Wednesday Strahd Campaign
Krieger returns from talking to his soldiers. He joins Dunlar, Deprimer and the new Spy Master of Vallaki, Conwan, in the Burgomaster’s study. He sees them gathered around an envelope with a black seal shaped like a castle and raven. Dunlar is pale.
Deprimer sits in the Burgomaster’s study, the black wax seal of Castle Ravenloft broken and scattered across the polished oak desk before him. The parchment’s edges curl slightly in his hands as his eyes trace each elegantly penned word for the third time. The letter’s weight seems to grow with each reading, its implications weighing heavily upon him.
“To Deprimer and Dunlar, Masters of the ‘Goth’ Faith and of Vallaki,” it begins with deceptive cordiality, its flourished script betraying nothing of the menace lurking beneath. “Word of your ascension to power has reached my ears. Allow me to extend my congratulations on your disposal of the fool Vallakovich - a man as tedious as he was pathetic.”
Deprimer’s pulse quickens at the casual reference to murder, at how easily Strahd acknowledges his role in the political upheaval. Outside, rain lashes against leaded-glass windows, the panes vibrating with each gust of wind that sweeps through Vallaki’s streets.
“However, your methods give me pause. The murder of a woman and child, even those belonging to such an incompetent patriarch, strikes me as unnecessarily… crude.”
The condemnation stings worse than Deprimer anticipated. For the act itself was one he had not wished for. But such is the cost of revolution, and for the spread of the faith of Goth.
“I find myself particularly troubled by this distraction from the matter of utmost importance - the return of the woman you call Ireena Kolyana to Castle Ravenloft. Have you forgotten our arrangement so quickly?”
The ruby. The blood-red gem gleaming at the bottom of his wine glass during that terrible dinner at Ravenloft flashes through Deprimer’s memory, both promise and threat crystallized in a single crimson stone. He did not accept the stone, but clearly the vampire lord still sees Deprimer and his companions as beholden to him.
“Let me be clear: your political aspirations in Vallaki, while momentarily diverting, are secondary to your contract to me.”
A heavy sigh escapes Deprimer’s lips as his gaze drifts to the final lines, where Strahd’s postscript delivers its knife-twist:
“My condolences on the loss of your Mr Thurkk, who has received just retribution for his twin sins of trespassing and vandalism. I shall miss that mirror until I find the time to restore it to its glory and it dark magic.”
Thunder cracks overhead as Deprimer folds the letter with deliberate precision and tucks it inside his robes. He rises, his shadow stretching long across the floor as he turns to face Dunlar, Krieger and Conwan, who stand silently awaiting his reaction.
“I will need to make sure things are stable in Vallaki, then I’ll join my companions.” His voice emerges steadier than he feels. “Krieger, send some runners to Strazni’s cabin. Ask them to see if they can find my party there, or locate some sign as to where they have gone.”
Deprimer paces the length of the room as he waits for Krieger’s return, his footfalls echoing against the paneled walls. When the door finally creaks open, and Deprimer asks to be briefed on the number of soldiers loyal to their cause. Krieger’s expression immediately betrays the nature of his report.
“Eight of the Red Guard and twenty-six Regulars are loyal to you,” Krieger announces, his voice tight. “Barely enough to keep the city secure. Scholtz has taken four Red Guard and sixteen Regulars and disappeared from the city, all those who would give Vallaki a cushion of protection in case of attack.”
Deprimer’s lips thin to a bloodless line. “Right. Begin to recruit from the citizenry to replace those who have defected.”
Krieger’s laugh holds no humor. “And pay them what? You should check Vallaki’s coffers before promising gold the city cannot afford. The guard have been paid only irregularly in the past months and there was already grumbling.”
A knot forms in Deprimer’s stomach as he summons Vallaki’s Finance Minister, Sigurd Prevosta. The elderly woman shuffles in, clutching ledgers that spill papers with each nervous adjustment of his grip. Her report unfolds like a funeral dirge.
“The Burgomaster had not collected taxes from the citizenry for five years, part of his plan of mandatory happiness.” The minister’s voice quavers as she flips through pages of dismal figures. “He also spent a great deal of Vallaki’s money on monthly festivals, and a local economy has grown up around them. Without the festivals, no gold will circulate and much of this economy will collapse.”
Each word hammers another nail into the coffin of Deprimer’s nascent control over the city.
“In addition, the Burgomaster was still paying an annual tribute to Count Strahd each year. No money has flowed into Vallaki’s coffers since the days of the Burgomaster’s father, may the great man have returned as one destined for great things.”
