Curse of Strahd Adventure Report VIII - Tower of Hope

One of Us Will Die 
 Curse of Strahd Adventure Report 8:
Tower of Hope

The smell of scorched earth still lingers in the clearing. Smoke curls from the charred trees where the Mad Mage’s last lightning strike had split the air. The world is quiet now, save for the ragged breathing of the adventurers and the soft whine of the horses.

Sabrione lies flat on her back, her pale skin marred with angry burns that hiss faintly as they begin to heal. She bares her fangs in something halfway between a grin and a grimace.

“Tell me again,” she rasps, “why we had to fight the literal daughter of lucifer?”

“Madam Eva says her name is the key to one of the artifacts.” Rowan answers from where she sits beside her, sword across her lap. She, too, looks worse for wear; blackened chainmail, a cut on her cheek, her hair still crackling faintly with static. “The Holy Symbol of Ravenkind… We need it for Yeska, then Strahd.”

Sabrione chuckles low in her throat, then winces and presses a hand to her side. “Fair.” She stares up at the sky, still the color of iron. “Never thought I’d find myself healing from battle wounds with someone like you.” She tells the knight.

Rowan gives her a sidelong glance. “Never thought I’d be doing the same with a vampire.”

The two share a smile. There’s something easy about the silence that follows, as if the battlefield has forged something between them.

Nearby, Marjorie kneels by the horses, running a gentle hand down their manes. They’re restless, skittish — they’d bolted during the fight and only returned after the clearing went quiet. “It’s not your fault,” she murmurs to them. “You couldn’t have known.”

Hope, for her part, sits cross-legged in the grass, Addy the doll propped before her like an attentive student. She adjusts the doll’s arms and hums softly, trying to feel the strange magic that thrums through its seams. She starts posing the doll in entertaining positions, the doll’s energy seeming to radiate happiness.

By afternoon, they are on the road again, heading west. The smell of pine thickens as they near Lake Baratok. The lake glitters like black glass, an island rising from its center. Atop that island stands a lonely tower, the only splash of manmade geometry against the wild.

But it isn’t just the tower.

“What do you make of that?” Rowan reins in her horse, pointing to the strange wagon sitting outside.

Sabrione narrows her eyes. “Looks Vistani. Mostly. But those wheels are wrong, and the paint—”

“Too grim,” Marjorie says. “Colors aren’t bright enough.”

The group dismounts. The wagon sits silent, the air around it strangely tense, as though it resents being approached. Hope steps forward first, reaching for the latch — only to stop when she sees the heavy iron padlock. There’s something wrong about this thing.

“Maybe later,” Rowan says, her gaze already on the tower. The front door is locked.

“Perhaps we could climb up that scaffolding and head into that window.” Marjorie suggests.

Sabrione and Hope are fixed on the front door, however. The tower door is covered in strange glyphs. No… not glyphs.

“Runes?” Marjorie guesses, squinting at them.

Rowan frowns and traces one with her finger. “No… they’re too—”

“—human,” Hope finishes. Her eyes light up with recognition. “They’re dance steps.”

Sabrione blinks. “You’re joking.”

Hope isn’t. “They’re not just steps, they’re poses. A sequence. A performance to unlock the door. Maybe the mage really liked music.”

Rowan stares at the steps, then down at her own bruised and battered body. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m not dancing after the day we just had.”

Hope smiles slightly. She can’t either; nobody can after all of that. She takes Addy by the hands. “Then let him do it.”

They step back as the doll performs the dance through Hope’s telekinetic manipulation, its tiny wooden feet moving with surprising grace. When it finishes the final pose, the door glows faintly — and clicks open.

Inside, the first floor is surprisingly well-kept. Fresh food sits stacked in crates. Marjorie immediately begins gathering supplies, muttering a quick prayer of thanks to whoever stocked this place.

Three statues stand at perfect attention, their massive stone bodies carved into silent, expressionless faces.

“Golems,” Rowan breathes, her hand drifting toward her sword hilt.

Sabrione steps forward, tense. “Too quiet,” she mutters. The silence is oppressive, like the whole tower is holding its breath.

They draw nearer.. cautiously, one step at a time. Marjorie’s ready to draw her weapon, Hope clutching Addy to her chest like a talisman.

Then, with a grinding sound that echoes through the entire tower, the statues move.

“They’re moving!” Marjorie warns, but the golems do not attack. Instead, each one reaches for a thick, rusted chain, their massive arms pulling in unison.

The platform beneath the party shudders violently, nearly throwing them off balance. Dust rains from the rafters above.

“Elevator,” Rowan realizes aloud, steadying herself as the platform begins to rise.

The statues’ heads turn slowly, tracking the party as the platform ascends. Even knowing the constructs are helping them, the sensation of those lifeless eyes following them up is enough to make Hope’s stomach twist.

They pass the first floor: a rickety, rotting thing with beams that look ready to give way at the first step.

“Gods,” Marjorie murmurs. “If we’d tried the scaffolding…”

“It would’ve given way under our weight,” Rowan finishes grimly. “We’d have all gone straight down and splat.”

