Morning in the Mansion
Morning broke over the Village of Barovia as it always did—without sunlight, the pale grey sky barely distinguishable from the heavy fog that pressed against the windows of the burgomaster’s mansion. You gathered your gear and prepared for the journey ahead, knowing that Ireena Kolyana needed safe passage to Vallaki, and that the road would be neither short nor safe.
As you made your final preparations, one of you—Fig—noticed something peculiar. Beneath a piece of furniture near the corner of the room, a rat sat perfectly still, watching. Not with the simple curiosity of a rodent seeking scraps, but with rapt, malevolent, and unmistakably intelligent interest. Its beady eyes tracked your movements with an awareness that sent a chill down your spine.
The moment it realized it had been spotted, the rat bolted. It dashed across the floor toward the kitchen in a frantic scramble for escape, heading straight for a large hole in the wall. You had only seconds to react as the creature scurried for freedom. Whether through missed attacks or hesitation, the rat nearly made it—but Ireena was faster. Her rapier flashed through the air and pinned the spy to the floor with a single, precise strike. She looked up at you grimly. “One of Strahd’s watchers,” she said simply, withdrawing her blade. “They’re everywhere.”
With that unsettling reminder of the vampire’s reach, you departed the mansion. Joining your group was Parriwimple, the sweet and simple yet incredibly strong nephew and assistant of the now-deceased Bildrath Cantemir. Choppy had convinced Parriwimple to come along. He missed his friend Doru, and perhaps thought he could be of help. Though his understanding was limited, his heart was in the right place, and you welcomed the extra pair of hands for the journey ahead.
Kereza and Korga at River
The journey from the village took you along the Old Svalich Road, through fields of tall, dead grass that swayed in the cold breeze. The fog clung to everything, reducing visibility to a few dozen feet at best. The road itself was little more than packed dirt, rutted and muddy from recent rains, winding through a landscape devoid of color or warmth. Skeletal trees reached toward the grey sky with gnarled, empty branches, and the oppressive silence was broken only by the sound of your footsteps and the occasional rustle of wind through the grass.
After some time, you reached a wooden bridge spanning a river—its dark waters flowing sluggishly beneath. But before you could cross, a voice called out from the fog ahead.
“Hold there!” The speaker emerged from the mist—a gruff-looking woman in worn leather armor, a crossbow held ready but not quite aimed at you. Behind her came a second figure, taller and softer-spoken. These were Kereza and Korga, scouts from the village who had been searching the wilderness.
Kereza, the shorter of the two, looked you over with suspicious eyes. “You’re the ones traveling with the burgomaster’s daughter,” she said—not quite a question. Her gaze settled on Ireena with concern. “You know what danger you’re courting, girl? Taking to the road like this?”
Korga, by contrast, spoke more gently. “We mean no offense. But you should know—the wilderness is watched. Strahd has spies everywhere. Wolves that move with unnatural coordination. Bats that follow travelers for miles. Even the trees and vines sometimes seem to… notice things.” He glanced around uneasily, as if the fog itself might be listening.
They warned you to be vigilant, to trust nothing in the wilderness, and mentioned they were searching for the Lansten family—a husband, wife, and child who had gone missing days ago. The scouts feared the worst but held onto hope. After sharing what little information they could, Kereza and Korga bid you safe travels and disappeared back into the fog. As they left, you noticed the sky darkening slightly. A light drizzle began to fall.
The Weapons Cache and the Lansten Family
It was Parriwimple who spoke up next, his voice hesitant but earnest. “Doru… Doru told me about something once. A cache. Weapons, I think. Hidden in the woods, under a big tree.” He furrowed his brow, struggling to remember the details. “He said… if anyone ever needed to fight the bad things, they could find help there.”
The mention of a hidden weapons cache was too valuable to ignore. Following Parriwimple’s fragmentary recollections, you left the road and ventured into the woods. The moment you stepped beneath the canopy, the world seemed to close in around you. The fog grew thicker, clinging to your clothes and skin like damp cobwebs. The ground squelched beneath your boots, thick with mud and rotting leaves. And the silence—it was absolute. No birdsong. No insects. Just the sound of your own breathing and the steady drip of moisture from the branches above.
