11th July 2025 - The Feast and the False King

Darkness gave way to a torchlit chamber, grand in its emptiness.

The stone stairs creaked underfoot as Athun, Aeli, and Marcus ascended, leaving behind the soaked oubliettes of their imprisonment. Now, they stood at the threshold of something different. Not salvation, never that in Barovia, but a pause. A breath held by the castle itself.

The hall was vast, with pillars carved in the likeness of angels whose faces had long since eroded into wails. Athun’s gaze landed on a suit of gleaming ceremonial armor, untouched by time. A gift or a ruse? He didn’t care. He needed a weapon, and Marcus, ever the pragmatic one, assisted in strapping the polished relic to his friend’s frame.

Then, a sound.

Low. Melancholic. The first few notes of an organ began to echo, as if the air itself remembered sorrow and called it forth again. The song, slow and weighted, reached into the marrow of their bones.

Elsewhere in the castle, Lars awoke.

The scent of polished wood, spilled wine, and old blood filled his senses before his eyes could see. Not that they mattered, he was blindfolded. Bound. And seated.

The music dragged him from the edge of unconsciousness. It was real, then. Not a dream. The chair creaked violently as he jerked, managing to pitch himself backward in desperation. The crash was a cacophony: silverware, goblets, cutlery, shattered porcelain and bruised pride.

The sudden sounds of a nearby struggle allerted Marcus, Aeli, and Athun.

The great doors groaned as Marcus pushed them open. Aeli stepped forward beside him, short sword drawn, and Athun’s armored bulk filled the archway. What they saw was... absurd.

A feast. Lavish. Candied pheasant, roasted boar, chalices brimming with golden wine. Crystal decanters, pristine linens. Gilded plates shimmered in the candlelight.

And at the far end, a man in a cape. His back to them. Playing the organ.

Lars, still dazed and bound, sat among the ornate place settings. His clothes had been changed to noble finery, an insult painted in silk. They rushed to him, freeing the bonds, listening to his fragmented memories of a storm, a mountain, and then... nothing.

The music crescendoed, and then stopped.

The figure turned.

Strahd von Zarovich. Lord of Barovia. Deathless tyrant. He stood framed by pillars and firelight, face pale, expression poised.

“Welcome, my friends,” he said. “I am Count Strahd von Zarovich. Tonight, you are my guests, and no harm shall befall you while you remain in my home.”

His voice was polished. Too polished.

“I am a man of my word,” he continued. “And you have it.”

Then, again. “Welcome, my friends. I am Count Strahd von Zarovich...”

Again.

Again.

Marcus’s brows furrowed. He stepped forward, whispering an incantation to probe the illusion, and the castle struck back.

Flames snuffed out. The room plunged into shadow. Then, light returned, but colder, harsher. The man at the organ twisted with a scream not from lungs but from magic. His face peeled like silk, revealing a hollow image made of smoke and hatred.

Aeli lunged, blade flashing. Athun met the conjured phantom blow for blow. Marcus channeled fire with his bare hands, and Lars armed with only a stolen knife, fought like a cornered wolf.

And then it ended.

The illusion dispersed like mist struck by sunlight, leaving nothing but silence.

No time to rest. The great doors were locked, sealed with more than iron. Aeli, scanning the room, spotted scratches behind the organ. Together, they shifted the massive instrument aside, revealing a narrow stair.

Cobwebs hung thick. The air grew older with every step.

They passed through octagonal chambers where faded frescoes wept dust, up twisting staircases where the walls whispered old prayers. Arrow slits framed glimpses of the storm, lightning casting crooked shadows on the drawbridge below.

At last, the corridor spilled onto the castle battlements.

Rain fell like knives.

They had barely emerged before a clang of steel signaled another trap. A suit of animated armor stepped forth, greatsword alight with stormfire. It struck with the wrath of the heavens.

Lightning arced down its blade, cracking stone and nearly cleaving Athun in two. His armor, ornamental, not meant for war, shattered under the blow.

Aeli danced between the lightning arcs, her sword slashing again and again. Marcus hurled fire into the storm, illuminating the abomination in bursts. Lars, still holding the dinner knife, dodged beneath the armor’s guard. And with a final thrust, plunging the blade into the armor’s exposed joint, he ended it.

The armor collapsed with a screech of tortured metal, its magic unraveling like spun glass.

The battlements stretched out before them. The drawbridge swayed, its chains singing in the wind.

Behind them: the castle’s choking halls, filled with riddles and traps, and worse, perhaps the real Strahd.

Ahead: freedom, or a feint. The game board was never what it seemed in Barovia.

Lightning crackled above them, and the rain felt colder.

No answers awaited in safety. But perhaps, deeper within the storm, they might find the truth.

And if not the truth, then vengeance.