Marjorie swallows hard. “Good call with the dance, Hope.”

The second floor is worse: huge holes in the wood, entire sections sagging. A half-collapsed table lies nearby, as if someone had tried to cross once and hadn’t made it.

Sabrione lets out a sharp breath through her nose. “One wrong step and we’d have joined them.”

A fresh creak makes everyone flinch. The statues continue to crank the chains without pause, but the sound of splintering wood is everywhere now, as if the tower itself resents their presence.

When they finally reach the top, the platform locks into place with a jolt that sends Hope stumbling into Rowan’s arms.

“Still think this was a good idea?” Sabrione mutters under her breath, though she hasn’t let go of her sword.

Hope’s voice is quiet but firm. “We’re alive. That means it was the right idea.”

They step off the platform into the top floor... and immediately freeze.

It is lived-in, but wrong. The air smells faintly of dust and ozone, as though lightning struck inside the room. A bed sits in one corner, neatly made, but something about it feels staged, not truly used. Books are scattered about the desk, papers left half-written. Someone had been here; recently.

“Stay sharp,” Rowan warns. “Whoever lived here could still be close.” The mad mage might have built this place, but someone’s been living in it.

It is then that Hope spots the pillow and feels the faint tug of intuition. Something whispers to her.. not a voice exactly, but a weight on her thoughts. She peels the pillow back carefully, as though it might bite.

Beneath it lies a leather-bound book. Its cover is cracked with age, its corners darkened as though they have been singed by fire. A tarnished clasp holds it shut, but the lock has long since broken. Hope hesitates, then opens it.

Inside is meticulous handwriting, precise and unforgiving. Ink sketches accompany every page: monsters rendered with clinical accuracy. Fangs, claws, and anatomy laid bare.

Sabrione exhales slowly, some of her tension bleeding away. Her gloved hand brushes one of the pages, tracing the sketch of a vampire’s skull with a strange reverence. “Rudolf van Richten,” she says under her breath, almost like the name tastes bad on her tongue. “The monster hunter… another name on that list of people that wants me dead.”

“What did you do to him?” Marjorie asks.

“Exist… He wants every vampire off the face of Faerun.” Sabrione spits.

She turns the pages carefully. There is an entry on vampires — not just their strengths, but their weaknesses, their habits, the psychology of hunger that drives them. Another page details werewolves, their curse passed like a sickness, their humanity shredded little by little until nothing is left but the beast. Then zombies, revenants, and the pale witches of the Svalich Woods who brew curses in their crooked huts. Each entry reads like both a warning and a death sentence.

Marjorie leans closer, her brow furrowed. “This man saw everything here as an enemy,” she murmurs. “Even the revenants.”

But then Rowan flips to a section near the middle and frowns. This entry is not about a creature of the night, but about the Vistani. The handwriting here is even sharper, like the ink itself is angry.

Hope reads aloud: “They are not to be trusted. The Vistani are the Devil’s favored servants, carrying his will across the valley. Their songs are lures, their gifts are curses, and their hospitality is a snare.”

The silence that follows is heavy.

“That’s…” Marjorie starts, but stops herself.

“Bigoted,” Sabrione says flatly. She closes the book with a snap. “He calls himself a hunter of monsters, but his opinions reveal him to be a monster himself.” There is no reverence in her voice now. Only something sharp.

Hope doesn’t speak for a long moment. She feels the weight of the book in her hands, as though it is heavier than it should be — like it remembers every death its author caused.

Rowan breaks the silence first, her expression grim. “Use it,” she says at last. “Learn from it. But don’t let it turn you into him.”

Sabrione stares at the cover for a long moment before nodding once. “Agreed.”

The book feels colder when Hope closes it, as though it disapproves.

Rowan opens the book carefully — and that’s when Sabrione’s elbow bumps the desk.

A click.

The sound is soft but unmistakable — and immediately, the air feels charged.

“What did you just touch?” Sabrione asks.

Before anyone can answer, a hidden panel slides open with a hiss, revealing a key.

“…That’s convenient,” Sabrione mutters, trying to hide her unease.

It takes all four of them to open the locked chest in the corner, and when they finally pry it open, the sight inside makes the room feel colder. A perfectly preserved Vistana head stares up at them.

Then Rowan speaks the mage’s name: “Morningstar…” — and the entire tower seems to hold its breath.

Something shifts in the corner. Metal grinds against metal as an enchanted suit of armor slowly stirs to life.

Hope flinches back, her hand tightening around Addy. Marjorie grips her quarterstaff. Sabrione’s sword is half out of its scabbard before Rowan lays a hand on her arm.

The armor does not attack. Instead, it steps forward with a deliberate, soldier’s grace and draws its blade. For a heartbeat, it feels like the tower itself is about to strike them down — and then the armor salutes.

The sound echoes like a church bell in the silent room.

No one speaks as the construct turns toward the wall. Stone grinds and shifts as a hidden panel slides open, revealing a gleaming relic resting in an alcove of carved amber. The light that spills out is not just golden — it is warm. Holy.

The Holy Symbol of Ravenkind.

