Session Summary
Victorious from your battle with Izek Strazni, you delivered his frozen head to Lady Wachter at Wachterhaus. She took it directly to Baron Vallakovich’s mansion with three of her associates, where she forced his abdication by presenting Izek’s head and using a command spell to freeze him in place when he tried to flee. The Baron agreed to abdicate publicly and submit to indefinite house arrest. Celebrating at the Blue Water Inn, you commissioned Yevgeni Krushkin to create a taxidermy trophy from Izek’s severed demonic arm as a gift for Urwin and Danika.
The following morning, you witnessed the abdication ceremony in Vallaki’s town square, where Vargas formally surrendered power to Lady Wachter. Father Lucian observed alongside you, commenting on Ezra’s teachings and noting that no pre-Strahd texts mention the goddess—as if she appeared only after the Mists came. With the political transition complete, you set out for Lake Baratok with Szoldar Szoldarovich and Yevgeni Krushkin as guides, seeking Khazan’s Tower and answers about Arabelle’s disappearance.
The journey took you past the hunters’ shack on Lake Zarovich’s northern shore, where you discovered seven ancient standing stones arranged in a circle—one carved with a butterfly symbol. Following the same instinct that guided you at the Raven Shrine, you left an offering of gold. Szoldar warned that werewolf activity had increased dramatically around Lake Baratok, suggesting new leadership in the pack. At the Luna River bridge, Fig found a linen handkerchief embroidered with the initials “R.V.R.”—the same initials as Rudolph Van Richten, author of the werewolf manuscript Arturi Radanavich had given you.
At the Luna River Crossroads, you were ambushed by three scarecrows and multiple twig blights. As you destroyed them, the blights spoke an ominous message: “The Lady of the Swamp sends her regards.” Szoldar and Yevgeni identified this as referring to Baba Lysaga, the ancient witch of Berez, warning that both she and the phase spiders inhabiting that cursed swamp made the area too dangerous to approach.
Arriving at Lake Baratok, you found a brightly painted wagon belonging to “Ezmerelda d’Avenir”—heavily trapped and guarded by a chicken. Varnish used speak with animals to converse with the bird, who called herself Eggsmerelda and explained that her mistress had departed days ago to search for something in the woods. More significantly, Fig and Choppy discovered a second set of wagon tracks leading from the tower back toward Vallaki, accompanied by spatters of bright yellow paint. You immediately recognized the color: it matched Rictavio’s wagon in the Arasek Stockyard. The mysterious ringmaster had been here, at Khazan’s Tower—the same tower bearing the sigil from the platinum ring found at Yan’s murder and Arabelle’s kidnapping. Rictavio’s involvement was now undeniable, though his motives remained unclear.
Delivery for the Baron
The road back from Lake Zarovich felt different than the journey out. Where before you’d walked in grim silence, weapons ready and hearts pounding with anticipation of violence, now you returned as something else entirely: righteous executioners who’d meted out justice, hunters bearing trophies of a successful kill.
Choppy swung the burlap sack containing Izek Strazni’s frozen head like a child with a candy-filled pillowcase on Halloween, the ice-encased prize thumping rhythmically against his leg with each step. Arden—typically the most dour and serious member of your company—wielded Izek’s severed demonic arm like a macabre puppet, using it to make obscene and silly gestures at his companions. The normally stoic drow was giddy, practically drunk on the first taste of bona fide poetic justice he’d gotten to deliver since arriving in Barovia.
The evening mists had settled thick over Vallaki by the time you reached its gates, the town’s lights flickering through the gray like distant stars. Your first stop was Wachterhaus, where the red-roofed manor loomed against the darkening sky. It was nearing eight o’clock when Arden stepped up to the handsome red door and—with a grin that would have seemed impossible mere days ago—used Izek’s severed arm to knock.
