Session Summary
Ernst Larnak, Lady Wachter’s spy, delivered the poisoned wine and Izek Strazni’s schedule over breakfast at the Blue Water Inn. The morning also featured an extended debate about whether Arden’s decades-old pouch contained coffee grounds or the ashes of his murdered family—a mystery that remained unsolved when both Urwin and Ernst concluded neither pouch was safe to brew. Ernst laid out the plan: plant the poisoned wine while the Baron’s cook prepared Izek’s lunch, then tail him throughout the day until he drank it by evening at Lake Zarovich.
Before the assassination, you checked on Parriwimple at the refugee camp. His werewolf bite hadn’t healed in four days, the wound showing signs of corruption. You told him the truth: he’d been cursed with lycanthropy and would likely transform during the coming full moon. To your relief, Parriwimple took the news with courage, promising to fight the curse’s violent urges while you searched for a cure. He’d been keeping busy helping the refugees—hauling firewood, digging latrines, fighting off wolves at night, and playing with the camp’s children. He mentioned two missing children, Fyodor and Myrtle, whose father Franz had fallen mysteriously ill.
You visited Franz in his tent, finding him wasted and dying from supernatural affliction. He confessed his terrible crime: three nights ago, desperate for more dream pastries, he’d sold his children to the peddler Morgantha in exchange for a lifetime supply. When he tried to take them back, she cursed him with nightly nightmares. In the recurring vision, a night hag sat on his chest holding a twisted black stone to his forehead while his children sobbed in the background, accompanied by the grinding of windmill blades. His final cryptic words: “The heart of the windmill—three black hearts beating as one in the millstone. The gnarled arm holds the key.” Arden remained coldly unsympathetic to Franz’s plight, seeing only justice in his suffering, but you promised to rescue the innocent children.
Victor helped refine your plans for both missions. He identified Franz’s “heart of the windmill” as likely referring to a hidden compartment in Old Bonegrinder’s millstone—visible in an old blueprint from the Baron’s library—where the hags’ coven contract would be stored. For the assassination, Victor offered crucial magical assistance: he cast Greater Invisibility on Fig while Varnish, disguised as the recently resigned butler Amal, distracted the cook Tereska. The plan worked flawlessly—Fig swapped the wine bottles undetected, and though Tereska noticed the different label, she dismissed it as her own forgetfulness.
You trailed Izek throughout the afternoon, watching him extort informants, threaten refugees, and visit Blinsky Toys to collect another Ireena doll, which he clutched possessively by the hair. At dusk, he dismissed his guards and headed to Lake Zarovich, where he drank the entire bottle of poisoned wine while staring obsessively at the doll. When you emerged from the tree line, Arden threw a paper airplane made from Ireena’s endorsement and Ernst’s schedule, striking Izek in the chest. The battle was brutal—Izek’s first form fell to your combined assault, but he erupted into a second, more powerful form wreathed in flames. He nearly killed Choppy with waves of fire, but Fig’s perfectly placed Stunning Strike froze him in place. Choppy finished him with a Chromatic Orb of ice that froze Izek’s neck solid, then brutally chipped away at the frozen column with daggers until the head separated. You recovered Izek’s silvered battleaxe, his demonic arm (severed as a trophy), 35 gold pieces, and a mysterious amber shard radiating abjurative magic. With Izek’s frozen head in a burlap sack, you returned to Vallaki victorious.
Breakfast with Ernst
Arden, ever the early riser, was already dressed and armored when the first gray light of dawn crept through the windows of the Blue Water Inn. His drow physiology required only four hours of rest, leaving him ample time each morning for solitary walks through Vallaki’s waking streets. This morning, he’d checked on St. Andral’s Church from a distance—confirming no obvious threats lurked near Ireena’s sanctuary—before returning to station himself at the inn’s front entrance.
He didn’t have to wait long.
A man in a well-made but mud-spattered brown cloak approached with the purposeful stride of someone on business. Ernst Larnak—Lady Wachter’s spy and courier—nodded to Arden in greeting and gestured toward the inn’s entrance. “I believe we have matters to discuss. Shall we?”
