Session Summary
At Khazan’s tower on Lake Baratok, you solved the arcane puzzle lock using the platinum signet ring’s pattern, only to awaken four stone gargoyles that descended in a brutal assault. The battle was harrowing—Varnish and Arden were grappled and dropped, Fig’s blade glanced off stone hide—but you adapted. Choppy’s thunder magic proved devastating, Arden’s Magic Weapon negated their resistances, and Varnish’s Hold Person froze two gargoyles mid-flight. Victory secured, you entered the tower.
Inside, you discovered damning evidence scattered across multiple floors: a Burned Journal Page bearing Rudolph Van Richten’s handwriting, a sketch of “Rictavio’s Carnival of Wonders,” Arabelle’s beaded bracelet wrapped around a silvered dagger and the Hooded One Tarokka card, and a suit of plate armor that Arden claimed. Most tellingly, yellow-stained lily pads in the lake led you to sunken paint pots—the same bright yellow as Rictavio’s wagon. The trail was undeniable.
On the road back to Vallaki, two strangers calling themselves Zsolt and Mathilda approached with warnings about a phantom murderess stalking the woods. When Arden pressed his silvered axe to Zsolt’s throat and demanded the truth about werewolves, they transformed and attacked. The fight was brief—Arden’s blessed steel and the hunters’ silver arrows made short work of both. Before Varnish ended Mathilda’s suffering with Mind Sliver, she revealed under Suggestion that the werewolf pack was led by Kiril Stoyanovich from a den on Lake Baratok’s northwestern shore—and critically, that they hadn’t taken Arabelle.
Armed with overwhelming evidence, you confronted Rictavio at the Arasek Stockyard. When Arden held a silvered battleaxe to his throat and demanded answers, Rictavio drew his sword-cane and demanded proof you weren’t Strahd’s servants. You showed him everything: the ring, the bracelet, the journal page, the embroidered cloth marked “R.V.R.” From within the wagon, a small voice called out: “They mean me no harm, Mister Doctor sir.” Rictavio removed his hat of disguise, his carnival barker persona dissolving to reveal an older, weathered monster hunter. “My name, masters, is Dr. Rudolph van Richten,” he said with a Germanic accent, opening the wagon door to reveal Arabelle—alive, safe, and clutching a plush saber-toothed tiger. The mystery of the missing Vistana girl was finally solved.
Probing Khazan’s Tower
The gravel causeway extended into Lake Baratok like a pale finger pointing toward answers long submerged in mystery. At its end rose the tower—ancient stone weathered by centuries of mist and neglect, yet standing defiant against time’s erosion. Four stone griffons perched atop the roof, their wings folded, their eyes seeming to follow your approach with predatory patience.
The tower’s wooden door bore a massive wax-like seal, and carved into the lintel above it was a single word: Khazan.
Varnish was the first to approach, curiosity overcoming caution. His fingertips barely brushed the door’s surface when a jolt of electricity snapped through him—mild, but decidedly painful. He jerked back, shaking his hand. “Well,” he muttered, “that’s not encouraging.”
THE TOWER DOOR
Fig, never one to be outdone in recklessness, took several steps back, eyed the door with the calculating gaze of someone about to do something spectacularly foolish, and launched into a flying jump kick.
The door did not budge.
Instead, a blinding bolt of lightning erupted from the seal with the sound of a thundercrack, lancing outward in a brilliant white line that caught Varnish and Fig squarely, barely missed Choppy and Arden, and reached all the way back across the causeway to sputter out at the feet of Szoldar Szoldarovich and Yevgeni Krushkin, who had wisely remained on the lakeshore. The two hunters exchanged a glance that eloquently conveyed: This is why we’re staying back here.
As the smell of ozone and singed clothing filled the air, a grinding sound echoed from above. The four griffon statues jerked to life, stone becoming animate flesh as wings unfurled and glowing eyes fixed on the party. The gargoyles descended with shrieks that cut through the stillness of the lake, each selecting a target with predatory focus.
What followed was chaos.
