Mist Wanderers, Dream Pies, and the Cabin in the Woods
General Summary
4th of Octyavr, 737 BC
Old Svalich Road, Barovia
When dawn broke, Drakthar awoke to a deep, internal chill that the thick wool rug had done nothing to ward off. A son of the Bright Desert, his scales were made to absorb the blistering sun, but the damp, biting air of the tower had seeped into his very bones through the night. His movements were sluggish and stiff, his limbs heavy and unresponsive, a consequence of his reptilian body failing to regulate its own heat in the unrelenting cold. A wave of nausea rolled through his stomach as he pushed himself to sit up, his whole body aching with a profound lethargy—a deep-seated sickness born from a night spent shivering, completely unable to get warm. After eating part of their rations, Duncan and Obor began gathering their equipment and readied themselves. Drakthar did the same, but struggled to do so. "You're staying," Obor stated, his voice a low rumble that left no room for argument. Duncan, adjusting his newly acquired sword on his back, nodded in agreement. "He's right, Drak. You can barely stand. We need to scout the area, determine our location, and see if we can find any sign of Heymadood. You'll collapse within a mile." Drakthar, huddled in a moth-eaten blanket near the iron stove, pushed himself upright with a visible effort. "You need me...my skills," he rasped, his voice rough and weak as he tried to stand. "I will not cower here while you face..." A violent shiver cut his protest short, a tremor that ran from his horns to the tip of his tail, forcing him to sit back down on the floor. Seeing the dragonborn's defiance falter, Duncan’s expression softened. "We're not asking you to cower. We're asking you to be smart. Rest. Get your strength back." Obor grunted his assent. "We'll be quicker as a pair. And we'll have a better chance of finding Heymadood if we're not worried about you freezing solid." The cold ache in his joints and the sheer, overwhelming exhaustion were a more potent argument than their words. Defeated, Drakthar gave a short, resentful nod and sank back down onto the dusty floor. He had no choice but to watch them go, his pride as wounded as his chilled body, as they stepped onto the floor, pulled the chain, and descended the tower. The chill mist clung to Duncan and Obor as they made their way down the tower using the tower's scaffolding. When they reached the ground, Duncan examined the scaffolding, testing the stability of the wooden supports. Soon, he spotted a few crucial-looking joints held together by thick iron pins at the scaffolding's base. He wasn't trying to bring it down immediately, but rather to arrange a future accident. After a moment's thought, he found a loose rock and struck the pins just hard enough to knock them halfway out of their sockets, leaving the structure treacherously unstable for any who might try to climb it later. They hadn't walked past the front door when three figures emerged from the fog ahead, walking purposefully toward them. Obor's hand went to the greataxe on his back before he squinted, his gruff voice a mix of shock and relief. "Heymadood!" It was indeed their missing companion, looking tired but unharmed. Two women flanked him, whom they didn't recognize. As they closed the distance, the older of the two, a woman with wild, curly hair and the confident air of a seasoned traveler, raised a hand in greeting. "You must be the ones Heymadood spoke of," the woman said, her voice clear and steady. "My name is Ezmerelda d'Avenir. I am an apprentice to Rudolph Van Richten, the master of the tower you just came from. But please call me Ez." Duncan and Obor exchanged a surprised look at the mention of the Van Richten's name, having read his journal the night before. Ezmerelda gestured to the younger woman, whose dark hair and noble features were overshadowed by a deep-seated weariness in her eyes. "This is Ireena Kolyana. I found her, along with your friend, Heymadood, on the Old Svalich Road after my horse and I were attacked by wolves. Ireena said she bravely escaped the village of Barovia. For reasons she doesn't understand, she has drawn the unwanted and dangerous attention of Count Strahd himself." Ireena offered a slight, weary nod, her grip tightening on the cloak she wore. Heymadood recounted how he arrived in the area. The memory struck Heymadood with the force of a physical blow—recalling the Bright Desert's suffocating heat, the pyramid's glyph-etched walls, and remembering the