Into the Mists

3rd of Octyavr, 737 BC
  Van Richten's Tower, Barovia
 
 
  One moment, the world was still, tasting of dust and millennia-old stone; the next, a nauseating wrench pulled at his very being.
  The oppressive heat was instantly leeched away, replaced by a biting, damp chill that pierced his desert-worn leather wrappings. He stumbled forward, not onto smooth, sand-scoured stone, but into soft, grasping mud, the world around him now a suffocating blanket of grey fog that clung to his scales like a shroud.
  Disoriented, Drakthar's reptilian eyes narrowed, trying to pierce the bewildering gloom. Gone was the finite, enclosed chamber; in its place was a seemingly endless expanse of swirling mist, muffling all sound and obscuring everything beyond a few feet. Every instinct, honed by a life under an open, unforgiving desert sky, screamed that he was somewhere else. The oppressive weight in the air was more than just cold dampness; it was a palpable despair, a chilling certainty that the pyramid was a world away and he was now prey in a land that fed on hope.
  Suddenly, a long, mournful cry sliced through the fog, a sound deeper and more resonant than any desert jackal's yip.
  Drakthar's grip tightened on his scimitar as the single call was answered by a chorus of guttural, hungry baying that seemed to come from all directions at once. The unseen pack was large, and the deliberate snapping of twigs and rustling of undergrowth heralded the approach of predators far heavier than any canine he had ever known.
  Drakthar then broke from the treeline in a desperate sprint, his feet splashing into the murky water of the marsh. A thick, grey mist instantly enveloped him, clinging to his cloak like a ghostly shroud. The world dissolved into swirling shapes and muffled echoes. Ahead, through a momentary parting in the fog, he saw his goal: a dark smudge of a marshy island, crowned with the silhouette of a distant stone tower. Closer, and to the right, sat a barrel-topped wagon spattered with mud.
  With a growl of effort, Drakthar pushed onward, his legs churning through the sucking mud and icy water. The air tasted of damp earth and decay. Behind him, the growls grew louder, a chilling pursuit now masked by the oppressive fog. His eyes remained locked on the faint outline of the tower, a lone beacon in a world that had suddenly become grey, wet, and filled with the sound of approaching teeth.
 
 
 
  Ignoring the wagon for a moment, Drakthar ran up to the tower's front entrance.
  Looming out of the gloom, the stone tower's entrance was a grim warning. The heavy, dark-wood door was bound in rusted iron and dominated by a large, verdigris-stained copper disc. An intricate, unnerving sigil was etched across its surface—a complex knot of lines and runes utterly alien to Drakthar's desert homeland.
  A new sound suddenly cut through the oppressive quiet—the rhythmic splash of oars and the gentle creak of wood on water.
  From the mists that shrouded the lake's edge, a small rowboat emerged, carrying two familiar figures: a human in chain armor and a goliath whose immense frame made the vessel look like a toy. It was Duncan and Obor!
  As Obor stepped ashore with a booming laugh, he closed the distance in two massive strides and enveloped the stunned Drakthar in a crushing bear hug.
  Huddled near the base of the foreboding tower, the three companions quickly pieced together their shared, bizarre fate.
  Each recounted the same tale: drawn to a mystical brazier within the desert pyramid, they had reached out to touch the impossibly cool flames that emanated from it. The instant they made contact, the scorching heat of the desert was immediately replaced by the damp, bone-chilling cold of the land they found themselves in.
  However, their relief at finding one another was soured by a shared loss, as Heymadood the bard, who had been with them, was nowhere to be seen.
  Just as Obor spoke the bard's name, a concert of howls rose from the woods from where Drakthar had emerged, the sound of a large pack drawing nearer, forcing a grim choice.
  "That wagon, or the tower?" Duncan asked, his voice low, gesturing toward the wagon nearby as he drew his sword, Sandwhisper, illuminating the area in its light.
  They first chose to examine the wagon.
  Under layers of mud, the wagon sported a fresh coat of purple paint, and its wheels had fancy gold trim. A brass lantern hung from each corner, and red drapes covered a tombstone-shaped window on each side. A steel padlock secured the back door, from which hung a cheap wooden sign that read, “Keep out!”
  The three chose to leave the wagon and moved towards the tower's entrance.
  The tower door was made of iron, with no visible handles or hinges. In the middle of the door was a prominent, embossed symbol — a connected series of lines with eight stick figures set around it. Carved into the lintel above the door was a word: Khazan.
  Drakthar's gaze traced the alien geometry on the disc, committing the pattern to memory. Then, slowly and with the rigid precision of a swordsman's drill, he began to move. His powerful arms locked at the elbows and wrists in a painfully awkward contortion, straining to replicate the sharp, stick-figure sigils on the disc. He held each strange pose for a tense moment, his scaled form a crude, living echo of the etched symbols.
  After mimicking the final symbol, the door swung open on rusty hinges.
 
