Deprimer stands resolute on the rain-slicked porch of the Burgomaster’s mansion, the small but imposing figure of Conwan at his elbow. Before them, the crowd seethes with barely contained violence, faces twisted with fear and anger in the torchlight.
“Go home, now, people! Be at peace!” Deprimer’s voice carries across the avenue, but his words seem to dissolve in the humid night air. The crowd, already riled to the point of hysteria by the evening’s events, begin pressing forward with purpose toward the ornate doors of the mansion. Their intentions are clear in their eyes - to enter, to plunder, to take what they believe is owed them after generations of oppression under the Vallakovich family.
Sensing the moment slipping beyond his control, Deprimer draws upon his connection to his Goth faith. With practiced gestures, he conjures a second fiery Flame Blade to match the one that had hummed with deadly energy earlier in the night. The glowing blade of magical fire cast a pulsing, orange glow across the gathering, reflecting in dozens of wide eyes as a collective gasp of surprise stuns the crowd into sudden, complete silence.
In this moment of shocked attention, Deprimer raises his voice again, infusing it with the authority granted by his faith. “My people, now is not the time for rage!” The words echo against the buildings surrounding the avenue. “We have brought justice to your oppressors, and now it is time to rebuild Vallaki. But first, go home. Rest. We will take on these tasks in the morning!”
The spell of his words works where mere authority failed. The crowd begins to disperse, breaking into smaller groups that melt away into the fog-choked streets, their murmurs fading.
With the weight of exhaustion threatening to topple him, Deprimer allows his magical blade to dissolve into harmless sparks as he turns to enter the mansion. Inside, the dented armor of the knight Kreiger catches what little lamplight penetrates the gloom. Blood spatters his breastplate and his face bears a grim smile that doesn’t reach his calculating eyes.
“You wish me to round up the Vallakovich loyalists?” Kreiger’s question hangs in the air between them. “To consolidate your new power, Burgomaster.” The title slides from his tongue with an oily quality that makes Deprimer’s skin crawl.
Deprimer blinks, fatigue momentarily clouding his judgment. “It will be Dunlar who assumes the Burgomaster title,” he states firmly, watching Kreiger’s face for a reaction.
The knight’s smile falters, replaced by a grimace that twists his features into something ugly. “I have rethought my position,” he says slowly, measuring each word. “Dunlar is a newcomer to Vallaki.” His voice drops an octave, dripping with poorly disguised contempt. “And besides, he is dwarvish. On that alone, he will never be accepted by the citizenry. The Burgomaster’s ring should go to someone else. You, maybe?”
From the corner of his eye, Deprimer catches Conwan’s subtle gesture - fingers brushing against a concealed blade, eyebrows raised in silent question. Should he eliminate this potential threat now? Deprimer responds with an equally covert signal: wait.
“Well,” Deprimer says carefully to Kreiger, “I have no wish to be Burgomaster. Besides, I have been in Barovia as long as Dunlar. And I myself am an eldarin, elvish.”
Kreiger’s gaze assesses Deprimer, calculating. After a long pause, he responds, “Yes, but you have proved to many here in Vallaki that you have the ear of a powerful god.” His hand gestures vaguely toward where Deprimer’s flame blade had been. “And besides, it is not right for Dunlar to gain so much power so quickly. By rights, it should come to me, now that Izak Strazni is no longer in Vallaki.” The ominous emphasis on these last words hangs in the air like a threat.
“You wish to be Burgomaster, Kreiger?” Deprimer feels Conwan stiffen beside him, the assassin’s body coiling with tension, ready to strike at a word.
Kreiger makes a show of considering, though his answer has clearly been prepared. “I think that would be best, if you do not wish to be Burgomaster.”
“We can discuss it when we meet with Dunlar as a Council of Four, later this evening.” Deprimer keeps his tone neutral, revealing nothing.
At the mention of Dunlar, Kreiger’s posture changes, becoming terribly alert. “Where is Mr. Dunlar?” he purrs, eyes narrowing. Again, Conwan silently signals his readiness to deal with Kreiger permanently, and again Deprimer declines with an imperceptible shake of his head.