The door swung open moments later to reveal Haliq, Lady Fiona Wachter’s prim and proper valet. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of the demonic limb, but his composure held. He took one look at your faces, correctly surmised your purpose, and gave a small nod. “I shall fetch Lady Wachter at once.” But not before Arden, unable to resist, used the severed arm to give the valet a cheerful wave in greeting. Haliq’s expression remained perfectly neutral as he departed, though there might have been the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Lady Wachter arrived within moments, her bearing as composed and controlled as ever. Choppy stepped forward and, with exaggerated ceremony, held out the burlap sack. She accepted it with both hands, opening the mouth of the sack just enough to confirm its contents. Her nose wrinkled slightly.
“Still frozen,” she observed with satisfaction. “That will make the presentation far less… unpleasant. Well done.” She secured the sack and met your eyes, her expression serious. “I will take this to Baron Vallakovich tonight, along with several of my associates. The transition of power must begin immediately.”
She explained her plan with methodical precision: she would bring Andrej, Boris, and Ruxandra—three of her most trusted allies—to confront the Baron at his mansion. You were welcome to observe from a distance if you wished, but you must stay out of sight. Violence against the Baron himself would likely cause more unrest than satisfaction among the townsfolk, and what Vallaki needed now was clear-headed confidence and stability, not chaos.
“As for your promised reward,” she continued, “the silvered weapons and ammunition must be requisitioned from the city armory. That will take a day to arrange once I’ve officially assumed office. You have my word they’ll be delivered as agreed.”
Then she paused, and something shifted in her expression—a flicker of satisfaction mixed with grim determination. “Some will think me nothing more than the ancient foe of an old and noble house,” she said quietly. “But I assure you—whatever nobility once resided in House Vallakovich has long since been lost.”
With that cryptic remark, she summoned her three cloaked associates and departed into the night, Izek’s frozen head tucked under one arm like a particularly grisly satchel.
You followed at a careful distance, keeping to the shadows as Lady Wachter and her companions made their way through Vallaki’s darkened streets to the imposing bulk of the Burgomaster’s Mansion. From your vantage point in the garden, partially concealed behind overgrown hedges, you watched as she knocked upon the door.
Baron Vallakovich himself answered, still wearing his dress armor despite the late hour. He greeted her with haughty surprise, his Louisiana-tinged accent dripping with false courtesy. “To what, pray tell, do I owe the unexpected pleasure of your company at this late hour, Lady Wachter?”
Lady Wachter’s response was ice-cold. “Spare me the facade, Vargas. I’m here to facilitate your abdication.”
The Baron’s face hardened, his jowls quivering with indignation. “Now what a preposterous and seditious notion!” he blustered, drawing himself up to his full height. “All has been well and, once I’ve re-educated you within the walls of this noble house, all will continue to be well! IZEK! Arrest this muckraking malcontent!”
Silence answered his call. Lady Wachter let it stretch for a long, pointed moment before she reached into the burlap sack and withdrew Izek’s frozen head, tossing it at the Baron’s feet. It landed with a dull thud, rolling slightly to reveal the enforcer’s face locked in its final expression of rage.
Vargas screamed—a high, strangled sound—and turned to flee. He made it perhaps three steps before Ruxandra, one of Lady Wachter’s cloaked associates, spoke a single word of power. The Baron froze mid-stride, caught by the command spell, his body rigid with magically enforced obedience.
Lady Wachter stepped forward, her voice calm and measured as she explained the terms: The Baron would abdicate his office in a public ceremony tomorrow morning in the town square. He and his family would retain their title and estate but would be placed under indefinite house arrest, forbidden from participating in any way in administering the duties of Burgomaster. “Do you understand?” she asked. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Blink twice if you agree.”
The Baron’s eyes blinked once. Twice. His face was pale, sweat beading on his forehead.
“Good,” Lady Wachter said simply, “Andrej and Boris will remain here for the evening ensure your compliance.” She turned and departed, Ruxandra following, leaving the Baron standing frozen in his doorway with his dead enforcer’s head at his feet.
You made your way back through the darkened streets to the Blue Water Inn, spirits high despite—or perhaps because of—the grim nature of your errand. The taproom was still warmly lit and welcoming, and Urwin looked up from behind the bar as you entered. His eyes went straight to the severed demonic arm that Arden still carried, and his eyebrows rose.
“I see your evening was… productive,” he said carefully.