ERNST LARNAK
By the time the rest of the party descended the stairs and entered the taproom, Ernst had already ordered breakfast and was tucking into bread, eggs, and cured sausage with evident satisfaction. He looked up as they joined him, mouth still half-full, and gestured appreciatively at his plate.
“Martikov knows his way around a kitchen, I’ll give him that,” Ernst said, swallowing. “Shame he doesn’t carry coffee, though. I once bought some from a Vistana caravan—wonderful stuff. Rich, bitter, gave you a real jolt in the morning.” He sighed wistfully. “Can’t get it anywhere in Vallaki.”
Arden’s expression shifted to one of consternation. He reached into his pack and produced a well-worn pouch, holding it up to the light with a frown. “Coffee. I have coffee. At least… I think I do.” He paused. “Or I have the ashes of my murdered family. I’m honestly not sure which pouch is which anymore.”
The table fell silent. Ernst blinked. Varnish put down his fork.
“You… what?” Fig asked carefully.
“Long story,” Arden muttered. “There was some confusion back at the Tser Pool. I might have mixed up the pouches. The contents look similar.”
Ernst’s expression cycled through several stages of bewilderment before settling on morbid curiosity. He beckoned Urwin over and asked if the innkeeper might be able to identify whether the contents were, in fact, coffee.
Urwin examined the pouch with his usual thoughtful care, sniffed it, pinched some of the dark powder between his fingers, and shook his head apologetically. “I confess I’ve never encountered coffee before. I can’t say what this is, except that it’s very old and very dry.”
Arden turned hopefully to Ernst, who took the pouch with visible reluctance. He opened it, took a cautious sniff, and his face contorted. “Well,” he said slowly, “I can tell you that you’ve been carrying this pouch for far too long. Coffee goes stale quickly—within weeks, usually. If this is coffee, it stopped being drinkable long before you ever came to Barovia.” He sniffed again and grimaced. “And whatever the Mists did to it certainly didn’t help. My professional opinion? Neither pouch is safe to brew. I wouldn’t drink from either one.”
Arden looked crestfallen. The party offered sympathetic noises. Ernst, wisely, moved on.
“Right. Well. Business.” He wiped his mouth and produced a burlap sack from beneath the table, setting it down with a soft clink. Opening it, he revealed a dark bottle labeled “Red Dragon Crush” nestled inside. “Your gift for our mutual friend. One bottle of poisoned wine, guaranteed to leave him sluggish and vulnerable for about an hour after he finishes it.”
He also withdrew a scrap of parchment covered in neat handwriting—Izek’s daily schedule, meticulously detailed. “He takes his midday meal in the town square around one o’clock. The Baron’s cook, Tereska, delivers it along with a case containing two bottles of wine. You’ll want to swap one of those bottles for this poisoned one while she’s preparing his lunch.”
Ernst leaned back, lacing his fingers together. “I suggest you plant the wine before noon—ideally while Tereska is still in the kitchen preparing the meal. Then tail Izek throughout the afternoon to make sure he drinks it. He’s reliably alone by evening, when he dismisses his guards and goes to drink by Lake Zarovich. That’s your window.”
The party studied the schedule, already formulating their approach. Choppy asked how they might best distract Tereska to plant the wine undetected.
Ernst’s smile turned sly. “That’s your problem to solve. But I’d recommend creativity. Tereska is loyal, suspicious, and terrified of Izek—she won’t help you willingly, no matter what you offer. Your best bet is misdirection.” He stood, brushing crumbs from his cloak. “Good luck. You’ll need it.”
With that, he departed, leaving them with poisoned wine, a schedule, and a burlap sack sized perfectly for a severed head.
“Busy day ahead,” Varnish observed.
“Busy week,” Fig corrected.
Visiting Parriwimple
Before the day’s grim work could begin in earnest, there was someone the party wanted to check on. Parriwimple, their gentle companion who’d been making himself useful among the refugees outside the Morning Gate, hadn’t been seen in days. More importantly, they needed to assess the werewolf bite he’d sustained during their encounter in the woods—a wound that had shown distressing signs of failing to heal properly.
