The morning air hangs heavy with moisture as Krelldutt makes his way through Vallaki’s rain-slicked cobblestones. The steady patter of droplets echoes off the narrow, garbage strewn alleyways to the doorway of the gold and gems dealer’s shop. The musty interior reeks of old leather and tarnish when the tortle pushes through the creaking door.
The wizened merchant squints at him through his loupe, the magnifying glass distorting his left eye grotesquely. Krelldutt pulls the heavy gold ring from his pouch, its large opal catching what little light filters through the grimy window.
“Twenty-five gold pieces,” the old man sneers, his voice gravelly.
Krelldutt’s jaw tightens. The insult of the offer stings worse than the morning chill rain. “The ring is worth far more than that,” he growls, his shell prickling with indignation.
The merchant’s beady eyes narrow further. “How did you come by this ring? How do I know you acquired this legally? Do you have proof of purchase?”
The accusation hits like a slap. Without another word, Krelldutt snatches the ring back and storms from the miserable shop, the bell clanging angrily behind him.
⚔
In a shadowed corner of the Blue Water Inn, conspiratorial whispers weave through the stale air that is scented with bacon and sour wine. Komzin’s dark form leans across the scarred wooden table toward Sheriff, Rakthe, and Conway. Their voices drop to urgent murmurs as they discuss the unthinkable—delivering Ireena to Ravenloft.
Conway’s fingers drum against his mug as he suggests his idea. “This might be dark, says the halfling. “A poison that renders her helpless,” he says, producing a small vial that gleams amber in the candlelight. “Oil of Taggit—smear it on her skin and she’ll sleep like the dead. Then we transport her in a coffin from that empty shop in town square.”
Rakthe nods grimly. “There’s a wagon in the yard, draft horses in the barn.”
Komzin flexes his fingers, testing the magical gloves recovered from Rictavio’s tower. “These should handle any locks we encounter.”
Their treacherous pact forms in hushed tones, then ends abruptly as Krelldutt approaches their table. The floorboards groan under his weight, but they barely glance up, guilt flickering across their faces like shadows from the guttering candles.
When Ireena arrives, her presence transforms the dim common room. Her auburn hair catches the firelight as she settles beside Krelldutt. Neither woman nor tortle seems to notice the stark contrast to the cold calculation radiating from the others.
“While it will be lovely to reach the Abbey’s safety,” she confides, her green eyes troubled, “I feel guilty abandoning my brother Ismark in Ravenloft’s shadow. Could we perhaps visit Barovia village first? Just to ensure he’s well?”
Komzin’s response comes too quickly, too rehearsed. “We should reach safety as soon as possible. Kresk is closer—we go there first.” His eyes dart away from them both, unable to meet their gaze.
Disappointment flickers across Ireena’s face, but she forces a smile. “You’re probably right.” She rises gracefully, her hand briefly touching Sheriff’s shoulder—a gesture of trust. “I’m so glad you’ll be joining us.”
Through the rain-streaked windows, they watch her climb the exterior stairs to her room. She pauses on the balcony, waving down at the group before disappearing behind her door. The simple gesture feels like a farewell, though she doesn’t know it yet.
“I think I’ll head to bed as well,” Krelldutt announces, stretching and calling to Friedrich. His loyal companion pads beside him as they climb the interior stairs to their room at the far end of the opposite balcony—deliberately distant from Ireena’s chamber, the conspirators now realize with growing satisfaction.
⚔
The night air grows heavy with more than just rain and fog as Rakthe and Sheriff slip into the barn. The wooden doors protest with soft groans as they’re opened, and leather traces whisper against the horses’ flanks as they’re hitched to the waiting wagon.
Conway passes the deadly vial to Komzin, who pockets it. The drow’s footsteps are muffled on the rain-dampened stairs as he ascends to Ireena’s door.
His magical gloves shimmer in the darkness, but the lock refuses to yield. As he turns to retreat, disaster strikes—Ireena’s sleepy voice drifts through the wooden barrier like a death knell.
“Rakthe, is that you?”
Komzin’s stammered response hangs in the air like a lie given form. “No, it’s me.”
Silence stretches between them, then the woman calls to him, “Can you not sleep, Komzin? Are you nervous about Kresk? You’ve seemed tense.”
His voice cracks slightly as he forces casualness into his tone. “I’m fine, just can’t sleep.”
“Pity there’s no wine downstairs to ease your rest,” she murmurs, her words already slurred with approaching slumber. “Sweet dreams, Komzin.”
Conway’s lockpicks work with deadly precision where magic failed. The door swings open on silent hinges, revealing Ireena’s peaceful form beneath the coarse blanket.
She stirs as he crosses the creaky floor, rolling over with instinctive alarm. “Why are you here?” Her eyes wide with sudden understanding.
Conway lunges forward as she gropes beneath her pillow. His oily glove grasps desperately at bedclothes, missing her retreating form. The dagger in his other hand gleams with poison as it finds her arm, drawing a thin line of crimson.
Thunder rumbles overhead as Ireena’s scream pierces the night. “Get out! Komzin! Krelldutt! Come now! I need you!”
A door slams open somewhere in the distance, and a booming bark from Friedrich can be heard.
Komzin enters like a specter, his dark form filling the doorway. For a moment, Ireena’s rigid posture softens with relief. “This creature,” she spits, her voice dripping venom, “has betrayed us! Keep him away from me!”
Her dagger glints in the darkness as footsteps pounding up the exterior stairs.
Komzin feigns a strike at Conway, who collapses prone on the floor. The drow’s gloved hand contains a vial, spilling open onto Komzin’s protected hand as he grasps at her in another attempt to drug her. The Oil of Taggit burns where it touches her skin, and her face transforms from relief to devastation.
“What’s that on your glove, Komzin?” The question hangs like an accusation as understanding dawns.
Sheriff’s footsteps thunder across the floorboards before his fists snap her head back once, twice. Two lightning strikes, echoing Sheriff’s blows, illuminate the scene in stark detail—the twisted bedclothes, the spreading crimson, the faces of men who have abandoned all honor.
“You bastards!” Ireena’s voice rises above the storm’s fury, her green eyes blazing with righteous anger and profound betrayal. “You cursed betrayers!”
She is on the brink of springing, but the twisted and bloodied bedclothes prevent her from moving freely. Ireena is defiant even as her turncoats surround her. Outside, the storm rages on.