After pushing through the oppressive wilderness, you emerged into a small clearing. At its center stood an ancient oak, its trunk massive and gnarled with age, its branches spreading wide despite bearing no leaves. Something about the tree drew your attention—a sense of wrongness, perhaps, or just an instinct that something waited here.
As you approached, you saw them. Five figures stumbling through the fog on the far side of the clearing. A man, a woman, and three small childrens, their movements jerky and uncoordinated. For a moment, you might have thought they were survivors—but then you saw their faces. Pale, rotting flesh. Eyes clouded and empty. Jaws hanging slack, revealing broken teeth. The Lansten family had been found, but far too late.
The zombies lurched toward you with grasping, decaying hands. The father’s arm hung at an unnatural angle. The mother’s dress was torn and caked with mud and worse things. The child—barely more than a toddler in life—moaned with a sound that had no business coming from something so small. The fight was brutal and sad in equal measure, each blow a mercy to creatures that should have been laid to rest long ago.
When the last of them fell, you turned your attention to the oak tree. Searching around its massive roots, you discovered what Parriwimple’s friend had remembered—a concealed cache wrapped in oilcloth and tucked into a hollow beneath the trunk. Inside, you found supplies clearly meant for monster hunters: a bundle of silvered crossbow bolts, a finely crafted crossbow, healer’s kits, vials of holy water, and a potion that shimmered with restorative magic. Someone—perhaps this “wizard” that Doru had followed—had prepared for those who would stand against the darkness.
You gathered the supplies, but the encounter left a bitter taste. Another family destroyed. Another reminder that in Barovia, even the dead could find no peace.
An Encounter with Strahd
Returning to the Old Svalich Road, you continued your journey for another hour or so—roughly three miles according to your reckoning. The drizzle had stopped, leaving the air cold and damp. Ahead, the road came to a crossroads where a weathered gallows stood as a grim landmark. Beyond it, the land rose sharply—a tall cliff face disappearing into the fog, with the dark silhouette of a mountain looming somewhere above. This was the River Ivlis Crossroads, a place that felt heavy with significance even before you heard it.
The sound came first. The rhythmic clop-clop-clop of hooves on packed earth, accompanied by the creak of wood and the jingle of harnesses. Then, emerging from the fog like something from a nightmare, came a black carriage. Not merely black—it seemed to drink in what little light existed, its lacquered surface gleaming wetly. The horses that pulled it were midnight black, their eyes reflecting an unnatural red gleam. And seated in the driver’s position was a figure you recognized from Ireena’s descriptions: Escher, pale and beautiful, his expression utterly blank and subservient.
The carriage came to a halt. Ireena beside you went rigid, her hand instinctively moving to her rapier. “Don’t look into his eyes,” she whispered urgently. “Whatever you do, don’t meet his gaze.”
The carriage door opened. He stepped out with practiced grace, his movements so fluid they seemed almost unnatural. Count Strahd von Zarovich was exactly as the stories described and somehow worse. Tall and aristocratic, his frame was lean to the point of being gaunt, as though he had been stretched on a rack. His skin was deathly pale, his face all sharp angles—high cheekbones, a pronounced widow’s peak, a cruel mouth that curved into something that might have been a smile. His eyes were dark and hungry, containing centuries of intelligence and malice. His hands, when they emerged from his cloak, ended in fingers more like talons than digits of flesh.
He wore black from head to toe—expensive, immaculate, the attire of nobility from an age long past. And when he spoke, his voice was cultured, almost gentle, with just the faintest hint of amusement.
“Good day,” he said, inclining his head with perfect courtesy. “I am Count Strahd von Zarovich, and I am the master of Barovia.”
He let that statement hang in the air for a moment before his gaze—that terrible, hypnotic gaze—swept across your group and settled on Ireena. She had averted her eyes, but he knew exactly who she was. “Lady Kolyana,” he said, his tone warming slightly. “What a pleasant surprise. I trust your father is well?”