“I don’t know,” Deprimer answers quietly, “but I will go find him, now.”
Seemingly satisfied for the moment, Kreiger nods. “I will give my men orders to find Scholtz, and to gather up those still loyal to the Vallakovich family,” he says, already turning toward the door.
Deprimer stops him with a word, his voice taking on a commanding tone that seems to reverberate with divine authority. “Do not harm anyone, Kreiger. The city is in a very fragile state, and we need order and peace.”
Kreiger turns back, a disturbing grin spreading across his face that never reaches his cold eyes. “Of course, Burgomaster,” he replies, the title now a subtle mockery. “I will return in just a moment, and we can meet in this Council of Four.”
As the blood-spattered knight strides from the room, his armored boots echoing against the marble floor, Deprimer exchanges a meaningful glance with Conwan. The political future of Vallaki hangs in the balance, and with it, perhaps the fate of all Barovia.
⚔
Conwan slips through the fog-shrouded streets of Vallaki like a shadow, his footsteps making no sound on the cobblestones slick with early morning mist. The aftermath of last night's violence hangs heavy in the air - shuttered windows, abandoned market stalls, and the occasional patrol of nervous guardsmen marking a city holding its breath.
He reaches Agathe's shop in the western quarter, a narrow building wedged between a cooper's workshop and a dilapidated tavern. The windows are dark, but Conwan knows better than to assume the apothecary is closed. Certain businesses in Vallaki operate on schedules dictated not by daylight but by demand, particularly those dealing in merchandise best exchanged away from prying eyes.
Conwan's specific knock - three quick taps followed by two slower ones - brings a response of shuffling footsteps. The door creaks open just wide enough to reveal Agathe's face, lined with years of suspicion and the caustic vapors of her trade. Her perpetual scowl deepens at the sight of the halfling assassin.
"You again," she mutters, reluctantly widening the gap to admit him. "Twice in a tenday. I'm beginning to think you're developing unhealthy habits, Master Conwan."
Inside, the shop is as Conwan saw it two days ago: a cluttered maze of bottles, jars and hanging bundles of dried herbs that create a canopy of rustling shadows in the meager candlelight. The air is thick with competing smells - bitter herbs, sweet preservatives, and underneath it all, the faint metallic tang of substances not meant for healing.
Before Conwan can speak, Agathe raises a gnarled hand. "Let me save us both some time," she says, her voice as dry as autumn leaves. "I have no more Midnight's Tears for you, halfling. Not even if your pockets suddenly grew as deep as that vampire lord's coffin."
Conwan's eyes narrow, but his voice remains level. "I'm not here for the Tears," he says, casually positioning himself between Agathe and the door to her back room. "I need to know what other poisons you have on hand."
Agathe studies him with the wariness of a prey animal facing a predator. "Business must be good," she remarks, moving to put her worktable between them. "Or perhaps bad, depending on how one looks at it."
"My business is my own," Conwan replies smoothly. "Your business is to provide what I need."
Something in his tone causes Agathe to reassess the halfling. Her eyes flick to the various knives concealed about his person - not hidden from someone who knows where to look. Her shoulders sag almost imperceptibly.
"I possess only a few doses of Oil of the Drow," she admits reluctantly. "Less potent than what you're accustomed to, but still effective in the right... application." Her fingers drum against the table's surface. "Also still expensive."
"How expensive?" Conwan asks, though his tone suggests the question is merely a formality.
Agathe names a sum that is not small. When Conwan's expression doesn't change, she adds, "The ingredients are rare, especially now with the roads so dangerous. What comes into Barovia seldom leaves, Master Conwan. People, goods... all trapped like flies in amber."
Conwan takes a step closer to the table, his movement causing the candle flame to waver and the shadows to dance grotesquely across the walls. "I don't wish to pay in gold," he says quietly. "Not at present."
Fear flickers across Agathe's weathered features. "Then perhaps you should return when you do," she suggests, attempting to maintain her composure. "I don't extend credit. Not even to those in... your line of work."
