5/27/2025: Argynvosholt (Tuesday Curse of Strahd Game Log)

The group overnight, recovering from the scrum with the cursed revenant. Their sleep is fragmented, their bodies and gear cold and wet. Shifty huddles deeper into his threadbare cloak, shivering because no fire could be kindled in the damp wood. Sitting shoulder to shoulder with him, dark circles rimming his eyes, is Ratrick, who sits staring into space with hollow eyes. The wet has seeped into their bones, making every movement a discomfort. Curse of STrahd

Novaril appeared the worst of all, utterly drained. He's spent much of his remaining strength keeping the group alive through the night, tossing and turning in the slippery mud. When dawn finally broke gray and cheerless through the perpetual overcast, he is barely able to keep his eyes open.

As pale light filters through the forest, Zilk spreads Ernst Larnak's map across his broad lap, tracing routes with a finger. The parchment, sodden from the damp, but the landmarks are clear enough.

"We're close," he announced, his breath forming crystal clouds. "Argynvostholt lies just an hour…maybe two… ahead. Less if we push."

They break camp slowly, accommodating their wearier companions. Novaril leans heavily under the weight of his pack, while Shifty and Ratrick move with the careful deliberation of those whose bodies feel weariness in every step. The group forms a loose column, with the healthier members keeping watch as they trudge through the sticky mud that spatters them.

The forest presses in around them, skeletal branches reaching like grasping fingers through the mist. Biblo spots the fallen stag first—a magnificent creature that should have been beautiful in death, but instead presents a grim tableau. The animal lay partially buried in mud that had been stained crimson, its throat torn open in ragged wounds that spoke of violence and desperation.

"Fresh kill," Zilk observes, crouching beside the carcass. "Still warm."

They search for tracks, but the churned mud and snow reveals nothing clear—only confused impressions that could have belonged to any number of forest predators. Despite the ominous circumstances, the group's practical nature wins out over caution. Food is scarce, and the deer represents a substantial meal.

Novaril summons the last reserves of his strength to coax a proper fire from wet kindling, his hands shaking with more than cold as he works the simple magic. The flames catch and spread, driving back the oppressive chill just enough to make their work bearable. They dress the deer with practiced efficiency and soon the rich scent of roasting venison fills the air.

For the first time since leaving Vallaki, they eat well to their fill. The hot meat and rendered fat provide not just sustenance but a measure of hope. Color returns to hollow cheeks, and conversation resumes in tentative murmurs. Even Novaril manages a wan smile as he gnaws on a particularly choice cut.

It was during their meal that the forest's true predators reveal themselves. Biblo's head snaps up first, his keen eyes catching movement in the peripheral darkness. Then Novaril pauses mid-bite, his senses prickling with awareness. Zilk’s hand moves instinctively to his weapon.

"We're being watched," Biblo whispers.

The circling had been subtle at first—shadows that seemed to move independently of the dripping branches, the occasional snap of a twig that didn't match the wind's rhythm. But as the party's awareness sharpens, the presence of at least two large creatures becomes undeniable.

The attack comes with terrifying suddenness. Twin roars shattered the forest quiet as a pair of owlbears burst from opposite treelines along the trail, their massive forms crashing through undergrowth with surprising speed. These apex predators roar and rear on their hind legs. Their nine feet of muscle, claw, and primal fury is driven by hunger for the prey they abandoned as well as territorial instinct.

The battle is fierce but mercifully brief. Adrenaline lends strength to tired limbs, and desperation sharpens reflexes dulled by damp and exhaustion. Steel ringing against claws, magic crackling through the air. The forest echoes with snarls of rage and pain. When the last owlbear falls, its death rattle echoes through the trees, the party stand victorious but breathing hard.

Zilk claims the first head with a satisfied grunt, while Ratrick's eyes gleam as he begins to saw at the second massive skull. Not content with trophies alone, Zilk set about skinning one of the beast's legs with workmanlike efficiency, eventually fashioning himself a crude but serviceable pair of boots from the thick hide and warm, waterproof fur.

