07th March 2025 - The Abbot and the Abbey

The Abbey loomed above them, a silent sentinel atop the mist-laden cliffs. Its two wings stretched like the arms of some forgotten monolith, joined by a fifteen-foot-high curtain wall. Above its battlements, two figures stood—still, watchful. Guards, perhaps, though their forms wavered in the thickening fog. Below them, a pair of massive wooden doors, reinforced with bands of steel, sat waiting. To the right, tarnished with age, a copper plaque bore a single inscription:

May her light cure all illness.

Athun stepped forward, placing a hand against the heavy doors. Unlocked. He pushed, and they groaned in protest, swinging open to reveal the courtyard beyond. The mist was thick here, swirling in restless eddies, retreating as though reluctant to remain.

Aeli’s keen eyes swept the courtyard. The guards—no, not guards. Scarecrows. Placed with deliberate intent, their stillness more ominous than if they had moved. The courtyard stretched before them, flanked by wooden doors leading to the abbey’s wings. A stone well stood at the center, fitted with an iron winch, its rope and bucket hanging expectantly. Against the perimeter, sheds with padlocked doors huddled beneath the overhang of the wall. Three shallow alcoves held wooden troughs, silent and empty.

Then they saw it.

A figure, chained to one of the two wooden posts driven into the rocky earth. Small. Misshapen. Bat-like wings trembled against the cold, spider-like mandibles twitching. And from the sheds, the silence shattered—screams. Raw, unfiltered, human, yet not. The echoes clawed at their minds, animalistic and desperate.

Lars pressed forward, leading them toward the abbey’s main hall. He knocked, the sound sharp against the weight of the morning hush.

Beyond the stone well at the courtyard’s center, wooden doors led to the abbey’s inner halls. Along the perimeter, sheds hunched beneath the wall’s overhang, their padlocked doors suggesting secrets better left undisturbed. Three shallow alcoves held wooden troughs, empty and waiting.

But it was not the well, nor the alcoves, that caught their attention.

Two wooden posts jutted from the rocky earth. Iron rings bolted into the wood held thick chains, and at the end of one, a creature crouched. Humanoid, but twisted—bat-like wings folded against a hunched frame, spider mandibles clicking as it turned its head toward them.

Then came the screams. From the sheds. Human, yet not. A sound that stripped warmth from the bones and made the air feel colder than it had any right to be.

Lars stepped forward, raised a fist, and rapped on the door to the main hall. He was not a man prone to hesitation, but something about this place demanded caution.

From within, a melody drifted down. Gentle, aching, played on a single-stringed instrument with the precision of a master. The door swung open, revealing a vast chamber bathed in golden light from arched, leaded glass windows. A cauldron simmered in the hearth, its fire casting shifting shadows along the stone walls. Above the mantle, a golden disk gleamed—engraved with the sun’s radiant symbol.

A wooden table, long enough to host a feast, stretched across the chamber, each seat adorned with neatly arranged dishware and golden candelabras. At its end, a woman stood, lost in thought. Her gown, once regal, was torn and soiled, the crimson fabric faded with time. Auburn hair was gathered in perfect order, untouched by the filth staining the rest of her. Her alabaster skin caught the light, too flawless, too still.

Beside her, a young man in a monk’s robe moved with preternatural grace. His presence was effortless, the kind of fluidity reserved for the divine. A wooden holy symbol of the sun hung from his neck. He turned, smiling with a warmth that never touched his eyes.

“Welcome,” the Abbot said. His voice was smooth, practiced, laced with something unknowable.

Lars wasted no time. “There are creatures outside,” he said. “Chained. Caged. Afflicted by some curse. What ailment is it that—”

“What ailment?” the Abbot interrupted, head tilting slightly. His tone was gentle, his question genuine, yet Lars felt an edge to it.

Lars described the grotesque transformations, but the Abbot merely watched, waiting for him to finish before moving on.

Then, with eerie certainty, he spoke of Strahd. Of the land’s curse. “You are not of this place,” he said. “You were brought here. Like the rest.”

His words carried weight, old as the valley itself. The abbey, he explained, had once been a place of healing, a bastion of defiance against the dark. But when Saint Markovia fell, so too did its purpose.

Aeli and Lars pressed him further, wary of his evasions. He had come, he claimed, to restore what was lost—to heal the land and its people. To see Strahd removed from his throne by any means necessary.

Athun and Lars exchanged a glance. This was a moment of trust, or the illusion of it. They declared their intent. They had come to destroy Strahd. The Abbot’s expression shifted—approval, curiosity. “When Strahd falls, the Fanes of Barovia must be restored. Only then will the mist break, and the land be free.”

Aeli frowned. “The Fanes?”

The Abbot’s gaze darkened, as if peering through layers of history unseen. “They were once the heart of Barovia. Three sisters of great power, woven into the valley itself. Strahd defiled them, corrupted their shrines. He severed their bond, claiming the land as his own. He is no mere ruler. He is the land.”

Hope flickered in Athun’s chest, fragile but present. “Then… if the Fanes were restored?”

The Abbot nodded. “Then the land’s curse could be broken. The mists would recede. Strahd would not return.”