Rowan’s breath catches in her throat as she reaches forward, reverent, and lifts it from its resting place. For a moment she feels as though she’s holding the sun itself.

A scroll tumbles from the alcove, as though the tower itself is offering it to her. She catches it on instinct, hands trembling.

Only then does anyone breathe again.

Marjorie whispers, her voice reverent, “After all this time…”

Sabrione exhales a long, shaky breath, finally lowering her sword.

Hope’s eyes glisten as she clutches Addy to her chest. “This isn’t luck,” she says softly. “We were meant to find this. Right here. Right now. Exactly as the fortuneteller said.”

The weight of destiny settles on the room like falling snow; heavy, silent, inescapable.

But as they gather their supplies and prepare to leave, no one can shake the feeling that the tower is watching them, waiting for them to make one wrong move.

At the top, they find a lived-in space, though by whom is a mystery. Everything is sparse but purposeful. A desk, a bed, a writing quill still sitting in an inkpot.

“Search everything,” Rowan orders quietly.

Hope checks under the bed first — nothing. Then under the pillow. There, she finds it: a slim leather-bound guide.

Sabrione takes one look at the name on the front and stiffens. “Rudolf van Richten,” she says. “Famous monster hunter. Killed more vampires than anyone else on record.”

“Pleasant,” Sabrione mutters, already rummaging through the desk.

Her elbow knocks a hidden switch.

Click.

A secret compartment opens, revealing a key.

They follow where it leads — to a chest. Inside is a grisly prize: a preserved Vistani head.

Marjorie breathes in sharply. “Madame Eva said—” She swallows and invokes the mage’s name. “Morningstar.”

The suit of armor in the corner stirs to life.

It salutes them. Then moves to a wall, pushing aside stones to reveal a hidden alcove. Within rests the Holy Symbol of Ravenkind — one of the most sacred relics of the Morninglord — and a scroll of Speak with Dead.

Rowan takes the symbol with reverent hands. It is heavier than it looks, and she can feel the holy power in it thrumming like a heartbeat.

“Only you,” Sabrione says softly. “You’re the only living person I’d trust with something like this.”

For the first time, she stands next to a knight with a holy symbol and she feels… safe.

When Rowan attunes to the Holy Symbol, the tower vanishes around her.

She stands in a throne room of blackened stone, the air heavy with dust and grief. At the far end sits a man clad in scorched plate, a massive greatsword laid across his knees. The glow of the brazier behind him paints him in sepulchral firelight. His face is hidden behind a helm, but the pommel of his weapon bears the unmistakable crest of Argynvost.

“Who dares touch the light of the Morninglord?” His voice is hollow, like something dragged from the grave.

“I am Rowan Daggerford,” she answers, her voice steady but her heart hammering. “I am an enemy of Strahd von Zarovich.”

The knight rises, the motion slow, deliberate. “You speak words I have heard before. Words from men and women who swore to stand against him — and failed.”

“I am not them,” Rowan says, her hand finding her longsword’s hilt.

“Prove it.”

The clash is sudden and terrible! A storm of steel and fury. Rowan’s blade meets his with a ringing cry, and she feels the weight of centuries behind every strike. Sparks shower the floor as she is driven back, barely keeping her footing.

“You carry the Morninglord’s light,” the knight growls, voice like a funeral dirge. “If you are not worthy, you will burn with it! And you… are not… WORTHY!”

The last blow sends her flying. Darkness swallows her.

She gasps awake on the tower floor, back in her own body, the taste of iron in her mouth. The suit of armor is there to catch her before she strikes the stone.

“Rowan!” Marjorie is at her side immediately, but Rowan is staring past her, pale, shaken.

“He doesn’t believe me,” Rowan whispers, clutching the Holy Symbol. “I don’t think I ever want to see that horrid man again, whoever he is.”

The suit of armor catches her.

When she opens her eyes, it is standing perfectly still, awaiting orders.

They question it as best they can, learning through nods and head shakes that it has been here for years, perhaps centuries, alone.

Hope kneels beside it, smiling faintly. “You must have been so lonely.”

It nods.

“Then come with us.”

The armor tilts its head — then nods again.

“Alright,” Rowan says quietly. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Even without a face, the suit seems… hesitant. It glances toward the door, then back to them.

Hope crouches down so that her face is level with the breastplate. “You’re scared,” she says softly.

The armor nods, one gauntleted hand brushing nervously against its own side as though already expecting to collapse into a pile of empty metal.

“You don’t have to do this,” Marjorie says gently. “You could stay here. Keep guarding this place like you always have.”

The armor shakes its head slowly — no.

Hope smiles sadly. “Then trust us. Just one step at a time.”

The descent feels much longer this time. The chains creak, the platform groans, and every floor they pass feels like a farewell. Even the statues seem to watch them go, their eyeless faces turned in silent witness.

Outside, the cold Barovian wind cuts through them immediately. The wagon still waits by the tower, motionless.

Rowan takes the first step off the platform, boots crunching in the dirt. “Alright, S.O.A.,” she says, her voice lower than usual, as though speaking too loudly might break the magic. “Your turn.”