The news of Izek Strazni’s death spread through the taproom like wildfire. Urwin and Danika listened with barely concealed satisfaction as you recounted the tale. Szoldar Szoldarovich and Yevgeni Krushkin, the wolf hunters who’d been enjoying their evening ale, raised their mugs in salute. Even Rictavio, sitting at the head of his usual long table, allowed himself a small nod of approval—though he said nothing to you, holding court as usual.
It was Danika who sparked the idea. Looking at the severed demonic arm with its wicked barbs and unnatural musculature, she remarked that it would make quite the trophy—if one had the skill to preserve it properly. Arden’s eyes lit up.
“Yevgeni,” he said, turning to the quiet hunter. “You do taxidermy work, don’t you?”
Yevgeni, who rarely spoke but was known for his skill in preserving and mounting game, considered the arm thoughtfully. He nodded once.
What followed was an unusual commission: Arden asked Yevgeni to craft a taxidermy trophy from Izek’s severed arm—one with articulated joints that could be manipulated to display any posture or gesture the owner desired. A grotesque puppet, essentially, but one that would serve as a permanent reminder of justice delivered.
When it was complete, Arden explained, he would present it as a gift to Urwin and Danika, to be displayed among the other mounted trophies on the taproom walls—a wolf’s head here, a stag’s antlers there, and now the demon-touched arm of a tyrant who would terrorize Vallaki no more.
The evening settled into celebration, and for the first time since entering this cursed valley, you allowed yourselves to feel something approaching triumph.
The Abdication Ceremony
Morning came with its usual gray, sunless light. The town square was already filling with curious onlookers by the time you arrived, word having spread overnight that something significant was about to occur. Father Lucian, the gentle priest of the Morninglord’s church, stood beside you, his weathered face thoughtful as he sipped from a mug of what you’d come to recognize as his ever-present jasmine tea.
At precisely nine o’clock, Lady Wachter emerged from the crowd, flanked by her associates. Behind her, looking pale and diminished in his ceremonial robes, came Baron Vallakovich. The blustering, grandstanding tyrant of yesterday had been replaced by a hollow-eyed man who moved as if in a trance.
The ceremony itself was brief and efficient. Vargas read from a prepared statement, his Louisiana accent stripped of its usual pompous vigor, announcing his abdication in favor of Lady Fiona Wachter. He cited “the needs of the people” and “a desire to focus on family matters” in tones so flat they might have been carved from wood. When he finished, he bowed stiffly to Lady Wachter and withdrew, shoulders hunched, back toward his mansion and the house arrest that awaited him there.
Lady Wachter stepped forward to address the assembled crowd. She spoke of stability, of protecting the refugees, of ending the tyranny of mandatory festivals and the persecution of “malicious unhappiness.” She invoked the mercy of the Mists and the wisdom of Ezra, and promised that Vallaki would endure.
Father Lucian watched it all with a mixture of approval and concern. When Lady Wachter mentioned Ezra, he leaned closer to you and spoke quietly. “The mercy of the Mists—it’s what Ezra’s followers teach. Acceptance of the world as it is, rather than as we wish it to be.” He paused, taking another sip of tea. “Curious, though. I’ve searched through every pre-Strahd text in my church’s library, and not once is there mention of the goddess Ezra. Not once. It’s as if she simply… appeared, after the Mists came.”
He fell silent for a moment, then added with a small sigh, “I’m mildly concerned for my younger sister, Lydia—the Baroness, you know. But truthfully, she’s unlikely to notice much change in her family’s circumstances. She already spends most of her time indoors, lost in her own thoughts. This will simply be… more of the same.”
As the crowd began to disperse, murmuring amongst themselves about this turn of events, you couldn’t help but feel that something significant had shifted. The tyrant had fallen. A new leader had risen. And Vallaki, for better or worse, would never be quite the same.
The Hunters’ Shack
With the abdication ceremony concluded and Arabelle’s disappearance still weighing on your minds, you turned your attention to the next mystery: Khazan’s Tower and the strange platinum signet ring. Szoldar Szoldarovich and Yevgeni Krushkin had agreed to guide you to Lake Baratok, and you set out that same morning, retracing your steps from the previous night’s hunt.
