12/30/2025: Leaving Ravenloft for the Amber Temple

“We must be leaving Ravenloft for the Amber Temple.” Komzin folds the scroll and tucks it into his belt. “Lord Strahd is sending us there to retrieve something he needs. Beneath the gatehouse end of the castle, there is said to be a magical object that can move people across great distances. If we can locate this device, we won’t have to navigate our way out through Ravenloft’s corridors.”

The group slogs westward through sticky, foul-smelling mud that clings to their boots with each step. Komzin leads the way, and they pass the decaying corpses of the vampire spawn they recently defeated, their bodies already beginning to dissolve into the mire.

The tunnel opens into a large, vaulted chamber. Dim light reveals several rusted gibbets dangling from the thirty-foot ceiling above the sludge. They contain the skeletal remains of two humans and an elf, their bones yellowed with age. Near the southern wall, behind a trio of dangling chains, several iron racks stand upright against the stone. Two distorted skeletons are still restrained within them. Behind these grim displays, the companions spot fresh rope suspending a large bird cage. Its door hangs open. Below it, floating in the mud, is a scatter of black feathers.

Bayleaf, his keen elven ears cutting through the ambient drip of water and distant creaks, hears the slam of a door from the direction they’ve come. The sound echoes through the catacombs. Rakthe gestures urgently to a new rope hanging down from a dark balcony overhead. The group exchanges tense glances—they need to move away from whatever is coming.

They scramble up the rope, muscles straining, then draw it up after themselves. The balcony reveals two carved wooden chairs. Between them, a goblet crusted with red scum sits upon a low table.

And on the floor there are very large, dried muddy footprints made by some enormous bird. These lead away from the balcony. The tracks lead through a red curtain to a pair of doors. One stands slightly ajar, allowing strange light to spill into the dusty space.

Bayleaf pushes it open and enters into the domed chamber beyond. A vast brazier dominates the center of the room, holding fire. It burns neither wood nor coals. While it casts dim light that flickers both orange and green across the imposing space, it provides no warmth. A pair of massive iron knight statues flank the brazier to either side, and three closed doors line the far wall.

Around the perimeter of the copper vessel runs an elaborate inscription. Various colored stones rest in evenly spaced indentations along the rim. One of these small cups is empty.

Bayleaf reads the inscribed poem aloud, his voice small and echoing in the vast darkness:

Cast a stone into the fire

Blue leads to castle’s highest spire

Grey to gatehouse’s sentinel pyre

Brown travels to the sad quagmire

Green to where coffins are arrayed

Black where defeated death doth fade

Yellow for magic lore so craved

Indigo to the pie enslaved

White travels to the hated shrine

Violet finds the fruit of the vine

Red for finding Kavan’s renewal

Orange shows My Precious Jewel

Rakthe notices the black stone is missing from its indentation. Bayleaf turns to Komzin. “Remind me of the task Strahd has given us.”

“We are to go to the Amber Temple,” the warrior tells him patiently, “to fetch a ritual that Count Strahd requires.”

“So which stone, then, Komzin? Yellow or orange? Either might mean amber,” Bayleaf’s forehead is creased with worry over the two possibilities.

The knight shakes his head. “I don’t know where either leads. The clues mean nothing to me.”

“Precious jewels sound more intriguing than magical knowledge. Pick orange,” Rakthe grumbles.

“Orange it is.” Komzin strides forward and seizes the tawny stone. Each of the companions rests an index finger upon the side of the brass brazier, which is oddly cool to the touch. Almost casually, Komzin tosses the stone into the flickering orange-green flames.

Immediately, they are blinded by a flash of coppery light. Blasts of cold, sulfurous fumes roil around them, and each adventurer is whisked off their feet. With a loud pop, the three are slammed onto a wooden floor before a vast, blazing fireplace.

Above the mantle hangs an enormous portrait of a woman with long russet hair bearing more than a passing resemblance to Ireena. She wears a sumptuous but antique gown, one hand grasping a large ruby pendant, the other holding a red rose with particularly large and numerous thorns. The engraved brass plate affixed to the bottom of the frame bears the name “Tatiana,” but no artist’s name. Whoever created the work was a painter of rare talent. The portrait’s eyes follow them as they rise to their feet and explore the room.