The party found Parriwimple easily enough—his large frame and cheerful demeanor made him impossible to miss as he helped stack firewood near one of the larger cook fires.
“Oh! Hello!” Parriwimple’s face lit up when he spotted them. “I didn’t know you were coming to visit!”
But the party’s faces fell when they saw his arm. The werewolf bite hadn’t healed at all in the four days since the attack. If anything, it looked worse—the flesh around the puncture wounds had taken on a grayish, unhealthy pallor, and dark veins radiated outward in a spiderweb pattern beneath the skin.
Arden knelt beside him, examining the wound with growing concern. “Parriwimple,” he said gently, “I need to tell you something about this bite. It’s not healing because it’s not a normal injury. You’ve been cursed with lycanthropy.”
Parriwimple blinked, processing this information with his characteristic slowness. “Lycanthropy? That’s… the werewolf sickness?”
“Yes,” Choppy confirmed. “The wolf that bit you was a werewolf. Which means you’re likely to become one yourself when the full moon rises—which is in just a few days.”
The party braced themselves for panic, but Parriwimple surprised them. His expression grew thoughtful rather than fearful, and after a moment he nodded slowly. “Okay. What do we do about it?”
They explained that they were searching for a cure—or at least a treatment that might lessen the curse’s effects. In the meantime, he needed to resist the violent urges that would come with the transformation. Could he do that?
Parriwimple’s face set with determination. “I’m not scared,” he said firmly. “And I trust you. You’ll find a way to help me. And if the curse tries to make me hurt people, I’ll fight it. I promise.”
The sincerity in his voice was heartbreaking. Fig squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. “We won’t let anything bad happen to you.”
Changing the subject to lighter matters, they asked what Parriwimple had been doing these past several days among the refugees. His face brightened immediately.
“Oh, lots of things! I’ve been helping carry firewood—see, I’m really strong, so I can carry big loads. And I helped dig some latrines and postholes for new tent stakes. And at night when the wolves come, I help fight them off!” He grinned proudly. “And during the day, I play with the children! They’re really nice. They like when I give them piggyback rides.”
Arden smiled despite the gravity of the situation. “I’ve missed you, Parriwimple. It’s good to see you doing well.”
Parriwimple’s response came out in a rush: “I haven’t really missed you guys…” He immediately noticed the dismay on Arden’s face and his eyes widened in alarm. “No! Wait! I don’t mean it like that!” He flailed his hands, desperate to clarify. “I mean—I haven’t been thinking about you and wishing you were here because I’ve been so busy and so happy helping people! I’ve been thinking about the people I’m helping, and how glad I am that I can help them, and there just hasn’t been time to miss you!” He looked at them earnestly. “Does that make sense?”
The party’s expressions softened. “Yes,” Arden said quietly. “That makes perfect sense. We’re glad you’re happy.”
Before they left, Parriwimple mentioned something else—two children from the camp, Fyodor and Myrtle, had gone missing several days ago. “Everyone’s really worried about them. Their father, Franz, he’s been really sick. Some people think the kids wandered into the woods and got eaten by wolves, but nobody knows for sure.”
The party exchanged meaningful glances. They had a pretty good idea what had happened to those children. And they intended to do something about it very soon.
Franz’s Nightmares
The scene at Franz’s tent was even grimmer than Parriwimple’s description had suggested. Emeric and Magda, the de facto organizers of the refugee camp, led the party through the muddy avenues between tents until they reached a small, sagging structure at the camp’s edge.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of sickness and despair. Franz lay on a threadbare pallet, his skin waxy and pale, his body so wasted that he barely seemed real. Beside him knelt his sister Nyanka, clutching wilted herbs and pressing a damp cloth to his burning forehead. Two smaller pallets—child-sized—sat empty nearby. A stuffed rabbit with button eyes stared sightlessly at the tent’s ceiling.
Franz’s eyes focused on the party with difficulty. When they did, he let out a wheezing laugh. “Demons,” he croaked. “Mother Night sent you to drag me to the Mists, didn’t she?”