In a movement almost too swift to follow, Conwan is suddenly at the table, close enough that she can feel his breath when he speaks. "I think we can come to another arrangement," he says. "One that doesn't involve coins changing hands."
"I don't—" Agathe begins, but Conwan cuts her off.
"You may have need of connections, friends, that might look kindly at the illegal items this little shop stocks," he says. "Your interests might benefit from access to the new power in Vallaki. The new Burgomaster."
Understanding dawns in Agathe's eyes, quickly followed by calculation. "You offer what isn't yours to give," she says cautiously. "How do I know you can deliver on such a promise?"
Conwan's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Because I'll be there, whispering in the right ear at the right moment. Just as I have always been." The threat in his next words is velvet-wrapped but unmistakable. "Or I could be elsewhere, speaking of an apothecary who supplies certain individuals with substances that might interest the town guard."
Agathe's face hardens. "Threats now, is it?” The silence that follows stretches between them, taut with unspoken implications. Finally, Agathe turns away, her shoulders slumped in defeat. She reaches beneath her counter and produces a small vial of oily black liquid that seems to absorb rather than reflect the candlelight.
"Take it," she says, her voice bitter with resentment. "But remember this, halfling - in Barovia, debts have a way of collecting themselves. And not always in ways we expect."
Conwan pockets the vial with a deft movement. "I'll remember," he promises. "Just as I'll remember who my friends are when the time comes to distribute the new Burgomaster's favor."
Agathe's laugh is harsh and without humor. "Friends? Is that what we are?" She shakes her head. "Get out of my shop, Conwan. I've business to attend to."
As he slips back into the fog-laden streets, Conwan feels the weight of the poison against his chest. Another tool, another advantage in the game of survival that defines existence in this cursed land. Behind him, Agathe watches from her window, her expression unreadable in the gloom, but her thoughts clear enough - another bargain struck in Barovia, another pact whose true cost remains to be seen.
⚔
The newly claimed tower offers a momentary respite from the troubles of Vallaki, its ancient stone walls muffling the sounds of a city still unsettled after yesterday's upheaval. With Kreiger temporarily occupied elsewhere and the immediate crisis averted, the companions take advantage of the lull to explore the remaining unsearched chambers of their newfound sanctuary.
Krelldutt, his shell still bearing scorch marks from recent conflicts, lumbers up the winding staircase to the tower's third floor. The odd, moving painting he discovered earlier is now carefully stowed in his pack, though occasionally he feels it shift against his back as if alive. He pauses before an ornate door of dark wood, its brass fixtures tarnished with age but still bearing intricate engravings of scales and books – symbols of law and judgment.
The door yields to his touch with a protesting groan, revealing a chamber that seems frozen in time. Dust motes dance in the shafts of pale light filtering through a narrow window, illuminating a space that clearly once belonged to someone of legal authority – perhaps a judge or magistrate from Vallaki's distant past. A heavy oaken desk dominates the room, its surface scattered with moldering parchments and tomes bound in cracked leather.
What catches Krelldutt's attention, however, sits atop a stand near a tarnished mirror – a powdered wig, its white curls impossibly pristine despite the years of abandonment. As the tortle approaches, he can feel a subtle emanation of magic, a charismatic aura that seems to reach out and envelop him. Beside the wig rests a gavel, its wooden handle worn smooth by the grip of countless hands, its head bearing runes that glow faintly blue when Krelldutt's fingers hover above it.
The tortle's eyes widen in recognition. "A Zone of Truth gavel," he murmurs to himself, carefully lifting the magical implement. "Most useful in a place where deception flows like wine." He tucks both treasures away, already imagining how they might serve in the political machinations unfolding below.
Duster creeps to a southwestern room that no one has yet explored. He pauses hearing something heavy move behind the closed door. A sort of clicking and scuttling follows, and Duster moves to the next door. This he merely pushes open: the door is not latched. He recognizes the sword cane and a few items of clothing belonging to the unfortunate Rictavio. On a desk, a rod with a dully glowing green gem, and a spellbook. Duster pockets these and makes to leave.