The early rounds proved harrowing. Fig’s katana glanced off Lexington’s stone hide, dealing only half the expected damage, while Goliath grappled Varnish in powerful claws and lifted him ten feet into the air. The gargoyle’s jaws clamped down on Varnish’s shoulder before releasing him to plummet back to the causeway’s unforgiving stone. Across the battlefield, Hudson did the same to Arden, the paladin’s armor absorbing some of the impact but not enough to prevent a painful grunt as he hit the ground.
But the party adapted. Choppy’s eyes lit with arcane fire as he conjured a Chromatic Orb of pure thunder, the concussive blast shattering Brooklyn’s wing and sending the creature careening into the causeway railing. Arden cast Magic Weapon on his silvered battleaxe, the blade humming with power as it negated the gargoyles’ resistance to his strikes. And then Varnish, bloodied but still standing, channeled magic through his clarinet and cast a third-level Hold Person on Hudson and Goliath simultaneously.
The two gargoyles froze mid-lunge, their bodies locked in arcane stasis.
From there, the battle wrapped quickly. Stone shattered under coordinated assault, griffon heads tumbled from griffon bodies, and within minutes the causeway was littered with rubble that would never fly again.
Breathing hard, the party turned back to the door. This time, they approached more carefully. Varnish, Fig, and Choppy recognized the symbols that appeared on the door’s large wax-like seal as they drew within five feet—eight fist-sized buttons emerging from the seal’s surface, each bearing a rune corresponding to one of the eight schools of magic.
Choppy brought out the platinum signet ring found at the site of Yan’s murder, comparing its engraved pattern to the buttons on the door. The sequence of crossed lines on the ring matched a path through the eight symbols—a puzzle lock that required the proper order.
Working methodically, Choppy pressed the buttons in sequence: evocation, divination, illusion, transmutation, conjuration, abjuration, enchantment, necromancy. Each button glowed with its corresponding color as it was pressed. When the eighth and final rune lit up with necromantic blue, the seal’s glow intensified—and then, with a deep thunk, the door swung inward.
The tower was open.
Investigating the Tower
The interior of Khazan’s tower was a study in magical engineering and domestic abandonment. An elevator platform dominated the center of the first floor, powered by an ancient stone golem that stood motionless in its alcove, waiting patiently for passengers it had last carried who-knew-how-many decades ago. Choppy, Arden, and Varnish stepped onto the platform, and the golem lurched into motion, hauling them upward with the grinding of stone on stone.
Fig, naturally, chose a different route. The monk eyed the exterior scaffolding visible through gaps in the tower wall, nodded once to themselves, and began to climb. By the time the elevator reached the third floor, Fig was already there, having scaled the rickety wooden framework with the casual grace of someone for whom gravity was more of a suggestion than a law.
The third floor held little of interest save for an old, rotted crib—a melancholy reminder of some long-forgotten tragedy. Fig, ever curious, approached to investigate. That’s when the floor gave way.
Fig plummeted through rotten boards with a startled yelp, landing hard on the second floor below. The impact knocked the wind from their lungs, but they rolled to their feet, bruised but intact. “I’m fine!” they called up through the new hole in the ceiling. “Just… taking the express route.”
The top floor proved far more interesting. A large bed sat against one wall, a wood stove against another, and a suit of armor stood sentinel in the corner. As the party spread out to investigate, Varnish—either from genuine curiosity or sheer mischief—began jumping on the bed.
The bed, not built to withstand such abuse after centuries of neglect, collapsed. Worse, it fell through the floor, tumbling down through each level in a cascade of splintering wood and rending metal until it crashed to the ground floor in a spectacular heap of debris.
Varnish stared down through the hole, then at his companions. “That could have been worse.”
“You could have been on it when it fell,” Choppy pointed out.
“Exactly. Could have been worse.”
While Varnish clambered down to retrieve his dignity from the wreckage, Fig investigated the wood stove. Amid the ashes, they discovered treasures: a Burned Journal Page bearing handwriting that matched the vampire-hunting manuscript given to them by Arturi Radanavich, and a singed sketch of a sign proclaiming “Rictavio’s Carnival of Wonders” in flamboyant lettering.