look on Obor's face before his strong hands threw Heymadood into the roaring, fiery brazier. In the next instant, the all-consuming fire was replaced by a bone-deep chill and the scent of damp earth and decay. He gasped for air on a forest floor of tangled roots, surrounded by towering, skeletal trees that, while utterly alien, evoked a horrifying sense of déjà vu, as if this suffocating, misty prison was a place he had visited before. "We were heading to the tower to seek my master's counsel," Ezmerelda continued, "but our ultimate destination is the town of Vallaki. Ireena hoped to ask a priest, Father Lucian Petrovich, for sanctuary in the Church of St. Andral. As long as the bones of St. Andral remained within its crypt, the church was a true haven. The holy relic kept the grounds consecrated, preventing even the most powerful evil creatures from setting foot inside." Ezmerelda asked if Van Richten was in the tower, her gaze fixed on the tower door. Duncan shook his head, his expression grim. "The tower was empty when we arrived, save for an annoying bust and a suit of armor that attacked us. We didn't find any sign of Rudolph Van Richten." "I see you have the sword found with the armor," Ezmerelda said. Duncan had almost forgotten about the sword. "Oh, yes," he said, handing it back to Ezmerelda. She dismissed the sword. "You can keep it. It may serve you well, although I'm not certain what enchantments it may have, if any." "Our companion, Drakthar, is in a bad way," Duncan continued, deciding a full explanation was best. Obor chimed in with his usual bluntness, "He's a dragonborn, built for desert heat. This cursed cold has laid him low. He's sick, too weak to travel." Ezmerelda's sharp gaze shifted from the tower back to the party, her mind clearly working through the new variables. After a moment, she came to a decision. "This changes things. It seems my need to wait for Rudolph's return and your friend's need for shelter align. I will remain here with Drakthar; I have some skill in medicine and can watch over him." She then turned her focus to the three able-bodied men, her expression hardening with purpose. "But Ireena's safety cannot wait. The Count's eyes are everywhere. I must ask the three of you—will you take her to Vallaki? Can you see her safely to the Church of St. Andral and place her in the care of Father Lucian Petrovich?" With a shared, determined look, the three adventurers agreed. "We'll get her there safely," Duncan affirmed, and both Obor and Heymadood gave a single, sharp nod of assent. "Good," Ezmerelda replied, her expression intensely focused. "Getting Ireena to safety is the immediate priority, but you need to know about the larger battle. My master and I had been searching for three legendary items, items of great power that are necessary to defeat Strahd finally: the Tome of Strahd, the Sunsword, and the Holy Symbol of Ravenkind." Duncan's eyes widened in recognition. "I have the tome. It was in the tower. I wasn't sure who it belonged to. I read parts of it… it's how I know for certain what he is. The book proves he's a vampire." A flicker of impressed surprise crossed Ezmerelda's face. "Rudolph found the tome? That old weasel!" she said. "Then we are ahead of schedule. If you read the tome, you know Strahd mentioned a sword and despising sunlight. That is the second item: the Sunsword. My own search recently uncovered its location. It lies hidden somewhere within the Amber Temple on Mount Ghakis, a dangerous place far beyond the Tsolenka Pass." She met their gaze, her tone becoming a practical warning. "The mountain's cold is lethal. While you are in Vallaki seeing to Ireena, you must purchase proper cold-weather clothing and gear. You will not survive the journey up the mountain otherwise." "What of the final item?" Heymadood asked. "The Holy Symbol of Ravenkind." "I will work on finding the final item," Ezmerelda said. "Its location is still a mystery. It is a unique holy symbol, sacred to the faithful of Barovia, and it predates the founding of any church here. Legend says it was delivered to a great paladin, a woman named Lugdana, by a giant raven—or perhaps an angel in a raven's form. With it, she hunted and destroyed entire nests of vampires. After her death, the high priests of Ravenloft kept the holy symbol, wearing it for protection, until it was lost to time." After returning inside the tower and introducing herself and Ireena to Drakthar, Ezmerelda spoke to the adventurers, her voice low and even. "You four may have been