The question was poison wrapped in courtesy. Ireena said nothing, her jaw clenched, but you could see her trembling.
Strahd seemed content with her silence. He turned his attention to the rest of you, studying each member of your party with the same intensity. Behind him, shapes began to emerge from the fog—dire wolves, massive creatures easily nine feet in length, with mottled grey fur and eyes that burned with the same unnatural intelligence as the rat you’d killed that morning. They flanked the carriage, silent and watchful.
“Now then,” Strahd continued, his voice taking on a conversational tone that was somehow more terrifying than if he had simply threatened you outright. “I confess myself curious. You are not from Barovia, this much is evident. Yet here you are, walking my roads, involving yourselves in affairs that, I suspect, you do not fully understand.”
He began to pace slowly, his movements calculated, his cloak billowing slightly despite the absence of wind. “Let us speak plainly, you and I. I have questions, and I suspect you have… explanations. Or perhaps excuses. I am willing to listen to either.”
This was when Choppy, perhaps emboldened by the weapons you’d just acquired or simply unable to contain himself, opened his mouth and said something profoundly unwise. The exact words hardly mattered—the tone was enough. Defiant. Mocking. Foolish.
Strahd stopped pacing. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. “I see,” he said softly, and began to count. “One…”
The dire wolves took a step forward, their lips pulling back to reveal fangs like daggers.
“Two…”
Before Strahd could reach three, Arden acted. His hand shot out in a lightning-fast strike, catching Choppy directly in the throat with a precise karate chop that cut off all sound and left the man gasping and choking. The message was clear: Shut up before you get us all killed.
Strahd watched this display with what might have been amusement. “Three,” he finished, but made no further move. The wolves settled back slightly. “I appreciate those who understand the value of decorum,” he said, his gaze settling on Arden with something approaching approval.
The interrogation that followed was meticulous and terrifying in its civility. Strahd asked his questions with the air of a man playing Devil’s advocate, never quite accusing, always giving you space to explain yourselves. He wanted to know about Ismark, about Ireena, about your reasons for being in Barovia.
You argued your case as best you could, explaining your actions, your intentions, your reasoning. Strahd listened to it all with patient attention, occasionally nodding or humming in acknowledgment. And when you had finished, he smiled—a expression that never reached his eyes.
“You make compelling arguments,” he said, though you all knew he was merely humoring you. “I appreciate your… candor. And so I shall extend to you the same courtesy.” He drew himself up to his full height, his presence seeming to fill the crossroads. “Fear not, dear children. I am no liar. We both know deception is for the weak.”
He moved back toward his carriage, Escher moving mechanically to open the door. “I shall accept your explanations, for now. You have my leave to continue on your journey.” He paused before stepping inside, glancing back over his shoulder. “Though I suspect I and my ‘friends’“—he gestured to the dire wolves—“shall see you again. Perhaps very soon.”
The carriage door closed. Escher climbed back into the driver’s seat, his face still empty of all expression. The horses began to move, pulling the black carriage back onto the road. The dire wolves loped alongside it, and within moments, the entire procession had vanished into the fog, heading north toward Castle Ravenloft.
For a long moment, none of you moved. The encounter had lasted perhaps ten minutes, but it felt like hours. Your hearts were still pounding, your hands still shaking. And then someone looked up at the gallows.
There, hanging from the weathered wood, was a figure that made your blood run cold. It was Choppy—or rather, an image of Choppy, a perfect duplicate hanging by the neck, swaying gently in the breeze. His face was frozen in an expression of terror and pain, tongue protruding, eyes bulging. A warning. A reminder. A demonstration of power that transcended the normal rules of reality.
Strahd had made his point. In his land, there was no escape. Not even in your own minds.
The Strix & the Blue-Winged Raven
You continued on the road, shaken but alive, putting as much distance as you could between yourselves and the River Ivlis Crossroads. The journey toward Tser Pool should have been uneventful—just a few more miles of fog and dead trees. You were perhaps halfway there when you heard it: a desperate, distressed cawing that cut through the oppressive silence.