RICTAVIO’S CARNIVAL SIGN
The connections were becoming impossible to ignore.
Meanwhile, Arden examined the suit of armor and found it fit him well—functional plate armor that increased his AC to 18. A fine discovery, and one he donned immediately.
Varnish, having returned from his floor-by-floor climb, found something else entirely: a colorful beaded bracelet sized for a child, wrapped around a silvered dagger alongside a Tarokka card bearing the image of the Hooded One. The bard’s knowledge of the occult, honed through his training with the College of Spirits, allowed him to interpret the card’s meaning: mystery, newcomers, and hidden identities.
“Someone left these here deliberately,” Varnish said, turning the bracelet over in his hands. “This isn’t random. It’s a trail.”
Fig moved to the window and looked out over Lake Baratok. Something caught their eye—a patch of lily pads near the shore, stained a garish, flamboyant yellow that stood out starkly against the muted greens of the surrounding aquatic plants.
When the party descended and dove into the cold water, they discovered the source: empty ceramic paint pots resting on the lake bottom, still bearing traces of bright yellow paint. The same yellow as Rictavio’s wagon parked at Arasek Stockyard.
The evidence was damning. Rictavio had been here, at Khazan’s tower. The same tower whose sigil matched the ring found at Yan’s murder. The same tower that held clues pointing directly to Arabelle’s disappearance. And the same Rictavio whose behavior had been suspicious from the moment he’d arrived in Vallaki.
As the party began the hour-long trek back to town, their purpose crystallized: they would confront Rictavio. And they would get answers.
Another Run-in with Werewolves
Fifteen minutes into the journey back to Vallaki, the forest path ahead revealed two figures. A large man in drab clothing and a tattered gray cloak leaned heavily on a spear, a bundle of animal pelts slung over his shoulder. Behind him stood a grim-faced woman, her long dark hair loosely braided, her own spear held ready.
“Who goes there?” the man called out, his voice deep and carrying. As the party approached, he introduced himself as Zsolt, and his companion as Mathilda. “Trappers from Krezk,” he claimed with a warm smile.
Szoldar leaned close to the party and whispered, “I know most trappers in these woods. I’ve never heard either name.”
Zsolt, seemingly oblivious to the suspicion, launched into a tale—a warning, he called it, about a wandering Vistana woman who stalked the forest paths, a phantom with eyes like burning embers and an iron leg that shrieked in the night. “They say she’s been butchering good folk in the woods,” he said, his amber eyes glinting. “Whip! goes her blade, and off come their heads.”
The story complete, Zsolt asked with feigned casualness whether the party carried good steel. “Should the murderess find you upon the road,” he said with a wolfish grin.
Arden’s eyes narrowed. Without a word, he stepped forward and placed the blade of his silvered battleaxe against Zsolt’s throat. “Tell me about the werewolves,” the paladin said, his voice dangerously quiet.
The playful light vanished from Zsolt’s eyes, replaced by feral hunger. His lips pulled back in a snarl. “You should have kept your steel sheathed, friend.”
Zsolt and Mathilda transformed in heartbeats—bones cracking, flesh rippling, fur erupting across their bodies as they assumed hybrid forms. Claws extended, fangs lengthened, and the two werewolves launched themselves at the party with savage roars.
The fight was brutal but brief. Zsolt fell quickly to Arden’s silvered axe, the blessed metal biting deep through the werewolf’s supernatural defenses. Mathilda attempted to flee, but Szoldar and Yevgeni’s silver arrows found her back, dropping her to the forest floor.
As Mathilda struggled to rise, Varnish stepped forward and cast Suggestion, the spell taking hold of her fading mind. In her final moments, she revealed valuable intelligence: the werewolf den was located on the northwestern shore of Lake Baratok. The pack was led by Kiril Stoyanovich. And critically—the werewolves had not been involved in Arabelle’s kidnapping, and she was not being held at their den.