The chamber appears to be some sort of library. Doors stand on each side of the book-lined space. A table bears another cut-crystal goblet, this one half full of some opaque red liquid.

Impatient to locate the promised jewel, Bayleaf cautiously opens one of the double doors to the south.

The elf peers into a second sumptuous room, though this one appears to have been abandoned long ago. Dust lies thick on every surface of what was once a grand dining chamber. Before him stretches a table laid for a dozen diners, now coated in cobwebs and grime. At the center of the table sits the ruins of a tiered wedding cake. Atop the highest layer, a tiny headless marzipan groom lies on its side. The cake has been gouged where the matching bride would have stood. An ossified scatter of crumbs and icing shards litters the plate upon which it stands`.

Bayleaf’s attention is drawn away from the cake to a dusty lute and harp propped in a corner of the room. From beneath their shrouds of cobwebs, he can tell that each instrument is finely made.

Drawn to them, he is surprised when a small figure clatters out from behind the harp.

It stands as tall as Bayleaf’s knee, dressed in garish harlequin motley. Its jointed hands are curled into claws, and the bells on its hat tinkle menacingly as it approaches him, making mechanical clacking noises with each exaggerated step. It appears to be a marionette operating without any puppet master.

From its chalk-white face, red eyes glow fiercely up at the paladin. “Who are you?” it demands in a rasping, high-pitched voice. “For what purpose are you here in the Lord’s private chambers?”

Stepping back, Bayleaf snaps, “We are here at Strahd’s invitation. Who are you?”

The creature’s hinged jaw folds into a cruel smile. “I am Piddlewick, favored above all by the Count. You are wedding guests?” Before Bayleaf can answer, its small head swivels audibly toward the door.

Rakthe and Komzin, drawn by the commotion, have entered the room.

Komzin, hearing the creature’s claim that it is a favorite of the vampire lord, shakes his head imperceptibly. From his earlier visits to Ravenloft, before drawing the party into Barovia, he knows that the castle’s residents have little patience for Piddlewick. He addresses the creature directly. “Piddlewick, show us the way back to the entrance hall.”

The marionette cocks its head and smiles cruelly. “Leaving so soon? You’re disappointed that the wedding is postponed. For now.”

“Enough of your nonsense, Piddlewick,” Komzin demands, stepping forward menacingly. “How do we leave here?”

The puppet rattles as it retreats from the knight, then sullenly gestures with one stiff arm. “The door there”—Komzin’s eyes follow Piddlewick’s finger to an elaborately carved wooden door—“leads to a staircase of rats, but if you get past them you may go down.” The puppet crosses its other arm over the first, pointing to a pair of glass doors exiting to the ramparts. “And out there, you’ll find a stairwell, but you may also find the castle’s guardians.”

As Piddlewick speaks, Rakthe crosses to the cake. They extend a curious finger toward the crumbling ruin.

In a flurry of clattering wooden limbs, Piddlewick charges the dragonborn, screeching, “Don’t touch the Master’s cake!” Instinctively, the barbarian swings their trident to strike the tiny aggressor, but misses.

Piddlewick launches itself at Rakthe, fully unhinging its jaws to reveal a set of sharpened steel teeth that clamp down viciously on the barbarian’s forearm. Howling, Rakthe whips their arm upward in an attempt to shake free, legs clattering.

The puppet stays firmly attached. Flecks of blood fly from around the steel teeth.

Bellowing in pain, Rakthe swings Piddlewick back down, intending to strike the table. Instead, the barbarian slams the marionette into the ruined wedding cake, which explodes into a cloud of ancient crumbs and icing shards that scatter across the table, chairs, and dusty floor. Shaken loose from Rakthe’s arm, Piddlewick pops upright atop the shattered cake platter, screeching, “Now look what you’ve done! The Master will be displeased!”

Komzin looks at the other two and shouts, “We’ll take our chances with the rampart guardians.” The three move toward the glass doors, leaving Piddlewick shrieking behind them.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​