Krelldutt pushes through the heavy wooden door of the Blue Water Inn, his massive frame radiating the frustration that has been building since his confrontation with Deprimer. The familiar warmth of the taproom does little to ease his anger as he settles heavily into a chair, the wood creaking under his weight. Through the frost-covered windows, he can see Urwin leading the five horses he has just retrieved into the inn’s barn.
The tortle is still sitting, brooding over his tea, when the inn’s door bangs open, admitting two Red Guards whose armor clanks with each weary step. They slump into chairs at a nearby table, their voices carrying clearly across the nearly empty taproom.
“Another double shift,” Lieutenant Fish grumbles, pulling off his helm and running fingers through sweat-dampened hair. “Overnight watch followed by this ridiculous tax collection nonsense.”
Lieutenant Julian nods grimly, unfastening his sword belt. “My feet are killing me, and we’ve still got the night patrol ahead of us. When does this madness end?”
Krelldutt’s ears perk up at their complaints. He reaches into his pouch, feeling the weight of the platinum pieces Strahd had gifted him. With deliberate slowness, he places two of the gleaming coins on his table where the firelight catches their silvery surface.
“Gentlemen,” Krelldutt calls across the taproom, “would you be interested in mercenary work?”
Both guards turn toward him, their conversation dying mid-sentence. Their eyes fix on the platinum pieces with the intensity of starving men seeing bread. Lieutenant Fish leans forward, squinting in the dim light.
“Is that…?” Lieutenant Julian’s voice trails off in disbelief.
“Platinum,” Krelldutt confirms, watching their faces. “Neither of you have seen such coin before, I’d wager.”
Fish shakes his head slowly, unable to look away from the gleaming metal. “Never. Not in ten years of service.”
“Very interested,” Julian breathes, already calculating what such wealth could mean. “When and where?”
Krelldutt’s massive mouth curves into something resembling a smile. “Dawn tomorrow. After your night watch ends. Meet me here. We will ride at out at dawn.”
⚔
Meanwhile, across the city, Deprimer stumbles from the Schmidt mansion into the empty street, his heart hammering against his ribs. The familiar figure of Krieger approaches through the gathering dusk, and relief floods through the Burgomaster.
“Krieger, thank the gods you’re here…” Deprimer gasps, still catching his breath from his narrow escape.
A cold smile spreads across Krieger’s weathered features, but the warmth never reaches his eyes. He places a gentle hand on Deprimer’s shoulder, guiding him back toward the mansion. “Come, my lord. Let’s return and sort this out properly.”
Something in Krieger’s tone sends ice through Deprimer’s veins. He pulls back, every instinct warning him of danger. “No, we need to gather more guards first. Scholtz has returned!”
Krieger’s hand moves to the whistle hanging from his belt. “Of course. I can summon Lieutenant Fish to help with this.” He demonstrates a distinctive series of sharp blasts that echo off the narrow buildings. From somewhere in the distance, an answering whistle repeats the same pattern.
“Can I summon all the guards the same way?” Deprimer asks, hope creeping into his voice.
Krieger nods, extending his whistle. “One long blast will bring every guard within earshot.” He raises the whistle toward his own lips as if preparing to join the call.
Deprimer turns away from Krieger and places the whistle between his lips, but before he can draw breath, something crashes down on his shoulder. The whistle clatters to the cobblestones as pain explodes through his arm. Krieger’s sword pommel gleams in the fading light, having missed Deprimer’s skull by mere inches.
“Damn!” Krieger snarls, swinging again. This time his blade finds its mark, opening a gash across Deprimer’s back.
Deprimer wheels away from the assault and vanishes in a swirl of mist, reappearing in the mouth of a narrow alley. His boots splash through puddles as he darts between buildings, keeping to the shadows. Behind him, the distinctive thrum of heavy crossbow bolts fills the air. One quarrel sparks off stone beside his head; the second punches into his side with brutal force, tearing a cry from his throat.