Varnish ended her suffering with Mind Sliver, the psychic blade severing the last threads of Mathilda’s life. The two werewolf corpses lay steaming on the forest path, already beginning their transformation back to human form.
The party pressed on toward Vallaki. They had a ringmaster to confront.
Confronting Rictavio
Evening was settling over Vallaki as the party made their way directly to the Arasek Stockyard. They’d discussed their approach during the walk back—no more waiting, no more watching. They had evidence, and they would demand answers.
They found Rictavio at his wagon, apparently engaged in repairs. Varnish noticed immediately that something was off: Rictavio was repetitiously adjusting and readjusting the same spoke on his wagon wheel, his lips moving as if speaking with someone. The performance was transparent once you knew to look for it.
“Whatcha doin’ there?” Varnish called out, his tone deliberately casual.
Rictavio straightened, his carnival barker smile sliding into place. “Ah! My friends! Just repairing this troublesome wheel. The spoke has come loose, you see, and—”
“Cut the act,” Arden interrupted, striding forward with his silvered battleaxe in hand. The drow’s face was set in an expression of righteous fury—the same look he’d worn when confronting Zsolt minutes earlier. “We know you’re connected to Arabelle’s disappearance. We found your paint pots at Khazan’s tower. We found the burned journal page. We found the sketch of your carnival sign.”
For just a moment, Rictavio’s jovial mask slipped, revealing something harder and more dangerous beneath. His hand moved to the cane at his side. “I don’t know what you’re—”
Arden didn’t let him finish. In one fluid motion, he brought the battleaxe up, pressing the silvered blade to Rictavio’s throat. “Tell us where Arabelle is. Now.”
The cane blurred as Rictavio drew it—revealing not wood, but steel. A sword-cane, and one wielded with expert precision as he parried Arden’s axe aside and sidestepped the dark elf’s advance. His voice dropped to a near-whisper, all trace of performance gone. “Are you servants of Strahd? Tell me now, and tell me true, or I will dispatch you where you stand.”
“We’re trying to save her,” Fig said urgently. “We’re not Strahd’s servants. We were hired by Luvash to find his daughter.”
“Prove it,” Rictavio demanded.
Choppy held up the platinum signet ring. Varnish produced the beaded bracelet, the silvered dagger, and the Tarokka card. Fig showed him the Burned Journal Page bearing his own handwriting, and the scrap of cloth embroidered “R.V.R.”
The evidence was overwhelming. Rictavio’s sword-cane lowered slightly, though his guard remained up. “How did you—”
A small voice rang out from within the wagon, clear and calm: “They mean me no harm, Mister Doctor sir.”
Rictavio’s shoulders sagged. He glanced at the wagon, then back at the party, and seemed to come to a decision. “Very well, Fraulein Arabelle.” His free hand reached up and removed his hat—a hat of disguise, they realized—and his entire appearance shifted.
The flamboyant carnival barker vanished. In his place stood an older man, weathered and wizened, with sharp eyes that had seen too much and survived too long. His posture straightened, his voice lost its theatrical lilt and gained a Germanic accent, and his bearing became that of a professional monster hunter rather than a showman.
DR. RUDOLPH VAN RICHTEN
“My name, masters, is Dr. Rudolph van Richten,” he said, sheathing his sword-cane and producing a key from his sleeve. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
He opened the wagon door, revealing a young Vistani girl with dark hair, olive skin, and striking lavender eyes. She sat on a bed of straw, clutching a plush saber-toothed tiger to her chest, wearing a beaded necklace with a copper amulet.
ARABELLE
“And this,” Van Richten said, “is Arabelle.”
The girl smiled at the party—a warm, knowing smile that seemed far too old for her young face. “Thank you for following the trail I left,” she said. “I knew someone would come.”
And there, in the dim light of the Arasek Stockyard, with a wagon full of secrets and a lifetime of mysteries unfolding, the truth of Arabelle’s disappearance finally came to light.
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