The party’s own record of the retreat from the windmill, the truth about the pies (do not read before eating), a love letter we wish we could unread, and our arrival in the lawful, festive, entirely-well town of Vallaki. All will be well.
The rout at the windmill
Let the minutes show that we did not win. Let them also show that we were not all frogs.
The one called Bella looked at Sirius — wings, dripping feather-eyes, our most terrifying self — said “you, winged one,” and turned him into a frog. A small frog with little wing markings and, we are assured, a hairdo. Morgantha did the same to Osric a breath later. Our paladin and our knight: frogs, one hit point apiece, sitting in the mud in front of three cackling hags.
What followed was the bravest thing any of us has done in Barovia: Lily ran into the middle of them and scooped up both frogs, took the full rake of Morgantha’s claws across her back for it, and sprinted out with a handful of party. Fëanor put a guiding bolt into Morgantha — twenty-odd radiant, and after everything we’d thrown at her she finally looked a bit hurt. Drew’s flamethrower and acid washed off them like rain. Then Morgantha smashed Clover to scrap with two swings — “and take your toy, too” — and that was the fight.
We ran. They did not chase. They stood in their doorway and laughed at us, and went back inside to their captive. We took the woman in the silver net with us, dragging her down the road while two frogs rode in Lily’s pockets. An hour later the frogs became men again, dignity not included.
Mark it well, from Fëanor’s lore (a rare 18): hags draw their power from the coven of three. Take one below three, and the rest weaken sharply. That is how we kill them — not the way we tried.
Vasha and Radu — and what the pies are
The woman in the net is Vasha. Bitten, not born — a Vallaki girl once, until a wolf-thing bit her and let her go. Her mate Radu, a werewolf born, who can control his beast, is still chained in that mill. And here is what she told us, written plainly because it should never be softened:
The hags hack off their arms. The curse grows the arms back. The pies are made of the arms. Werewolves heal any wound that is not dealt by silver or magic, so the two of them are an endless larder. There were never any missing children. There didn’t need to be.
We burned every pie we carried — cremated them, on Sirius’s insistence on the proper word. Those of us who ate one will be making peace with that for a while.
Vasha stayed behind to watch the mill. Facts for the file: her pack lives far to the west — the den of beasts from Madam Eva’s reading, we’d wager, where one who howls will need Lily’s tooth. Their alpha is called Kiril, who controls the pack and would sooner tear strangers apart than talk; the words “Radu and Vasha need help” might — might — buy us an audience. We gave Vasha our word: we come back for Radu, and we finish the hags.
The Lily problem, days four and five
The pies are ash, but the hook is still in her. Each night we tie Lily to a tree (her own reluctant consent is in the minutes; Sirius had himself tied beside her in solidarity, dagger in hand, which is either chivalry or nonsense). Each morning she wakes and for one hour a pie is more important than breathing — then it fades to a low, grumbling want, a little weaker every day. We tested her with a lie about a pie saved in a bag: she asked politely instead of lunging, so she earned her daylight freedom back. Second night she couldn’t sleep at all for the craving, and now drags herself along exhausted. She is thirty-seven years old and riding at the end of a rope like a child on reins, and she is bearing it better than any of us would.
The letter
On the road, a dire wolf stood waiting for us in broad daylight with a bunch of roses in its mouth. It strained against itself, laid the roses down, and left. Around the stems, a note on very fine card stock, addressed to Ireena.
It was from him. My love, why do you tease me so? He calls us ruffians. He says if she wished to travel these lands she need only have asked. And the line that matters, copy it exactly: “merely speak my name thrice, and I shall be with you in the moment to whisk you to our castle, Ravenloft. Your destined future lover, Strahd von Zarovich.”
So: his name, said three times, summons him. We immediately began designing traps around this (a small rock in a volcano was proposed; Barovia appears to contain no volcanoes; the survey continues). Ireena, with the patience of a saint, asked that we get her to safety before using her as bait. The one comfort Fëanor could offer, and it is real: he is still in the gift-sending phase, not the kidnapping phase. That buys time. Some.
The raven, again
That night, watching our camp: a raven. Lily’s sharp eyes swear it is the exact same raven that watched us in the village of Barovia, tufty feathers and all — it has followed us for days across half of Barovia. She tried her gnomish gift of speaking with beasts and it simply did not connect — the way it does when the thing you’re talking to is not an animal at all. It ignored our food, watched us, and flew off. Sirius, naturally, greeted it as a friend: her ravens are our friends. We are inclined, cautiously, to agree.
The farmstead
Noon on the last day’s travel: an abandoned farm, and Fëanor wanting to poke around (“our record with buildings is one for one terrible” — we made it 50/50). Three grey shambling dead things rose out of the hay. Sirius spread the black wings and all three froze in terror; we took them apart without a scratch. For Drew’s notes: plain steel worked better than our magic on them, and silver made no difference at all. Five silver and sixteen coppers off the bodies.
One consequence: Ireena saw the wings. She dropped to her knees on the spot — an angel of the Morninglord walks with us, we cannot fail — and Sirius, rather than correcting her, knelt down and prayed alongside. He is aware his family “interbred with celestial creatures some time ago.” He is not aware of what he has just become to this woman.
