6th June 2025 - The Seed and the Chalice

The Wizard of Wines Winery had not been abandoned.

It had been left behind, as if something ancient had whispered a threat too dire for mortal ears, and the Martikov family had obeyed.

Vines choked the stone walls. Ivy crept like fingers across shuttered windows. And the barrels, the sacred barrels that once bore the pride of Barovia’s vintage, stood quiet as tombstones.

Lars, bow drawn, heart wary. Behind him, Aeli scanned for threats, her hand unconsciously brushing the hilt of the Sunsword. Marcus moved with a scholar’s stride, whispering arcane words under his breath, preparing for the inevitable.

Athun, stoic as always, simply watched. He had seen too many haunted places to fear the silence.

They began their search in earnest.

In the printing room, a key dangled from a length of twine, forgotten, like a memory no longer worth protecting.

Upstairs, they discovered two bedrooms. The first was pristine, beds made, blankets folded, the kind of order that only people with purpose could maintain. The second room was chaos incarnate: blankets tossed, drawers overturned, and on the floor, a child's rocking horse carved in the shape of a demonic steed.

Bucephalus.

Is no fun, is no Blinksy.

The dollmaker’s slogan returned like a ghost from Vallaki. Aeli stared at it for a long moment. Lars quietly closed the door behind them.

The next room gave off a vibe of unease. They looked at each other and knew what needed to be done.

Then, a crash.

They descended upon the druids in a room torn apart by clawed roots and fermented madness.

The druids were chanting. Blights twisted in through the walls—bark and bone entwined.

Combat erupted like a storm. Aeli, radiant with fury, carved down twig blights. Her sword shimmered as if the Morninglord himself had blessed it.

One druid cracked her in the ribs with a shillelagh. She staggered, but did not fall.

Athun was a tempest. Vines coiled around his legs, but he broke free and bisected a druid with one mighty swing.

Marcus, eyes aglow, released a barrage of Magic Missiles. The lights zipped through the air like furious birds, dropping fleeing enemies mid-step.

One druid escaped, screaming as he ran, “The seeds are his now! The land will love only Strahd!”

That scream would echo enough on its own.

They didn’t need to chase him as his attempt to surprise their flank did not give him enough of an advantage and he was defeated.

In the master suite, among the wreckage, they found remnants of other lives:

• A staff, once druidic, now pulsing with arcane potential, Marcus took it.
• A locket, golden, holding the painted face of a woman long forgotten.
• A scattering of coin and gemstones, amethysts winking like secrets.

Marcus unearthed a torn piece of parchment, its edges curled, words penned with hurried urgency:

“Our family swore to guard the seeds, not for wine, but for the land itself. Each seed is a promise made by the Ladies Three. The druids stole the red seed. We fear the others may follow.”

Athun looked up. “Seeds? Not grapes?”

“No,” Marcus said, eyes narrowing. “Power.”

In the study, amid pages torn from their bindings, Athun assembled a puzzle with the patience of a mason. A map revealed itself in scattered fragments, Barovia, marked not with roads or towns, but with intent.

Three red dots glowed like blood:

• Yester Hill, where the druids gather like storm clouds.
• Berez, the sunken ruins.
• And a point halfway between Vallaki and Barovia Village, unnamed and unspoken.

Aeli copied the locations. Her hands were steady. Her heart was not.

They returned to the fermentation chamber in the heart of the winery . The air was thick, foul. One vat gurgled with black wine, the surface bubbling with unnatural vitality.

Athun stepped back. “This is like the chapel. The radius, if something goes wrong...”

Aeli nodded. She stepped forward. Alone.

Marcus kept watch. Lars muttered a prayer while wedging a chair under the nearest door handle.

The Chalice of St. Markovia shone faintly in Aeli’s hands as she filled it with the corrupted wine. The smell was rot and sorrow.

She sliced her palm. Three drops fell.

Drip.

The color shifted, growing richer with each sacrifice.

Drip.

The wine quivered.

Drip.

She drank.

It was like swallowing a memory that did not belong to her.

Then, she poured the remainder back into the vat.

And the winery shook.

Outside, the wind howled, not through trees, but through intentions. The land was listening.

Aeli looked down at her bloodied hand, now trembling.

Athun stared at the vat, still humming faintly.

Marcus turned the druid’s staff in his fingers, feeling the weight of stolen magic.

And Lars, eyes on the door, muttered, “We should move before something answers.”

They did not know what had changed.

Only that something had.