August 27, 2025: A Desperate Night in Barovia

At the mansion’s ornate front door, an officious guard steps forward, his hand resting on his sword hilt. The man’s eyes narrow as he takes in Krelldutt’s appearance, disheveled from the scrum with Sheriff and Conwan, and his urgent manner.

“State your business,” the guard demands, his voice sharp in the still air.

Before Krelldutt can respond, one of the red-cloaked knights emerges from within, his boots clicking against the marble threshold. The man’s weathered face bears the look of one with a pressing task.

“Krelldtt, have you seen Krieger?” the knight demands without preamble.

“No,” Krelldutt replies, his voice tight with urgency. “I’m here to speak to the Burgomaster. Can I have a word with him? It’s important.”

The guard’s expression shifts to what might be worry. “The Burgomaster is likely still awake, despite the lateness of the hour. I have only just left him. But he will not be pleased to have his evening interrupted again.”

The warning falls on deaf ears as Krelldutt pushes past, taking the grand staircase two steps at a time, his boots pounding against the polished wood. Upstairs, the hallway stretches before him, dimly lit by flickering sconces on the stained walls. Striding past the guard, he turns down the corridor of the Burgomaster's sleeping chamber. At the end, an elaborately carved wooden door still bearing the crest of the deposed Vallakovich family. It is closed.

Without ceremony, Krelldutt thumps firmly on Deprimer’s bedroom door and enters without waiting for permission.

The new Burgomaster of Vallaki rolls out of his four-poster bed, tugging on a dressing gown. His hair is disheveled from sleep, and his face is drawn. Deprimer's eyes, inititally wide at Krelldutt’s intrusion, quickly change to expressions of irritation. He moves toward the tortle.

Without preamble, Krelldutt blurts out, “Deprimer, Komzin has taken Ireena!”

The words hang in the air like a blow. Deprimer blinked rapidly, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly before he managed to sputter, “What?”

“I said, Komzin has taken Ireena,” Krelldutt’s voice is steady, despite the gravity of his words. “He and your man, Conwan, attacked her at the inn. They were with that accountant, the one who was here earlier today! They’ve taken her in a wagon. They may be leaving the city.”

The candlelight flickers across Deprimer’s face as he processes this information, squaring it with what he has just heard from his own guards about Komzin's movements. His mind is working to measure each word before responding, weighing what he can say without implicating himself in the plot to take Ireena to Ravenloft.

The silence stretches between them, broken only by the distant sound of wind rattling the mansion’s windows.

Impatiently, Krelldutt presses him, “Please, Deprimer, we need to send someone, fast, to pursue them!”

Without a word, Deprimer strides to the door, his narrow bare feet silent on the threadbare carpet. He barks orders to the guard stationed in the hallway, commanding that Komzin’s party be prevented from leaving the city. When he turns back, the worry lines around his eyes have deepened as he takes in Krelldutt’s troubled expression.

“Do you think they are trying to fulfill the deal with Strahd, Deprimer?” Krelldutt's brow is knit with concern.

Before the Burgomaster can formulate an answer, Krelldutt’s next words strike him like lightning: “I met Strahd earlier this evening.”

The color drains from Deprimer’s face as Krelldutt recounts his encounter with the Vampire Lord in the side yard of the Blue Water Inn, describing Strahd’s apparent displeasure at the violence done to Ireena as her attackers set upon her.

The Burgomaster's mouth falls agape, his breath catching in his throat. Deprimer hopes, prays, that Krelldutt cannot see on his face the associations he is making in his thoughts. This may indeed be the end of his time in power over Vallaki if Ireena’s kidnapping can be traced back to him. He forces himself to think, to remain calm.

He sputters out, “What did the Vampire Lord say to you to make you think this?”

In response, Krelldutt produces a small black purse from within his cloak, the leather like obsidian in the candlelight. Nine platinum coins spill into his leathery palm with soft metallic clinks, each one catching the flame’s glow.

“He rewarded me with this to thank me for intervening on Ireena’s behalf, although I did not stop them. Strahd seemed displeased that they had injured her.”

Deprimer nods slowly. “I myself have had some communication from Strahd. A letter from him when I came to office. It was, at least, not antagonistic. I don’t think he will try to shift the status quo in Vallaki.”

Krelldutt leans forward, urgency radiating from him. “Can you spare me some men, weapons and horses? I’ll go after them before they can deliver her to Strahd!”

The tortle can see something shift in his friend’s eyes before Deprimer responds, “How much are you willing to pay the city of Vallaki for the use of its resources?”

The question hangs between them. The two men regard each other, the weight of political reality settling heavily in the air. Finally, Krelldutt breaks the uncomfortable silence, his voice carrying an edge.

“Keep in mind the last Burgomaster loaned us five horses, with no questions asked, and required nothing of us. We returned only four of them, all in poor shape, and yet that Burgomaster said nothing.”