Nyanka apologized for her brother’s delirium. He’d been like this since the nightmares began, she explained—feverish, wasting away, speaking nonsense half the time.
The party asked if they could speak with Franz privately. Nyanka, Emeric, and Magda exchanged glances but complied, stepping outside and leaving the adventurers alone with the dying man.
“Tell us about the night hag,” Varnish said gently. “Tell us about your nightmares.”
And Franz told them everything.
He spoke of his wife Alana’s death three months ago, the grief that had driven him to purchase dream pastries from the peddler Morgantha. How the visions had let him see Alana again, alive and well in his dreams, as if she’d never died at all. How he’d spent every copper he had on those pastries, losing himself in the illusion of happiness for hours, then days at a time.
And then his money had run out. And Morgantha had made him an offer.
“Three nights ago,” Franz whispered, tears streaming down his hollow cheeks, “I led Fyodor and Myrtle down past the tree line. Morgantha put them to sleep with magic and stuffed them in a sack. She promised me I could have as many pastries as I wanted, for the rest of my life. And I…” His voice broke. “I agreed.”
At this point, Arden had heard enough. He could not sympathize with a man who would sell his own children to anyone, for anything, and he walked out of the tent in rage and disgust—a mercy, no doubt, for he could feel the burning coals of vengeance stirring in his chest and might have ended Franz then and there. Still, the others remained, no less disgusted at the wretch who lay before them but hopeful for any information Franz could share that might help them defeat the night hags and rescue the children.
Franz described trying to take the children back when he’d heard Myrtle cry out, how Morgantha had laughed at him and put him to sleep as well. How he’d woken up alone, the witch and his children vanished, and how the nightmares had begun that same night.
In the nightmare, he was strapped to a millstone, unable to move. A gaunt figure sat on his chest—sallow gray-blue skin, deep-set eyes, matted hair, ram’s horns, a mouth full of yellowed teeth. She held a twisted black stone to his forehead and whispered promises of damnation. In the background, he could hear Fyodor and Myrtle sobbing, accompanied by high-pitched cackling laughter and the grinding of windmill blades in the wind.
“Every night,” Franz rasped. “The same nightmare. And every morning I wake up more… less. I’m fading. Dying. And I deserve it—I know I deserve it. But my children don’t. Please.” He reached out with a trembling hand and grasped Fig’s sleeve. “Please save them. I can’t offer you gold. I can’t offer you anything. Just… please.”
The party made their promises: they would find Fyodor and Myrtle. They would rescue them. Franz’s sister Nyanka would care for them while he recovered—or, if he didn’t recover, she would raise them as her own.
“I don’t deserve to be their father,” Franz whispered. “I just want to see them safe. That’s all.”
As the party prepared to leave, Franz grabbed at the nearest person one more time, his eyes wide and feverish. “The heart of the windmill,” he hissed. “Three black hearts beating as one in the millstone beneath me. The gnarled arm holds the key.”
Then he collapsed back onto his pallet, falling into a fitful, nightmare-plagued sleep.
Arden spoke only once they were outside the tent, his voice cold. “He sold his children for drug-induced dreams. Whatever happens to him is justice.”
“Maybe,” Choppy said quietly. “But the children are innocent. And that’s what matters.”
No one argued.
Visiting Victor
The party made their way to the Burgomaster’s Mansion to update Victor on their progress. Claudia, the maid, admitted them with the weary air of someone who’d given up questioning the comings and goings of strange armed foreigners, and enlisted their assistance in delivering Victor’s lunch to him in the attic workroom while they were visiting.
Victor was bent over his workbench when they arrived, surrounded by open books and scattered parchment covered in arcane diagrams. He looked up as they entered, his expression brightening. “Did you learn anything from the refugees?”
They told him everything: the night hag’s predation on the refugee camp, Franz’s terrible bargain and subsequent nightmares, the kidnapped children Fyodor and Myrtle. And crucially, they reported their successful recruitment of Lady Wachter’s help in binding the hags.
Victor’s eyebrows rose at the mention of Lady Wachter. “You actually convinced her to help? And she… she believed you about Stella?” His voice held a mixture of relief and anxiety. “How did she react?”
