The wagon creaks and groans as it rolls toward Vallaki’s gates. Where once the massive corpse of a saber-toothed cat had lain, the scorched remains of a soldier, his traumatized partner, reigns in hands, is lost in his own thoughts. Occasionally, he offers a fretful glance back at the fractured remains of the cargo box. In this cramped, remaking space quarters sitting as far as possible from the sheet covered body, Ireena, Rakthe, Krelldutt, Komzin, and Duster rest together, grateful for even this uncomfortable shelter. Despite these grim circumstances, the party feels fortunate to have secured safe transport back to the city.
As the wagon approaches the Sunset Gate, a curious sight greets them. The stakes that had once displayed the severed heads of Vallaki’s enemies now bear different trophies entirely - the twisted symbols of Goth. The macabre decorations cast long shadows in the fading light, a stark reminder of how much had changed in their absence.
Father Lucien steps gingerly down the hill and spots Komzin climbing from the box, now that the driver climbs down. From the rear door of the halted wagon, the driver and Father Lucien prepare to move the corpse of the dead guard into St Andral’s. The priest, his weathered face creased with worry and righteous indignation. He approached Komzin directly, his voice carrying the weight of urgent concern. “You must appeal to Deprimer,” he implored, his hands clasped before him. “You must convince him to show justice and mercy. The man has been conducting heretical ‘funerals’ for the victims of his violent uprising. These ceremonies are beastly beyond description - he throws the dead into the ground as though they were nothing more than refuse!”
The priest’s words hang heavy in the air as the wagon continues its journey through the transformed streets of Vallaki, a grim Komzin at the reigns. He has promised the old priest he will bring the message to Deprimer.
⚔
At the Burgomaster’s mansion, an unusual scene was unfolding. A small, seemingly unremarkable man stand before the imposing entrance, presenting himself to the guards with quiet determination. “I am capable with tools,” he announced, his voice steady despite his modest appearance.
The guards exchanged mocking glances, their laughter cruel and dismissive. “Why would you ask the Head of the Goth faith if he needs someone to hammer nails personally?” one sneered, clearly finding the entire situation amusing.
Undeterred by their ridicule, the man pressed forward with his true credentials. “I am also good with money,” he continued, his tone remaining professional, “and I am a trained accountant.”
The transformation in the guards’ demeanor was immediate and striking. Like every citizen of Vallaki, they were acutely aware of the city’s precarious financial situation. The mocking smiles vanished, replaced by sudden interest and respect. Without further delay, they arranged for an introduction to Deprimer.
Standing before the new Burgomaster, the man made a simple but memorable introduction. “Call me Sheriff,” he said with a slight smile. “I’m not a lawman - Sheriff is my first name.” Deprimer, intrigued by this unexpected arrival, gestured toward a chair in the mansion’s entryway, just outside his office. “Take a seat here, Sheriff Hillock,” he instructed. “I must see my companions first - they’ve just returned from the west, and I need their news. We will speak later.”
Sheriff settles into his designated spot and watches with keen interest as an unusual group enters the Burgomaster’s office. A tortle, a dirty looking kenku and a sturdy tiefling make their way past him, their travel-worn appearance speaking of recent hardships. The door to the Burgomaster’s office closes.
Behind them comes a young woman whose battered breastplate and weary gait told their own story of struggle. She sinks heavily into a chair facing Sheriff, her exhaustion evident in every movement. Her eyes close briefly, giving Sheriff the opportunity to study her features: the pinched, pale face framed by dark red hair, the weariness that seemed to radiate from her very being. Though she appeared to be on the verge of sleep, she suddenly straightened, her clear green eyes opening to meet his gaze.
“Where are my manners?” she said, making an effort to compose herself. “I am Ireena Kolyana. I am very glad to meet you.”
Sheriff introduced himself in return, his voice gentle with concern. “Forgive me,” he said carefully, “but you seem like you have been through some sort of difficulty.”
A wan smile crossed Ireena’s features. “Yes, these last few days have been quite a challenge,” she admits. Her voice takes on a note of confusion and pain. “I was reunited with my brother, whom I have not seen in many years. He swore he would never leave my side again, but when I awoke many miles from here, he was gone. I do not understand this at all. I am here hoping he will return to this place, where he lived before…” Ireena leaves this hanging in the air.
She paused, her exhaustion becoming more apparent. “I think that I will need to rest. My brother kept a room upstairs here in the Burgomaster’s mansion. I must excuse myself - I need rest to refresh myself. If Burgomaster Deprimer asks for me, tell him I will speak with him later. Please excuse me.”
With that, she mounts the stairs, leaving Sheriff alone in the entryway with his thoughts and the muffled sounds of conversation from the office beyond.
The walls of the mansion were thinner than one might expect for such an important building, and Sheriff finds he can hear the conversation in Deprimer’s office with startling clarity. The first voice he distinguished was high-pitched and choppy - unmistakably the speech pattern of the kenku he had observed entering.
“Strazni dead,” the bird-like creature announces in its distinctive, fragmented cadence. “I doesn’t know how.”
This revelation sparks a flurry of surprised and concerned discussion among the group. Sheriff makes out their debate about how to break this news to Ireena and where she might find safe shelter, at least temporarily. Sheriff feels great pity for the woman.
He also detects an underlying tension in their voices, a pressure that seemed to weigh heavily on all of them. He catches fragments of references to some sort of edict from a “Vampire Lord” - something about returning Ireena to Ravenloft, the frightening castle to the east. Whatever this vampire wants with the young woman, the group seemed convinced it bodes ill for her.
The conversation then shifted to discussion of some sort of document that the kenku was apparently sharing with the others.
