14th November 2025 - The Tolling of the Bell

The moon hung low over Krezk, pale and watchful, its light settling over the village like a shroud. No voices. No lanterns. No hearth-smoke. Only the party’s boots whispered across the gravel as they advanced toward the Baron’s house, bracing for carnage.

But carnage was not what they found.

Inside, chaos reigned, overturned chairs, ripped cushions, shattered crockery. It was the sort of destruction that suggested panic, not bloodshed. And that, they realized, was the strangest part: not a single smear of blood anywhere.

Marcus and Aeli picked through the remains with methodical precision. The Baron’s possessions were present. His wife’s were not. Dresses, jewellery, personal effects, gone. A frantic packing job, perhaps… but the room bore signs of a struggle as well.

Had she fled? Or had something taken her, carefully?

They stepped outside to regroup, but the village had not finished unsettling them. The trees rustled in unnatural synchrony, as though stirred by breath rather than wind. Footsteps pattered somewhere up the slope toward the Abbey, followed by a low howl that slithered across their nerves.

Lars attempted to melt into a nearby doorway, only for a perfect shaft of moonlight to spotlight him like a performer waiting for applause. Aeli snorted; the tension broke for a heartbeat.

The howl called again. The party answered.

The climb to the Abbey was steep, the path slick with dew, their breaths fogging in the frigid air. Marcus scaled the bell tower with arachnid ease, seeking vantage.

What he saw turned his stomach cold.

Three young werewolves prowled the courtyard with hungry pacing. Not fully grown, barely half-formed monsters. Children twisted by the curse.

Before he could signal the others, the bell above him tolled once. Twice. Seven times. The rope lay slack. No hand had touched it.

Magic, old, predatory, pulled the cord.

Marcus’s gaze drifted across the slanted roof tiles… and there she was: Sorrow, stepping through a doorway with a werewolf at her side. She glanced up, almost as if she felt his eyes, then vanished inside.

The others stormed the southwestern hall. Their first ambush hit them hard, a young werewolf leaping from behind the stairs, claws snapping toward Aeli’s throat. She pivoted with soldierly instinct. Her Sun Sword flared, Athun’s blades struck like winter wind, and Marcus filled the air with choking poison.

The beast fell with a snarl of defiance, gasping: “Long live the bride!” Then it crumpled into the small, fragile shape of a child.

The room beyond held an unsettling sight, a makeshift wedding space, decorated hastily with a flower arch. The implication hung heavy in the stale air.

And upstairs, Sorrow waited.

They burst into the upper room, weapons drawn and nerves frayed. Sorrow stood at the window with her back to them, moonlight outlining her silhouette.

“You’re all early,” she said, voice smooth as polished obsidian. “Still preparing the venue… well, the bride’s not ready yet.”

She turned. Her smile was slow. And wrong. Fangs gleamed.

The fight came fast and vicious. Sorrow moved like living shadow, blurring, teleporting, striking from angles no mortal blade should. Her black daggers punched deep, carrying necrotic rot with every cut. She danced between them with cruel delight.

Aeli and Lars worked in brutal tandem, boxing her in. Athun delivered a punishing riposte as she tried to slip past him. Marcus’s Ice Storm hammered the room, freezing the floor into jagged shards that slowed her escape.

And still she fought, laughing through bloodied teeth.

Aeli, seizing a narrow opening, drove the Sun Sword up beneath Sorrow’s ribs. Radiant light flared. Undead flesh sizzled.

Sorrow leaned in close, breath rattling. “I kind of like that,” she whispered.

Then her body unraveled into mist, sinking through the floorboards and fleeing into the depths below.

The Abbey’s silence felt heavier now, as though holding its breath.

In a nearby chamber, they found what they’d feared and hoped in equal measure: Ireena, bound, gagged, shaking in terror, but alive. She wore a white wedding dress, its lace sleeves dirtied and torn.

When freed, she clutched Aeli’s hand and whispered the truth:

“Strahd had me here. He… he was going to force me to marry him.”

Her possessions were gone, stolen by Sorrow, another piece of Strahd’s obsession laid bare.

A difficult conversation followed. Marcus, ever the strategist, suggested that if Ireena married someone else first, it might shatter Strahd’s claim. Lars spoke of a festival in his homeland, the Connectarium, but it was far too distant in the calendar to offer immediate salvation.

In the end, they barricaded themselves inside the Abbey, determined to survive the night.

Morning arrived in a miserable drizzle. Mist clung to the abbey stones, and rain hammered the roof with relentless persistence. After equipping Ireena with spare clothing, the party conducted one final sweep.

In the wine cellar, beneath rows of dusty barrels, they found it, a coffin. Sorrow’s.

Aeli’s recollections of undead lore provided clarity, and an opportunity.

Lars crafted a stake with rough pragmatism. With a steady, brutal thrust, he drove it down into Sorrow’s motionless chest. She convulsed once, then lay still.

Athun, grim and efficient, finished the job. His Greatsword cleaved cleanly, severing her head.

To ensure permanency, they lit the coffin, and the surrounding barrels, aflame. The resulting explosion of wine and fire sent the party scrambling, half-singed, from the cellar.

But when the smoke cleared, Sorrow was gone forever.

And the path ahead, to free Ireena, confront Strahd, and end the cycle, felt clearer than ever.