as it rises to his face.

Biblo steps suddenly into his path and wraps his thick, scaly arms around the Abbot. He hugs him with genuine warmth and compassion. At first the Abbot stiffens, clearly unaccustomed to such contact. But as Biblo holds him, the dragonborn notes that the air around the Abbot is warmer than in the rest of the chilly room, and smells faintly of flowers—lilies and something sweeter.

Biblo releases him after a long moment, and the Abbot reaches down, touching a hand gently to Biblo’s forehead. His palm is fever-warm.

“My thanks for your compassion, my son. Such kindness is rare in this place.” His voice is soft now, almost tender. “I commend you with a blessing. Little enough, but may it protect you from whatever shadows you encounter in your travels, and carry light for you into the darkness ahead.”

The Abbot ascends the staircase, his golden glow fading as he disappears into the shadows above.

⚔

Later, in the village of Krezk, Zilk contracts with the cobbler and the tailor. He negotiates to turn some of his wolf pelts into sturdy boots and cold weather gear to prepare for the treacherous mountain passage up to the Amber Temple. The craftsmen work quickly, their fingers deft with needle and awl. When the work is complete, Zilk distributes the new gear to his companions, ensuring each has minimal protection against the bitter cold that awaits them.

Though Krezk is too small to have a proper bookseller, they locate a scholarly man who possesses many texts, scrolls, and even a few maps of Barovia—rare treasures in this forsaken land. His small home smells of old parchment and candle wax. These maps they study carefully, judging that by going overland they may save precious time getting to the Amber Temple. Using this faster route following the River Luna, it may also allow them to stop at a Vistani encampment along the way.

“Do you have any books on vampires?” Ratrick asks the man, his tail twitching with nervous energy. “Anything about their weaknesses, their powers?”

The man strokes his gray beard thoughtfully. “I have heard tell of a book that was said to have been written by Strahd himself, though I have never seen it. A tome of dark knowledge, they say. Why the Dark Lord would commit his secrets to paper, I cannot fathom.”

This encourages Ratrick to pull out the leather-bound book he had found earlier, the one bearing the title The Tome of Strahd  in elegant script. Here, in the dim light of the scholar’s home, he begins to read. The pages reveal many unsettling things—intimate confessions, dark rituals, the twisted evolution of a man into a monster. His paws tremble slightly as he turns each page. “I cannot believe I have possessed this knowledge all along,” he breathes. “We’ve been carrying this the entire time.”

Nike asks the old man about St. Markovia. “I have no book on the saint,” the old man tells the rogue. “But I do know some of Markovia’s history. Anyone living in the shadow of the Abbey does.” 

They ask him to share what he knows about Markovia and her history. “Markovia,” he begins, “was brought to the Abbey as an orphaned girl. Here, the kind Abbot schooled her in the healing arts. Many from all over Barovia came to have their hurts seen to, going away with happy stories of the beauty of the Abbey, the skill of their healers and the generosity of the Abbot.

“Markovia,” continues the old man,  “eventually rose up against Strahd. She had learned to use a blade from a warrior called Yoshi, a dwarf who had been trapped in Barovia by one of Strahd’s Vistani servants. She raised and led an army against the Vampire Lord, with herself and the Abbot at its head and Yoshi as their lieutenant.”

“What happened?” asks Nike, breathlessly. This is a version of what Yoshi had already shared with them at the Abbey the evening before.  

The old man’s eyes find Nike’s. “Strahd smashed their army, slaughtering most. Markovia, it is said, was killed. The Abbot brought Yoshi back to the Abbey, grievously wounded, to heal him. Neither has been seen since. And the Abbot no longer allows any Barovian into the Abbey, except those who wish to commit to the life of a monk. Few, other than the desperately ill, agree to those terms. Your Ilya is one who returned, but he will not speak of what he saw. Can you tell me?”

Nike begins to describe the flesh golem and the other hybrid creatures they met in the Abbey, including the storied Yoshi, now a polar bear. 

Unexpectedly, the old man laughs. “I see you are also a teller of stories,” he says to Nike. “You, young one, have quite the imagination!” 

Nothing Nike says can convince the old man that she tells the truth about what is happening at the Abbey. Nike, frustrated, tries to leave his shop, taking the old man’s cane with her.

