Session Summary
At Rictavio’s wagon in Arasek Stockyard, Dr. Rudolph van Richten revealed the truth behind Arabelle’s disappearance—how he’d intercepted a kidnapping plot by Strahd’s spawn Escher, killed the Vistana conspirator Yan, and hidden the girl to keep her safe from the vampire’s bounty. When Arrigal emerged from the shadows to reclaim his niece, you brokered a delicate peace: van Richten would move his wagon near the Vistani camp where Arabelle’s family could visit her, while Arrigal—a spy for Strahd—would feed the vampire false information about her whereabouts. Arabelle then delivered a dark prophecy of eternal night and rising dead before collapsing. You accompanied them to the camp, where Luvash tearfully reunited with his daughter and swore the Vallaki Vistani would be forever in your debt.
At Wachterhaus, Lady Wachter delivered your promised reward: a substantial cache of gold, silver, silvered weapons, and ammunition—payment for your role in ending Izek Strazni’s tyranny. As you departed, Rahadin, Strahd’s dusk elf chamberlain, intercepted you with an invitation to dine at Castle Ravenloft. Despite your attempts to intimidate him—defacing the invitation with fire and bodily fluids while Choppy conjured a dirt homunculus for one final indignity—you ultimately accepted, and Rahadin departed with the psychic shrieking of a thousand murdered souls echoing in his wake.
That evening, Yeska found you at the Blue Water Inn, begging you to come to the town square where Rahadin had returned to deliver Strahd’s justice. Milivoj and Henrik van der Voort, the conspirators who’d stolen The Bones of St. Andral, knelt in shackles as Rahadin prepared to execute them. Through skilled persuasion, you convinced the chamberlain that both men had acted under coercion from Volenta Popofsky and deserved mercy. Their death sentences were reduced to twelve lashes each, which they bore with dignity. You healed their wounds with divine and arcane magic before returning to the inn for a well-earned rest.
Mediating the Case of Arrigal v. van Richten
The truth, when it finally came, arrived in the voice of an old monster hunter who’d seen too much and survived too long.
Dr. Rudolph van Richten stood before you at the Arasek Stockyard, his carnival barker disguise discarded, and told his story with the weary precision of a man who’d already lived it a thousand times in his mind. He spoke of his time at the tower on Lake Baratok, laying low and avoiding Strahd’s notice. Of the day he’d seen a Vistana man—Yan—carrying a wriggling sack to the banks of the Luna River, where a golden-haired vampire spawn waited in the shadows.
Van Richten recognized the spawn as Escher, a bard from the village of Barovia who’d once led Doru’s doomed rebellion before betraying them all to Strahd’s fangs. The sight of the sack, the sound of a child’s muffled cries within—it triggered something in Van Richten’s memory, something he couldn’t push aside. His son, Erasmus. The kidnapping. The loss.
His body moved without thinking.
Yan died quickly, his head severed before he could cry out. Escher fled, wounded, leaving Van Richten alone with a frightened Vistana girl: Arabelle. Using his talisman of echoes, Van Richten had interrogated Yan’s severed head and learned the terrible truth—Strahd had issued a bounty on children matching Arabelle’s exact description: dark-haired, olive-skinned, with distinctive lavender eyes. Returning her to the Vistani camp would leave her exposed to the vampire’s spies. Staying at the tower would make her an easy target; Strahd would surely search there first when his scrying failed.
So Van Richten improvised. He snuck into the Vistani camp in Yan’s stolen guise, pilfered three pots of colorful paint, and transformed his old covered wagon into “Rictavio’s Carnival of Wonders.” He gave Arabelle a spare amulet of proof against detection and location—one he’d once given to a former student—and brought her to Vallaki, hiding her in plain sight within the wagon parked at Arasek Stockyard. It wasn’t a permanent solution, but it would buy time.
As Van Richten finished his tale, Arabelle—who’d been listening quietly from within the wagon, clutching her plush saber-toothed tiger—spoke up to thank you all for following the trail of clues she’d left behind. She’d had a premonition that someone would come looking, she explained, and had hidden the Hooded One Tarokka card, her beaded bracelet, and Van Richten’s handkerchief along your path.