wondering why you are here in Barovia. Why did the Mists bring you here?" It wasn't a question. Heymadood looked at her, curious. "You know what we are?" "I know what you're called," she corrected gently. "There are others like us. Not many, but we exist. We're known as Mist Wanderers." "Mist Wanderers," Duncan repeated, the words tasting foreign and bitter. "Just a name for the damned, is it?" "Some might see it that way," Ezmerelda conceded. "Most souls in these domains are bound to them. They are born here, they die here. The Mists are their world's edge. But for us... for us, they are a path. A treacherous, unwilling path, but a path nonetheless." Obor finally spoke, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. "Is it a curse? A test of faith?" Ezmerelda shook her head, a sliver of frustration in her eyes. "That's the mystery. No one knows for certain why some individuals are called to wander. Why us? Why are we plucked from our worlds, or from within the domains themselves, and given this grim passport?" "But I have a theory," she continued, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "My mentor and I studied it for quite some time. The Mists… they aren't random. They are drawn to something. They have a scent for certain kinds of people." She let the statement hang in the air before elaborating. "I believe it has something to do with an individual's past. A great tragedy, perhaps. A dark secret you can't outrun. Maybe a powerful, unresolved emotion—a consuming guilt, a burning vengeance, or a love so profound it leaves a scar on the soul. The Mists cling to these echoes. They find the cracks in a person's history and pull them in. For us, the fog is not just outside; it's a reflection of a fog that was already within. The unspoken question lingered between the newly arrived Mist Wanderers: what shadow in their past had taught the Mists their name? After a short while, everyone except Drakthar made their way back to the tower's base. The farewell was brief and grim. It was spoken in low tones. Ezmerelda stood at the threshold, a confident and capable guardian for the ailing Drakthar. Obor gave her a single, gruff nod, his only sentiment a terse, "Keep him safe," while Duncan confirmed the plan to secure cold-weather gear after ensuring Ireena's safety. With final, worried glances back from Heymadood and a grateful but anxious look from Ireena, the four travelers turned their backs on the tower. They set off down the trail, which led to the Old Svalich Road. Within moments, the tower was entirely swallowed by the fog behind them, leaving them utterly alone with the heavy responsibility of their quest and the long, dangerous road to Vallaki ahead. A few miles along the road, the mists of Barovia clung to the muddy track like a shroud, muffling all sound save for the rhythmic squeal of a single, wobbling wheel. Out of the grey gloom ahead, a figure lurched into view: an old woman, her back bent from age, pushing a cart of splintered, dark wood. Her shawl was the color of the dirt road. Her face was a mask of deep-set wrinkles and weary resignation.
As the group drew near, a cloyingly sweet scent cut through the damp air—cooked meat, baked dough, and something else, something vaguely metallic and savory. On her cart sat over a dozen small, round pastries, their latticed crusts a perfect, golden brown, looking for all the world like miniature mincemeat pies.
Her eyes, cloudy with cataracts, fixed upon everyone, lingering momentarily on Ireena. A thin, desperate smile cracked her lips.
"A pie from Mama Morgantha?" she croaked, her voice like stones grinding together. "A Dream Pie for the weary traveler?" She gestured with a trembling, dirt-caked hand. "The nights here are long and full of teeth. My pies... they grant a moment of peace. A full night's sleep, with no shadows to chase you."
She leaned closer, her whisper conspiratorial and tinged with a wild hope. "And more. They grant vitality. Strength to face the day in this wretched land. A rare thing, yes? A very rare thing in Barovia."
Ireena wanted one, but no coins to pay with. Duncan asked how much the pies were. She asked for only a single gold coin for each one, a price laughably low for the promise of peaceful sleep and renewed vigor in this cursed domain.
Duncan took out ten gold pieces but only wanted four pies. Mama Morgantha gratefully thanked the group as she handed out each mouth-watering pastry. The pastries felt unnervingly warm, and the sweet smell was intoxicating, almost overpowering.