Blood streaming down his flank, Deprimer stumbles but maintains his footing, pounding down the empty street toward Vallaki’s center. Ahead, a cheerful figure comes into view - Blinsky, kneeling beside his shop door with his monkey Piccolo perched on his shoulder, both engaged in some simple game.
The toymaker looks up at the approaching figure, his wide smile faltering as he takes in the Burgomaster’s blood and terror. Without a word, Blinsky yanks open his shop door and waves Deprimer inside, his hands flapping frantically to urge him deeper into the cluttered interior.
Deprimer crosses the shop in five long strides and ducks into a cramped stockroom filled with half-finished dolls and wooden toys. Through the thin door, he hears Krieger’s voice rising in anger, demanding answers. Blinsky’s responses come in high, pleading tones, clearly trying to protect his unexpected guest.
The sharp crack of flesh striking flesh echoes through the shop, followed immediately by Piccolo’s shrieking and Krieger’s howl of pain. Glass explodes somewhere in the main shop - a window or perhaps one of Blinsky’s delicate music boxes. Something hits the floor with finality.
Blinsky’s wail of anguish cuts through Deprimer’s heart. Moving as silently as he can, the wounded Burgomaster creeps up a narrow staircase into Blinsky’s modest living quarters, then climbs again to the dusty attic. Here, among cobwebbed boxes and forgotten toys, he huddles in the darkness to wait.
⚔
Back at the Schmidt mansion, Scholtz fixes Duster with a hard stare. “I cannot be seen on the streets while the Burgomaster still draws breath. Go do your job.”
Duster bobs his head and slips from the house. He catches sight of Krieger firing his crossbow down an alley and considers for a moment, but reasons that such a formidable warrior needs no assistance. Instead, he makes his way through Vallaki’s winding streets toward the Burgomaster’s mansion.
Boris, a city guard Duster recognizes, stands at attention beside the mansion’s grand entrance. His head turns eagerly as Duster approaches.
“Did you hear Fish’s whistle a moment ago?” Boris asks, his voice tight with concern. “Three sharp blasts?”
Duster tilts his head, indicating he noticed nothing.
“I hope Fish responded properly,” Boris mutters, his gaze drifting down the street as if he might spot the lieutenant approaching. “I should check on him, but I’m ordered to guard this door. There’s only house staff inside, and I must keep them and the mansion safe until the Burgomaster returns with his guards.”
Duster cocks his head thoughtfully. “Go check?”
Boris blinks in surprise. “I would, but my orders…”
“Krieger made me guard,” Duster croaks in his rasping voice. “You go. I watch here.”
A wide grin breaks across Boris’s face. “Well, thank you, Mr. Duster! I believe I’ll take you up on that generous offer. First place I’ll check is the tavern, naturally!”
Boris practically skips down the mansion steps, disappearing up the street without a backward glance. Duster waits until the guard vanishes around a corner, then slips inside and secures the heavy door behind him.
The mansion’s interior echoes with his footsteps as he climbs the grand staircase to Deprimer’s bedchamber. Here, he unpacks his disguise kit with practiced efficiency, applying the careful illusion that will transform him into Vallaki’s Burgomaster. He selects clothing from Deprimer’s wardrobe, noting the quality of the fabric and the care with which each garment has been maintained.
Within moments of finishing his preparations, a maid opens the door and immediately drops her head in mortification.
“Forgive me, Burgomaster! I had no idea you had returned from the tax collection. Please excuse the intrusion.”
“Go in,” Duster responds in Deprimer’s cultured tones, the voice flowing effortlessly from his transformed throat.
The maid curtseys and withdraws. Duster, now fully transformed, makes his way to Deprimer’s office to await the resolution of Krieger’s rebellion.
⚔
Outside the Blue Water Inn, Krelldutt pauses as the distinctive twang of crossbow strings reaches his ears, followed by a grunt of pain that carries clearly through the cold air. Curious, he peers down the street and spots the broad back of a Red Guard - likely Krieger - moving with urgent purpose toward the city center.