Then a voice cut through the evening air, smooth and dangerous.
“A fascinating story.”
ARRIGAL
Arrigal emerged from the shadows of a nearby alley, his movements cat-like and deliberate. His hand rested on the pommel of his shortsword as he thanked Van Richten for the “enlightening tale” and thanked you for your “aid and guidance.” Then, his voice hardening, he commanded Arabelle to exit the wagon and return with him to the camp.
Van Richten’s hand went to his sword-cane. He accused Arrigal of being a spy for Strahd—he’d seen the Vistana whispering to a bat in the woods while stealing the paint pots. Arabelle would not be returning to the camp, not while Strahd’s agents still hunted her. She would remain in the wagon, protected.
Arrigal’s fingers tightened around his blade hilts. His voice was ice. “The girl has been deceived by this monster hunter’s lies. She will return to her family. Now.”
The two men faced each other, weapons half-drawn, murder in their eyes.
Arabelle looked to you. “Please,” she said softly. “Help them see reason.”
What followed was delicate negotiation—a diplomatic tightrope walk between two men who each believed themselves absolutely right. Arrigal, you learned, was indeed a spy for Strahd. But he was also genuinely, truthfully ignorant of the bounty on his niece. When confronted with the evidence—Van Richten offered to let you use his talisman of echoes to interrogate Yan’s severed head—Arrigal was shaken. The dead Vistana’s testimony was damning: Yes, he’d served Strahd. Yes, he’d been ordered to kidnap Arabelle. Yes, he was to deliver her to Escher at the Luna River, who would bring her to Castle Ravenloft.
Arabelle herself confirmed the story, calmly recounting how Yan had grabbed her, how Van Richten had rescued her, and how she’d overheard Yan asking whether “the lord” would pay his debts for “the whelp’s delivery.”
Arrigal’s expression cracked, just slightly. But he still refused to let Van Richten keep Arabelle hidden away from her father. Luvash deserved to see his daughter. Arabelle deserved to be with her family.
Van Richten, for his part, refused to let Arrigal take Arabelle back to the camp, where Strahd’s other spies might find her.
Both men had valid concerns. Both refused to budge.
So you found a solution that satisfied them both: Van Richten would relocate his wagon to the woods near the Vistani camp, close enough for Luvash to visit Arabelle daily. Arrigal would continue his work as Strahd’s spy—but he would feed the vampire false information about Arabelle’s whereabouts, keeping her safe through misdirection.
The two men grudgingly accepted the compromise.
Arabelle, relief evident in her young face, reached out and took Van Richten’s weathered hand. “Thank you for helping me,” she said gently. “You’re a good man. Your son agrees.”
Van Richten went white. His knees buckled slightly. “My… son?”
Arabelle patted the back of his hand with the solemn kindness of someone far older than her years. “He’s been keeping me safe in the wagon. He loves you very much, and I think he’s been keeping you safe, too.”
The veteran monster hunter—the man who’d faced vampires and werewolves and every nightmare the world could conjure—looked suddenly, utterly human. Tears welled in his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered hoarsely.
A moment later, Arabelle staggered. Her eyes rolled back, the whites becoming the color of storm clouds. When she spoke, her voice echoed with the sound of a second, far older woman’s voice:
In darkest night, the light shall flee, No dawn to break, with no reprieve. From the grave, the dead shall climb, Their restless march a baleful sign. At castle’s peak, a heart beats red, Its hunger deep and ever-fed. Should silence fall, the skies shall crack, A thousand souls in torment black.
Then she collapsed, unconscious. Varnish was at her side in an instant, checking her pulse and breathing. She was unharmed—merely asleep. When she woke minutes later, she remembered nothing of the prophecy she’d spoken.
