16th May 2025 - The Echo of the Wolf

The smell reminded them they were not safe, not yet.

Damp soil, fur, rot, woven through the air like threads of a tapestry none of them had asked to read. The bones came next, brittle and sun-bleached, arranged with a care too intentional to be accidental. Lars squinted at the mess, nostrils flaring, hand resting on the hilt of his weapon.

Near the alcove, a child's doll sat half-buried in the dirt, its painted grin wide and cracked. The tag tied to its wrist read No Fun Is No Blinsky. The phrase landed like a whisper, curling around the edges of their thoughts. Marcus shivered.

Aeli, ever the sharpest of them, crouched beside it, fingers ghosting the doll’s surface. "We’re close. The child was here."

The wind shifted.

It was Lars who broke the silence. A misstep, stone against armor, echoed like thunder in the still cave. Everyone froze. In the distance, wolves began to howl.

A flash of unfamiliar colour caught their attention, a woman emerged, dashing toward a flickering firelight. Behind her, two shadows loped forward on all fours, their shapes shifting between man and beast. Werewolves.

Aeli reacted first, igniting the Sunsword in a burst of radiant brilliance that cleaved through the foes. Athun moved beside her, his blade a blur. Lars, heart pounding, flanked left.

Marcus raised a hand. His Shield shimmered into place just in time to block gnashing jaws. Teeth scraped magic instead of flesh.

The battle turned fast. Aeli’s blade blazed with divine light, leaving seared fur and yowling pain in its wake. Marcus hissed through clenched teeth and unleashed a stream of Poison Spray, catching one of the creatures in the face. It writhed, eyes bulging, as green magic tore through its corrupted flesh.

The second werewolf lunged but Lars met it head-on, his weapon seeking true on his target. Athun followed, crashing through like a force of nature. The ground churned beneath them, painted in mud and blood.

When the silence returned, it was heavy.

The corpses of the beasts cooled, their twisted forms no longer shifting. Lars, panting, knelt beside one. His hand trembled as he pulled a stained piece of parchment from its belt—a family portrait. His family. His parents and his sister, circled in red ink.

Nobody said a word.

A short distance away, they found the cages.

Six, in total—wrought iron and cruelly made. Children clung to the bars, eyes wide and filled with fear. In the centre of it all loomed a crude statue of a woman with a wolf’s head, carved of dark wood and slick with blood and wax. The Nightmother. Offerings surrounded her, gold, bones, and teeth.

Above them, two corpses swung gently from shackles, skin stretched thin, eyes eaten away by insects. The girl they had chased cowered behind the statue, whispering, "*They were going to become family.*"

Marcus turned away.

Then the fog shifted. Grew colder. And from its embrace stepped a man in crimson and black.

Strahd.

The air bent around him, the power in his presence a silent roar. He regarded them with something like amusement and something very much not. "You’ve stolen from the Nightmother," he said, his voice smooth and absolute. “There are curses for thieves. Nightmares you’ll never wake from.”

He offered dinner again. A seat at his table. Always with the civility before the cruelty.

Marcus, never one to bow, narrowed his eyes. "How kind of you to extend hospitality while sacrificing children."

Strahd’s smile didn’t falter. His hand moved, a flicker of magic and Marcus vanished, replaced by a rat. Aeli gasped. Lars stepped forward, but held his ground.

“I require more souls,” Strahd said. “Barovia demands it. Your interference? It’s cute. Misguided.”

Aeli raised the Sunsword, letting its golden glow challenge the night. “This belonged to your brother. You know that. You fear that.”

Strahd’s eyes narrowed. “You sound like my sister. Madam Eva has always had a way of meddling.”

Lars stood beside Ireena, fists clenched. The portrait weighed in his pocket like a promise unkept. The others debated their next move, voices hushed, eyes wary.

Then, a flick of Strahd’s fingers and Athun cried out, the bark of pain unmistakable. A curse. A spell of decay.

Strahd vanished like mist on the wind, leaving behind only the weight of his words and the certainty that he would return.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was full of decisions yet unmade.