Deprimer’s arms fold across his chest, anger in his voice. His words are sharp and bitter: “That Burgomaster nearly bankrupted the city! Most of my forces are being used to hunt down Sholtz, who has taken about a third of Vallaki’s militia, enough to overrun the city. I’m trying to prevent that, and I can’t spare anyone. You can, however, have two horses and some weapons for 40 gold.”

The negotiation is swift and brutal, driving a further wedge between former comrades. Finally, Krelldutt’s voice cuts through to the conclusion: “I’ll give you 30 gold. And I’ll figure out hiring mercenaries on my own.”

“Done,” Deprimer replies, voice hard but his eyes showing something Krelldutt cannot read. The new Burgomaster’s final words to him are: “And you’ll support me… or at least not support those who are against me.”

Krelldutt nods, leaving three of the platinum coins bearing Strahd’s profile on the paper-strewn desk, but he does not look at Deprimer.

⚔

The Blue Water Inn sprawls in the darkness, meeting Krelldutt’s return with darkened windows in the pre-dawn hours. Within the cavernous taproom, Danika sits hunched over a now-cold cup of tea, her face wan and pale in the flickering hiss of an oil lamp. Dark circles shadow her eyes, and her hands tremble slightly as she sets down the ceramic mug.

Without preamble, Krelldutt tells her, “Deprimer is not excited about providing me with what I need to help Ireena.” 

In the gloom, the tortle seats himself wearily, across from her. She listens with careful attention as Deprimer shares his desperate plans to hire his own mercenaries. Her voice, when she finally speaks, carries resolve. “Seek out the two wolf hunters and Udo Lukavich,” she advises, her fingers wrapped around her cup. “You may have seen the hunters drinking or selling the meat here at the Blue Water. They are called Szoldar Szoldarovich and Yvegni Krushkin. They are good men who know the dangers of these lands. Udo tells me your group saved him from the stocks when you released the boy. He will wish to repay your kindness with a service.”

She pauses, staring into the amber depths of her tea. “I will reach out to Urwin’s family.” Her voice catches slightly on her husband’s name, though she quickly composes herself to continue. “He would not like this but he is not here to stop me, and things have reached a breaking point. The Martikovs may wish to put aside family squabbles to help, given the seriousness of what is happening. I will need a few days to arrange for this and to find someone to care for my children while we are gone. Leave when you can and wait for us in the Village of Barovia. I hope to bring allies.”

What she does not voice—cannot voice—is her desperate hope that her husband Urwin yet draws breath somewhere in Castle Ravenloft. And Krelldutt, for his part, keeps his own dark fears to himself: that any assistance he is able to gather might never return to the warmth of their homes again.

⚔

 Hours later​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​, across the city, Krieger grins wolfishly and extends a meaty hand over the small table to Duster, who reaches back with his smaller one. “A deal then!” Krieger’s smile broadens as the two men shake, but is interrupted by insistent rapping on the closed office door. Without pulling his eyes from Duster, Krieger calls over his shoulder, “Come!” 

A nervous guard enters, announcing, “Forgive me for the interruption, Burgomaster, Captain. News from the Cow Gate.” He crosses the floor to whisper into Krieger’s ear. Duster, although across the narrow desk, overhears the message, “Komzin and Conwan departed through the Cow Gate several hours ago with a Dragonborn and the Burgomaster’s accountant on orders from the Burgomaster.” The man’s eyes flick nervously at Duster, to whom he bows deeply before backing out of the room and closing the door.

Duster watches Krieger’s good humor evaporate. He snaps at the kenku, “Remove your disguise for now. We cannot have two Burgomasters before one has met with an unfortunate ‘accident.’ Then leave through the back door. Make sure no one sees you depart from this place.” Krieger rises abruptly and without another word, slams the office door on his way out.

The Deprimer disguise stowed in his pack, Duster cautiously leaves through the back entrance of the building. Stealthily, he makes his way through the alleys of Vallaki, exiting finally onto the main road. 

In the gloom of dawn, the city is slowly beginning its business of the day. Near the Blue Water Inn, he spies Blinsky staring upward with a concerned look upon his face. Duster approaches to stand at the toymaker’s elbow. 

Blinsky’s face brightens, “Ah, Mr Duster, sir! So glad you are here! Maybe you can help me?” The toymaker gestures upward. 

Duster spies Blinsky’s monkey, Piccolo, perched on the gable of an upper window. The creature bares its tiny teeth a Duster and screams. 

“Hush, Piccolo,” Blinsky chides the monkey. “Perhaps, Mr Duster, you might fly up and fetch him for me?” Blinsky peers down at Duster, hopefully. 

Duster responds, “No fly.” He cannot tell the toymaker that kenkus, being a cursed race of avians, have no flight as well as no words.