Van Richten, troubled by the dark vision, presented you with his talisman of echoes as a gift—payment for your aid in keeping Arabelle safe. Arrigal, similarly grateful, made you a promise: though he would continue serving Strahd as a spy, he would refrain from reporting Arabelle or Van Richten’s locations to the castle. More than that, he would deliver false information to Strahd once, when you requested it—but only once, and only if the information wasn’t obviously false.
You accompanied the unlikely trio—Van Richten, Arrigal, and Arabelle—on the short journey to the Vistani camp. Along the way, Van Richten shared more of his story: his arrival in Barovia, his encounter with Doru and the doomed rebellion, Escher’s betrayal, and Madam Eva’s cryptic warning that kept him from returning to the village. He spoke with the weary resignation of a man who’d lost too much and survived too long.
When you reached the Vistani encampment, Luvash—still hobbling on his makeshift crutch from the wolf trap wound—saw his daughter and broke. The fierce, stubborn warrior wept openly as he embraced Arabelle, holding her as if he’d never let go.
“Thank you,” he told you, his voice thick with emotion. “The Vallaki Vistani are in your debt. Forever.”
A Brief Visit to the New Burgomaster
With Arabelle safely reunited with her family, you made your way back to Vallaki to collect what was owed. Lady Wachter had promised you payment for your role in ending Izek Strazni’s reign of terror, and you intended to claim it.
At Wachterhaus, Haliq—the ever-proper valet—admitted you without ceremony and led you to Lady Wachter’s study. She greeted you with cool satisfaction, gesturing to a collection of items arrayed on her desk: a substantial pile of gold coins, several leather pouches heavy with silver, and—most importantly—an assortment of silvered weapons and silvered ammunition freshly requisitioned from Vallaki’s armory.
“Payment for services rendered,” she said simply. “Vallaki is free of Izek’s tyranny, and I am now Burgomaster. We both have what we wanted.”
You divided the spoils among yourselves, the weight of silver and gold a tangible reminder of how far you’d come since arriving in this cursed valley. Arden claimed a silvered battleaxe to replace the one he’d lost. Fig pocketed silvered arrows. The pouches of coin were distributed evenly, each of you richer than you’d been since entering Barovia.
As you prepared to depart, Lady Wachter offered a parting word of advice: “The Count’s invitation is not one to refuse lightly. When you dine at Castle Ravenloft, remember—Strahd values cunning and respect in equal measure. Provide both, and you may yet survive the experience.”
You thanked her and departed into the evening.
An Invitation from the Devil
You’d barely left Wachterhaus when you felt it—that familiar prickle at the edge of awareness, like the washing of ocean waves against distant shores. The sound built and amplified as a figure on horseback approached through the evening mist: an ash-gray phantom steed with dull, shadowed eyes, and atop it, Rahadin.
The dusk elf chamberlain dismounted with fluid grace, his dusky features impassive beneath the long black hair that fell past his neck. He wore a deep blue tunic trimmed with bronze beneath flexible leather armor, and a curved saber hung at his belt alongside a pair of scimitars strapped to his back. But it was the sound that surrounded him—the psychic onslaught of a thousand screaming voices—that made your skin crawl. Pleading, suffering, dying: a cacophony of souls that crashed against your mind from every direction.
The guards at the Morning Gate had let him in without question. Of course they had. Who would dare bar entry to Strahd’s herald?
Rahadin approached with measured steps, one gloved hand reaching into his cloak to produce an envelope sealed with crimson wax. The seal bore the Von Zarovich crest: a raven with wings spread across a tall shield, a banner wrapped around it, and the image of a castle at its peak.
“I have come to deliver an invitation from my master,” Rahadin said, his voice a quiet baritone that somehow cut through the screaming. He extended the envelope toward you.
Varnish took it, broke the seal, and read aloud:
To Arden Nalero, Fig Fleetfoot, Varnish Gothorn, and Choppy Gibbles,
I have heard tell of your recent exploits in my domain, and wish to better know those who have arrived in my beloved land of Barovia. As such, I bid you dine at my castle so that we may meet in civilized surroundings.