“Emotionally,” Fig said diplomatically. “But she’s committed to helping us save Stella. She’s gathering her associates to create a binding circle, but she needs the hags’ true names first.”
Victor nodded, processing this. “Their coven contract. It would have to be somewhere in the windmill—likely hidden in a place of power or significance.” He paused, then recalled Franz’s cryptic words they’d relayed. “The ‘heart of the windmill’ he mentioned. I don’t think he meant a heartstone—night hags keep those on their person at all times, and it sounds like that’s what the hag was pressing to his forehead. But I remember seeing something in my father’s library…”
He bounded down the ladder and returned minutes later with an old record book, flipping to a page bearing a detailed blueprint of Old Bonegrinder. He laid it out on the workbench, pointing excitedly at the millstone diagram. “Look. There’s a compartment built into the side of the millstone. If the hags are hiding something important—like their coven contract—it would be there.”
MAP OF THE DURST MILL (AKA OLD BONEGRINDER)
Choppy studied the blueprint with interest. “And the ‘gnarled arm holds the key’?”
Victor shrugged. “Perhaps a literal key to open the compartment? Or a lever mechanism? You’ll have to investigate when you’re there.”
The conversation turned to logistics. The party planned to visit the windmill, locate the coven contract, learn the hags’ true names, and rescue any children imprisoned there. Then they’d return to Vallaki, provide the names to Lady Wachter, and she would create the binding circle that would trap the hags for the final confrontation.
Victor stressed the importance of handling the situation carefully. “If the children are there, the hags will use them as leverage. You’ll need to get the children to safety before engaging the hags directly. And be wary—night hags are clever and cruel. They’ll try to bargain, to manipulate, to turn the situation to their advantage.”
The party assured him they understood. But first, before any trips to haunted windmills, they had a more immediate task: planting poisoned wine and assassinating Izek Strazni.
Victor’s expression grew thoughtful. “I can help with that. I have a spell—Greater Invisibility—that lasts for a full minute and doesn’t break even if the invisible person were to strike a blow. If you’re trying to sneak into the kitchen to swap wine bottles, I can make your infiltrator completely undetectable.”
The party’s eyes lit up. That changed everything.
Turning to Varnish, Victor added, “I can also help you perfect your disguise.” With the right disguise and Victor’s magical assistance, they could pull off a flawless wine-planting operation.
A plan began to take shape.
Planting the Poisoned Wine
The plan, as it came together, was elegant in its simplicity: Varnish, using his Actor feat and the magic of Disguise Self, would pose as Amal—the recently resigned head butler whose departure Victor had mentioned. While disguised as Amal, Varnish would enter the kitchen through the back door and engage Tereska in conversation, providing a distraction. Meanwhile, Fig, rendered completely invisible by Victor’s Greater Invisibility spell, would sneak into the kitchen, locate Izek’s wine case, and swap out one of the bottles for the poisoned Red Dragon Crush.
They waited until shortly before noon, when Tereska would be preparing Izek’s lunch. Victor cast the spell on Fig with a whispered incantation, and the monk vanished from sight entirely—not even a shimmer remained.
“One minute,” Victor reminded them. “Make it count.”
Varnish, now wearing the costume pieces and having studied Amal’s mannerisms from Victor’s description, approached the kitchen’s back entrance with the nervous energy of a man seeking reconciliation. He knocked.
Tereska opened the door, her expression shifting from surprise to suspicion. “Amal? What are you doing here?”
“I…” Varnish-as-Amal wrung his hands apologetically. “I came to apologize. For leaving so suddenly. I know it put you in a difficult position, and I… I wanted to make amends. Perhaps ask if there might be room for me to return to service?”
Tereska’s face softened slightly, though her wariness remained. “The haunting scared you, same as it did the rest of us. Can’t say I blame you, but you left us all in quite a lurch.” She stepped aside, letting him in. “I don’t know if the Baron would take you back. He was right cross about the whole thing.”