The armor hesitates at the threshold. Its helm swivels to look at them one by one, as though saying goodbye, then takes a single step forward... and freezes.

The adventurers stop breathing.

A faint shimmer of light crawls over the plates like frost, and for a moment it looks as though the magic will unravel. The armor twitches, a single, sharp movement, as if bracing for death.

“No, no, no!” Hope says quickly, placing her hand on the breastplate. “Stay with us. Stay with me.”

Sabrione grimaces, stepping forward. “You can do this. One more step.”

The armor’s hand curls into a fist. Slowly, painfully, it moves its foot forward again, then again — one step at a time, like a child learning to walk.

When it finally clears the tower’s shadow, the light flickers one last time... and then holds.

The suit straightens.

For a moment, there is silence. Then the armor looks down at its hands, flexing its fingers in disbelief. It hasn’t disintegrated. It hasn’t fallen.

Hope lets out the breath she’d been holding and laughs with relief. “You’re still here.”

The armor nods once, slow and deliberate, then kneels suddenly and bows its helm toward her. Gratitude.

Even Sabrione allows herself a smile. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a bodyguard, Hope.”

Rowan crosses her arms, trying and failing to hide the ghost of a grin. “Good. We can use all the help we can get.”

For the first time since they found it, the armor looks… lighter. As though some invisible weight has been lifted from its shoulders. It stands straighter, the faint squeak of its hinges sounding almost cheerful.

“Alright then,” Marjorie says, patting its pauldron. “Welcome to the party, Soa.”

The armor salutes.

Soa… It stands for Suit of Armor.

Marjorie kneels over the grim trophy, her quarterstaff planted beside her like a grave marker. She breathes in, steeling herself, and begins the incantation. The air around them grows still — too still — as the magic takes hold.

The Vistana’s head opens its cloudy, lifeless eyes. Its lips move with a wet, unnatural sound.

“You have five questions,” it rasps.

Marjorie swallows. “How did you die?”

The head’s expression twists into something halfway between fear and rage. “Beheaded. My blood fed the stones.”

The party exchanges tense looks.

Rowan, voice calm but tight: “Who killed you?”

“I do not know his name,” the head says. “A man with a monkey. His heart is stone, and his soul is black. He hates my people. He will see us all burn if you do not stop him.”

Sabrione mutters, “Blinksy?” but Marjorie shakes her head, eyes narrowing. “No… Blinksy’s too soft. The monkey was Rictavio’s before he gave it away.”

Hope shivers, clutches Addy tighter. “We have three questions left. Use them carefully.”

Marjorie nods. “Who sought you out before us?”

“Two,” the head rasps. “A half-elf with sorrow in his eyes… and a Vistana woman, young, frightened. They came at different times.”

Hope’s fingers twitch. “Wait — I can try something.” Her psychic power flares faintly, her eyes going blank as she presses her hand to the cold, dead skin.

The world tilts.

She stands in a dim memory, not her own, hearing the same voice answer another question. A Vistana girl weeps, hands fisted in her skirts. The head whispers, “The man is alive. He cries himself to sleep every night, calling out for Ezmerelda.”

The girl breaks. “I’ll find him,” she sobs. “I can’t let him destroy himself.”

Hope snaps back to her body, gasping, heart hammering.

They ask about the amber doors next.

“Argynvostholt,” the head says. “The knights stole them from a place of great evil. They brought them home as trophies, but the temple remembers.”

The final question hangs in the air. Marjorie leans closer, voice low. “What else should we know?”

The head’s mouth twists into a snarl. “Beware the man who killed me. His plans are already in motion. He will bring ruin to Barovia if left unchecked. Find him. The man with the monkey. Kill him before he kills more of us.”

The spell ends. The head’s mouth falls slack.

The party is quiet for a moment, the weight of the warning settling on them like a shroud.

“Rictavio,” Marjorie murmurs.

Rowan exhales sharply. “And we’re supposed to just… what? March up to him and demand answers?”

Hope says nothing. Her knuckles are white on Addy’s outfit.

They bury the head carefully, giving it what little dignity they can. The forest feels heavier after.

Sabrione straightens, brushing dirt from her gloves. “Alright. Let’s see what’s in that wagon.”

“Don’t,” Hope says sharply, but Sabrione is already striding forward.

“I said don’t,” Hope hisses. “Something’s wrong. I can feel it—”

Sabrione ignores her, side-stepping to the lock. “You’re paranoid. You see danger around every corner, Hope.”

Hope’s stomach knots. That’s because there IS danger around every corner!

Sabrione’s lockpicking skills don’t seem to make the cut. “Hope, I know you don’t like it, but there could be something really useful in here. Do you think you could give it a go with your tools?”

Hope stands where she is, worried.

“What’s the worst it could be?” Rowan says, backed up by Marjorie.

Her hands find their way to the padlock as she expertly deals with the tumblers, sensing and feeling with her sixth sense. Her eyes jerk open wide. I was right. We should never have touched this thing!

The padlock clicks.

“GET AWAY!” Hope warns them just in time! It’s the loudest her voice has ever been.

The door flies open,  and fire blossoms.

