Session Summary
With Arabelle safely returned to her family and Strahd’s dinner invitation accepted, you turned your attention to a darker matter: the night hags of Old Bonegrinder who’d been grinding children’s bones into dream pastries and selling them to desperate refugees. You assembled a rescue team—Victor, Ireena, Lady Wachter, and her four cultist associates—and set out for the windmill.
On the road, you encountered one of the Forest Folk’s druids, a gaunt, wild-haired figure who stood on his hands in a tree and spoke in riddles. Lady Wachter exchanged tense words with the eccentric spy, invoking her connection to Mother Night and the House of Wachter’s debt to Strahd. The druid departed with ominous laughter, leaving Lady Wachter to explain the Forest Folk’s worship of Strahd and her own complicated history with her former mentor, the witch Lysa of Berez.
At Old Bonegrinder, you hatched an elaborate plan: Victor cast greater invisibility on Fig and Choppy, while Varnish and Arden—disguised as businessmen “Emric Cantemir” and “Radu Tyminski” of “Tyrone & Sons Holdings, LLC”—posed as real estate entrepreneurs with a lucrative proposal. Varnish also channeled the Tale of the Runaway from his morning séance, granting Fig the ability to teleport the rescue team to safety.
The con worked perfectly. While the three hag sisters—Morgantha, Bella, and Offalia—gathered downstairs to hear the businessmen’s pitch about expanding their dream pastry distribution network through Vistani connections, Fig and Choppy infiltrated the upper floors. Following the dying words of the children’s father (“The gnarled arm holds the key”), they discovered a copper key hidden in the windmill’s millstone, used it to open a secret compartment containing the hags’ coven contract written on human skin, and rescued Fyodor and Myrtle from the third floor. Fig teleported the children and Choppy to safety outside, then signaled with a mighty “caw-CAW!” that the mission was complete. The businessmen fabricated a catastrophic excuse about being bought out by private equity, withdrew their offer, and departed—leaving the hags disappointed but none the wiser that their contract had been stolen and the children rescued.
Morning Muster
The day began with an unfortunate incident that Arden would prefer to forget. The lingering effects of Rahadin’s psychic screams had disrupted the paladin’s trance overnight, resulting in a deeply embarrassing accident. In the predawn darkness—thankfully before anyone else stirred—he discreetly disposed of the evidence out the window of the Blue Water Inn, where his soiled undergarments landed unceremoniously atop a fencepost. He made a mental note never to speak of this again.
Varnish, meanwhile, began his morning ritual in more productive fashion. Sitting cross-legged with Lady Wachter’s gifted Tarokka deck spread before him, he conducted his daily séance. The spirits answered his call with unusual clarity, channeling the ancient Tale of the Runaway—a story of escape and freedom that would grant him the power to share the gift of teleportation with his allies. The mystical energy thrummed through the cards, and Varnish felt the tale settle into his consciousness, ready to be invoked when needed most.
Over breakfast, you laid your plans for the day’s grim work. Two Barovian children—Fyodor and Myrtle—remained prisoners at Old Bonegrinder, sold to the night hags by their desperate father. You would rescue them, and in the process, secure the hags’ true names from their coven contract so Lady Wachter could prepare proper magical defenses against the creatures. It was a dangerous mission, and you would need all the help you could muster.
Passing the fencepost, the evidence of Arden’s shitty shame was pungently apparent to all, though Choppy was the only one to correctly identify the scent as belonging to Arden. The drow attempted to intimidate the human into silence, but Choppy comes from a long line of grifters and knows how to seize an opportunity when one presents itself. He held the information for ransom, demanding that Arden never again chop him in the throat, lest their friends learn of his incontinence.
Your first stop was the burgomaster’s mansion, where Victor surprised you by meeting you at the front door—uncharacteristically eager to join the expedition. The young wizard seemed determined to prove his magical prowess, and he brought an unexpected companion: Patches, his skeletal cat familiar. The undead feline took an immediate liking to Fig, leaping onto the harengon’s head and settling there with a satisfied rattle of bones. Arden couldn’t resist reaching down to scratch the inside of the skeletal cat’s ear cavity, earning what might have been a purr if Patches still had a throat.
At the church of St. Andral, you found Ireena speaking with congregants in the aftermath of Father Lucien’s morning service. She accepted your invitation without hesitation, her eyes bright with determination. Whatever darkness awaited at the windmill, she would face it alongside you.
Your final stop was Wachterhaus, but Lady Wachter was one step ahead. Her servant Haliq informed you with barely concealed amusement that his mistress had foreseen your mission in her morning Tarokka reading and already awaited you at the Morning Gate. When you arrived, you found her standing with her four most trusted associates—Boris, Andrej, Miruna, and Ruxandra—their hooded cloaks marked with the symbol of her cult. The noblewoman’s knowing smile suggested she understood exactly what role her dark magic would play in the day’s events.