I expect your attendance at dusk on the night of the moon’s last light, eight days hence. Your passage to and from my home will be a safe one, and you shall be honored guests for as long as you remain at Castle Ravenloft.
My carriage shall meet you at the crossroads of Ravenloft, beyond the western gate. I await your arrival.
Your host, Strahd von Zarovich
A long moment of silence followed. Then Arden, his expression carefully neutral, took the invitation from Varnish’s hands.
What happened next was… ill-advised.
Arden conjured a small flame with his dancing lights cantrip and set the corner of the parchment alight. As it began to smolder, he dropped it to the cobblestones and—without breaking eye contact with Rahadin—urinated on it.
Rahadin’s expression didn’t change. He simply watched.
Fig stepped forward and stomped on the soggy, half-burned invitation for good measure.
Choppy, not to be outdone, raised his hands and conjured a small humanoid figure made entirely of dirt and mud. The homunculus—barely a foot tall—waddled over to the remains of the invitation and, with exaggerated effort, added its own contribution to the desecration.
Throughout all of this, Rahadin stood perfectly still. His dark eyes tracked each act of disrespect with the cold precision of a predator watching prey. When you’d finally finished, he spoke.
“Are you quite done?”
Varnish, perhaps sensing that things had gone too far, cleared his throat. “We accept the invitation. We’ll be there.”
Rahadin inclined his head fractionally. “I shall expect you at Castle Ravenloft promptly at dusk on the noted date.” He paused, his gaze sweeping across each of you in turn. “My master has promised you guestright. Do not presume to spit upon his honor or authority.”
Then, almost imperceptibly, the screaming grew louder. The psychic shrieking of a thousand murdered souls intensified, pressing against your minds with renewed fury. It wasn’t painful, exactly—but it was a reminder. A message delivered without words: I could make this so much worse.
Rahadin turned, mounted his phantom steed, and departed into the mist. The screaming faded with him, leaving only the sound of hoofbeats echoing on cobblestones.
“Well,” Fig said after a long silence. “That went well.”
Law & Order: Vallaki
You’d barely settled into the taproom of the Blue Water Inn when Yeska, the orphan boy who served as Father Lucian’s altar boy, burst through the door. His face was pale, his eyes wide with panic.
“Please,” he gasped, grabbing at Arden’s sleeve. “You have to come. They’re going to kill them. Milivoj and Henrik—they’re in the town square, and that… that thing from before, the one with the screaming—he’s going to execute them!”
Rahadin had returned. And he’d brought Strahd’s justice with him.
You ran.
The town square was crowded when you arrived, Vallakians forming a nervous ring around the platform that held the empty stocks. Atop the platform stood Rahadin, flanked by two pale-faced guards. At his feet knelt Milivoj and Henrik van der Voort, their legs and feet bound with rope. Henrik wept openly, his shoulders shaking. Milivoj stared vacantly at the ground, his jaw set.
Near the platform stairs, Milivoj’s seven younger siblings—the children he’d been trying to feed when he stole the bones—struggled to reach their brother as a third guard blocked their path. They wailed and sobbed, begging to be allowed up.
Father Lucian stood at the base of the platform, arguing with one of the guards. When he saw you arrive, relief flooded his weathered face. “Thank the Morninglord,” he said. “Please, help stop this madness. Milivoj may have made mistakes, but hardly ones deserving of death.”
Rahadin looked down at you, his expression as impassive as carved stone. The psychic screaming surrounded him like an aura of suffering.
“These men have been found guilty of crimes against Vallaki and its people,” he said flatly.
“Which crimes?” Varnish demanded.
The crowd parted as Lady Wachter arrived, flanked by her own guards and cultists. Her eyes flashed with controlled fury. “If the servants of Castle Ravenloft presume to commandeer my guards without my knowledge or permission,” she said coldly, “I have that right, at least.”
Rahadin produced a scroll and read aloud in a voice that cut through the murmuring crowd:
“I, Strahd von Zarovich, Lord of Barovia, hereby find Henrik van der Voort of Vallaki GUILTY of the following charges: conspiracy to commit burglary; conspiracy to commit theft; accessory to theft; and receiving stolen property.