 
 
  The flagstone floor was strewn with debris, and a few old crates stood near the east wall.
  A large metal platform in the center of the floor contained four pulleys attached to taut iron chains that stretched up through a large hole in the rotted wooden ceiling. Standing next to the chains were four tall clay statues.
  Closing the door behind them, the three stepped onto the platform.
  With a grating sound of dried earth, the lifeless clay statues broke their silent vigil, their sculpted heads turning in perfect unison. Their powerful hands closed around the thick iron chains, their earthy grips scraping against the metal as they began to pull with a synchronized, relentless heave. Amidst the deafening clatter of tightening links, the metal platform shuddered and groaned, beginning its slow, jerky ascent from the tower floor.
  Twenty feet above the tower's first floor, the platform stopped at the second floor.
  Dust and cobwebs filled the room, the wooden floor of which was badly rotted and partially collapsed in places. The purpose of this dusty, cobwebbed room was unknown, but it was clear that someone took it as a bedchamber, despite the holes gaping in its floor. It sported a cot covered in yellowed sheets, several crates, a sturdy chair, and a rickety table made from planks. Old tomes and scattered papers, some almost transparent from prolonged exposure to the elements, lay on the desk.
  The group decided not to explore the room but to continue upward.
  Duncan pulled on the chain, and the platform continued its ascent.
  The tower's third floor, once a grand library, has now been ruined by years of humidity and neglect. The northwest wall has all but collapsed; a gash in the stonework gapes open like a surprised mouth from which black mold has grown. The mold had spread to the shelves and the books, many of which had fallen to the floor. The floor itself had rotted away in places, leaving jagged holes that would surely have cut whomever fell through them. From what they could see, some tomes were still salvageable.
  As the group explored the room, a sharp cracking sound drew their eyes to a high, rotting bookshelf, where the sculpted eyes of a marble bust snapped open with unnerving speed.
  Dust cascaded down as its stone lips ground apart, speaking in a gravelly, imperious rasp. "Here now, you deplorable louts. I demand to know who invited such a poorly-dressed collection of muscle, scales, and sanctimony into my tower!" it sneered, its magnificent stone mustache seeming to quiver with indignation.
  When asked who he was, the bust said his name was Buster.
  "Do try to keep up, you knuckle-dragging simpletons," Buster grated, his marble eyes rolling dismissively. "My master, the brilliant wizard Khazan, acquired me from a land of artisans so sophisticated your tiny minds couldn't possibly comprehend it."
  He scoffed, a dry, stony sound. "Even a genius like Khazan required an intellectual equal for conversation, a task for which you three would be woefully, tragically, and laughably unequipped."
  Tiring of Buster's quips, Duncan searched through the moldy tomes, hoping to find any information regarding where they were. Meanwhile Drakthar searched the room for anything of value.
  While Buster focused its most articulate insults on Duncan, it was Obor who happily engaged the marble bust, sparking a boisterous shouting match.
  The goliath's taunts were simple—"At least I can scratch my own back, rock-head!"—which only served to enrage the pompous bust further.
  Paying the squabble little mind, Duncan carefully sorted through the decaying literature, blowing dust off a few miraculously intact tomes.
  "Unhand my master's property, you pious pilferer!" Buster screeched, momentarily distracted from Obor.
  "Merely borrowing," the paladin replied calmly, pushing another book into the extradimensional space of his Bag of Holding.
  Seeing his direct insults did not affect the paladin; Buster suddenly adopted a tone of officious bureaucracy.
  "Very well," he sniffed, his voice taking on the cadence of a stern librarian. "Consider those tomes officially checked out from the Khazan Athenaeum. The standard loan period is precisely two weeks." He paused for effect, his marble eyes fixed on Duncan. "Be advised, failure to return the items in their original condition by that time will result in a... hefty... late fee, payable in a pound of your own flesh for every day they're late. We do, of course, charge interest."
  Meanwhile, Drakthar had moved to one of the rotting bookshelves where he found a single, perfectly crafted six-sided die made from a softer material that resembled glass. Picking it up, he thought of the number four, and with a gentle roll, it spun and settled perfectly, the 'four' facing up. He tried with 'six' and then 'one', and each time the die obeyed his silent command. Drakthar immediately pocketed the die.
  Satisfied that they had thoroughly searched the room, the three stepped back onto the platform. Duncan pulled on a chain, and the entire platform began to rise towards the tower's uppermost floor.
  "Leaving without saying goodbye?" Buster said. "Oh well. Do try to hurry along. You're lowering the property value and the collective intelligence of the entire tower with every moment you linger."
 