The blast rocks the clearing, hurling them all back. The heat is searing, the explosion deafening. Splinters and firebombs scatter like shrapnel.

Marjorie grabs Kellam by the scruff and rolls with him to shield him from the worst of it. Rowan barely manages to get her shield up before the concussive force sends her sprawling. Sabrione crashes hard, clutching SOA as the armor screeches in protest.

Hope is the first to her feet, smoke rising from her cloak, fury blazing in her eyes.

“I told you!” she shouts, pointing at the smoldering crater where the wagon used to be. “I told you not to touch it! This is what happens when you don’t listen!”

Hope’s powers seemed to come with a strange curse. She’d be able to see terrible things before they happened, but almost every time, nobody would believe her.

Before anyone can answer, a sound like distant thunder rolls over the clearing.

A black coach arrives, its wheels whispering over the dirt road. It stops just at the edge of the blast site.

The black coach creaks to a halt at the edge of the clearing. Its door swings open with quiet dignity.

Rahadin steps down, boots crunching softly on the dirt, and then stops dead.

Before him lies utter devastation: a smoking crater where a wagon used to be, four soot-stained adventurers sprawled across the ground, one animated suit of armor sitting stiffly in the dirt, and Hope standing in the middle of it all, shouting at everyone like an irate schoolteacher.

Rahadin blinks. Once. Twice. His expression goes through at least three stages of confusion before settling into something that might almost be concern — though it’s hard to tell with him.

“…Do you require medical assistance?” he asks at last, as if genuinely unsure what he has just walked into.

“No!” Hope snaps, spinning on him. “What we require is for people to listen to me when I say don’t open the trapped wagon! But noooo, nobody listens to the psychic!”

Rahadin glances at the smoldering wreckage, then at the still-groaning adventurers, then back at Hope. His brow furrows, ever so slightly.

“…Very well,” he says slowly, producing an envelope with immaculate care. “I came here to deliver an invitation. But if this is a bad time…”

Sabrione, still lying on her back, reaches up and snatches the letter. “No, no, this is the perfect time,” she mutters, tearing it open and reading aloud — and imitating Strahd’s accent as she does so.

My friends,

Know that it is I who have brought you to this land, my home, and know that I alone can release you from it. I bid you dine at my castle so that we can meet in civilized surroundings. Your passage here will be a safe one. I await your arrival.

Your host, Count Strahd von Zarovich Lord of Barovia

The words are like a death knell.

They are all still coughing smoke from their lungs, still bleeding from splinters, still smelling of burned leather and hair — and yet they know this summons cannot be ignored.

Hope is still glaring daggers at Sabrione, but she says nothing. The firelight glints in her eyes.

Somewhere in the dark, the forest holds its breath.

Rahadin explains the plan with his usual, almost-too-polite precision.

“My orders are clear,” he says as the black coach rolls away from the blast site. “I am to escort you to Vallaki, see to your preparations, and deliver you safely to Castle Ravenloft for dinner.”

Sabrione gets onto the carriage with everyone else, boots propped up on the cushion across from her like she owns the carriage. “So you’re basically a dog on a leash then,” she says sweetly. “Do you ever get tired of obeying your master’s every little whim?”

Rahadin doesn’t flinch, but his nostrils flare just slightly. “If I had my way,” he says, his tone as calm as ever, “you would all be dead. And quiet.”

That does it. The party lights up.

“Oh, so you can’t kill us?” Sabrione grins like a wolf who just smelled blood.

Rahadin doesn’t answer, which is as good as a confirmation.

The next several hours are pure hell for Rahadin.

The black carriage rattles along the snow-slick road, its interior warm and almost cozy — an oddity in Barovia. A small silver tin sits on the seat between them. Hope opens it and gasps.

“Chocolate spiders!” she beams. “These are Asha’s! I recognize the glaze. She always used to make these for Midwinter.” It’s almost as if she wasn’t incredibly upset a minute ago.

She pops one delicately into her mouth, savoring it before passing the tin to Rowan. “Here, you must try one. They’re filled with vanilla ice cream!”

Rahadin sits across from them, silent and severe, legs crossed, gloved hands resting on his knees like a portrait of patience.

“Are you not going to have one?” Hope asks politely, offering the tin.

He looks at her like she has just offered him poison. “I do not eat sweets,” he says.

Sabrione leans back, resting her boots against the opposite seat, deliberately scuffing the velvet upholstery. “You should. You might be less cranky if you did.”

Rahadin exhales slowly through his nose. “I am not cranky.”

“Oh, you are definitely cranky,” Sab says cheerfully. “Tell me, what’s it like working for an insufferable master who keeps you running errands like an overworked errand boy? Does he make you polish his boots too, or just his ego?”

Marjorie snorts, nearly choking on a chocolate spider.

Rahadin doesn’t so much as blink. “It is my duty to serve House von Zarovich.”

“Yeah, but does it ever get old?” Sab presses. “Do you ever wake up and think, ‘Wow, today I get to help my narcissistic boss ruin everyone’s life again!’ Or do you just scream into a pillow and get on with it?”