With the savory pies carefully placed in their Bag of Holding to enjoy later, the group pressed onward down the fog-draped Old Svalich Road toward the supposed safety of Vallaki.
The oppressive silence of the Old Svalich Road was a constant companion, broken only by the squelch of the travelers' boots in the mud.
Suddenly, a sound cut through the fog—not a single, sharp cry, but muffled, desperate screams, choked with terror. The scream came from somewhere off the trail to their left, a frantic, repeating plea for help.
Although Heymadood was hesitant to do so, plunging into the woods was a choice made by Duncan and Obor in an instant.
The forest floor sucked at their boots, and grasping branches tore at their clothing. After pushing through the oppressive gloom for about a hundred feet, a structure loomed out of the mist: a small, ramshackle cabin, its timbers dark with rot. It had a single, solid-looking door and one grimy window, from which a faint, sickly yellow light emanated.
As they drew closer, they saw the source of the screams. A woman with tangled blonde hair was inside, her face pale with terror as she beat her palms against the windowpane. Her screams were distorted but clear: "Help me! He's going to kill me!"
A moment later, a tall, shadowy figure, indistinct and seeming to drink the very light from the room, appeared behind her. It raised a long, dark arm. The woman's screams became a single, shrill, unending shriek of pure agony. She was suddenly violently dragged back from the window into the darkness of the cabin, her scream abruptly cut off.
With a powerful kick from Duncan, the old wooden door splintered and burst inward with a deafening crack.
While Heymadood waited outside with Ireena, Obor and Duncan stepped into the cabin, weapons ready, only to be met with absolute, dusty silence.
There was no woman.
There was no shadowy figure.
The cabin was derelict and looked as though it had been abandoned for some time. Cobwebs hung in thick shrouds, and the air was thick with the smell of mildew and rot. A rickety bed frame stood against one wall, its rough, thin sheets stiff and stained with a dark, flaking substance that can only be old, dried blood.
Sprawled across the floor next to the bed were the skeletal remains of a woman. Her jaw was frozen open in a silent scream. Desiccated, leathery bits of flesh and tattered shreds of clothing still clung to her form, and a tangle of blonde hair—the same color as the woman in the window—was matted to the skull.
Near the skeletal remains, a rusty cast-iron pan lay on the floor in front of the ash-filled firepit. Stuck to the rusty lip of the pan was a long strand of blonde hair, the same color as the desperate woman's they saw in the window.
Suddenly, Duncan's sword, Sandwhisper, warned him and others of approaching danger.
At the exact moment, Obor saw someone charging towards the cabin.
He saw a woodsman, built like an old oak, with a wild, tangled beard and eyes that burned with a terrifying, vacant light. In his massive, calloused hands, he gripped a great axe.
"She's still here!" the woodsman roared, his voice a raw, broken thing. "I did it! I killed her for what she did, but she won't leave me be!"
Obor met the man's charge head-on, raising his own greataxe to block the woodsman's frenzied, downward chop. The impact was immense, a deafening clang of steel and wood that sent shudders up Obor's arms. The woodsman's strength was brutal, unrefined, and driven by pure madness.
"The children! She sold them!" he screamed, shoving Obor back a step after the goliath had drawn a deep cut across the man's midsection.
Running out of the cabin, Duncan swung at the enraged man, Sandwhisper cutting deep into the man's leg and arm.
Heymadood saw the raw fury in the man's eyes and knew that steel alone might not be enough. As the woodsman hammered another blow against Obor's defense, Heymadood chanted a sharp, dissonant incantation. He focused on the raging woodsman, and a pulse of psychic energy, invisible to the eye, slammed into the woodsman's mind.
The hulking man faltered. His axe lowered for a crucial second as he clutched his head, his face contorting in confusion. "The weeping... why won't it stop?" he whimpered, his insane rage momentarily shattered by a wave of crushing sorrow.
The hulking woodsman staggered back, his momentum gone. The fire in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a final, lucid moment of utter despair. He dropped his great axe with a heavy thud, his gaze falling upon the cabin. A single tear cut a path through the grime on his cheek.