Dismissed with a wave, the minister bows and backs from the room, leaving a heavy silence in her wake.
Krieger clears his throat, breaking the oppressive quiet. “I think we should clear the settlement of dusk elves and Vistani to the southwest of Vallaki. They pose a threat to our fair city.”
When pressed for explanation, Krieger fumbles, unable to articulate anything beyond vague suspicion. Deprimer dismisses the suggestion outright and turns to Dunlar, who sighs heavily, the weight of their precarious position evident in his slumping shoulders.
“All other things aside, we don’t really have the personnel for such an action. I say we don’t rock the boat.”
Krieger’s face darkens at this pragmatic assessment. His gaze swings accusingly toward Conwan. “What say you?”
The halfling crosses his arms defensively. “I prefer to stay neutral.”
Krieger’s control fractures, his voice rising to fill the chamber. “Well, I seem to be outvoted. Your inaction is leaving Vallaki at risk! The dusk elves are evil, and the Vistani are in league with the Vampire Lord!”
In the tense silence that follows, Krieger turns to regard Conwan with unveiled suspicion. “He seems to know a great deal about you.”
Conwan’s brow furrows. “Who?”
“Lord Strahd,” Krieger purrs, his implication hanging poisonously in the air.
Deprimer cuts through the building tension with swift authority. “Burgomaster Krieger, arrange for a ceremonial burial for the victims of the uprising for this afternoon. We’ll bury the Burgomaster and his family separately.”
Krieger’s eyes narrow to calculating slits. “Father Lucien may have something to say about that.”
“Send for him. I will arrange things,” Deprimer counters. “We’ll address the citizens this afternoon, asking them what they want from the city, and telling them we need funds, we need to grow prosperity.”
A cruel smile plays at the corners of Krieger’s mouth. “I am happy to have you as my mouthpiece. I am more of a leader of action.”
Deprimer’s patience shatters. “Krieger, you may be Burgomaster, but you are beholden to Dunlar and myself! Now go arrange for that meeting this afternoon.”
The door has barely closed behind Krieger when a gentle knock heralds Father Lucien’s arrival. The priest enters, his clerical robes rumpled, dark circles beneath his eyes testifying to sleepless nights.
“You will need a sacred space for your service?” he inquires after listening to Deprimer’s plans.
“I would like to preach at St Andral’s…” Deprimer begins, but the priest’s violent headshake cuts him short.
“My religion forbids me from sharing the consecrated church of St Andral’s to worship another god. My hands are tied by Lathander himself.” The priest stands unmovable as stone despite Deprimer’s increasingly frustrated arguments.
“I’d like to try to work with you, Father,” Deprimer offers, a final attempt at diplomacy.
Father Lucien’s response comes swift and bitter. “Then you shouldn’t have stolen half my flock!”
“I didn’t steal them,” Deprimer snarls, his composure finally crumbling. “They willingly left your faith and joined the Church of Goth!”
The two men glare at one another, locked in mutual antipathy until the priest finally departs with rigid dignity.
Alone with Dunlar and Conwan once more, Deprimer collapses into a chair, the weight of leadership crushing down upon his shoulders. Outside, the rain intensifies, drumming against the roof with increasing urgency.
“We’ll have to find a place to bury the fallen,” he murmurs, pressing fingers against his temples where a headache builds. “We can’t put them in the sheep meadow, as Father Lucien suggested.”
Through the window, he imagines catching a glimpse of Castle Ravenloft in the distance, impossible at this distance. Still, it seems a shadow against darker shadows, looming over everything like a predator. Strahd’s letter burns against his chest where it rests inside his robes – a reminder of debts yet unpaid and promises that cannot be broken.
⚔
Meanwhile, within the tower’s decaying halls, Komzin’s blade slices through the last giant spider’s bloated abdomen, releasing a spray of viscous fluid that splatters across the washroom’s mildewed tiles. The creature’s legs curl inward with a final spasmodic twitch before it lies still. Komzin wipes his blade clean on a tattered hanging, his eyes scanning the cobwebbed space.
“Nothing of value in here...of course,” he mutters in disgust, voice echoing in the enclosed space. He steps back into the hallway gesturing back at the narrow spiral staircase winding both upward and downward from behind the dead spider, its steps worn smooth by centuries of use. “This will be a tight fit for some of us,” he adds, glancing meaningfully at Krelldutt’s massive tortle frame and Rakthe’s broad shoulders.
The group exchanges glances and wordlessly reaches consensus. “Main stairs,” he grunts, already turning toward the door.