The Mad Druid
Midway through your journey along the Old Svalich Road, a rustling in the trees above brought your company to a halt. A gaunt figure dropped from a gnarled branch, landing upside-down with bare feet gripping the wood and wild, matted hair hanging toward the ground. The figure wore a tattered gown of stitched animal skins, and red streaks ran across their cheeks like war paint, with two more fang-shaped marks staining the skin beneath their lips. They sniffed the air and laughed—a sound somewhere between mirth and madness. “Little songbirds wandering the dark woods?” they asked, leering down at your group with unsettling intensity.
Lady Wachter stepped forward, her expression hardening. “I am no songbird, child of Yester Hill,” she said, her voice cold and commanding. “You know me, and my sign. Do the Forest Folk demand tolls to travel the Svalich Wood?”
The druid’s eyes lingered on Majesto, Lady Wachter’s imp familiar, with obvious interest. “No tolls, dear ones,” they replied, their voice a rasp. “Mere… curiosity. You keep strange company, daughter of Mother Night.”
“My company is no concern of yours,” Lady Wachter replied curtly. “Trouble us no more, and tell your master that the House of Wachter remembers its debts.”
“Debts indeed!” the druid cackled, their mud-stained grin widening. “But to whom, this one wonders?” With another burst of maniacal laughter, they sprang into the higher branches and vanished into the canopy, leaving only the rustle of leaves in their wake.
Once the druid had departed, Lady Wachter turned to address the questions written plainly on your faces. The eccentric figure had been one of the Forest Folk—druids who dwelled as hermits throughout the Svalich Wood and worshipped Strahd himself as a deity, revering his control over the land and weather. They treated Yester Hill, a sacred site at the valley’s southwestern edge, as their holy ground and served as the vampire lord’s eyes and ears in the wilderness.
She’d first encountered the druids years ago, she explained, while studying under her mentor Lysa—a woodswitch who dwelled in the swamps of Berez and worshipped Mother Night, a deity of darkness, trickery, and the occult. Lady Wachter had never been able to hear the “voice” of Mother Night as Lysa claimed to, and had eventually adopted the faith of Ezra after returning to Vallaki. Lysa, proud and possessive of her students, had taken the departure as a personal betrayal. Lady Wachter had been banished from Berez ever since.
As for the “debt” she’d mentioned—that was an old obligation, dating back centuries. When the traitor and assassin Leo Dilisnya had murdered Lady Lovina Wachter’s husband and attempted to kill Lovina herself, Strahd had defended her and hunted Dilisnya down to punish his treachery. House Wachter had remained loyal to Strahd ever since, bound by gratitude and ancient oath.
Old Bonegrinder
When Old Bonegrinder’s crumbling windmill finally came into view atop its bare, grassy hill, you withdrew into a darkened copse of trees beside the Old Svalich Road to plan your assault. Lady Wachter gathered everyone close—Victor, her four hooded cultists, and your group—and began asking the critical questions: How many hags resided within? How would you obtain their true names? Were the children inside, and how would you extract them safely?
Majesto, Lady Wachter’s imp familiar, volunteered for reconnaissance duty. The tiny fiend transformed into a crow and flew toward the windmill, his form flickering out of sight as he activated his innate invisibility. Through their psychic link, Lady Wachter relayed his observations: three hags occupied the building across three floors. The ground floor held a bone mill and kitchen where an elderly woman worked grinding bones. The second floor contained more grim work—bags of flour mixed with bone dust. The third floor held two children, huddled in stacked crates in a bedroom.
As the plan took shape, Victor offered his magical expertise. His greater invisibility spell could cloak two infiltrators for an extended period, allowing them to slip past the hags undetected. However, he warned, he needed to conserve his most powerful magic for the binding circle—once Lady Wachter erected her ritual to trap the hags, he would need his counterspell ready to protect it from the coven’s ability to dispel enchantments.
The plan crystallized: Fig and Choppy would be the invisible infiltration team, while Varnish and Arden would provide a distraction at the front door. Varnish cast disguise self upon himself, smoothing his features into those of a charismatic businessman, then turned to Arden. “You’ll be Radu Tyminski, acquisitions and enforcement,” he said with a grin. “I’ll be Emric Cantemir. Together, we are Tyrone & Sons Holdings, LLC—and we have a very lucrative business proposal.”
But the most critical element was the escape plan. Varnish placed his hand on Fig’s shoulder and channeled the mystical energy of the Tale of the Runaway he’d drawn that morning. The power flowed from bard to harengon, settling into Fig’s very essence. When the moment came, Fig would be able to teleport not just themselves, but up to six others to safety—silently, instantly, and without a trace.
Victor wove his spell with practiced precision, and Fig and Choppy watched their own bodies fade from view. The two invisible rescuers crept toward the windmill’s entrance, positioning themselves just outside the door. Then Varnish and Arden—now the distinguished businessmen of Tyrone & Sons Holdings—strode forward and announced themselves with confident authority.
“Good evening, esteemed proprietors!” Arden called out, his voice carrying across the hilltop. “Radu Tyminski, acquisitions and enforcement. And this distinguished gentleman beside me is Emric Cantemir, here to discuss… asset redistribution. We’ve brought an opportunity that could double your yield… but only if discussed face-to-face.”
