The distant thrumming reaches Conwan’s keen ears as his companions’ voices fade to whispers, then vanish entirely into Ravenloft’s ominous silence. Movement catches his eye—what first appears to be a horse materializes from the shadows, banished by whatever light the animal seems to bring with it. Not a horse: a nightmare wreathed in sulfurous flame.
The name ‘Bucephalus,’ read earlier carved into a stone arch, darts through Conwan’s mind as he dodges the monstrous creature. He darts closer, his short sword cutting empty air as Bucephalus rears back. Bucephalus rears back to club the assassin brutally with fiery hooves. The assassin’s breath comes sharp from the pain of the creature’s strength as well as its scorching extremities. Another assault like that will end his escape from this cursed place permanently.
A young female voice pierces the darkness, unfamiliar yet urgent. “There is a tomb to your left, the door is open. The creature cannot fit inside to reach you.” Conwan hurls himself sideways through the doorway, slamming it shut behind him. In the suffocating blackness, the paralyzing terror that began moments earlier, unrelated to the nightmare, now envelopes him. The cold of the tomb crawls over him, and he begins to shiver.
Minutes stretch like hours as he huddles in the dark. The nightmare’s hoofbeats clatter away, replaced by something heavy dragging across stone. Ice-cold air seeps through the tomb’s walls, bringing with it the reek of decay. Conwan presses against the rear wall as fear threatens to break him, then gradually subsides.
Covered in a cold sweat, he hears a sharp rap on the tomb door. The same voice hisses through the door, as if not wishing to be overheard, “The creature is gone for now, back to the depths. While the others are still hiding, I can show you the way out of the crypt. I have shown your friends, Komzin and his dragonborn companion, the way to leave. I can lead there you, as well.”
Komzin does not respond. “You do not trust me,” the voice continues after a pause, “Very well. You can find your own way, if the others who dwell in the crypt do not find you. Go to the tomb door in the northwest corner of the crypt. The inscription on the door will read, “Herein lie the ones who walk the path of pain and torment.” Pass through this door. They are not that far ahead of you.”
Conwan hears the tapping of the woman’s shoes fade before cautiously opening the door. In the very dim light, he can see the floor punctuated with claw shaped tracks of black ichor. A faint but powerful stench of decay lingers, and Conwan covers his mouth and nose with his hand before stealthily moving north. He finds a spiral staircase that climbs into the darkness, illuminated by several torches. Conwan continues on, finding a tomb door. Slowly, with his fingers he feels the letters in the very flickering light to read: Francesca Troisky—The Three-Faced Traitor. A regrettable Consort of Strahd von Zarovich, Dread Lord Over All Barovia.
Conwan pushes the door open, and as he does, a choking stream of gas emerges from the walls. Poisoned and dying, the halfling drops onto the pressure plate he set off by approaching the tomb.
⚔
Cold sweat beads on his skin when sharp knocking echoes from the door. The same voice hisses through the wood, barely audible. “The creature has returned to the depths. While the others still hide, I can guide you from this place. I have already shown your friends—Komzin and his dragonborn companion—the way out. Follow my directions if you wish to live.”
Conwan remains still and silent. “You do not trust me,” the voice continues. “Find your own path then, if the crypt’s other inhabitants do not claim you first. Seek the tomb door in the northwest corner—its inscription reads ‘Herein lie the ones who walk the path of pain and torment.’ Pass through. They are not far ahead.”
The woman’s footsteps fade as Conwan cautiously opens the door. Claw-shaped tracks of black ichor punctuate the floor in the dim light, accompanied by the lingering stench of corruption. Hand covering his mouth and nose, he moves north stealthily until he discovers a torch-lit alcove containing a spiral staircase that climbs into darkness.