The journey took you past Lake Zarovich once more, and you paused briefly to confirm that Izek’s corpse remained where you’d left it. It did—though the body had already begun to decompose in the valley’s damp air, the flesh taking on a gray, waxy quality. No one had come to retrieve it. Perhaps no one would.
Some more hiking through the dense Svalich Woods brought you to a clearing on the northern shore of Lake Zarovich, where a weathered hunting shack stood nestled among the trees. Szoldar and Yevgeni’s home base, you realized—a simple structure with a slanted roof and smoke rising from a stone chimney. But what caught your attention immediately were the standing stones.
Seven of them, arranged in a rough circle near the shack, each taller than a man and covered in moss and age. They radiated the same quiet, patient power you’d felt near the Raven Shrine outside the Gates of Ravenloft. You approached cautiously, studying them, but chose to leave them undisturbed for now—there were more immediate matters at hand.
Szoldar emerged from the shack as you knocked, looking surprised but pleased to see you. “The heroes of Vallaki, come calling!” he greeted warmly. “And with timing that suggests you’re here for more than social pleasantries.”
You explained your need: you sought Khazan’s Tower on Lake Baratok, and required guides who knew the woods. Szoldar’s bushy eyebrows rose, and he exchanged a glance with Yevgeni, who had appeared in the doorway behind him.
“Dangerous territory, that,” Szoldar warned. “But for the folk who rid us of Izek Strazni? We’ll guide you for half our usual rate.” He grinned. “Call it a gesture of gratitude from two grateful comrades.”
As the hunters gathered their gear, Szoldar shared a troubling observation: werewolf activity had increased dramatically in recent weeks, particularly in the woods around Lake Baratok. “More aggressive, more organized,” he said grimly. “In my experience, that means a change in leadership. The pack has a new alpha, and they’re testing their strength.”
Before departing, you turned your attention back to the standing stones. “What are these?” Fig asked the hunters.
Szoldar shrugged. “Old. Very old. We mostly leave them alone—don’t know their origin or purpose, but we’re not eager to anger whatever spirits or gods saw fit to raise them.” Yevgeni nodded his agreement, his usual silence eloquent enough.
You remembered the similar stones you’d encountered near the Gates of Ravenloft—the Raven Shrine where you’d left offerings to the Ladies Three. Approaching this circle, you noticed that one of the stones bore a carving: a butterfly, its wings spread wide, etched into the weathered surface.
Following the same instinct that had guided you before, you left an offering of gold coins at the base of the carved stone. The woods seemed to grow quieter as you did so, as if the forest itself were taking note. Then, with the hunters leading the way, you set out westward toward Lake Baratok and the mysteries that awaited you there.
The Road to Khazan’s Tower
The western woods grew denser as you traveled, the path narrowing to little more than a game trail winding between ancient trees whose branches formed a canopy so thick that Barovia’s perpetual gray sky was reduced to scattered glimpses. After perhaps an hour of hiking, you came upon a weathered wooden bridge spanning the rushing waters of the Luna River.
The bridge creaked under your weight as you crossed, and it was Fig’s sharp eyes that spotted something unusual: a small scrap of white fabric caught on a splinter of wood near the bridge’s railing. The monk retrieved it carefully—a linen handkerchief, fine quality despite being somewhat waterlogged, embroidered with the initials “R.V.R.” in elegant script.
Arden frowned, turning the handkerchief over in his hands. “R.V.R.,” he murmured. Then his eyes widened. “The manuscript—the one Arturi Radanavich gave us about the werewolf curse. Wasn’t it written by someone named…” He trailed off, trying to recall.
“Rudolph Van Richten,” Varnish supplied, his memory for such details characteristically sharp. “The same initials.”
You exchanged glances. Another piece of the puzzle, though what picture it formed remained unclear. Fig carefully pocketed the handkerchief as you continued westward.