 
 
 
 
  Unlike the levels below, the tower's uppermost room showed signs of recent habitation.
  Although the place reeked of mold and mildew, it offered plenty of creature comforts: a wooden chest at the foot of a cozy bed, a desk with a matching chair, a brightly colored rug, and a large iron stove with ample wood to fuel it.
  Light entered through arrow slits as well as through dirt-caked windows with broken shutters. Other features of the room included a standing suit of armor and a wooden chest. Old wooden rafters bent under the weight of the tower roof, which had somehow remained intact. Mounted to the rafters were pulleys around which hung iron chains that supported the tower’s elevator platform.
  Obor, feeling tired from all the bantering with Buster, threw himself onto the bed, his large frame almost breaking it. Meanwhile, Duncan and Drakthar examined the room, hoping to find more clues about their location.
  Drakthar, standing at the foot of the bed, detected the faint lavender aroma emanating from the wooden chest.
  Kneeling before the simple wooden chest, Drakthar ran his scaled fingers along its edges, searching for the tell-tale signs of a trap—a wire, a hidden needle, or a pressure plate. His keen eyes scanned the lock and hinges, finding them crude but seemingly free of any malicious mechanisms. Deciding against touching it directly, he drew his scimitar, using the tip of the curved blade to carefully pry the lid upward with a low groan of rusted iron.
  The chest wasn't empty. Staring sightlessly up at him was a severed human head, its flesh having the pale, waxy complexion of a candle, and the air filled with the cloying, sweet scent of preservative oils used in its embalming.
  With a low hiss, Drakthar closed the lid and pushed himself up from his crouch, his face an unreadable, scaled mask. He told the others about his grim discovery.
  Not sure what to make of it, Duncan returned to his examination of the books he found on the desk, while Obor went back to sleep.
  Among some of the books he found, Duncan found a journal written by someone named Vilnius, who was an apprentice to Jakarion, a wizard who briefly lived in the tower. One particular hastily-written entry read:
 
 

“The day has come at long last. Having sorted through all possible futures, Master Jakarion has divined this date as the most fortuitous. The weather beyond the tower’s magic is fair. The autumn chill has not yet blown, and the roads will not yet turn to mud. Master Jakarion insists we move now and I, for one, cannot wait to put behind this dismal tower… There is a darkness here Jakarion refuses to speak of. My dreams of late have become troubled and visceral, and yet I can never remember them upon waking. But such concerns are soon to be behind me.
  “We set out at dawn. I have packed lightly, per the master’s instructions. He has foreseen much game between here and Mount Ghakis—as if he knows how to hunt! And so my stomach grumbles and shall continue to grumble. That curmudgeon will not allow us to eat the jerky, the salted pork, nor the blood sausages; such are to be gifts to the mountain folk to gain safe passage through their lands. Likewise, master has bought—or rather, I have bought as his reluctant surrogate—a bull to sacrifice to Tsolenka Pass’ dreadful guardian. May it take that beast instead of our mules—and if it doesn’t, may we happen to not be astride those pitiful steeds when the guardian attacks.
  “Even now I tremble with fear and excitement. The Temple of Amber… A legend of this land. Many have tried and failed to find the sanctum. Many have died in the cold, buried by snow, haunted by dreams of power. And power is what I shall have. Master has warned me from trafficking with the spirits therein, but I know the truth. I know that he fears I will surpass him! That I will find my destiny in the temple and see that it is not to be his whipping boy until I am old and grey! But I am no pawn. I will seize for myself that which has been so far denied. I will wield the powers Archmage Khazan too held! And there will come a day soon where Barovians everywhere, even the Devil himself, will know and fear the name Vilnius.”

