30th May 2025 - The Baron's Children and the Blight in the Vines

The morning broke grey and muted in Krezk, as if the sun itself had hesitated to rise. Fog clung low across the rooftops, and even the birds seemed too uncertain to sing.

The adventurers awoke to whispers.

The Baron had children now.

Six of them.

Aeli narrowed her eyes. “There were nine in the den.”

Marcus stiffened, staring into the steam of his morning tea. “Which means three are missing… or worse.”

They made their way to the Baron’s home, the structure oddly warm compared to the rest of the village, a hearth burning, voices laughing, the smell of sweet bread wafting from within. But it wasn’t comfort they felt.

It was wrong.

A boy answered the door. Lars recognized him instantly, a child from the werewolf caves, one of those they had fought to free. The boy smiled, as if none of that had ever happened.

Inside, Baron Vallakovich beamed like a man resurrected, cheeks flushed, eyes lit with paternal pride. “They are a blessing,” he said, over and over again, as if the repetition would make it true.

Marcus sniffed the air. No wet fur. No blood. Nothing obvious. Aeli leaned in to inspect the children’s eyes, their hands, their shadows. All seemed...normal.

But Barovia had a way of hiding truth behind masks.

The Baron would not listen to their warnings. Nor would he explain how the children had arrived. “The Morninglord provides,” he said, before turning back to one of the girls and braiding her hair.

Outside, the party stood in silence. There were too many unknowns. No proof. No signs of a curse. But something about it all itched at the base of Lars’ spine.

“We’ll leave,” Marcus said. “But this isn’t over.”

The road away from Krezk twisted through groves of skeletal trees and frost-kissed vineyards. The fog thickened as they neared their destination, clinging to their boots like regret. They had chosen the next step—the Wizard of Wines Winery, a place once vital to Barovia’s dwindling joy, now whispered of as fallen.

Vines strangled the trellises, their leaves curled as if recoiling from the air. The building loomed dark against the sky.

A voice emerged from the mist.

Adrian Martikov stepped forward, hood pulled low, two children clinging to his cloak. “You shouldn’t be here,” he warned.

He was one of the Martikovs—the family bound to ravens, keepers of secrets and wine alike.

“They’ve taken the winery,” he explained. “Druids. Blights. Something worse. My uncle left days ago. Hasn’t come back.”

Marcus exchanged glances with Aeli. “And the wine?”

Adrian nodded grimly. “Poisoned. Tainted.”

Cautiously, they continued towards the large building standing at the heart of the winery.

Inside, the smell was rot and sour grapes. Casks sat cracked and leaking. The floorboards groaned as if resenting each step.

A wild-eyed druid stood atop one of the vats, pouring a vial of black fluid into the mixture below. Her skin was streaked with sap. Her mouth moved in a chant no sane mind should know.

The twig blights came first, small, sharp, and vicious.

Aeli’s Sunsword blazed with radiant fury, cleaving through them in wide arcs. Sparks danced in the darkness.

Lars lunged forward, crushing limbs and splinters under his mace—but one misstep, and he plunged into a spill of poisoned wine. He staggered, woozy, breath short.

Marcus unleashed a Firebolt, igniting a blight mid-leap.

The druid screamed and loosed a Thunderwave, knocking Lars into Aeli. Both slammed against a barrel, but recovered.

Athun’s frostbrand blade sang as it clashed with bark and bone, freezing vines mid-strike. When he brought it down on the druid, her cry echoed like breaking stone.

She fell.

And a vat burst open.

A wave of green, sludgy liquid oozed across the floor, hissing against the stones.

In the back room, they found the second threat.

Another druid, cloaked in bark and moss, tore through a desk, searching, desperate. Vine blights coiled protectively around her, eyes like black pits.

Lars reached for his bow, but vines snatched his limbs, pulling him to the floor.

Aeli tried to flank, but was blocked.

Marcus aimed carefully. Another Firebolt. The blight went up in flames, the smell nauseating.

Athun stepped forward. A druid moved to flee, but his Sentinel strike was swift, reminding them why you never turned your back on Athun.

Aeli’s blade glowed again. She struck true, her blade severing the druid’s cry mid-syllable.

Silence fell.

The winery was only half explored, the corruption only partially understood. Poisoned wine still lingered in the casks. Barrels groaned with rot.

The fog outside thickened once more, curling around the winery like a beast preparing to return.

And Barovia watched.

Always watching.