"Elara..." he whispered, his voice cracking. "I'm sorry."
He collapsed onto the ground, the short, violent battle over as quickly as it had begun, leaving only the sound of heavy breathing in the dead, silent woods.
Obor picked up the man's greataxe.
"What happened here?" Duncan asked, sensing the fight was over.
Utterly defeated, the woodsman said his name was Gunnar. He related a harrowing tale and spoke of how his entire world was the small, sun-dappled clearing where his cabin stood. And the heart of that world was his family: his wife, Elara, and their two small children, Lyra and Finn.
They were poor, but their laughter was rich. Yet, as a blight sickened the game and a cruel winter loomed ahead, that richness turned to brittle fear. Gunnar worked himself to the bone, ranging farther into the woods each day, but his traps came up empty. He didn't see the desperation curdling in Elara's eyes, nor did he know of the whispers she'd heard—tales of an old woman who visited her on more than one occasion, one who could spin fortune from sorrow.
One day, Gunnar returned from a week-long hunt with barely enough to show for it. He found the cabin deathly still. Elara sat at the table, her hands folded over a heavy sack that clinked with the sound of gold coins. But the children were nowhere to be found. Their toys lay abandoned.
"Where are they, Elara?" he asked, his voice low and cracking like dry timber.
She wouldn't meet his gaze, her eyes fixed on the gold. "They are safe," she whispered, her voice hollow. "We are safe now. We'll never be hungry again."
The truth unspooled slowly, a venomous thread in the heavy silence. She had traded them. Lyra's bright smile and Finn's boisterous energy, sold to a witch for a bag of gold coins.
Something in Gunnar snapped. The quiet patience in his eyes shattered, replaced by a terrifying, wild emptiness. He didn't see his wife anymore; he saw a monster who had devoured his children. The screams that followed were lost to the dense canopy of the forest, swallowed by the uncaring trees. When his rage subsided, Elara lay still on the floorboards, the gold coins scattered around her like glittering, cursed seeds.
Gunnar never left the woods. He felt his sanity fleeing, leaving behind a husk of a man who wanders the forest, endlessly calling the names of his children. But he was not alone in the cabin.
The spectral scene of his wife's brutal murder haunted the cabin, replaying the dark deed over and over again, forever taunting what little sanity Gunnar had left.
Duncan's mind, usually clear and focused, was a maelstrom of judgment.
His gaze fell upon Gunnar, the massive woodsman. The initial, simple truth was easy: they had been attacked by a madman, a murderer who confessed his crime with every swing of his axe. Duncan’s paladin instinct saw the clean logic in it. Looking back at the skeletal remains of Elara in the cabin, it was easy to cast Gunnar as the villain, a monster of rage who deserved to die as well.
But Gunnar’s tormented screams echoed in Duncan's mind, twisting that simple truth into a knot. Elara had sold her children.
Duncan’s eyes drifted from the woodsman to the grim outline of the skeleton again. He tried to imagine it. A mother, looking into the faces of her own children and seeing… a commodity. A solution to a problem. The sheer, chilling coldness of that act felt profoundly more monstrous than a simple crime of passion. What level of desperation or greed could lead a person to trade their own flesh and blood for a bag of coins? It was a betrayal of nature itself.
He felt himself torn. Gunnar had dealt the final, brutal blow, but had Elara’s choice not been the first, deeper wound? Gunnar's rage was a wildfire, destructive and terrifying, but her betrayal was a slow, creeping poison that had sickened the roots of their family until it was rotten through.
Duncan wondered who should he judge between the two. The man who snapped under the weight of an unthinkable loss, or the woman whose actions had caused that loss? It was a serpent eating its own tail. Duncan saw not a simple monster and his victim, but two people locked in a tragic, horrific dance, both consumed by a darkness that had started with an empty stomach and ended here, in a blood-soaked cabin.
In the end, there was no clean line between justice and vengeance, only the grim, undeniable truth of the ruin they had left behind.