Meanwhile, Rakthe has discovered her own prize. The lithe warrior moves silently through a chamber on the western side of the tower, her trained eyes cataloging every detail of what was clearly once the dwelling of an archer or ranger of considerable skill. Mounted on the walls are the heads of creatures she cannot name – beasts with too many eyes, antlers that spiral in impossible directions, trophies from hunts in lands perhaps beyond Barovia.
Against one wall leans a bow of exceptional craftsmanship, its limbs carved from a dark wood she does not recognize, inlaid with pale bone in patterns that seem to shift when viewed from different angles. The string is missing, but she can easily restring the weapon. As she draws lifts it delicately, the bow seems to whisper to her, a sound like wind through autumn leaves.
Beside the weapon sits a quiver filled with arrows fletched with crimson feathers that almost glow in the dimness of the chamber. Each arrowhead is different – some barbed, others serrated, still others bearing tiny runes etched into the metal. Rakthe smiles grimly, recognizing tools crafted for specific prey.
Her exploration leads her to a small closet almost hidden behind a faded tapestry. There, buried beneath moldering cloaks and forgotten gear, she discovers a leather bag containing a pair of boots so light they seem to float in her hands. The craftsmanship is unmistakably elven, the leather supple despite its age, the stitching so fine as to be nearly invisible. "Boots of Elvenkind," she whispers, appreciation evident in her voice. These will make her already silent steps completely soundless – an advantage that could mean the difference between life and death in the days to come.
Komzin, ever cautious, approaches a door on the lower level from which emanates a curious sound – a rhythmic, chitinous clicking that raises the hair on the back of his neck.
Duster steps out into the hallway and spies Komzin preparing to enter the room where he heard noise. He calls out one of his few words, “Stop!”
The half-elf, startled, withdraws his hand from the knob. Instead, he bends to press his eye to the keyhole. He sees nothing but darkness and the vague suggestion of cobwebs. His instincts caution Komzin, but curiosity wins, and he eases the door open with his sword at the ready.
The chamber beyond is dim, its windows shrouded with thick curtains of webbing that allow only the faintest light to penetrate. The clicking sound intensifies, and Komzin has just enough time to register movement in the upper corners of the room before shadows descends from above.
Two enormous spiders, each the size of a large dog, drop toward him with frightful precision. Their bodies are a mottled black and yellow, their eight eyes gleaming with predatory intelligence. Venom drips from fangs as long as daggers as they scuttle toward the intruder with unnatural speed. Each spray blasts of sticky webbing. One splats onto the door jamb and flooring, missing Komzin. The other massive spider sends a clot of webbing onto Komzin's boots, welding him to the floor and preventing his pivotting as the creatures move closer to attack him.
Komzin barely has time to raise his shield before the first spider launches itself at his face. He is bent backward, still stuck to the planks beneath his feet by web. He can feel the scrape of chitin against metal as the creature's weight forces him into the corridor. The second spider circles, seeking an opening, its mandibles clicking in a pattern that sounds almost like hungry laughter.
Drawing on reserves of strength, Komzin wrenches himself forth from the webbing. Freed, he twists to bring his sword around in a vicious arc that catches the first spider mid-leap. The blade sinks deep into its bloated abdomen, releasing a spray of ichor that hisses where it touches the stone floor. The creature convulses, legs curling inward, but its companion darts forward in the opening, fangs seeking vulnerable flesh.
Komzin feels a sharp pain as one fang penetrates the gap between his pauldron and breastplate. Instantly, his arm begins to go numb, a cold sensation spreading outward from the wound. Defiant, he brings his pommel down heavily on the spider's head, crushing several of its eyes in a series of small, nauseating pops.
The injured arachnid retreats a few steps, weaving drunkenly, but Komzin knows he has little time before the venom renders his sword arm useless. Breathing heavily, Komzin feels the cold sweat of venom working through his system.
Outside, the fog thickens, and distant howls remind them that in Barovia, no sanctuary remains secure for long. The political powder keg of Vallaki still smolders, Kreiger's ambitions cast long shadows, and somewhere beyond the city walls, the master of this cursed land watches and waits.
Related Posts