 
  Pausing from his reading, Duncan looked towards the suit of armor standing nearby.
  The suit of ornate, full plate armor was masterfully crafted from a metal with a lustrous, coppery or rose-gold sheen. Its most striking feature was the intricate, swirling filigree that covered nearly every surface, with elegant, vine-like patterns etched into the helmet, cuirass, and pauldrons. In stark contrast to the artistry, sharp, menacing spikes jutted out from the shoulders, elbows, knees, and gauntlets. The helmet was a full-visored helm that completely concealed the wearer's face, and the armor was completed with a fauld of scale-like plates and distinctly pointed sabatons, creating a perfect blend of aristocratic beauty and brutal functionality.
  Duncan looked at the suit of armor, his practical paladin's eye appreciating the masterful craftsmanship, yet a deep sense of discord settled in his spirit. A paladin's armor was a sacred extension of his vow—a symbol of protection, faith, and justice. This suit, however, spoke a different language. Its ostentatious filigree felt rooted in worldly vanity rather than divine purpose, and the cruel, unnecessary spikes were designed for intimidation and gratuitous harm, not righteous defense. Lacking any symbol of faith, it was a hollow shell of artistry and violence. In short, it was a masterpiece made for a conqueror, not a shield for the innocent.
  Though he had dismissed the armor as a shell of vanity, Duncan could not deny the perfection of the longsword clutched in its gauntlet. The weapon was a masterpiece, and his paladin's sense of duty told him such a blade was too powerful to be left unguarded.
  Reaching out a hand, he slowly and deliberately moved to take the sword from the suit's armored grasp.
  The instant his fingers were inches from the wine-dark hilt, the silence was shattered by the shriek of metal grinding on metal. The armor's head snapped down, the empty black slit of its visor fixing on him with palpable menace. In a single, impossibly swift motion, the suit of armor raised the very sword Duncan sought and brought it whistling down in a vicious arc aimed directly at the paladin's head.
  The animated armor’s opening swing forced Duncan to leap back, the rose-gold longsword carving a shimmering arc through the dusty air.
  Seizing the opening, Drakthar darted in, a scimitar in one hand and a dagger in the other, but his flurry of strikes skittered harmlessly off the ornate plate.
  From across the room, Obor, disturbed from his slumber, rose from the bed, let out an angry roar, and hurled a hand axe, which ricocheted from the construct’s shoulder with a loud clang. His second axe flew true, striking its helmet with enough force to knock it clean off, sending it clattering across the stone floor.
  Ignoring the goliath, the headless construct turned on the closest threat, swinging a heavy gauntlet in a crushing slam that Drakthar narrowly dodged. The armor followed with a wild swing of its longsword that whistled past the dragonborn’s scales.
  Seeing his chance, Duncan lunged forward with his own blade, Sandwhisper. The armor's spiked vambrace parried his first attack, but seeing the helmetless construct reminded him of Obor’s direct approach. With a renewed war cry, he brought Sandwhisper around in a mighty cleave that struck the armor’s unadorned gorget. The enchanted steel bit deep, and with a final, resonant shriek of tearing metal, the magical bonds holding the construct together shattered, sending the entire suit clattering to the ground in a heap of inert, ornate plates.
  In the ringing silence that followed, the rose-gold longsword lay gleaming amidst the heap of its former guardian.
  Duncan stepped over the wreckage and picked up the weapon. The dark leather grip felt surprisingly warm and balanced in his hand as he gave it a slow, experimental swing. Though his reservations about its ostentatious design remained, his duty was clear. Acknowledging the weapon's potential power, he gave a firm nod, lashing it securely to his pack—a dangerous tool to be kept from evil, not a treasure to be flaunted.
  With the immediate threat neutralized, Obor gave a wide yawn, declared the excitement had tired him out, and promptly returned to the bed he had claimed, his booming snores filling the chamber moments later.
  Unfazed by the noise, Drakthar took a more practical approach to the reprieve. He found a small pot and, using dried meat from his own rations and some wild herbs he’d seen growing in a window box, he began simmering a thin but savory-smelling soup on the stove. Filling a bowl he found, he settled into a quiet corner, pulling out a book Duncan had passed him from the library's collection. Drakthar raised a scaled brow at the title embossed on the leather cover: The Lustful Lizardfolk Lass.
  Drakthar held the book open with one clawed hand. His sharp, reptilian eyes narrowed as he examined the contents between spoonfuls of soup. The illustrations were surprisingly vibrant, depicting dramatically posed female lizardfolks in various lurid, romantic, and often scandalous scenarios.
  Duncan returned to the desk, sat down, and began to peruse the books on the desk.
  As Duncan sorted through the books, his eyes fell upon a tome that was clearly different from the others. While the rest were merely old, this one felt ancient and resonant with a dark, latent power. It was a heavy volume, bound in thick brown leather and reinforced with ornate, silvery metal straps and a clasp. A striking metal sigil, shaped like a stylized bird of prey, was embossed on the cover. Unlike the other books, which felt like simple objects, Duncan's divine sense prickled in its presence; he could feel a palpable aura of profound evil and ancient sorrow clinging to it like a shroud, marking it not as a simple chronicle, but as a vessel of significant and malevolent history.
  Opening the book, he came upon a passage which read:
 