The path led you to a crossroads where four trails intersected, forming an X beneath the skeletal branches of dead trees. You’d been here before—this was where you’d first encountered the animated scarecrows and twig blights that had ambushed you during your investigation of Arabelle’s disappearance. The broken signpost still jutted from the earth at an angle, and scattered across the clearing were the splintered remains of the creatures you’d destroyed.
But the clearing was not as empty as you’d hoped.
Four small saplings stood scattered across the intersection, their branches and trunks blackened and gnarled in ways no natural tree should be. As you approached, they jerked to life, root-like appendages scuttling across the ground with horrifying speed. Twig blights—and this time, there were more of them than before.
Hanging from twisted tree branches above were three scarecrows, their painted sackcloth eyes seeming to watch with mocking intensity. Black raven feathers poked from their stuffed guts, and as you drew your weapons, they tore themselves free from their moorings and lurched forward with unnatural, jerking movements.
The ambush came without warning.
Choppy reacted first, fire already crackling between his fingers. A gout of flame engulfed the nearest scarecrow, the dry straw and burlap igniting instantly. The creature thrashed and fell, burning like a festival bonfire. Varnish’s searing light sang as it cleaved through wooden limbs, while Fig danced between the attackers with practiced grace, their strikes precise and devastating.
Arden’s new battleaxe swept through two twig blights in a single powerful arc, scattering splinters and broken branches. The creatures were dangerous in numbers, their sharp branch-fingers capable of drawing blood, but against your coordinated assault—and particularly against Choppy’s fire magic, which consumed the dry wooden foes with terrifying efficiency—they stood little chance.
But as the battle wound down and you dispatched the last of the scarecrows, something unprecedented happened: the twig blights spoke.
The remaining creatures chittered and clicked, their branch-mouths forming sounds that shouldn’t have been possible. As Fig and Arden moved to finish them off, the words became clear—a message delivered in voices like wind through dead leaves:
“The Lady of the Swamp sends her regards.”
Then they attacked with renewed fury, and you were forced to destroy them. As the last twig blight fell to pieces under Arden’s blade, silence returned to the crossroads—but the message lingered.
“The Lady of the Swamp?” Choppy asked, looking to your guides.
Szoldar’s expression had gone grim. “That can only mean Baba Lysaga,” he said, his voice low. “The witch of Berez—the swamp that used to be a village, south of Vallaki. She’s… old. Older than anyone can say. And dangerous beyond measure.”
Yevgeni nodded his agreement, adding in his characteristically sparse way: “We give that swamp a wide berth. The witch isn’t the only danger—phase spiders hunt there too. Nothing good comes from Berez.”
The hunters couldn’t—or wouldn’t—elaborate further. Whatever Baba Lysaga wanted, whatever connection she had to these animated plant creatures, it would remain a mystery for now. You had more immediate concerns: Khazan’s Tower lay ahead, and with it, hopefully, answers about Arabelle’s fate.
You pressed on, leaving the destroyed blights behind, but the witch’s message echoed in your thoughts: The Lady of the Swamp sends her regards.
So There’s This Other Chicken, Right…
Several more hours of hiking brought you at last to Lake Baratok. The lake materialized through the mists like something from a dream—or a nightmare. Dark waters stretched out before you, their surface smooth as black glass, reflecting nothing but the endless gray sky. A stone causeway extended from the shore into the lake itself, and at its end rose a tower of ancient construction, its stones weathered by centuries but still standing defiant against time and the elements.
But it wasn’t the tower that first caught your attention.
Parked near the start of the causeway sat a brightly painted wagon, its wooden sides adorned with colorful designs and strange symbols. The back door bore warning signs that you wisely took the time to read:
KEEP OUT! Property and Home of Ezmerelda d’Avenir Trespassers will be immediately incinerated
Szoldar and Yevgeni hung back, clearly unwilling to approach the tower any more closely. “We’ll wait here,” Szoldar said, gesturing to a relatively dry patch of ground. “That tower has a reputation, and we’d prefer not to test it.”
You approached the wagon cautiously, studying the warnings. You chose a wise approach: Arden stepped up and knocked politely on the door.
The response came immediately—a series of agitated clucks and squawks from within, accompanied by the sound of flapping wings and scratching talons on wood.