The door creaked open, and an elderly woman appeared—Morgantha, her appearance deceptively kind despite the wickedness that lurked beneath. She studied the two businessmen with shrewd eyes, evaluating them for signs of deception. Whatever she saw must have satisfied her, because she smiled and gestured them inside. “Businessmen, you say? How intriguing. Please, come in.”
As Varnish and Arden stepped across the threshold, Fig and Choppy slipped through the open door behind them, their invisible forms making no sound on the wooden floorboards. The businessmen had Morgantha’s full attention now, allowing the invisible duo to creep toward the stairs.
Varnish launched into his pitch with the confidence of a seasoned entrepreneur. Tyrone & Sons Holdings had connections among the Vistani, he explained, and they’d noticed Morgantha’s… unique product line. They could offer a three-fold opportunity: first, marketing the dream pastries to additional families with children; second, bringing a higher volume of children to the windmill as potential customers; and third—most enticingly—expanding the distribution network beyond the Valley of Barovia itself, since the Vistani possessed the rare ability to traverse the deadly mists at will.
Morgantha’s eyes gleamed with avarice. “My daughters should hear this,” she said, turning toward the stairs. “Bella! Offalia! Come down here at once!”
Heavy footsteps echoed from above as two more hags descended the stairs. Fig and Choppy, still invisible on the steps, pressed themselves against the wall as the hags’ tattered skirts brushed past them. Bella and Offalia joined their mother at the ground floor, their excitement palpable as Morgantha explained the visitors’ proposal. All three hags gathered around the businessmen, leaving the upper floors unguarded.
THE REAL HOUSEWIVES OF OLD BONEGRINDER
Fig and Choppy wasted no time. They ascended to the second floor, where the bone mill dominated the space. Franz’s dying words echoed in their minds: “The gnarled arm holds the key.” Fig examined the millstone’s four wooden crossbeams and found that one was indeed more gnarled and weathered than the others. Pulling on it carefully, they discovered it was detachable—and behind it, jammed into a narrow slot, was a copper key.
Choppy took the key with trembling fingers and inserted it into a nearly-invisible keyhole on the millstone’s side. The compartment clicked open, revealing a small cache: cheap jewelry, a magical charm, and—most importantly—a sheet of dried human skin covered in cramped writing. The hags’ coven contract. Choppy read the three names inscribed there—Morgantha Stormreaver, Belladonna Sunbane, and Offalia Wormwiggle—then shuddered and carefully tucked the horrific document away.
The two rescuers climbed to the third floor bedroom. There, huddled in stacked wooden crates, were Fyodor and Myrtle—two small children with dirt-smudged faces and frightened eyes. Fig and Choppy spoke softly from their invisible positions, careful not to startle the children too badly. “We’re here to rescue you,” Fig whispered. “You’re safe now. You won’t be hurt anymore.”
Choppy, in his characteristically unhinged way, leaned close and added, “Never speak out loud again.” The absurdity of the instruction broke through the children’s terror, and they stifled nervous laughter even as they nodded their understanding.
Fig let their invisibility drop, revealing themselves to the children, then gathered Fyodor, Myrtle, and Choppy close. They reached for the mystical power Varnish had granted them—the Tale of the Runaway—and felt reality bend around them. In an instant, all four of them stood outside the windmill, safely away from the hags. Once certain they were clear, Fig drew a deep breath and unleashed a mighty bird call: “caw-CAW!”
Inside, Arden heard the signal. He pulled out a smooth stone from his pocket—a prop, nothing more—and held it to his ear as though receiving a message. “Hello?” he said, his face growing increasingly distressed. “What? The island? He… killed himself??” He paused, listening to the imaginary voice. “The ranch? Wait, he overdosed?!”
Varnish let out a string of creative curses. “Fucking private equity!!!” he spat, slamming his fist on the table.
Morgantha watched this display with growing concern—but also, notably, with a hint of impressed respect. These men had a speaking stone. Their business must be quite legitimate indeed.
Arden “hung up” and turned to the hags with an expression of profound regret. “I apologize, but we’ve just received devastating news. Our operation has been bought out and our assets are being liquidated as we speak. We’ll need to withdraw our offer immediately while we evaluate the impact of this… unfortunate development.”
The three hags exchanged disappointed glances but showed no signs of suspicion. Morgantha saw the businessmen to the door with polite regrets about the missed opportunity. Varnish and Arden maintained their professional demeanors until they were out of sight, then hurried to rejoin the rest of your group.
You regrouped in the trees, the two rescued children clinging to Ireena, who spoke to them in soothing tones. Lady Wachter examined the coven contract with grim satisfaction—she now had everything she needed to bind the hags. The mission had been a complete success. Fyodor and Myrtle would be returned to their uncle’s care at the refugee camp, and soon, very soon, you would return to Old Bonegrinder to put a permanent end to the hags’ vile business.
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