 She is stopped by ZIlk, who tells her firmly, “The man will need that!”  Nike returns the cane to the old man before leaving, still irritated by his disbelief.

The companions leave, assembling in the village square to leave. Biblo notices that one is absent. “Where’s Novaril?” he asks with worry.

They search, calling his name, but the ranger is nowhere to be found. One of the guards at the gate approaches them, looking uncomfortable. “He departed Krezk with all his gear several hours ago, while you were at the craftsmen. He left word that you should not wait for him to return.”

Nike frowns, her expression darkening with worry. “The cursed amulet,” she says aloud, voicing what several of them are thinking. “The one he found. Do you think it has anything to do with his sudden departure?”

No one has an answer that provides comfort.

⚔

Late in the day, as shadows lengthen across the land, the group sets out. The air is crisp and cold, carrying the scent of pine and distant snow. They make steady progress, reaching the ancient stone bridge over the River Luna as twilight deepens. Thankfully, the crows have already found roosts in what remains of the evening light, their dark forms settled in the skeletal trees. The area is unusually silent save for the running of the river below—a constant rush of water over stone that would be peaceful in any other land.

As they begin to cross onto the bridge, Ratrick’s keen eyes spot something unusual—a folded piece of parchment impaled into one of the bridge’s weathered wooden railings. A blade holds it in place. He tugs the dagger free, immediately recognizing it as one of Novaril’s. It is finely made and bears a striking serpent coiled as the pommel, its emerald eyes catching the fading light. With shaking hands, he unfolds the parchment and reads aloud, his voice carrying across the bridge:

“Friends: I have chosen to go on ahead so as not to entangle you in the curse that the amulet carries. My apologies for departing with no farewells, but I could not risk being talked into staying, thereby putting all of you in danger. The amulet calls to me with a voice I can no longer ignore. I find myself drawn to Ravenloft—compelled, really. If you meet me there, I beg you to remember our friendship and to release me from whatever suffering I will have been condemned to. Do not hesitate. Do not let sentiment stay your hand. ~Novaril”

The weight of those words settles over them like a shroud.

They set up camp on the far side of the bridge, building a fire against the gathering darkness. The flames provide little comfort. During the first watch, when the night is deepest and the mist lies heavy on the ground, the heavy, rhythmic clatter of hooves on stone echoes from the direction they came. The sound grows steadily louder, more insistent.

“That’s a minotaur skeleton on a skeletal horse!” Zilk hisses, his voice urgent as he peers through the darkness. He can just make out the awful shape approaching through the mist—bones gleaming white in the moonlight.

The minotaur skeleton, dressed in the tattered remnants of a warrior’s armor, kicks the sides of its mount with bone spurs. The skeletal warhorse responds immediately, breaking into a full gallop. The pair begin to race across the bridge, ancient weapon raised high. The sound of bones clattering against stone fills the night with terrible purpose.

Crystal steps forward, arcane energy crackling around her claws as she releases a Cone of Cold as soon as the creatures are within range. Frost and ice explode outward in a deadly wave. The skeletal forms are caught in the blast, ice forming along their bones. Shifty follows immediately with a Sacred Flame attack, holy light blazing down from above. Each spell does moderate damage, cracks spiderwebbing across bone, but the undead creatures continue their charge.

But Zilk, working with desperate speed and cunning born of survival, ties a rope low across the bridge to act as a tripwire, securing each end to the bridge’s stone piers. His large hands work the knots with practiced efficiency. Neither the skeletal rider nor his mount spot the impediment in their single-minded charge through the darkness.

The skeleton horse’s foreleg catches the rope at full gallop.

The result is catastrophic and immediate. The horse’s legs are swept from under it, bones cracking with the impact. It crashes heavily onto the bridge, and the minotaur knight is thrown violently forward, losing its grip on its weapon. Both undead creatures smash onto the weathered road with tremendous force, shattering on impact. Bones fly everywhere—ribs, vertebrae, fragments of skull—clattering and bouncing across stone like macabre dice. The sound echoes into the night before fading into silence.

The party stands breathing hard amidst the wreckage, surrounded by scattered bones that gleam pale in the firelight. The mist curls around their legs, seemingly alive.

Nike voices what they’re all thinking: “What else will this night bring?“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​