Vallaki: all will be well
Walls. A wrought-iron gate. Guards with forms. Are we now, or have we ever been, agents of the devil? In league with the Vistani? The dusk elves (whatever those are)? Werewolves? No, no, no-but-what-are-those, and no. Every weapon registered, down to Lily’s broom handle (“you have brought it to our attention, and therefore it must be registered”). Speaking the devil’s name inside the walls is a punishable offense. The guard’s name is a serial number. Ireena’s rank as the Burgomaster of Barovia’s sister opened the gate, with condolences for her father.
And the flyer, fresh from the printers: THE FESTIVAL OF THE BLAZING SUN, seven days from now. Attendance mandatory. Failure to attend is punishable by punishment. There has been a mandatory festival every other week for fifteen years. In the town square: gallows, and three citizens in the stocks — one missed a festival (his mother had died; this was not accepted as an excuse), one was drunk once, and one said something bad about the Baron, which is the second crime on the list, above most others. There is a guard on every corner and something called a Reformation Centre we intend never to see the inside of. Say it with us, and smile: all will be well.
And yet — people walk these streets after dark without scurrying. That is more than the village could say.
St. Andral’s secret
The church of St. Andral is the finest building we’ve seen in this land — old stone, stained glass, a walled graveyard of family mausoleums. Its priest, Father Lucian, took one look at us and took us into his confidence (we did point out to him how easily he gives his trust; he needs a miracle, and we were the nearest thing walking).
Here is the secret, and it must be kept — especially from Ireena: the church’s relic, the bones of St. Andral, kept in a hidden crypt beneath the altar, were stolen six days ago. The bones sanctified the ground; evil could not enter. Now it is just a building — and we delivered Ireena to it as her sanctuary. The stories say the devil hasn’t set foot in Vallaki in two hundred years. The stories were written when the bones were where they belonged.
Who knew about the bones? Father Lucian, and his boy Yeska, eight years old. And Yeska, because the man is big and strong and cool, told Milivoj — the groundskeeper who holds keys to the church and lives at the orphanage — after Milivoj came asking, out of the blue, whether Yeska knew any secrets about things hidden in the church. That was about ten days ago. The bones went missing four days later. We searched the crypt: nothing but dust. Tomorrow, we call on Milivoj.
(Also in the minutes: Sirius taught Yeska push-ups, let him hold a longsword, and reclaimed it on the grounds that it wasn’t registered to him. The boy has been instructed that the coolest thing one can do is keep a confidence. Too late, but the sentiment stands.)
The Blue Water Inn
Kept by Urwin Martikov and his wife Danika, with their boys Brom and Bray underfoot: warm rooms, wolf steak, beet soup, a six-bed room for two gold a night. A musician in the corner dressed in colors so bright they can only be a very deliberate statement of not-a-Vistani. Two cheerful drunks. And at one table, a very old man staring at us, white as a sheet, as if he’d seen ghosts.
His name is Roger. He is, in Urwin’s words, what remains of the previous set of Mistwalkers — the ones who came through the mists a lifetime ago, when Urwin was a boy, in what everyone still just calls bad times. There were others once. There is only Roger now.
Sirius has bought the wine. That conversation is where we begin.
Where we stand
- Lodged at the Blue Water Inn, Vallaki (2 gp/night). Ireena with us, safe for now — and unaware the church can no longer protect her. Level 4. Lily at exhaustion 1, pie-craving fading daily. Clover smashed to scrap by Morgantha; Drew has repairs to make.
- The hags stand. Morgantha, Bella, Offalia — barely scratched, holding Radu. Vasha scouts the mill. Their weakness is the coven: below three, they weaken. We do not go back until we can break one off or hit far harder.
- The letter: Strahd’s name spoken three times summons him to Ireena’s side — to carry her to “our castle, Ravenloft.” He believes he is courting. He is still sending gifts. The clock on that phase is unknown.
- Jobs in Vallaki: find the bones of St. Andral (lead: Milivoj, at the orphanage); a Blinsky toy for Aragal’s daughter (+20 gold); attend the Festival of the Blazing Sun in seven days (mandatory, on pain of punishment-by-punishment); talk to Roger, last of the old Mistwalkers.
- Gear & assets: Ismark’s map; zero pies (cremated); silver crossbow bolts (tested: useless on the shambling dead, presumably vital on werewolves), silvered short sword; one potion of healing; the menhir rubbing; wolf pelt; 5 silver 16 copper newly looted; assorted zombie guts (Drew insists).
- Watch list: Lily at dawn (one bad hour, shrinking); the raven that is not an animal; Sirius’s new devotee (Ireena thinks he is an angel); the henge behind the windmill, still unexamined; whatever Milivoj wanted those bones for — and whoever wanted them through him.
Questions on our minds
- Who has the bones of St. Andral? Milivoj asked the question ten days ago; the bones vanished six days ago. A groundskeeper doesn’t desanctify a church for himself — who sent him?
- What happened to the previous Mistwalkers? Roger looked at us like ghosts. Are we walking their road? Is that what “bad times” means?
- The Festival of the Blazing Sun — a festival of the sun, in the devil’s land, attendance enforced at pike-point. Is it Lathander’s? Is it mockery? What happens at it?
- Can we split the coven — catch one hag alone on her pie rounds — before the full moon comes back around for Vasha?
- Kiril’s pack, far west: the den of beasts where Lily’s tooth is needed. Do we go as messengers for Radu and Vasha, or as prey?
- The raven follows us. If it is not an animal, what is it — and is it hers, the lady of ravens on Sirius’s card?
- Speak his name thrice and he comes. Is there any way to make that trap ours instead of his?