Hope tries to keep the peace but can’t help a giggle. “Sab…”

“No, no, I want to know!” Sab grins, wicked. “Where do you even sleep? In a nice little coffin next to his? Or do you just… stand in a hallway all night, glaring at the portraits?”

Rahadin’s jaw tightens, but his voice stays maddeningly even. “I sleep in my own quarters.”

“Ooooh, private quarters!” Sab leans forward, feigning interest. “Do you have, like, hobbies? Knitting? Whittling? Do you ever… smile?”

Rowan, who has been sharpening her longsword casually in the corner, joins in. “Actually, I’m curious about that too. You’ve got a very stoic thing going on, but I bet if I challenged you to a duel, you’d smile at least once before I beat you.”

“You would not beat me,” Rahadin says simply.

“Ohhh,” Rowan grins. “That sounded almost like confidence. You sure you don’t want to smile just a little?”

Hope, ever the counterbalance to Sab’s chaos, changes the topic — but not by much. “What about the castle?” she asks, bright-eyed. “Is there a library? A music room? Do the windows open on their own, or is that just a myth? Oh! Does my sister have her own room?”

Rahadin glances at her, expression unreadable. “Lady Asha has a laboratory. And yes, she has a room. As for the windows — no, they do not open on their own.”

Hope nods, filing this away. “And does Strahd ever go there? To her lab, I mean?”

“Rarely,” Rahadin says.

“Good,” Hope says, relieved, then brightens again. “Oh! Is there a kitchen? What do you all even eat up there?”

“Food,” Rahadin replies flatly.

“Wow,” Sab deadpans. “Thrilling answer. You’re really killing it in the social department.”

Marjorie smirks. “He probably doesn’t want to tell you because half the meals are people.”

Hope’s face goes pale. Rahadin does not deny it.

For the rest of the ride, the questions continue like arrows in a storm: “How long have you worked for Strahd?” “Do you ever get days off?” “If Strahd died tomorrow, what would you even do with yourself?” “Hey, you’re an elf! What’s it like to be immortal and be subjected to this life forever?” “What is your skincare routine? Your face is weirdly flawless for a guy who spends so much time brooding.”

Each question chips away at Rahadin’s composure, though he never snaps. He just sits there, enduring it with the patience of a saint — or a man who knows he can’t murder his traveling companions, no matter how much he might want to.

By the time they reach Vallaki, his face is as impassive as ever, but his knuckles are white where his hands rest on his knees.

By the time they reach Vallaki, he looks physically pained — but he keeps his word. He escorts them through the streets as they shop, grimly carrying packages as they commission the most ostentatious, expensive, and impractical gowns they can imagine at Endless Delight Clothiers.

The tailor shop Endless Delight Clothiers explodes into chaos the moment the adventurers step inside.

Harwin and Hewin Yustov: identical twins, perfect curls bouncing as they turn — freeze mid-stitch when they see Rahadin at the door, and then their faces split into identical smiles of pure, unholy delight.

“You’re here!” Harwin shrieks, throwing his arms wide.

“We heard everything will be charged directly to Count von Zarovich,” Hewin says, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper.

The two turn toward each other, clasp hands, and scream:

“NO BUDGET!”

They spin in a perfect pirouette, knock over three bolts of fabric, and collapse dramatically onto a chaise.

Rahadin, standing stiffly at the entrance, looks like he’s swallowed glass.

“Oh yes, darling, silver embroidery on everything!” Harwin declares, leaping up again and spinning toward the party.

“Except mine,” Sabrione says, her voice low, almost dangerous. “Make mine an elegant, blood-red gown — silk, layered, extravagant — with a black veil that drapes like night itself. When I walk in, I want the entire castle to feel like they’re at my funeral.”

Hewin gasps, hand over his mouth. “A blood queen!”

“A masterpiece!” Harwin claps. “You will look like the last thing a man sees before he dies!”

Sabrione smirks. “Exactly.”

Rowan crosses her arms, inspecting the fabrics like she’s evaluating troops. “I need something severe. Minimalist, but commanding. Deep charcoal, high neckline, flowing sleeves. A dress made for diplomacy… and duels. When I sit at Strahd’s table, I want him to know I could gut him right there and never wrinkle the hem.”

The twins both scream.

“Yes!” Hewin shouts. “Sharp but elegant! The Count will be terrified to spill wine on you!”

“We’ll give it silver accents — subtle but unmistakable — and a long, elegant cloak that makes you look like the law itself has arrived!” Harwin says, already sketching furiously.

Marjorie leans casually against a mannequin. “Mine needs to be a pastoral dream — white and green, long and flowing. Something that makes me look like I walked straight out of a summer field. I want Strahd to choke on the sight of it.”

“Fresh!” Hewin screams. “Verdant!”

“Pure!” Harwin adds. “A vision of life in a land of death!”

“Exactly.” Marjorie grins.

Hope practically bounces where she stands. “I want something completely over the top. Gold trim, purple silks — no, darker purple too — and layers. Lots of layers. I want to look like the night sky exploded and decided to make me its queen.”

Harwin shrieks and throws his notebook across the room.

“Yes!” Hewin howls. “A gown fit for the stars themselves!”