Inside the office, Duster carefully withdraws a contract from his belongings. The parchment, despite having been rolled into a scroll, has no trouble lying flat on Deprimer’s vast, carved desk. On it, the signatures of Komzin, Krelldutt, Deprimer, Rakthe, and Duster himself glow an angry red, as if lava were below the surface of the vellum. “That’s my signature, Duster, but I didn’t sign this document!”
The reaction from the others is immediate and vehement. They object strenuously, insisting they,too, had never signed such a document. Krelldutt, his anger rising, seized a pot of ink and a quill from Deprimer’s desk and attempts to obscure his name on the contract. He watches in growing frustration as the name is scratched out by his efforts, only to return moments later, as clear as before. A second attempt to blot it out yielded the same maddening result: the new ink fades and Krelldutt’s signature is as clear as ever.
“How has this occurred?” Krelldutt demanded, his voice tight with rage and confusion.
Duster’s lying response is characteristically brief but chilling. “Arch devil sign.”
The group stared at him in disbelief, clearly struggling to accept this explanation. Before they could delve deeper into the implications of what Duster was telling them, they are interrupted by an unexpected voice from the doorway.
“If you are leaving Barovia to escape from the Arch Devil,” Sheriff announces, his eyes wild with desperate hope, “you must take me with you! I have been trapped here for years!”
The group turned to stare at the wild-eyed monk who has somehow overheard their private conversation. Deprimer, maintaining his composure despite the interruption, spoke with obvious patience. “This is a private meeting,” he says quietly but firmly. “Please leave.”
Before anyone can respond further, Ireena appears, slipping past Sheriff with a bright smile that seemed incongruous with the heavy atmosphere in the room. “You have met Sheriff!” she says cheerfully. “I hope you will provide him employment.” Her tone remained upbeat as she continued, “I hope you are discussing how many searchers you will send out to find Izek, my brother. Do you think he will come back soon, Deprimer?”
The woman seemed completely oblivious to the meaningful looks that passed between the others in the room. It is painfully clear that Ireena has no knowledge of Strazni’s death. She presses on with innocent optimism, “It is possible he will return to this house - his home. In either case, I will wait here. I need a key to get into his room upstairs, so that I may rest.”
When no one responded immediately, concern crept into her voice. “Is there something the matter?”
Deprimer took on the terrible task of delivering the news. His voice was gentle but clear. “Ireena, Izek Strazni is dead. Duster just told us.”
The transformation in Ireena was immediate and heartbreaking. She whipped her head around to face Duster, pain and grief transforming her features. “Is this true, Duster?” she gasped. “Why did you not tell me?”
Duster’s response is a simple, sorrowful nod. “Yes. Dead. Bad.”
Ireena dissolves into floods of tears, her composure completely is shattered by the devastating news. Sheriff, moved again by her anguish, gently guides her to one of the sofas in Deprimer’s office, offering what comfort he could while she weeps.
After some time passes and her initial shock begins to subside, Ireena’s grief transforms into confused anger. “Duster,” she demands through her tears, “why did you not tell me my brother is dead? You let me go on about how happy I was to have found him after all these years!”
Duster, looking as pathetic and downcast as his kenku features would allow, offered his explanation in his broken speech. “No want hurt you.”
The simple honesty in his words seemed to reach Ireena, and her eyes softened with understanding. “I have much to think about,” she said quietly. “Duster, I believe you meant well.” She turned to Deprimer with a practical request. “Do you have a key to Izek’s room? It is locked.”
Deprimer deferred to Dunlar, who produces a large, ornate keyring and hands it to Ireena without ceremony.
⚔
The group attempts to return to their discussion of the mysterious contract and its forged signatures when a sound from above freezes them all in place. Ireena’s piercing scream echoes through the mansion, followed by the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor.
Racing up to the second floor, Dunlar’s enormous keyring still hangs from the door swinging gently, they find Ireena unconscious on the floor of what had clearly been Izek’s bedroom. The room is in complete disarray, but that isn’t what had caused her collapse.
The true horror lays in what filled the room. Staring out from shelves, tables, and open cupboards were the glass eyes of hundreds of dolls of every conceivable size. Some stood several feet tall, others measured only a few inches. Each possess the same distinctive red hair and green eyes. Some are dressed in elaborate gowns, a few in miniature armor, others in simple peasant garb. But regardless of their attire or size, each doll bears an unmistakable resemblance to Ireena herself.
Every single doll carried a small, stitched tag that bears a familiar slogan: “Is No Fun, Is No Blinsky!”
As Deprimer and Sheriff worked together to help the shaken Ireena to her feet, Krelldutt voiced what they were all thinking. “Didn’t Blinsky say that Strazni was his only customer?”
Sobbing, Ireena says to no one, “Izek was mad! He is better off gone!”
⚔
Ireena, still ashen from her discovery, informs them with quiet dignity that she would like to return to the Blue Water Inn for the night. The group wish her, despite the horror of their discovery about her brother, a peaceful rest, and she departed in Sheriff’s protective company, grateful for his unexpected kindness during her time of grief.
Once she is gone, Deprimer turns to address the remaining members of the group. “Well,” he began, his tone carefully neutral, “what would you like to do about Ireena?”
Deprimer scans a room full of grim faces. Only Krelldutt, he believes, seems likely to object to the idea of turning the young woman over to Strahd as demanded. Even Rakthe, typically blunt in their assessments, weighs in with an unfavorable opinion of her: “If I get a vote,” they declare, “get rid of her. She’s weak, and that annoys me.”
The weight of the decision hangs heavy in the air as the evening shadows lengthen around the Burgomaster’s mansion. The fate of Ireena Kolyana remains uncertain in Deprimer’s mind this cursed land of Barovia.