There was no victory in the heavy silence that followed, only the grim reality of what had transpired in the cabin.
No one spoke for a long moment; each adventurer was lost in the grim calculus of the tragedy that they had heard.
It was Obor who broke the stillness. With a quiet grunt, born of grim task rather than exertion, he stooped and helped Gunnar back to his feet, giving back his greataxe. The broken man took the greataxe, gave Obor a silent nod, turned, and stumbled back into the woods' dark embrace.
As Obor stepped back to rejoin the others, Ireena, who had watched the entire scene with wide, horrified eyes, found her voice. It was soft, yet it cut through the dusty air with unwavering resolve.
"The children," she said, her gaze fixed on the shrouded forms. "Lyra and Finn. They are the true victims in this."
A wordless understanding passed between the adventurers. This was more than just another horror in a land filled with them. This was a thread they had to pull.
"We will find them," Duncan affirmed, his voice low and certain. He wasn't just agreeing with Ireena; he was making a promise to the dead. "If they still live, we will find them."
Heymadood nodded in silent agreement.
"And if they don't," Obor added, his tone laced with a cold anger, "we will find the witch who bought them."
With the vow hanging in the air, they turned their backs on the broken woodsman and his tragic bride. They stepped out of the cabin's gloom, leaving the dead to its silence, and back into the grey, oppressive mist of the Svalich Woods.
The path to Vallaki remained the same, but their journey now had a purpose, a solemn promise forged in blood and shadow.
When dawn broke, Drakthar awoke to a deep, internal chill that the thick wool rug had done nothing to ward off. A son of the Bright Desert, his scales were made to absorb the blistering sun, but the damp, biting air of the tower had seeped into his very bones through the night. His movements were sluggish and stiff, his limbs heavy and unresponsive, a consequence of his reptilian body failing to regulate its own heat in the unrelenting cold. A wave of nausea rolled through his stomach as he pushed himself to sit up, his whole body aching with a profound lethargy—a deep-seated sickness born from a night spent shivering, completely unable to get warm. After eating part of their rations, Duncan and Obor began gathering their equipment and readied themselves. Drakthar did the same, but struggled to do so. "You're staying," Obor stated, his voice a low rumble that left no room for argument. Duncan, adjusting his newly acquired sword on his back, nodded in agreement. "He's right, Drak. You can barely stand. We need to scout the area, determine our location, and see if we can find any sign of Heymadood. You'll collapse within a mile." Drakthar, huddled in a moth-eaten blanket near the iron stove, pushed himself upright with a visible effort. "You need me...my skills," he rasped, his voice rough and weak as he tried to stand. "I will not cower here while you face..." A violent shiver cut his protest short, a tremor that ran from his horns to the tip of his tail, forcing him to sit back down on the floor. Seeing the dragonborn's defiance falter, Duncan’s expression softened. "We're not asking you to cower. We're asking you to be smart. Rest. Get your strength back." Obor grunted his assent. "We'll be quicker as a pair. And we'll have a better chance of finding Heymadood if we're not worried about you freezing solid." The cold ache in his joints and the sheer, overwhelming exhaustion were a more potent argument than their words. Defeated, Drakthar gave a short, resentful nod and sank back down onto the dusty floor. He had no choice but to watch them go, his pride as wounded as his chilled body, as they stepped onto the floor, pulled the chain, and descended the tower. The chill mist clung to Duncan and Obor as they made their way down the tower using the tower's scaffolding. When they reached the ground, Duncan examined the scaffolding, testing the stability of the wooden supports. Soon, he spotted a few crucial-looking joints held together by thick iron pins at the scaffolding's base. He wasn't trying to bring it down immediately, but rather to arrange a future accident. After a moment's thought, he found a loose rock and struck the pins just hard enough to knock them halfway out of their sockets, leaving the structure treacherously unstable for any who might try to climb it later. They hadn't walked past the front door when three figures emerged from the fog ahead, walking purposefully toward them. Obor's hand