Something fell from the sky and crashed onto the road ahead of you. A bird—a raven with distinctive blue-tipped wings—flapped and struggled on the ground, clearly injured. As you approached, you could see the problem: silvered barbs were embedded in both wings, glinting with a faint magical sheen. The bird looked up at you with eyes far too intelligent for a common raven, cawing pitifully as if begging for help.
Someone among you with knowledge of medicine stepped forward carefully. The barbs were designed to be cruel—each one had tiny hooks that would tear flesh if removed improperly. With steady hands and gentle care, you worked them free one by one. The raven bore the pain stoically, though you could feel it trembling. When the last barb came free, the bird seemed to sag with relief.
But there was no time to celebrate. From the fog above came a sound that made your skin crawl—a shriek that was almost, but not quite, like a bird’s cry. It was too mechanical, too hollow, as if something was imitating a sound it had heard but didn’t truly understand.
THE GREATER STRIX
The greater strix descended from the fog like a nightmare made manifest. At first glance, it resembled an enormous raven, perhaps four feet tall with a wingspan twice that. But the illusion shattered upon closer inspection. Its body was constructed from wood and burlap, held together with crude stitching and rusted wire. Real feathers—black and glossy—had been attached to this grotesque frame, creating a mockery of a living bird. Where eyes should have been, there were empty sockets that somehow still seemed to see. And when it opened its beak, you glimpsed gears and pulleys within, clicking and turning with each horrible shriek.
It wasn’t alone. Smaller versions—swarms of lesser strix—poured from the fog like a plague of artificial ravens, their wings beating with an unsettling clockwork rhythm. They dove and attacked, their wooden beaks and wire talons slashing at exposed skin.
The fight was chaotic and strange. These weren’t living creatures that bled and died—they were things, constructs that had to be smashed apart, their wooden frames splintered and their mechanisms broken. The greater strix proved particularly resilient, its larger frame able to withstand blows that would have felled a living opponent. But eventually, through persistent effort and well-placed strikes, you destroyed it. The construct crashed to the ground in a tangle of broken wood and scattered feathers, its internal mechanisms whirring and clicking uselessly before finally going still.
The lesser strix, deprived of their coordinator, became erratic and confused. You dispatched them one by one until the last fell silent.
In the aftermath, you turned back to the blue-winged raven. It was preening its wings experimentally, the wounds from the barbs already showing signs of remarkable healing. The bird looked up at you and, in a gesture that seemed almost deliberate, bobbed its head in what could only be described as gratitude. It hopped closer, clearly intending to accompany you on your journey.
You decided to call her Simone, not knowing that she was far more than she appeared. But for now, she was simply a companion who had been saved from a terrible fate, and who seemed determined to return the favor.
Arrival at Tser Pool
The final stretch of the journey took another half hour or so—perhaps a mile and a half of winding road. As you crested a small rise, the Tser Pool came into view. The pool itself was a dark, still body of water reflecting the grey sky above like a mirror. On its banks, a collection of colorful wagons formed a circle around a central fire. Even from a distance, you could see figures moving between the wagons, and the faint sound of music drifted on the wind—a fiddle, perhaps, and an accordion. It was the first sign of warmth and life you’d encountered since entering Barovia.
As you approached, an old man emerged from the encampment with a wide smile and a twinkle in his eye. Stanimir was everything a storybook Vistana should be—colorful clothing, gold earrings, a weathered face full of laugh lines, and a voice that boomed with genuine warmth. “Welcome, welcome!” he called out, spreading his arms wide. “Travelers on the road are always welcome at Tser Pool! You must be tired and hungry from your journey.”
He gestured toward the largest wagon, set apart from the others. “But first, Madam Eva will want to see you. She has been expecting you.” The way he said it—as if your arrival was no surprise at all—sent a familiar chill down your spine. How could she have been expecting you?