Varnish blinked. “Is that… a chicken?”
“Apparently,” Choppy replied, trying and failing to suppress a grin.
Varnish, ever practical, cast speak with animals and addressed the door. “Hello? We mean you no harm. We’re just trying to understand what’s going on.”
The clucking shifted, taking on what might generously be called an indignant tone. Then, through the magic of the spell, a voice reached Varnish’s mind—high-pitched, fussy, and unmistakably feminine:
“Well, at least SOMEONE has the decency to knock instead of trying to break in like common thugs! Do you have any idea how many wolves have been scratching at this wagon? It’s absolutely dreadful! My nerves are quite frayed, I’ll have you know!”
“My apologies,” Varnish said diplomatically. “We’re looking for information about the woman who owns this wagon. Can you tell us about her?”
“You mean my mistress? Ezmerelda? Oh, she’s wonderful—very brave, very clever. She hunts monsters, you know. Very dangerous work.” The chicken’s mental voice carried obvious pride. “I’m Eggsmerelda, by the way. Her faithful companion and assistant.”
“Where is Ezmerelda now?” Varnish asked.
“Gone off into the woods several days ago, looking for something. She didn’t say what, but she seemed quite determined. I’m to guard the wagon until she returns.” A pause. “Though between you and me, I’m getting rather worried. She’s never been gone this long before. And those wolves… they’ve been trying to get in every night for the past three nights! It’s terrifying!”
Through patient questioning, Varnish learned what he could from the chicken’s limited but earnest perspective: Ezmerelda was a skilled monster hunter, traveled extensively, and had been staying at the tower for some time before her recent departure. The chicken couldn’t provide much more—her understanding of human affairs was understandably limited—but she seemed genuinely pleased to have someone to talk to.
“Thank you, Eggsmerelda,” Varnish said sincerely. “Stay safe in there.”
“Oh, I shall! This wagon is very secure. Though if you happen to see my mistress, do tell her to hurry home!”
As Varnish relayed the conversation to the others, Fig and Choppy had been examining the ground around the wagon. There, pressed into the soft earth, were two sets of wagon tracks. One clearly belonged to Ezmerelda’s colorful vehicle. But the other…
“These are older,” Fig said, crouching to study them. “By a couple of days, I’d guess. And they don’t just arrive—they lead away, south into the woods and then curving east.”
“Toward Vallaki,” Choppy added.
Curious, you followed the tracks down the causeway and into a small forest clearing just a few dozen yards from the lakeshore. There, caught on branches and scattered across the underbrush, were spatters of bright yellow paint—still wet enough in places to be tacky to the touch.
Arden froze, staring at the paint. “That color…”
Fig’s eyes widened. “The wagon. In the Arasek Stockyard.”
The realization hit all of you at once, pieces of the puzzle clicking into place with almost audible force: “Rictavio’s Carnival of Wonders!” The garish yellow paint on Rictavio’s wagon, parked in Vallaki’s stockyard, was the same distinctive shade as the spatters before you.
Which meant Rictavio’s wagon had been here, at Khazan’s Tower. The same tower that bore the sigil matching the platinum signet ring found at the site of Yan’s murder and Arabelle’s kidnapping. The same Rictavio who’d arrived in Vallaki mere days ago, whose behavior had always seemed just slightly off, whose carnival barker persona felt like a poorly-fitting costume.
The flamboyant bard wasn’t just suspicious. He was involved.
You stood there in the clearing as the implications cascaded through your minds. Rictavio had been here. His wagon had traveled from this tower—Khazan’s tower, marked with the same arcane sigil as the ring—back to Vallaki. And somewhere in that journey, Arabelle had vanished, her fate unknown, while Yan lay dead with Khazan’s ring in the grass beside his body.
The details of motive, means, and opportunity still eluded you. But one thing was now undeniably clear: Rictavio knew something about Arabelle’s disappearance. And when you returned to Vallaki, you would get answers—one way or another.
The session ended there, in that forest clearing, with yellow paint on your fingers and a hundred new questions burning in your minds.
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