Blinsky’s face drops, and then brightens as something occurs to him. He suggests to Duster, “Well, then, might you climb to retrieve him for me? You are lighter than me and the drains will support you!”

Duster, gamely, begins to find toe- and fingerholds on the crumbling wall around the drainpipe. The verdent moss that coats the brick is slick. Duster is able to rise nearly ten feet above Blinsky before a large raven lands above him, on the roofline near Piccolo. It caws loudly. In surprise, the rogue’s grip loosens and he tumbles backward. 

His fall is broken by a collection of dirty and dented ash cans at the mouth of the alley the house shares with the Blue Water Inn. The clatter echoes through the alley and up the street. From the yard of the inn, an outraged female voice cries, “Who is making all that noise?”

Danika rounds the corner to spy Duster, lying unharmed at the feet of Blinsky. Piccolo leaps from the drainpipe to the toymaker’s shoulder. A caw from the rooftop stops Danika’s chiding of Duster. She looks up and whispers, “Husband!” The bird launches itself toward the rear yard of the inn, and without another word, Danika sprints away.

Duster follows Danika around the side of the building and into the inn’s kitchen. Here, he is greeted by the sight of a hollow-eyed Urwin, swarmed by his weeping wife and two young children who embrace him tightly.

Danika, her pale face stained with tears, “You have done it, Mr Duster! You have returned Urwin to our family! What can we ever do to repay you?”

Duster, being a kenku, says little but has many ideas.

 ⚔

Miles from Vallaki, in the gloom of midmorning, the wagon drives eastward. No one discusses leaving Sheriff as a hostage with the hags. And no one discusses the lack of sound from the coffin upon which Rakthe is perched. There is no response to Conwan’s knocking and calling Ireena's name. A ripple of worry moves through the passengers.

Finally, the dragonborn presses the side of their head to the lid. They can detect faint, rapid breathing from within. “Ireena is not dead,” Rakthe confirms. Relief that the future bride of Count Strahd von Zarovich yet lives.

The other end of the day brings them to the western boundary of Castle Ravenloft's lands. The circular stone arch’s gate set into the tall stone wall swings open silently as they approach. As the wagon crosses through the gate onto the land of Count Strahd, one single hopeless, low moan can be heard from within the coffin. Conwan and Rakthe exchange looks. 

The air now becomes colder, the landscape is twisted by leafless trees and brown, overgrown grass. A scent of decay blows from the east - the direction of Ravenloft. The thick mist that hangs over the ground stretches beyond vision into the gathering darkness.

Komzin struggles to calm the team of horses and so does not immediately spot the rider ahead.

Conwan and Rakthe both lean forward to make sure of what they are seeing. Up the rutted road stands a massive black stallion with small flames jetting from its nostrils with each exhale. The animal’s eyes glow red as it shakes its enormous head at their approach.

A knight in Ravenloft livery sits astride the monstrous creature, and he pushes his hood back, allowing them to see an elf with a pallor that seems to glow in the gloom. Komzin reigns his nervous team to a stop and calls, “Rahadin.”

“Komzin,” returns the answer in a hollow voice that carries neither warmth nor greeting. “You have the bride?”

Komzin swings down from the driver’s seat and strides to the back of the wagon, dropping the tailgate and signalling Rakthe to remove themselves from the lid of the coffin.

Without leaving his saddle, Rahadin moves his massive mount around the wagon so as not to cause Komzin’s team to bolt. He stares into the wagon, as if calculating what he is seeing: Rakthe, Conway and a coffin.

“Where, Mr Komzin, is the bride?” he demands.

“She’s in here,” answers Rakthe, knocking on the coffin lid.

Rahadin’s eyes flash. “You have treated her most…,” he pauses for a moment before demanding, “Open the box!”

Rakthe and Conwan raise the lid.

Within, Ireena lay, bloodied fists curled beneath her chin. Her face carries sets of parallel jagged, bloody slashes where she has clawed her cheeks, chin and forehead. The wounds still ooze gore. The inner lid of the coffin bears gouges with what must be broken fingernails embedded into the shredded, stained wood. Ireena’s eyes, unblinking, stare upward at nothing. Her mouth, lips chewed raw, gapes slightly. Her respiration, rapid and shallow, whistles slightly in the stillness of the chill air.

Rahadin shakes his head once, emphatically. “The Master will not be pleased.”

Unperturbed, Conwan removes a scroll containing a spell of Greater Healing from within his pack. “We can restore her,” he says, with confidence, and passes it to Rakthe, who reads it over the inert Ireena haltingly but still effectively. Several of the deepest wounds knit closed.  

But Ireena does not move. Does not blink.

Rahadin pulls his mount back to the road that will lead them on the last leg of their journey to Ravenloft. As he wheels around, he snarls the command, “Leave the lid off and follow!” 

The comrades sway in the back of the moving wagon, already cold and growing colder with the senechal’s final words.