Following Stanimir’s directions, you approached the wagon. It was larger than the others and decorated with arcane symbols and painted designs. A warm, golden light spilled from within. You climbed the steps and entered.
The interior was thick with incense smoke and the scent of dried herbs. Sitting at a low table covered in silk cloths and strange tokens was an ancient Vistana woman. Madam Eva looked up as you entered, and her eyes—rheumy with age but sharp as daggers—settled on each of you in turn.
“Welcome,” she said, her voice like rustling parchment. And then, one by one, she addressed you by name. Names you had never spoken in her presence. She gave each of you a title, a symbolic epithet drawn from knowledge she could not possibly possess. She spoke of your pasts, hinting at secrets and memories that made you deeply uncomfortable.
The blue-winged raven—Simone, as you’d been calling her—had perched on someone’s shoulder and accompanied you into the tent. Madam Eva noticed her immediately, and her stern face softened. “Ah, I see you’ve met a friend of mine. The ravens are good company, are they not? I had a pet raven myself once—Turul.” She reached out a gnarled finger, and the blue-winged raven hopped forward to gently peck at it in greeting.
The conversation turned to Strahd, and inevitably, you asked if Madam Eva could provide guidance. Could she read your fortunes? Tell you what lay ahead? Give you some advantage in this cursed land?
The old woman’s face, which had been warm and welcoming, suddenly darkened. The temperature in the tent seemed to drop. When she spoke, her voice was low and serious.
“You stand upon a precipice of a cliff whose base you cannot yet see.”
She leaned forward, her eyes boring into yours. “I cannot reveal to you the fortunes of others—to do so would be to interfere with paths that are not mine to walk. But know this: the road ahead is darker than you imagine, and the choices you make will echo far beyond your understanding.”
You pressed her further, but she shook her head firmly. “Return to me,” she said finally. “At midnight. At the River Ivlis Crossroads. Come alone. There, I will speak what can be spoken. But not here. Not now.”
As if on cue, her gaze suddenly flicked toward the tent entrance. Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned close to whisper: “You are being watched. A shadow follows you even now, close at your heels.” Her voice became urgent, almost hissing. “Do not reveal that you know of its nature. Do not let on that I have warned you. It would go… poorly.”
With that cryptic and ominous warning, Madam Eva gestured toward the entrance, making it clear the audience was over. You filed out of the tent, your mind reeling with questions and your skin prickling with the knowledge that something—or someone—was watching your every move.
Outside, you found two Vistani waiting for you. The first was a young woman with a bright smile and mischievous eyes. “I’m Eliza!” she announced cheerfully, practically bouncing on her toes. “You must be the travelers everyone’s been talking about!” She immediately began scolding Stanimir for not offering you proper hospitality. “What kind of welcome is this? They’ve been walking all day! Someone get them wine! And food! And a place by the fire!”
The second figure was more reserved—a young man with dark eyes that held a deep sadness. Arturi approached hesitantly, as if uncertain of his welcome. When he spoke, his voice was soft but sincere. “I… I hope you don’t mind,” he said, glancing at the ground. “I wanted to ask if I could join you by the fire. It’s been so long since we’ve had visitors from outside Barovia, and I…” He trailed off, then tried again. “I would very much like to hear news from the outside world. If you’re willing to share.”
There was something painful in his sincerity, a loneliness that went bone-deep. You agreed, and Stanimir, his earlier joviality fully restored, clapped his hands together. “Wonderful! Come, come to the fire! We have wine, we have food, we have music! And tonight—” his eyes sparkled with anticipation “—we shall play the Game of Stories!”
As the sun set (or rather, as the grey sky darkened from grey to black), you settled in around the central fire. The warmth was welcome after the cold journey, and the wine, while strange, was strong and warming. The Vistani were welcoming, the music was lively, and for the first time since entering this cursed land, you felt something approaching safety.
But Madam Eva’s words echoed in your mind: You are being watched. A shadow follows you. And as you glanced around the firelight, you couldn’t help but wonder which of these friendly faces might be the spy.