 

I am the Ancient. I am the Land. My beginnings are lost in the darkness of the past. I was the warrior, I was good and just. I thundered across the land like the wrath of a just god, but the war years and the killing years wore down my soul as the wind wears stone into sand.
  All goodness slipped from my life. I found my youth and strength gone, and all I had left was death. My army settled in the valley of Barovia and took power over the people in the name of a just god, but with none of a god’s grace or justice.
  I called for my family, long unseated from their ancient thrones, and brought them here to settle in the castle Ravenloft. They came with a younger brother of mine, Sergei. He was handsome and youthful. I hated him for both.
  From the families of the valley, one spirit shone above all others. A rare beauty, who was called “perfection,” “joy,” and “treasure.” Her name was Tatyana, and I longed for her to be mine.
  I loved her with all my heart. I loved her for her youth. I loved her for her joy. But she spurned me! “Old One” was my name to her—“elder” and “brother” also. Her heart went to Sergei. They were betrothed. The date was set.
  With words she called me “brother,” but when I looked into her eyes they reflected another name: “death.” It was the death of the aged that she saw in me. She loved her youth and enjoyed it. But I had squandered mine.
  The death she saw in me turned her from me. And so I came to hate death—my death. My hate is very strong. I would not be called “death” so soon. I made a pact with death, a pact of blood. On the day of the wedding, I killed Sergei, my brother. My pact was sealed with his blood.
  I found Tatyana weeping in the garden east of the chapel. She fled from me. She would not let me explain, and a great anger swelled within me. She had to understand the pact I made for her. I pursued her. Finally, in despair, she flung herself from the walls of Ravenloft, and I watched everything I ever wanted fall from my grasp forever.
  It was a thousand feet through the mists. No trace of her was ever found. Not even I know her final fate.
  Arrows from the castle guards pierced me to my soul, but I did not die. Nor did I live. I became undead, forever.
  I have studied much since then. “Vampyr” is my new name. I still lust for life and youth, and I curse the living that took them from me. Even the sun is against me. It is the sun and its light I fear the most, but little else can harm me now. Even a stake through my heart does not kill me, though it holds me from movement. But the sword, that cursed sword that Sergei brought! I must dispose of that awful tool! I fear and hate it as much as the sun.
  I have often hunted for Tatyana. I have even felt her within my grasp, but she escapes. She taunts me! She taunts me! What will it take to bend her love to me?
  I now reside far below Ravenloft. I live among the dead and sleep beneath the very stones of this hollow castle of despair. I shall seal shut the walls of the stairs that none may disturb me.

 
  The rest of the book chronicled the daily life of the lord of Ravenloft Castle. Duncan closed the book and examined another, a diary penned by someone named Rudolph Van Richten, who, according to some of the entries, had recently moved into the tower.
  He came upon an entry that captivated his attention.
 