He moves further on to encounter letters carved into a tomb door: “Francesca Troisky—The Three-Faced Traitor. A regrettable Consort of Strahd von Zarovich, Dread Lord Over All Barovia.” His terror abating, Conwan reasons that a consort, even a disappointing one, would likely be buried with at least some valuables. As he steps toward the door to swing it open, Conwan feels as well as hears an unwelcome set of clicks beneath his feet. A choking gas begins to stream from hidden wall vents in the door frame. Conwan has no chance to back away as the caustic vapors burn his eyes and flood his lungs. The halfling collapses onto the pressure plate that triggered his fate.
⚔
As consciousness slowly returns to Conwan, the burning nausea recedes somewhat. He stares up into an impossibly pale face—a girl in her late teens smiles down at him. “Ah, you return to me,” she says, pointed teeth glinting behind her lips. The halfling rolls away, eyes fixed on the tomb’s interior where precious metals glitter in the darkness.
He rises, stepping back from the crouching girl whose gaze drifts distantly. “I am Gertruda. Are you a former ally of Lord Strahd?”
Her words imply a decidedly negative judgement of Conwan, but he allows this to pass. His attention has been drawn to what appears to be a golden helm atop the tomb’s plinth. His eyes flit around the interior of the tomb, searching for additional traps. Without looking at the girl, he replies, “I am Conwan. Hired to deliver the woman to be the Lord of this castle.”
The girl’s angry hiss cuts him short. “I am his consort!”
“His next consort,” Conwan corrects.
“I am the only consort, the LAST consort!” she cries. “I will be the Lady of Ravenloft! That was promised! I am the one he truly loves!”
“Is that why you’re here?” Conwan asks innocently.
The sound of angry weeping begins behind him. “He does not belong to her,” Gertruda spits into the darkness, ignoring his pointed question. “He is mine! I am meant to be Count Strahd’s bride!”
“Ireena was brought here to be his bride,” Conwan states firmly, withholding the circumstances of Ireena’s condition upon her arrival.
“But I am to be his bride!” The girl dissolves into tears. “Who is this Ireena? If I could leave this crypt, I would kill her!” She watches Conwan, who has lost interest in her complaints. Sniffling, she gestures toward the tomb. “There is something valuable inside… take it. That will upset the Count, having his precious objects in the hands of someone like you!”
Ignoring her derision, Conwan gauges how best to enter the tomb. Avoiding the pressure plate, Conwan peers into the space, keenly aware he cannot see everything in the interior. “Are there other traps?” he calls over his shoulder.
“No,” she sniffs. And so he leaps past the plate, landing lightly on the stone floor of the crypt.
And from behind him, Conwan can almost hear the smile in her voice as she adds, “At least I don’t think so.” The assassin freezes, trying to look everywhere at once, but his eyes cannot pierce the darkness.
But in the shard of dim light that finds its way in through the gaping tomb door, there is a glimmer. Conwan approaches cautiously. The marble slab holds no body, only a golden helm. After a scan reveals no immediate threats to the assassin, he seizes the heavy object. Metal scrapes against stone as he lifts it, revealing a lead cylinder engraved with the stark inscription: “Francesca Troisky.”
The helm has no visor and seems well-suited for his small hands. The helm would easily fit on the head of one as small as Conwan. It is decorative rather than protective, possibly solid gold. It does not gleam with any discernable magical aura. Disturbingly, the helm bears three human faces, each contorted in extreme agony. Conwan tucks it away and vaults from the tomb.
Gertruda’s red-rimmed eyes track his movement. She sniffles at him, “Will you kill the woman Ireena for me?”
Conwan stops, turning to face the pathetic vampire spawn. “Do you have gold?”
Gertruda blinks as if she cannot believe what the halfling is saying to her. “I have shown you where there is treasure, and you have taken it. I also did not let die! I saved your life, giving your life back to you!”
Unmoved, Conwan demands gold or refuses to consider assassination. “You are no honorable man! You will not serve a lady in need! No gentleman!” she spits through fresh tears.
“No,” Conwan agrees pleasantly. “I am not. And that gold was never yours to give.”
