The golden gleam catches Biblo’s eye as he stares at the massive pile of coins before us. Each disc bears the same haunting imagery—Strahd’s aristocratic profile etched on one side, while Castle Ravenloft’s imposing silhouette dominates the other. The metal feels cold even from this distance, and he can almost taste the metallic tang in the air.
“Do you think they’re cursed?” Nike’s voice cuts through the tomb’s oppressive silence, her words echoing off the ancient stone walls.
They begin their investigation of the treasure trove, and once again it’s Biblo who makes the crucial discovery. His scaled fingers hover over the coins as he detects the faint but unmistakable traces of evil magic threading through the gold.
Shifty steps forward, his small kobold frame barely casting a shadow in the dim light. As he begins the ritual to cleanse the coins, his melodic chanting fills the chamber. The ancient words seem to pull something from the very air itself—a thin stream of green smoke rises from the treasure, and a disembodied voice booms through the space: “Who are you to disturb the Treasury of Argynvostholt?”
Without missing a beat, Shifty points toward the entrance. “It’s the red dragonborn outside!” he lies smoothly.
The spirit floats past us with an otherworldly whisper, seeking its supposed target. Moments later, it shrieks as the grey daylight dissolves its essence into nothing.
The rest of the day passes in solemn reverence as the party carefully bury the fallen knights of Argynvost. Shifty’s voice carries the weight of ceremony as he performs their final rites in the cemetery, the earth accepting their bones at last. The soul of their leader remains trapped, awaiting the return of his skull from the depths of Ravenloft.
When morning arrives, reality sets in. The treasure before them—ten thousand gold pieces each—represents a fortune beyond their wildest dreams, but the weight is crushing. They stuff pockets and packs with what they can carry, then seal the remainder within Argynvost’s tomb, hoping the dragon’s bones will guard what they cannot take.
Nike’s jaw tightens when we discuss returning to Vallaki. Their reluctance to face their home city hangs heavy. Crystal suggests cutting through the forest to reach our destination faster.
The cliff face looms before them. Each handhold feels precarious as they climb, sweat mixing with the mountain’s moisture. Only when they reach the crest do they peer back and see the razor-sharp rocks jutting from the chasm below—a fall that would have shredded them to ribbons.
On the road, Biblo takes point as always. He stops suddenly as his gaze falls upon a small, fluffy bunny sitting innocently in the middle of the path. The sight seems almost comically normal in this land of horrors.
Biblo approaches with outstretched hands, perhaps hoping for a moment of simple pleasure. The creature wheels around, revealing needle-sharp fangs, and launches itself at him with feral intensity. Biblo draws the beast away, leading it in deadly circles, but on the third pass, Nike steps boldly between them.
Somehow—through magic or sheer force of will—they communicate with the rabid creature. The transformation is remarkable; the beast settles into their hood, now their companion. “Rinaldi,” they names it, and the rabbit seems to approve.
Near the bridge spanning the River Lun, both Crystal and Novaril freeze. Their keen ears catch the rhythmic thunder of approaching hooves, and the acrid scent of brimstone upon the wind.
“Hide!” Crystal’s urgent whisper sends them scrambling into the treeline. They press ourselves against bark and stone, hardly daring to breathe as the horseman thunders past without noticing them.
At Vallaki’s gates, the Burgomaster’s red guards block our path with crossed spears. The negotiation is tense—coins change hands in carefully measured amounts until they step aside with knowing smirks.
Wachterhaus welcomes them with its familiar gloom. Lady Wachter’s eyes light up when we produce the resurrection gem, its faceted surface catching the candlelight like trapped starfire. But triumph sours quickly when they realize none of possess the magical knowledge to cast such powerful spells.
“The Abbott in Kresk,” Lady Wachter suggests, her voice carrying both hope and warning.
The suggestion settles over them like a dark cloud. The Abbott’s madness runs deep, and their last encounter ending with Ilya’s liberation—a deed that likely cost the deranged angel valuable research material. Returning to face his potential wrath feels like walking willingly into a spider’s web, but the gem glitters with possibility, and Lady Wachter’s wagon and coffin can taken them in the morning.