 

For more than three decades now, I have undertaken to investigate and expose creatures of darkness to the purifying light of truth and knowledge. “Hero” I am named in some circles; “sage” and “master hunter” I am called in others. That I have survived countless supernatural assaults is seen as a marvel among my peers; my name is spoken with fear and loathing among my foes.
  In truth, this “virtuous” calling began as an obsessive effort to destroy a vampire that murdered my child, and it has become for me a tedious and bleak career. Even as my life of hunting monsters began, I felt the weight of time on my weary shoulders. Today I am a man who has simply lived too long. Like a regretful lich, I find myself inexorably bound to an existence I sought out of madness and, seemingly, must now endure for all eternity. Of course I shall die, but whether I shall ever rest in my grave haunts my idle thoughts, and torments me in my dreams.
  I expect that those who think me a hero will change their minds when they know the whole truth about my life as a hunter of the unnatural. Nevertheless, I must reveal, here and now, that I have been the indirect yet certain cause of many deaths, and the loss of many good friends. Mistake me not! I do not merely feel sorry for myself. Rather, I come to grips with a devastating realization: I now see that I am the object of a baleful Vistani curse. More tragically, the nature of this hex is such that I have not borne the brunt of it; instead, far worse, those who surround me have fallen victim to it!
  I have related the tragic story of how my only child Erasmus was taken by Vistani and sold to a vampire. I explained how Erasmus was made a minion of the night stalker, and how it was my miserable part to free him from that fate at the point of a stake. What I have neglected to illuminate before is how I tracked Erasmus’s kidnappers across the land, or how I “extracted” Erasmus’s whereabouts from them.
  In fact, the Vistani took Erasmus with my own, unwitting permission. They had brought an extremely ill member of their tribe to me one evening and insisted that I treat him, but I was unable to save the young man’s life. In fear of their retribution, I begged the Vistani to take anything of mine if only they would withhold their terrifying powers, of which I knew nothing. To my lasting astonishment, they chose to surreptitiously take my son in exchange for their loss! By the time I realized what had occurred, they were already an hour gone.
  Incensed beyond reason, I strapped the body of the dead young man to my horse and doggedly followed the Vistani caravan through the woods, naively allowing the sun to set before me without seeking shelter from the night. Shortly after darkness fell, I was beset by undead that would have slain me, had not their master—a lich—intervened and spared my life, for reasons that I do not completely understand. He somehow detected me and, with his powerful magic, took control of a pack of zombies that wandered in the forest. He spoke to me through the mouths of the dead things and placed a magic ward against undead on me, then animated the dead Vistana and bade it tell me where I could find its people. Unfortunately (I say in hindsight), the plan worked. I found the child-stealers, and my unwelcome entourage included a growing horde of voracious undead that could not touch me, thanks to the lich’s ward.
  When I found the caravan, I threatened to set the zombies on the Vistani unless they returned my dear boy. They replied that he had been sold to the vampire, Baron Metus. Something inside me snapped. I released the zombies, and the entire tribe was eaten alive.
  Yet the story has not ended. Before she died, the leader cursed me, saying, “Live you always among monsters, and see everyone you love die beneath their claws!” Even now, so many years later, I can hear her words with painful clarity. A short time later, I found my dear Erasmus made into a vampire. He begged me to end his curse, which I did with a heavy heart. The darkness had torn him from my loving arms forever, and I foolishly believed that the curse had exacted its deadly toll. I wept until an insatiate desire for vengeance filled the bottomless rift in my heart.

 
  Eyes gritty with exhaustion from deciphering the tome's spidery, unsettling script, Duncan finally closed its heavy cover.
  He found a spot on the floor where he could prop himself against the cold stone wall.
  He saw that Drakthar had taken the heavy rug and turned it into a thick, makeshift bedroll, creating a welcome barrier against the damp chill of the stone before settling in for his own rest in a defensible corner of the chamber.
  Duncan, his head bowed, clutched the worn metal holy symbol of St. Cuthbert that hung around his neck and whispered his evening prayer, the familiar words a ritual of comfort and duty.
  But where he usually felt a reassuring warmth—a divine presence that affirmed his path—there was only a profound and hollow silence. It was as if his words were being swallowed by the oppressive gloom of the tower, never reaching their destination. The symbol itself, usually a source of quiet strength, felt like a lump of cold, dead weight against his chest.
  A chilling sense of isolation washed over him.
  He felt, for the first time, spiritually abandoned.
  A single tear traced a path through the grime on his cheek before he finally surrendered to his exhaustion, drifting into a troubled sleep.