went to the greataxe on his back before he squinted, his gruff voice a mix of shock and relief. "Heymadood!" It was indeed their missing companion, looking tired but unharmed. Two women flanked him, whom they didn't recognize. As they closed the distance, the older of the two, a woman with wild, curly hair and the confident air of a seasoned traveler, raised a hand in greeting. "You must be the ones Heymadood spoke of," the woman said, her voice clear and steady. "My name is Ezmerelda d'Avenir. I am an apprentice to Rudolph Van Richten, the master of the tower you just came from. But please call me Ez." Duncan and Obor exchanged a surprised look at the mention of the Van Richten's name, having read his journal the night before. Ezmerelda gestured to the younger woman, whose dark hair and noble features were overshadowed by a deep-seated weariness in her eyes. "This is Ireena Kolyana. I found her, along with your friend, Heymadood, on the Old Svalich Road after my horse and I were attacked by wolves. Ireena said she bravely escaped the village of Barovia. For reasons she doesn't understand, she has drawn the unwanted and dangerous attention of Count Strahd himself." Ireena offered a slight, weary nod, her grip tightening on the cloak she wore. Heymadood recounted how he arrived in the area. The memory struck Heymadood with the force of a physical blow—recalling the Bright Desert's suffocating heat, the pyramid's glyph-etched walls, and remembering the look on Obor's face before his strong hands threw Heymadood into the roaring, fiery brazier. In the next instant, the all-consuming fire was replaced by a bone-deep chill and the scent of damp earth and decay. He gasped for air on a forest floor of tangled roots, surrounded by towering, skeletal trees that, while utterly alien, evoked a horrifying sense of déjà vu, as if this suffocating, misty prison was a place he had visited before. "We were heading to the tower to seek my master's counsel," Ezmerelda continued, "but our ultimate destination is the town of Vallaki. Ireena hoped to ask a priest, Father Lucian Petrovich, for sanctuary in the Church of St. Andral. As long as the bones of St. Andral remained within its crypt, the church was a true haven. The holy relic kept the grounds consecrated, preventing even the most powerful evil creatures from setting foot inside." Ezmerelda asked if Van Richten was in the tower, her gaze fixed on the tower door. Duncan shook his head, his expression grim. "The tower was empty when we arrived, save for an annoying bust and a suit of armor that attacked us. We didn't find any sign of Rudolph Van Richten." "I see you have the sword found with the armor," Ezmerelda said. Duncan had almost forgotten about the sword. "Oh, yes," he said, handing it back to Ezmerelda. She dismissed the sword. "You can keep it. It may serve you well, although I'm not certain what enchantments it may have, if any." "Our companion, Drakthar, is in a bad way," Duncan continued, deciding a full explanation was best. Obor chimed in with his usual bluntness, "He's a dragonborn, built for desert heat. This cursed cold has laid him low. He's sick, too weak to travel." Ezmerelda's sharp gaze shifted from the tower back to the party, her mind clearly working through the new variables. After a moment, she came to a decision. "This changes things. It seems my need to wait for Rudolph's return and your friend's need for shelter align. I will remain here with Drakthar; I have some skill in medicine and can watch over him." She then turned her focus to the three able-bodied men, her expression hardening with purpose. "But Ireena's safety cannot wait. The Count's eyes are everywhere. I must ask the three of you—will you take her to Vallaki? Can you see her safely to the Church of St. Andral and place her in the care of Father Lucian Petrovich?" With a shared, determined look, the three adventurers agreed. "We'll get her there safely," Duncan affirmed, and both Obor and Heymadood gave a single, sharp nod of assent. "Good," Ezmerelda replied, her expression intensely focused. "Getting Ireena to safety is the immediate priority, but you need to know about the larger battle. My master and I had been searching for three legendary items, items of great power that are necessary to defeat Strahd finally: the Tome of Strahd, the Sunsword, and the Holy Symbol of Ravenkind." Duncan's eyes widened in recognition. "I have the tome. It was in the tower. I wasn't sure who it belonged to. I read parts of it… it's how I know for certain what he is. The book proves he's a vampire." A flicker of impressed surprise