As Varnish-as-Amal launched into an elaborate and heartfelt apology, Fig slipped through the door behind him, invisible and silent. The kitchen was organized and clean, with Tereska’s workspace clearly marked by the lunch preparations in progress. On the counter sat a leather wine case, and beside it, two bottles of Purple Grapemash No. 3.
Fig moved with practiced precision, lifting one of the bottles from the case and replacing it with the Red Dragon Crush. The swap took seconds. Fig then positioned themselves near the wall to observe, ensuring Tereska didn’t notice the discrepancy.
Varnish-as-Amal’s attempts at reconciliation were progressing poorly. Despite his convincing performance, Tereska remained unmoved by his request to rejoin the household staff. “I’m sorry, Amal, but that’s not my decision to make. And even if it were, I don’t think it’s wise. The haunting hasn’t stopped, you know. Objects still move on their own, drafts appear from nowhere, reflections show things that shouldn’t be there.” She placed a hand on his shoulder kindly. “You may have been right to leave, but I’m afraid there’s no coming back.”
She ushered him toward the back door. “I need to finish preparing Izek’s lunch. I’m sorry, but you should go.”
Varnish-as-Amal nodded sadly and departed. Fig, still invisible, remained behind to observe.
Tereska returned to her work, placing the two bottles of wine into the leather case. When she lifted the Red Dragon Crush, she paused, frowning at the label. Her brow furrowed in confusion. “Red Dragon Crush? I could have sworn I pulled two bottles of Purple Grapemash…”
She glanced around the kitchen, looking for anyone who might have switched the bottles. But she was alone—or so she thought. With a small shake of her head, she muttered to herself, “I must be more tired than I realized. Getting forgetful.”
She finished packing Izek’s lunch, placed the wine case beside it, and headed out to deliver both to the town square.
Fig, watching from the kitchen, allowed themselves a silent grin. The poison was in play.
Trailing Izek
The remainder of the day was dedicated to following Izek Strazni and ensuring he actually drank the poisoned wine. The party split up at times, coordinating to maintain visual contact with their target without drawing attention.
At one o’clock, they watched from various vantage points as Tereska delivered Izek’s lunch and wine case to the town square. Izek sat at a table, two town guards standing nearby, and ate his meal with mechanical efficiency. He drained the first bottle of wine—the unpoisoned Purple Grapemash—while eating, then set the empty bottle aside and placed the unopened Red Dragon Crush back in the case. The party’s hearts sank slightly. They’d have to wait until evening.
Throughout the afternoon, they trailed Izek as he made his rounds with the two guards. At one point, they observed him shaking down one of his “informants”—a nervous-looking shopkeeper who handed over a few coins and whispered information about neighbors who’d been seen frowning. Izek pocketed the coins without a word.
Near the Zarovich Gate, a small dog—a mangy mastiff standing guard in an alley—began growling at the party’s hiding spot. Varnish quickly employed his proficiency in animal handling, calming the beast before it could alert Izek or his guards to their presence.
The party also witnessed Izek inspecting the town gates, where desperate refugees pleaded for entry. His response was to conjure a flame in his palm and threaten to burn them if they didn’t disperse. Later, he commanded a guard to fetch a crate of silvered crossbow bolts from a storage area near the party’s hiding position. They held their breath as the guard approached, succeeding in remaining undetected only through careful positioning and Fig’s expert use of cover.
Around four-thirty in the afternoon, Izek made an unexpected detour. He dismissed his guards temporarily—telling them to continue their patrol while he handled “personal business”—and walked to Blinsky Toys.
The party watched from across the street as Izek entered the shop. Minutes later, he emerged holding something in his human hand: a doll. An Ireena doll, to be precise, clutched by its hair in a grip that made the party’s skin crawl. The doll’s painted face bore Ireena’s features with unsettling accuracy, and Izek held it with a possessiveness that bordered on obsession.
IREENA DOLL
At five-thirty, Izek dismissed his guards for the evening. “I’ll be at the lake,” he told them curtly. “Don’t disturb me.”
The guards saluted and departed, saying nothing about the doll. Izek, still carrying the Ireena doll, made his way north through the Zarovich Gate toward Lake Zarovich.