A path. A way forward.

Aeli frowned, arms crossed. “And where do we find these Fanes?”

Hope flickered, fragile, unsteady. “Where are these Fanes?” Athun asked.

The Abbot’s smile faded. “Their locations are lost to time. But the Vistani may know.” He sighed. “They guard their knowledge well. It is passed through riddles and stories, not freely given.”

Lars clenched his fists. Another puzzle. Another path yet to be walked. The road to Strahd’s downfall stretched longer than they had imagined, winding through history, through myth, through forces far older than the vampire himself.

But at least now, they had a direction. The air in the room felt heavier. Not with dread—no, this was something else.

Hope. Tenuous. Distant. But real.

The Abbot's gaze locked onto Marcus, his eyes narrowing in quiet scrutiny. A shiver ran through the air, and for a moment, it felt as if the entire abbey had gone still. Then, with measured steps, the Abbot approached, his voice low, solemn.

"The darkness within you festers, Marcus. It coils around your soul like a viper, and if left unchecked, it will consume you. You must sever its hold—or be lost to it forever."

The weight of the words hung heavy between them. Aeli and Athun exchanged a glance, confusion etched across their faces, but Marcus merely swallowed, his hands clenched at his sides.

The Abbot’s offer came without fanfare, without flourish—just the unshaken certainty of a man who spoke in absolutes. There was a way to break the curse, a ritual that could cleanse the darkness. But for that, they would need the Chalice of St. Markovia, an artifact hidden deep within the ruins of a forgotten chapel in the Svalich Woods.

Lars, however, was not so easily distracted. His gaze flickered toward the courtyard beyond the hall, toward the bound creature writhing in its chains.

"And what of the thing outside?" he asked.

The Abbot turned away, his expression unreadable.

"Everything I have done for the Belviews has been for their own good."

It was an answer that resolved nothing. Lars pressed forward, demanding clarity, but the Abbot offered only riddles wrapped in half-truths. Instead, he pivoted to another matter—his own request.

"I can raise the dead," the Abbot admitted after a pause, his voice as smooth as a blade sliding from its sheath. "Three times. And I can mend wounds, if need be. But such gifts are not given freely."

He spoke of Vasilka, the silent woman in the tattered red gown, and the favor he required: a bridal dress. A gown fit for a noblewoman.

The adventurers made their exit soon after, stepping beyond the heavy doors, the cold night air wrapping around them like a waiting specter. But as the doors closed, they caught one last whisper from the Abbot’s lips.

"Soon, you will be wed to him."

Night draped Krezk in silence by the time they reached the Burgomaster’s home. Inside, Ireena brightened at the sight of Lars, her expression soft with relief.

"Lars! You're back. The Baroness and I have been talking—she’s wonderful, truly. I’ve agreed to stay in Krezk, though… I admit, I would rather stay by your side."

Lars shook his head. "It’s safer here, Ireena."

She hesitated, but said nothing more.

At the dinner table, talk of the Abbot’s request surfaced. The Baron nodded absently, but his wife—Lady Krezkov—perked up, intrigue flashing in her eyes. She spoke of their daughter, how they used to sew dresses together, a bond shared between mother and child.

Athun’s voice cut through the warmth of nostalgia. "What happened to her?"

A long pause. Then, softly, "She died. Illness took her, as it did our son."

The words settled heavily, an unspoken grief tightening the room. Aeli, sensing the tension, deftly shifted the conversation.

"Do you know of anyone with a horse we could borrow?"

The Burgomaster exhaled, considering. "Take mine," he said finally. "In return… bring us wine from the Wizard of Wines."

A fair trade.

Then—

A knock.

It rolled through the manor like distant thunder, a sound that rattled wine bottles in their cabinets. Lady Krezkova moved to the door, her fingers trembling slightly. She opened it. And dropped the bottle in her grasp.

The Abbot stood before her.

His presence seemed wrong in the flickering lamplight. He leaned close, his lips moving in a whisper. Something only for her ears.

Lars saw the shift in her face—a moment of shock, then something darker. When the Abbot turned and spotted them, his demeanor flickered, rearranging itself into something unreadable. Then, without another word, he left, his form swallowed by the night.

Aeli caught the Baroness swaying where she stood, her knuckles white against the doorframe.

Then, the whisper that Athun just barely heard.

"He says he can bring our son back."

The night deepened, but sleep brought no solace. Barely an hour had passed before the bells rang out. Guards shouting in the streets. The Baron’s voice, barking orders as the manor stirred to life. The adventurers bolted upright, weapons in hand, and rushed toward the outer wall.

Beyond the gates, a black carriage approached, sleek and silent as a blade in the dark. Two obsidian horses pulled it forward, their eyes like dying embers. Then, as it came to a halt, the door swung open.

A figure emerged. The gleam of armor, catching the moonlight. A presence that set teeth on edge. A voice—familiar.

"Come now, my friends."

Vidar. The once-allied cleric stepped into the lamplight, his stance easy, his voice curling with something close to amusement.

"My master awaits."

His gaze slid toward Lars.

"You wouldn’t want to keep him waiting, would you?"