Recovering herself, Gertruda speaks slyly. “I know where treasure lies close by… gold… untold wealth…”
“Where?” Conwan asks simply.
“So close! But you must promise to kill that Ireena creature!”
“How much gold?”
Gertruda smirks at him and whispers, “I do not know. Much. It is guarded by a creature that sleeps most of the time. The Count once brought me to its brink, telling me he would give me to it if I betrayed him. Open the door. See for yourself.” She gestures toward a nearby tomb with a flawless black marble door, unmarked by inscription.
“You open it,” Conwan challenges.
“I cannot. Lord Strahd’s rules forbid crypt dwellers from opening any tomb save their own.”
Conwan hesitates only briefly before pulling the door wide.
He is immediately surrounded by the rush of air that stinks of corruption, the same stench that was around the tracks as he hid in the tomb.
This crypt has no floor, only smooth brick walls that plunge downward into blackness. Conwan again feels the frisson of panic, as if something at the bottom of this pit is radiating a threatening terror from its depths. He claws at the last phial of Midnight’s Tears, the poison that allowed Deprimer to take possession of Vallaki. The assassin sends a prayer to the darker gods that the darkest hour has not yet passed and uncorks the container, releasing it into the void. He follows the drops with the emptied bottle. Once the powerful poison has killed whatever dwells below, he will climb down to collect whatever trove is at the bottom.
The waiting stretches endlessly. No sound of glass shattering against surface or body—only silence. The fear builds, threatening to overwhelm him.
As he turns to Gertruda, he notes that she has vanished. His head snaps back to the tomb as a faint hiss rises from the well. A choking vapor unfurls its frigid tentacles around him. Conwan senses something massive unfolding itself in the pit’s depths, its gathering ascent reaching his ears. He breaks into a panicked flight northward.
All around him, Conwan hears the sound of crypt doors slamming. Whatever is ascending from the depths is something familiar to the denizens of this necropolis. The sound is building, and on the verge of releasing a scream that has been building in his throat, Conwan barrels around a crypt to find a door inscribed with gothic lettering that says: Herein lie the ones who walk the path of pain and torment.
He yanks the door open. It swings out, slamming itself with a thundering boom against the stone wall. The sound reverberates in the vast space, and as the echoes die, Conwan becomes aware of the pounding of fear in his chest, as though something might burst forth. Blindly, he plunges into the darkness of the narrow corridor. As he runs, he becomes nearly overwhelmed by a voice that isn't truly a voice within the confines of his skull. Its buzzing imitation of Common intones, “Poisoner, you are mine!”
Conwan flies onward through the darkness.
To drop through the same trap door that collapsed under Komzin. Conwan tumbles down the steep ramp, slamming into Rakthe, submerging them both in the icy, foul water. Komzin helps the dragonborn up while Conwan surfaces, sputtering. The water is deep enough to come up to his chest. Conwan’s attention snaps to the inky blackness, following a voice that calls, “Friends! Another arrives! Open the door and then open my door! Release me! Please. I hunger.”
The trap door collapses beneath him. Conwan tumbles down the steep ramp, slamming into Rakthe and sending them both into icy, foul water. Komzin helps the dragonborn up as Conwan surfaces, sputtering in chest-deep filth.
A voice calls from inky blackness: “Friends! Another arrives! Open your door and then open my door! Release me! Please.”
“It is Komzin and Rakthe, Conwan. We are imprisoned. The iron bars are strong but the lock is old-fashioned—can you pick it?”
Conwan realizes only Komzin possesses darkvision here. His fear recedes with immersion in vile water. Working by touch, he springs the lock with a creak.
“Please, friends! Open my cell! I need to feed! I am hungry! Please?”
“Shut up!” Komzin snarls. “Ignore him, Conwan. This is Doru, a priest’s son from Barovia village. He is vampire spawn—do not release him.”
“I swear I will not bite!” Doru becomes agitated, bars rattling. “I have coins! Look!” Splashing follows, then jingling. “Platinum! They are yours!”