The party followed at a careful distance. This was it. The moment they’d been planning for. By the time they reached the lake, Izek would have drunk the poisoned wine, and they would have their opportunity.
As they walked, Arden pulled out the parchment Ireena had given them—the one endorsing Izek’s beheading—and the schedule Ernst had provided. With careful folds and practiced hands, he fashioned both documents into a paper airplane.
Varnish watched with barely suppressed laughter. “You’re actually going to throw that at him?”
“Absolutely,” Arden said, grinning fiercely.
They were going to enjoy this.
The Fight at Lake Zarovich
Lake Zarovich stretched out before them, its dark waters reflecting the perpetual gray sky like polished obsidian. The shore was rocky and barren, dotted with driftwood and the skeletal remains of long-dead trees. The air smelled of cold water and decay.
Izek Strazni sat on a large rock near the water’s edge, the unopened wine case beside him. As the party watched from concealment in the tree line, he withdrew the bottle of Red Dragon Crush, uncorked it, and began to drink.
He drained half the bottle in long, desperate gulps, then paused to stare at the Ireena doll clutched in his other hand. His expression was twisted—equal parts longing and madness, obsession and rage. He whispered something to the doll that the party couldn’t hear, then took another long drink.
Twenty minutes later, the bottle was empty. Izek set it down with a clumsy motion, swaying slightly. The poison was taking effect.
The party emerged from the tree line, weapons drawn. They spread out in a loose formation, cutting off Izek’s escape routes.
Arden stepped forward and, with exaggerated ceremony, hurled the paper airplane. It sailed through the air in a graceful arc and struck Izek in the chest, bouncing off his studded leather armor.
Izek blinked, confused. He picked up the unfolded parchments and squinted at them, struggling to focus his vision through the poison’s haze. His eyes widened as he read Ireena’s endorsement and the schedule detailing his movements.
And then the fight began.
Arden surged forward, his greatsword descending in a devastating arc that caught Izek across the shoulder. The blow would have felled a lesser man, but Izek—poisoned and enraged—weathered it with a snarl and retaliated.
“What have you done to me?” he snarled, his voice slurred.
“Poisoned your wine,” Choppy called back cheerfully. “Hope you enjoyed it!”
Izek’s face contorted with rage. Fire erupted along his devilish arm, and he raised his silvered battleaxe with a roar. “I’ll burn you all to ash!”
His battleaxe swept up in a brutal counter-strike, the blade biting into Arden’s armor. At the same time, his fiendish arm lashed out in a pushing blow that sent the paladin stumbling backward.
Varnish began to sing—not a song of courage or inspiration, but one of mockery. His voice rang out across the lakeshore with cutting insults about Izek’s parentage, his intelligence, his creepy doll obsession, and his general inadequacy as both an enforcer and a human being. The words struck as surely as any blade, undermining Izek’s confidence and focus.
Fig moved like water, flanking to Izek’s blind side and striking with precision. Their katana flashed in the dim light, opening a gash along Izek’s ribs.
Choppy grinned and raised his hands, arcane power crackling between his fingers. “Fireball,” he announced gleefully, and shaped the spell with careful metamagic to avoid hitting Fig. The explosion of flame engulfed Izek and the surrounding area, heat washing over the party in a scorching wave.
When the smoke cleared, Izek stood in the center of the blast zone, his skin blackened and smoking—but laughing. “Fire?” he roared. “You think fire can hurt me?” His body radiated heat, the flames seeming to feed his strength rather than harm him.
The party cursed. Of course the man with the demon arm had fire resistance.
Arden pressed the attack, his greatsword singing through the air in powerful strikes. Izek met him blow for blow, their weapons clashing with ringing impacts that echoed across the lake.
The battle raged on. Varnish supplemented his mockery with healing magic, keeping the party on their feet. Fig danced in and out of melee range, striking whenever Izek’s attention was divided. Choppy hurled spell after spell, switching from fire to cold damage as he adapted to Izek’s resistances.
And then, with a final devastating blow from Varnish’s cloud of daggers, Izek’s first form fell. He dropped to one knee, blood pouring from multiple wounds, his breathing ragged.