Raised voices drift to him on the breeze, then the sharp crash of breaking glass. A hopeless wail rises from the direction of the town square, and Krelldutt can make out three figures: Blinsky on his knees, Krieger striding away with obvious satisfaction, and an unknown Red Guard entering the toymaker’s shop. The broken door chimes with each swing, its cheerful jingle grotesquely inappropriate for the scene.
Krelldutt hurries forward and helps the distraught Blinsky to his feet. The guard disappears deeper into the shop, clearly searching for something or someone. On the floor just inside the door lies Piccolo’s tiny, motionless form.
“My boy!” Blinsky sobs, fresh tears streaming down his painted cheeks. “My Piccolo is dead!”
Krelldutt gathers the small monkey into his massive hands, feeling for any spark of life. There - the faintest flutter of a heartbeat. He channels healing energy through his palms, watching as Piccolo’s eyes snap open. The monkey sits, shakes his head as if clearing away cobwebs, then leaps to Blinsky’s shoulder and presses himself against his master’s neck.
“How can I ever thank you, Mr. Krelldutt?” Blinsky whispers, his voice thick with gratitude.
Then, remembering the danger, he drops his voice even lower. “Your friend the Burgomaster came inside to escape Krieger. I don’t know if he slipped out the back or if he’s still hiding, but Krieger sent Fish inside to search. Fish is not a good man.” Blinsky pauses, before dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “I cannot ask another service from you, Mr Krelldutt, but I would appreciate you checking my shop for….whatever is inside.”
Blinsky’s meaningful look carries both a clear warning and a plea as Krelldutt turns his attention to the violated storefront, wondering what he might find within.
⚔
Deep beneath Castle Ravenloft, in the suffocating darkness of the catacombs, Komzin hurls himself against the stone door of his prison. The ancient marble refuses to yield, its surface worn smooth by centuries but still impossibly solid. Outside the mausoleum, the sounds of savage combat continue - Rakthe’s labored breathing, the vampire spawn’s hisses of fury, and worst of all, his companion’s cry of pain as teeth find flesh once again.
The dragonborn’s voice grunts of pain weaker with each exchange, and Komzin can only listen helplessly as his companion’s life ebbs away on the other side of the unyielding stone. Where is Conwan?
Three yards away, shrouded within Conwan’s thick mist, Rakthe struggles against an unseen adversary. The vampire spawn moves unseen by Rakthe within the cloud, her presence marked only by the overwhelming stench of decay that surges and recedes with each attack. Rakthe swings their great sword through empty air, the blade whistling harmlessly through the mist.
“I can smell your blood…” the creature’s voice hisses from the darkness, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
The rapid patter of approaching footsteps echoes through the catacombs, followed by a young female voice calling softly but urgently, “Stop! STOP! You are waking it! Don’t you feel it? It is approaching!”
The words send fresh terror coursing through Rakthe’s veins. Beyond the immediate threat of fangs and claws, they can feel something far worse stirring in the depths below. The very stones beneath their feet seem to pulse with malevolent awareness, and Rakthe feels the air growing thick with an oppressive dread that makes their breathing difficult.
Rakthe senses rather than sees their opponent withdraw. Scuttling sounds fade into the darkness as the three vampire spawn retreat deeper into the necropolis, their hunger temporarily overruled by a greater fear.
“I heard someone striking the tomb door,” the young voice whispers at Komzin’s prison. “Who are you?”
Komzin matches her volume, his voice barely audible through the marble. “Komzin.”
The bolt slides back with a grinding rasp, and the knight finds himself face to face with a slight human female who appears to have been in her early twenties when death claimed her. Despite her deathly pallor, she maintains an almost living beauty, her expensive gown immaculate compared to the tattered rags worn by the other spawn. She smiles shyly, revealing delicate fangs pressed against her lower lip.
“I am Gertruda, a… consort… of Count Strahd,” she says, the pause heavy with pain. “The others have told me of you, Komzin. You also have angered the Lord. Why else would you be in this place?”
Komzin studies the girl carefully. Unlike the savage creatures that attacked them, Gertruda appears recently turned, her clothing still fine and untorn, her manner more human than monster. Tears well in her blue eyes as she continues.