“We’ll bedazzle the entire bodice with constellations in gold thread!” Harwin declares. “And layer the skirts so that when you spin, you look like the heavens turning!”

Hope beams. “Perfect! And I want a matching beetle plushie.”

“Blinksy himself will make it!” Harwin promises, writing so fast his pencil snaps. “And we will deliver it in a hand-stitched velvet box lined with silk!”

Rahadin exhales slowly through his nose.

“And jewelry!” Harwin suddenly yells. “They’ll need jewelry!”

“Yes, yes!” Hewin crows. “Chokers, bracelets, tiaras — oh, the tiaras!”

“Capes!” Harwin shrieks. “With fur lining!”

“Matching boots!” Hewin adds. “And gloves! Gloves with silver-threaded fingertips so the Count can see them glint every time you raise your glass!”

Marjorie grins wickedly. “Add spurs to Rowan’s boots. Loud ones. I want Strahd to hear her coming from across the hall.”

Rowan nods, dead serious. “Do it.”

“YES!” Harwin practically faints.

“Oh! And make a tiny outfit for Addy!” Hope says suddenly, holding up the doll. “And a matching one for Soa!”

The twins scream so loud they startle a cat out from under a table.

“YES!” Hewin shouts. “We will dress the doll and the suit of armor!”

Rahadin mutters through closed teeth. “But they’re not even coming to the-“

“Youuu said we could have anything we wanted!” Hope says, her eyes bursting with glee.

“Give Soa a cloak!” Rowan suggests, almost smiling now. “And a little hat.”

“And Kellam too!” Marjorie adds. “Matching hats!”

At this point, the Yustovs are manic, scribbling designs like their lives depend on it.

“—and monogram every single piece with your initials!” Harwin shrieks.

“—and silver filigree on the inside of the corsets!” Hewin adds. “Where no one can see it!”

“Yes!” Hope says, bouncing. “That way we’ll know Strahd paid for it and he’ll never know why he feels poorer inside!”

By the time they are finished, there are literal piles of sketches and measurements. Dresses, cloaks, boots, gloves, jewelry, matching travel cloaks for every member of the party (and their animals), a set of silver goblets engraved with their names, even a custom scabbard for Rowan’s longsword.

Harwin looks up, panting. “The total will be—”

Rahadin cuts him off, voice like ice. “Send it to the Count.”

Hewin clasps his brother’s hands, vibrating with joy. “Oh, we will. And we will charge him extra for rush delivery!”

As they leave, Sabrione pats Rahadin on the shoulder. “Cheer up. You’re about to make Strahd’s accountant cry.”

Rahadin does not respond.

Rowan glances back at the tailor shop and mutters under her breath, “Worth every silver.”

Rowan delivers the Holy Symbol of Ravenkind to the Martikovs. Marjorie slips off to speak with Arabelle, who weeps at the news of the slain Vistani but informs them that Luvash has received an “important invitation” and is away.

At St. Andral’s Cathedral, the laughter fades like a dying echo. The warmth of Vallaki’s lamplight gives way to gray silence.

Ireena is on the steps, broom in hand, sweeping the last of the evening dust away. She looks up at them with tired eyes.

“You got one too?” Sabrione asks, already guessing the answer.

Ireena nods once, slow. “I threw it away.” Her voice is soft, brittle. “He can’t get me here.”

She says it like she’s trying to convince herself — like a prayer, not a fact.

Hope steps forward first and embraces her tightly. “You’re safe here,” she says, even though the others are not sure that’s true.

They leave SOA with her and Father Petrovich, the suit of armor saluting them stiffly at the top of the cathedral stairs. For a moment, he looks more like a knight than a construct, as though he knows what they are walking into and wishes he could go with them.

The door closes.

And across Barovia, the invitations are answered.

In the Village of Barovia, Ismark stands stiffly in the cold, jaw clenched as the black coach pulls up. His knuckles are white around the letter in his hand. When the door opens, he boards without a word.

On the Old Svalich Road, Granny Morgantha cackles as she steps into the carriage, her basket of dream pastries nestled on her arm like an infant.

At the Vistani camp, Luvash smokes silently by the fire until the horses arrive. He stares into the flames for a long time, then climbs aboard without extinguishing his pipe. He has to miss his brother’s funeral for this… His heart mourns for Arabelle and her mother. Thoughts of his brother and all the things he wish he’d said.

Mad Mary wrings her hands raw before she gathers the courage to step inside her coach and Father Donovich crosses himself three times and whispers a prayer before sitting down.

And on the outskirts of Vallaki, Vasili von Holtz stands waiting. His coat is buttoned, his expression calm — almost serene. When the door opens, he smiles faintly and says, “Right on time,” before stepping inside.

One by one, the coaches vanish into the mist, bearing Barovia’s chosen to their destiny.

When the adventurers’ coach reaches the foothills, the road begins to twist and climb. The moon is hidden behind black clouds. The forest presses close to the road like it is listening.

And then...

Castle Ravenloft rises from the mist.

It is not a building but a wound on the mountain, its spires like blackened teeth, its windows glowing faintly as though with the last embers of a dying fire.