“Give me half and I’ll open your door!” Conwan bargains as he wades out of the cell.
“No!” Doru’s voice breaks. What might be a coin flies past Conwan’s face, splashing beside him into the water. Doru, enraged, shakes the door violently to punctuate the words he shrieks at Conwan. “Let me out! You can do it for me! Do it…”.
The door gives way unexpectedly and Doru rushes forward. He seizes the halfling and plunging fangs into his neck. Conwan’s body goes rigid, back arching, eyes rolling upward.
Komzin slips his greatsword from its scabbard to bring it down on Conwan’s attacker. Doru ducks clumsily but the backswing catches him, eliciting shrieks of pain around Conwan’s bleeding throat.
Following the sounds, Rakthe draws weapons and steps forward. Their battleaxe, swung blind with practiced skill, bites deeply into the vampire spawn. Doru cries out, releasing Conwan to face Rakthe, whose bulging eyes cannot see him approach.
Following the sounds, Rakthe also draws their weapons to step forward. Their powerful swing, blindly in the darkness, speaks of their skill with their battleaxe. It bites deeply into the vampire spawn, and he screams. Doru still clutches Conwan even as he spins to face Rakthe, whose bulging eyes cannot see him approach.
⚔
Krelldutt enters the front room of the Blinsky’s shop, the bell jingling again. The broad figure of one of Vallaki’s Red Guard is moving toward the back of the ship. Krelldutt calls out to Sergeant Fish, who turns to face him. “Oh, Mr Krelldutt,” Fish flushes brick red, visible to the tortle even in the dim light of the shop. “I am…searching…for the Burgomaster…your friend…To keep him safe.”
Krelldutt, keeping his face inscrutable, asks him, “On whose orders are you looking for the Burgomaster? Is he in the building?”
“It was Captain Krieger,” sputters Fish, “Are you here to help? Why don’t you look out in the yard? I do not know if he has left or is still here. I’ll search within the building. We will find him, have no fear.”
Krelldutt exits to look in the small garden and muddy grass behind Blinsky’s shop. Fish has disappeared into the shop’s back room.
Crouching behind a pile of boxes in the attic of Blinsky’s shop, Deprimer can hear parts of the conversation below. He can follow the creaking of stairs as the guard, whoever he is, comes up to the attic unaccountably quickly. He curses, realizing he has likely left a trail of blood on the floor, and desperately hopes that the dim light of the attic will prevent him from being found.
The guard enters the gabled space cautiously moving to the center of the crowded space. Krelldutt attains the top step, and asks him, “You searched everything thoroughly downstairs?”
Fish ignores him, and moves deeper into the attic. “I’ll see what’s behind this door. You search in the main part of the attic.”
As Krelldutt hears the Sergeant call across the dark space, “There is a door, and it is locked! He must be behind it!” he catches the eyes of Deprimer. The Eladrin is crouched in the shadows, and waves the tortle closer.
Sergeant Fish begins hammering upon the door. Krelldutt cautiously moves closer to the Burgomaster, who hisses at him, “I assume you are aware of the situation? Scholtz has returned and has joined with Krieger. They are attempting to replace me. The man who is here, is he sided with Krieger or with the city?”
Grimly, Krelldutt whispers, “He’s Krieger’s. Your tax collection, did it bring much gold to the city?”
Deprimer nods, understanding where the conversation might be headed. “Yes, enough for Vallaki to hire more guards.”
Nodding his head, Krelldutt says quietly, “So the city might be able to, say, gift five horse to a good cause? Maybe more?”
Deprimer narrows his eyes, understanding Krelldutt’s meaning, “Yes, it might be able to afford that.”
The door that Fish has been hammering on opens with a crash. The two men can hear Fish cry, “My gods! I can’t go in there!”
Deprimer retreats to crouch in the shadows while Krelldutt moves quickly to peer through the door. He cannot believe his eyes.