“Mr. Komzin, I do not understand why I have been exiled from my place at the Lord’s side. I have done nothing… said nothing… that I can think of that has turned his heart from me! And yet he threw me aside. I don’t know what I have done!”
Her sobs are cut short. Gertruda’s head snaps toward the deeper darkness, her enhanced senses picking up something beyond Komzin’s perception. Terror transforms her features as she squints into the black depths.
“We must go! The creature is awake, and will be here soon. It is coming! It will wish to feed. We cannot be found!”
“Do you know a way out?” Komzin asks, desperation creeping into his voice.
Gertruda moves quickly through the dissipating mist, colliding with Rakthe in her haste. “Come! We must go, now!” She grasps the dragonborn’s sleeve and pulls them from the choking gray cloud into one of the corridors lined by a grid of ancient mausoleums.
All around them, stone doors slide shut with ominous finality, the other spawn sealing themselves away from whatever approaches. Gertruda weaves between the carved monuments, each bearing the names of Strahd’s discarded lovers, counting under her breath to navigate the vast necropolis.
Rakthe begins trembling uncontrollably, their draconic heritage failing to protect them from the primordial fear rising from below. Something enormous and malevolent pursues them through the darkness, its presence growing stronger with each passing moment.
At a massive stone door carved with an ominous inscription, Gertruda stops: “Herein lie the ones who walk the path of pain and torment.”
“Pull the ring!” she commands breathlessly.
Komzin yanks the iron circlet, and the door opens with a grinding shriek that echoes through the catacombs. Beyond lies a long stone corridor stretching into impenetrable darkness.
“I have not been down this hallway,” Gertruda admits, “but the others tell me it leads back to a stairway that will bring you out of the castle! Go quickly!”
Rakthe flees into the passage, their breathing coming in shallow, panicked gasps as they press against the cold stone wall. Komzin catches Gertruda’s arm before following, his eyes searching her face.
“Why are you helping us?”
Fresh tears spill down her pale cheeks. “My mother taught me that no one deserves to be left afraid in the dark. Go… that creature… it will find you!” Her voice breaks as her chin quivers. “I must leave to hide. Flee, now, Komzin. Maybe we will meet again.”
She gently pushes the knight through the doorway and slides the door closed behind them. The grinding echo of stone against stone fades slowly down the long, straight corridor.
“Let us go,” Komzin whispers. “We can hope Gertruda spoke truly.” He sees Rakthe hyperventilating against the wall, their eyes wide and bulging in the absolute darkness. “Follow my steps,” he says gently, realizing his companion is blind in these depths.
Moving too quickly in his urgency to escape, Komzin fails to notice the cunningly concealed trap door until it gives way beneath his weight. The knight plummets through empty air and strikes hard, slanted stone. He slides rapidly down a steep, polished ramp. After what feels like an eternity of tumbling descent, he crashes headfirst into two feet of icy, foul-smelling water.
Komzin surfaces, spitting out the vile liquid and gasping for air. Far above, he can make out Rakthe’s terrified face peering down through the opening.
“I’m down here,” he calls up, his voice echoing strangely in the confined space. “The trap door is maybe ten feet across.”
Behind him in the darkness, water sloshes as something large moves through the fetid pool.
“I have to go on, Komzin, I can’t stay here,” Rakthe’s voice drifts down from above. The dragonborn disappears from view, then reappears as the sound of running footsteps reaches Komzin’s ears. Rakthe launches themselves through the air, trying to clear the trap door entirely.
But without sight to guide them, Rakthe misjudges the distance. They also tumble through the opening, sliding down the same treacherous ramp. Komzin attempts to break their companion’s fall but succeeds only in getting knocked back into the putrid water as they both crash into the iron bars that form one wall of their new prison.
Above them, the trap door snaps shut with mechanical precision, resetting itself for the next unwary victim.
In the darkness behind them, something moves through the water with deliberate purpose. A voice creaks like ancient hinges, filled with desperate hunger.
“Who is there? I can smell your blood. Please… I have not eaten in so very long. I am so very hungry…”
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