The top of the stairwell goes no further, revealing a chamber with six doors. Five are sealed tightly against whatever secrets they guard. Behind the single open door, the group hears the clicking of more giant spiders. Komzin rolls his shoulders, the leather of his armor creaking. “I’ll take care of this,” he announces, striding through the door to regard yet another arachnid horror lurking within. Rakthe pulls the door shut behind him, the sound of combat muted by ancient oak and iron.
Rakthe turns their scaled face toward a southern door, testing its handle with careful pressure. It yields without protest, revealing what appears to have once been an elegant study, now surrendered to decay. A small desk draws the dragonborn’s attention, its surface cluttered with the abandoned instruments of scholarship. With practiced hands, they collect several silver pens, their nibs tarnished but serviceable, along with sheets of parchment yellowed at the edges. A bottle of violet ink has long since dried to powder, but they pocket it nonetheless.
Two books with ornate bindings catch the light from his torch, their covers embossed with characters in a language beyond his comprehension. These join the other treasures in his pack, along with a third volume whose title is in a language legible to Rakthe: “Dark Agriculture: Plants to be Harvested Under the Full Moon.” Their gaze lifts to a portrait hanging above the fireplace – an elf whose features bear uncanny resemblance to Rictavio, though unmarked by the passage of time. Carefully, Rakthe lifts it from its hook, the frame surprisingly heavy in their grasp. A date inscribed at the bottom claims creation four centuries past. The dragonborn’s brow furrows as they carry the mysterious artifact to show their companions.
Krelldutt, meanwhile, has discovered what appears to be a storeroom, though ‘treasure trove’ might better describe its contents. Shelves line the walls, laden with jars and pouches of arcane materials – spell components of every conceivable variety. The tortle’s eyes widen, recognizing the value of such a find.
Duster slips through another doorway, immediately assaulted by the acrid tang of brimstone that hangs heavy in the air. Scorch marks blacken the wooden floor, forming intricate circular patterns etched by fire and magic rather than tools. His keen eyes scan the chamber, settling on an altar bearing an enormous religious symbol unfamiliar to him. Despite instinctive caution, curiosity compels him forward.
The moment his feathered fingers close around the symbol, a searing cold burns through his flesh. Hissing in pain, he withdraws quickly, retrieving a extra cloak from his things to wrap the mysterious icon before stowing it in his pack. Almost instantly, a rime of frost spreads throughout the interior of the canvas bag. The bottle of fine wine liberated from Thurkk shatters with a muffled crack, its contents freezing into burgundy shards that scatter across Duster’s clothing. Duster’s healing kit reveals three potion vials, once rosy golden elixirs, have now soured to murky brown sludge. What were vibrant, violet goodberries have shriveled into blackened, raisin-like husks.
Undeterred, Duster approaches a large tome resting open on a lectern nearby. Though chilly to the touch, it lacks the bone-deep cold of the religious symbol. The script filling its pages means nothing to him, but the diagrams drawn alongside the text speak a universal language of arcane intent. Finding a stick of chalk near the book, the kenku begins to recreate one of the simpler sigils upon the floor.
As the final line connects, completing the circle, tendrils of grey-red smoke rise from its center like spectral fingers reaching toward the cracked ceiling. The vapors coalesce, twisting into the diminutive form of an imp that regards Duster with burning eyes. It snarls, then bows with exaggerated formality.
The silence stretches between them, creature and summoner locked in mutual assessment. Finally, the imp’s patience frays. “Well?” it demands, tail lashing in irritation.
“Well, what?” stammers Duster, his kenku heritage limiting his vocabulary to phrases heard and remembered.
The imp sighs, clawed hands planted on narrow hips. “What is my charge? You conjured me, called me from the Pit. You must want me to do something for you. That’s my charge. Then you free me from the Summoning Circle to go do it. So, what’s my charge?”
Duster tilts his head to one side, considering the unexpected opportunity presented by this infernal servant. “Kill Strahd?” he croaks experimentally.
The imp’s jaw drops, eyes widening in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right?” When Duster only shakes his head solemnly, the creature seems torn between terror and amusement. With a resigned sigh, the kenku kneels to erase a portion of the chalk circle with his sleeve.
The moment the barrier breaks, the imp darts through the opening, wings beating frantically as it makes for the window. “Wish me luck,” it calls over one bony shoulder before smashing through the glass pane and disappearing into the night’s embrace, leaving only the faint scent of sulfur and the soft tinkling of broken glass behind.