crossed Ezmerelda's face. "Rudolph found the tome? That old weasel!" she said. "Then we are ahead of schedule. If you read the tome, you know Strahd mentioned a sword and despising sunlight. That is the second item: the Sunsword. My own search recently uncovered its location. It lies hidden somewhere within the Amber Temple on Mount Ghakis, a dangerous place far beyond the Tsolenka Pass." She met their gaze, her tone becoming a practical warning. "The mountain's cold is lethal. While you are in Vallaki seeing to Ireena, you must purchase proper cold-weather clothing and gear. You will not survive the journey up the mountain otherwise." "What of the final item?" Heymadood asked. "The Holy Symbol of Ravenkind." "I will work on finding the final item," Ezmerelda said. "Its location is still a mystery. It is a unique holy symbol, sacred to the faithful of Barovia, and it predates the founding of any church here. Legend says it was delivered to a great paladin, a woman named Lugdana, by a giant raven—or perhaps an angel in a raven's form. With it, she hunted and destroyed entire nests of vampires. After her death, the high priests of Ravenloft kept the holy symbol, wearing it for protection, until it was lost to time." After returning inside the tower and introducing herself and Ireena to Drakthar, Ezmerelda spoke to the adventurers, her voice low and even. "You four may have been wondering why you are here in Barovia. Why did the Mists bring you here?" It wasn't a question. Heymadood looked at her, curious. "You know what we are?" "I know what you're called," she corrected gently. "There are others like us. Not many, but we exist. We're known as Mist Wanderers." "Mist Wanderers," Duncan repeated, the words tasting foreign and bitter. "Just a name for the damned, is it?" "Some might see it that way," Ezmerelda conceded. "Most souls in these domains are bound to them. They are born here, they die here. The Mists are their world's edge. But for us... for us, they are a path. A treacherous, unwilling path, but a path nonetheless." Obor finally spoke, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. "Is it a curse? A test of faith?" Ezmerelda shook her head, a sliver of frustration in her eyes. "That's the mystery. No one knows for certain why some individuals are called to wander. Why us? Why are we plucked from our worlds, or from within the domains themselves, and given this grim passport?" "But I have a theory," she continued, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "My mentor and I studied it for quite some time. The Mists… they aren't random. They are drawn to something. They have a scent for certain kinds of people." She let the statement hang in the air before elaborating. "I believe it has something to do with an individual's past. A great tragedy, perhaps. A dark secret you can't outrun. Maybe a powerful, unresolved emotion—a consuming guilt, a burning vengeance, or a love so profound it leaves a scar on the soul. The Mists cling to these echoes. They find the cracks in a person's history and pull them in. For us, the fog is not just outside; it's a reflection of a fog that was already within. The unspoken question lingered between the newly arrived Mist Wanderers: what shadow in their past had taught the Mists their name? After a short while, everyone except Drakthar made their way back to the tower's base. The farewell was brief and grim. It was spoken in low tones. Ezmerelda stood at the threshold, a confident and capable guardian for the ailing Drakthar. Obor gave her a single, gruff nod, his only sentiment a terse, "Keep him safe," while Duncan confirmed the plan to secure cold-weather gear after ensuring Ireena's safety. With final, worried glances back from Heymadood and a grateful but anxious look from Ireena, the four travelers turned their backs on the tower. They set off down the trail, which led to the Old Svalich Road. Within moments, the tower was entirely swallowed by the fog behind them, leaving them utterly alone with the heavy responsibility of their quest and the long, dangerous road to Vallaki ahead. A few miles along the road, the mists of Barovia clung to the muddy track like a shroud, muffling all sound save for the rhythmic squeal of a single, wobbling wheel. Out of the grey gloom ahead, a figure lurched into view: an old woman, her back bent from age, pushing a cart of splintered, dark wood. Her shawl was the color of the dirt road. Her face was a mask of deep-set wrinkles and weary resignation.
Ezmerelda d'Avenir
Report Date
10 Oct 2025
Ireena Kolyana
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