I further find Milivoj of Vallaki GUILTY of the following charges: trespassing, destruction of property, conspiracy to commit burglary, burglary, and theft.
It is therefore ordered that each receive suitable punishments as befitting the circumstances and nature of their crimes, to be determined and carried out by the Chamberlain of Castle Ravenloft with all reasonable haste.”
The proclamation was signed and sealed by Strahd himself.
Rahadin rolled the scroll closed. “As Chamberlain of Castle Ravenloft, I have determined that the sentence for these crimes is death.” He paused, his dark eyes sweeping across the crowd. “Unless any are willing to speak in the convicted’s favor, presenting mitigating circumstances that alleviate the severity of their transgressions.”
Arden stepped forward first. “Henrik acted under duress,” he said, his voice ringing clear across the square. “He was coerced by Volenta—one of Strahd’s own spawn. She threatened his life and the lives of his customers. He had no choice.”
Rahadin’s lip curled slightly. “Coercion is not an excuse for theft from a holy church.”
“It’s a mitigating circumstance,” Fig countered. “Henrik has no criminal history. He’s never committed a violent act. When we confronted him at the coffin-maker’s shop, he cooperated. He didn’t fight us. He didn’t flee. He helped us.”
Varnish added his voice to the argument. “And Milivoj is a boy trying to feed his starving siblings. Look at them.” He gestured to the sobbing children. “He was manipulated by Henrik, who was manipulated by Volenta. He didn’t understand the implications of what he was stealing. He thought it was just… bones.”
Choppy stepped up beside his companions. “Both men have shown sincere remorse. Both are unlikely to commit their crimes again. Neither deserves death.”
Rahadin listened in silence, his expression unreadable. When you’d finished your arguments, he spoke.
“Very well. I shall reduce their sentences.” His hand moved to the saber at his belt. “Henrik van der Voort shall receive a moderate punishment. Milivoj shall receive a moderate punishment as well, given the… unique circumstances of his poverty.”
“What punishment?” Arden asked warily.
“Flogging. Twelve lashes each, delivered by my hand. They will be painful, but survivable—and they will serve as a reminder of the cost of theft from the sacred.”
Milivoj looked up, meeting your eyes. His voice was hoarse but steady. “Please, don’t do anything stupid on my behalf. I did something wrong, and I’ll accept any punishment. Just so long as my siblings don’t suffer.”
Lady Wachter, standing nearby, leaned close and whispered urgently. “You’ve already saved their lives today. Don’t trade your own for a doomed endeavor. Vallaki needs you.”
So you stood aside and watched as Rahadin commanded a guard to fetch a whip. You watched as he delivered twelve precise, measured lashes to Henrik, who screamed and wept. You watched as Milivoj, gritting his teeth, stifled his roars of pain and refused to give the chamberlain the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.
When it was done, both men lay bleeding on the platform, their backs a mess of welts and torn flesh.
Rahadin cleaned his whip methodically, rolled it, and handed it back to the guard. “Justice has been done,” he said. Then he summoned his phantom steed and departed into the night, the screaming fading with him.
The moment he was gone, you rushed forward. Arden laid his hands on Milivoj’s back, channeling divine healing that knit flesh and soothed pain. Varnish murmured a healing word over Henrik, the bard’s magic wrapping around the coffinmaker like a warm blanket.
Both men gasped as the pain receded, their wounds closing to angry red lines.
Milivoj’s siblings swarmed him, sobbing and clinging to his arms. He held them close, whispering reassurances. Father Lucian clasped your hands in gratitude. “Thank you,” he said simply. “You saved their lives tonight.”
You helped Milivoj and Henrik to their feet and escorted them away from the square, away from the memory of Strahd’s cold justice.
The Blue Water Inn felt warmer when you returned, the firelight more welcoming. But the memory of Rahadin’s flat, emotionless voice lingered: Justice has been done.
In Strahd’s Barovia, mercy was measured in lashes and screams.
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