"Waste nothing," he mutters, bloody up to his elbows. 

Soon they are back on the road. Within the hour, Argynvostholt rises from the mist like something from a fever dream. A granite mansion of impossible proportions, its moss-covered walls disappear into the lowering gray clouds above. Time and weather have not been kind to the structure. At least one of the crenelated towers seems to have collapsed entirely, leaving its pile of rubble lost in the fog. 

A dragon statue commands the party’s attention—a magnificent piece of stonework that squatting high up on its plinth with an air of patient watchfulness. Unlike the ruin around it, the statue seemed untouched by time, its eyes appearing to track the party's approach with unsettling intensity. Most curious of all, it faces the towering front doors directly, as if standing guard or perhaps challenging any who would leave the shelter of Argenvosholdt's walls.

Crystal and Biblo approach the plinth with the careful steps. The four sides are etched with riddles in draconic script—elegant, flowing letters deeply incised into the stone. The sorceress read the first aloud, her voice carrying the proper cadence and pronunciation of the ancient tongue:

"What bites but has no teeth?"

The answer comes simultaneously from both Crystal and Novaril: "Cold."

The moment the word left their lips, the draconic lettering blazed briefly with brilliant blue light, illuminating the entire courtyard for a heartbeat before fading. From somewhere within the massive structure came the distant but unmistakable sound of heavy mechanisms turning—locks disengaging with grinding protest.

Crystal mounts the broad stone steps with purpose, her scaled hands reaching for the rusted iron ring that served as one of the door's handle. It was then that she noticed the shattered elvish bow lying in a puddle of stagnant water beside the entrance—beautiful workmanship has destroyed by some recent violence, a stark contrast to the ancient stones of the portico and doorway.

As Crystal’s fingers close around the iron ring, the air itself seems to turn against her. A stream of white, icy breath erupts from hidden vents in the great dragon, engulfing the sorceress in frigid air so cold it burns. Crystal's quick reflexes save her from the worst of it, but her scales still smoke with frost as she stumbles backward.

"The door won't open with just one answer," she gasped, ice crystals forming in her breath.

Novaril stepped forward to read the second riddle, his voice steady despite his exhaustion:

"I drop from the sky far more beautifully than rain. There are no two pieces that ever look the same."

The group huddled together, debating possibilities. The answer "snow" seems obvious enough, but in this cursed place, obvious answers might be traps. Eventually, consensus settled on the more specific "snowflake." Again, the letters blazed with cold fire, and again came the sound of unlocking from within.

Zilk, perhaps emboldened by their success or simply too cold to think clearly, rushes up the steps and yanks on the iron ring with all his strength. The punishment is immediate and devastating. The same icy breath that had half-frozen Crystal now engulfs him completely, but his bugbear constitution proves less resiliant to the magical cold. Zilk barely makes it back down the steps, his lips blue and his entire body wracked with violent shivers that threaten to shake him apart.

"I think we'll have to answer each of the riddles in order to open the doors," Crystal observed, helping support the nearly hypothermic Zilk.

With a growing understanding of the pattern, the group begin to guess winter-specific, only stopping when the statues eyes glow menacingly. Biblo reads the next riddle to the group:

I’m cold and quiet, yet loud in a way,

I am the freezing winds of winter’s day.

What am I?

‘Blizzard’ is the answer, resulting another flash and clank of unlocking machinery.

The final riddle proves both the most challenging and the most poetic:

"When I grow I come closer to the ground."

Zilk, his teeth chattering so violently he could barely speak, managed to stutter out the answer: "Icicle."

The massive doors—each easily twice the height of a man and carved with intricate reliefs now obscured by centuries of grime—swing open with surprising silence. Beyond them lay only darkness, a yawning void of black. The interior of Argynvostholt awaits, ominous as a grave.

The dragon statue's stone eyes seemed to glitter with approval as the party stands at the threshold, their breath forming ghostly clouds in the frigid air. Whatever secrets lay within the ruined mansion, whatever answers they seek, whatever dangers they will face—all wait in the darkness beyond those ancient doors.