The drawbridge groans as the coach rolls across. The iron chains creak like old bones. Somewhere far below, water moves — or something that only sounds like water.

The carriage door opens, and the adventurers step down into the castle courtyard.

The stablehand who greets them is hunched and pale, his eyes hidden beneath a ragged hood. “Your horses! Your horses! I must take your horses!” He takes the reins with trembling hands, leads the horses away, and vanishes into the shadows without a sound.

The party is left standing before the massive double doors of the keep, where only silence waits — and whatever lies beyond.

Inside, the doors swing open to reveal a feminine figure waiting in the torchlight.

“Good evening, honored gues-” she begins — and then a beetle plushie smacks her square in the face.

“Asha!” Hope cries, sprinting forward.

The two collide in a tearful embrace. The sisters cling to each other as if afraid they might be torn apart again. Asha’s voice breaks as she powers through her carefully-rehearsed speech. “My name is Contessa Asha von Zarovich,” she manages, eyes still shining. “Welcome to our home.”

She wastes no time. “Hope... I found it. The cure. Ten years of work, and it’s ready. I can save her. I can save our sister.”

Hope nearly collapses with relief.

Then the other three wives emerge from the shadows, one by one, as though the castle itself is giving them form.

The first is Ludmilla Vilisevic, her presence as cold and refined as the marble pillars around them. She moves with the grace of a queen, her crimson gown perfectly fitted, her hair a waterfall of ink against her pale skin. When she inclines her head, it is just enough to acknowledge them... no more, no less.

“Contessa Ludmilla Vilisevic von Zarovich,” she says, voice smooth as velvet but cold enough to bite. “Lady Lady Vilisevic to you. You are Strahd’s… guests. We are most curious to see what sort of entertainment you bring.”

Next is Anastrasia Karelova, taller and broader than the other women, her gown cut for movement rather than display. She wears her strength like a badge, her hair tied back, her eyes sharp and assessing. She smiles, but it is the smile of a wolf deciding if you are prey.

“Contessa Anastrasia Karelova von Zarovich,” she says simply, voice warm but edged with warning. “I hope you do not cause trouble in our home. We so rarely have guests that live long enough to enjoy the night.”

And then comes Volenta Popovsky.. and she is laughing. Not a sweet laugh, not a pleasant laugh, but a bubbling, giddy, hungry sound that makes the hair on the back of their necks rise. She wears a dress too red to be anything but blood, her lips parted just enough to show her fangs. Her gaze is fixed not on the party, but on Asha.

“Contessa Volenta Popovsky von Zarovich,” she purrs, and the air seems to tighten. “How sweet. You’ve brought company.” Her smile is all teeth. Her eyes, though, are knives.. and every one of them is aimed at her sister-wife.

Asha stands tall, her hand unconsciously brushing Hope’s for comfort, her own smile strained but defiant. Volenta tilts her head, as though imagining Asha’s throat torn out and deciding whether now is the time.

The tension is thick enough to choke on.

And then there is one more.

A figure steps out from behind Volenta like a shadow peeled from the wall. It is Gertruda — no longer the frightened girl near the Death House but a grown woman now, her beauty tinged with something… wrong. Her eyes are too wide, her smile too sharp, her step too eager as she moves to stand just behind Volenta, like a loyal hound waiting for a command.

She does not speak. She does not need to. Her expression is one of absolute devotion — and something else. A starry eyed love for everything in this castle.

Rahadin clears his throat behind them, and the sound is like a blade being drawn.

“If you are quite finished,” he says, voice flat but tight, “dinner awaits.”

The moment shatters like glass.

Of course, the adventurers immediately start peppering him with questions again: about the castle, about the brides, about Gertruda. Hope even asks what vintage the wine will be.

Rahadin’s jaw works silently before he exhales through his nose, sharp as a hiss.

This is my punishment, he thinks. This is my hell.

Helena by My Chemical Romance plays over the credits.

Reflections from the Director

I’ve been waiting to do this for so long! I have heard so many stories about the exploding wagon and the wizard’s tower that gets everyone killed. Somehow, Nyx, who plays Hope in this campaign, just figured out every trap and hiding place. It’s one thing to play a character who sees everything coming, which she does, but another thing to manage to get your own way through the puzzles using your own intuition. If this were D&D, I’d have given her inspiration points, but as this is OOUWD, she got those in the form of experience points anyway. She only failed one roll, which is more the dice than the player’s blunder, but even that led to a great moment where she finally explodes at the party for never listening to her. I created the Seer archetype for moments like that.

We also had our second character reunion! This was something I’ve always been looking forward to when I started this campaign. I’d always planned for ten years to pass and for players to create new characters. Seeing the twins together really made me realize the kind of story this game tells best. The first reunion we had was between Sabrione and Ivan, which led to an explosive duel across the rooftops of Barovia. In contrast, this is a wholesome moment that makes everyone smile, but of course Nyx reminds us during this scene that the sisters are destined for tragedy.

Big session coming up next! If any of my players are reading this, I thought I’d tease the idea that at least two dinner quests will die!