For a moment, the party thought they’d won.
Then fire erupted from Izek’s body in a roaring conflagration. His arms ignited, flames wreathing his battleaxe and turning his fiendish limb into a burning nightmare. The barbs on his demonic arm grew longer and sharper, his skin flushed red and began to smoke, and his eyes blazed with unholy fury.
IZEK’S SECOND FORM
“You think you’ve won?” Izek screamed, his voice echoing with unnatural resonance. “I’ll kill you all! I’ll burn this world to cinders!”
He targeted Choppy with focused malice—perhaps recognizing the sorcerer as the greatest threat, or perhaps simply choosing the most fragile-looking target. A wave of fire swept outward in a searing line, catching Choppy, Varnish, and Arden in its path. The heat was overwhelming, the flames scorching exposed skin and igniting clothing.
Choppy stumbled, his hit points plummeting dangerously low. Varnish gasped, struggling to maintain concentration on his spells. Arden gritted his teeth, enduring through sheer stubborn will as he swung his sword.
Izek caught Arden’s blade with his fiendish hand—the greatsword biting deep into the demonic flesh—and held it there while superheating the metal. Arden felt the scorching heat through his gauntlets and was forced to release the weapon, dropping it to the ground where it glowed red-hot.
Without missing a beat, Arden drew his dagger and continued fighting.
Still, Izek pressed his advantage, launching another explosive blast of flame that knocked Choppy prone and nearly killed him outright. The sorcerer lay on the ground, groaning, his robes still smoldering.
But Fig saw the opening.
While Izek’s attention was fixed on Choppy, Fig moved with the fluid grace of a trained monk. Their fist struck Izek’s solar plexus in a perfectly placed Stunning Strike, and the brute’s eyes went wide as his body locked up. The stunning effect took hold—for the next few seconds, Izek couldn’t move, couldn’t react, couldn’t defend himself.
“Now!” Fig shouted. “Finish him!”
The party rallied. Arden retrieved his cooled greatsword and struck with renewed vigor. Varnish’s cutting words found their mark, sapping what remained of Izek’s will to fight. And then it was Choppy’s turn.
The sorcerer pushed himself to his feet, blood streaming from burns and cuts, his eyes blazing with determination. He raised one hand and conjured a Chromatic Orb—but instead of fire, he chose ice. The freezing sphere struck Izek’s exposed neck and exploded in a flash of arctic cold, flash-freezing the flesh and turning the man’s head and shoulders into a column of solid ice.
Izek stood there, frozen and helpless, unable to move or speak.
Choppy drew two daggers from his belt and charged. With primal fury, he began chipping away at Izek’s frozen neck, using the blades like icepicks. It was brutal. It was grotesque. And it took far longer than anyone was comfortable with, the sound of metal striking ice echoing across the lakeshore while chunks of frozen flesh and bone scattered across the rocks.
Finally, with one last strike, Izek’s head separated from his body. The frozen column shattered, and the severed head—still encased in ice—thudded to the ground.
The body collapsed, flames extinguishing as the demonic magic sustaining it faded away.
Choppy stood there, breathing hard, covered in melted bits of frozen flesh, daggers still clutched in his trembling hands.
“Well,” Varnish said after a long silence, “that was certainly… thorough.”
Arden approached Izek’s corpse and, with clinical efficiency, used the silvered battleaxe to sever the fiendish arm from the body. It came free with a sickening sound, and Arden held it up, examining it with interest. “This is evidence. And possibly a trophy.”
He also searched Izek’s pockets, finding a pouch containing 35 gold pieces and a strange Amber Shard that radiated faint abjurative magic. He passed the shard to Varnish, who had some skill in identifying magical items.
Varnish studied it carefully. “This is… unusual. Powerful, certainly. But I’m not sure what it does.” He pocketed it for later investigation.
They placed Izek’s frozen head in the burlap sack Ernst had provided. The demon arm was strapped across Arden’s back like some kind of grotesque trophy. And with the deed done, they turned south toward Vallaki.
Lady Wachter was expecting them. And they had a delivery to make.