The Coffin Maker's Shop

5th of Octyavr, 737 BC

Town of Vallaki, Barovia

After leaving the orphanage, the adventurers, who called themselves the Legends of Greyhawk, heard someone yell at them through the pouring rain.

“You there,” yelled the person.

Walking up to them was a middle-aged man with a pale, angular face and a severe, disdainful expression. He had long, stringy black hair, high cheekbones, and a prominent nose. His thin lips were curled back on one side in a snarl or grimace, revealing his teeth. He was dressed in expensive attire, including a rich, red-brown robe or doublet decorated with an intricate gold brocade pattern and gold trim. The garment had a high, wide, dark brown collar and was fastened with two gold clasps. Underneath, a simple, high-necked tunic of a muted green-grey color was visible.

“Outsiders, my name is Ernst Larnak. I am a humble servant of Lady Fiona Wachter, who requests the honor of your presence for dinner tonight. You will report to the Wachterhaus at one candlemark past dusk.”

To the Legends of Greyhawk, the invitation sounded more like a command than a request.

The man rifled through his pockets until he produced a letter sealed with crimson wax. “All will be well,” he said. Before leaving, he looked over the group's frayed and muddied clothes. The man sneered, “Do try to dress for the occasion.”

Before leaving for the town's square, it was decided that Heymadood would return to the church to help guard Ireena.

The bell above the door of The Dusklight Supply Shop did not jingle cheerfully; it gave a dull, leaden thud as Obor, Duncan, and Drakthar stepped inside. The shop was cluttered with the mundane necessities of travel, but the cold rain drenching the town made their primary objective clear.

Leena, the proprietor, stood behind the counter. She was a plain woman with mouse-brown hair and dark, flat eyes. What made the adventurers pause was her expression. Her lips were pulled back in a rigid, unyielding grin that showed too many teeth.

"Welcome," Leena said. Her voice was airy and hollow, as if she were speaking from the bottom of a well. She didn't look at Duncan as he and the others began examining the shop's many wares. Her gaze drifted past his ear, focusing on the dusty shelves behind him. "Everything you need for a happy day in Vallaki?"

Drakthar and Duncan shoon dropped a heavy pile of garments onto the counter—thick woolen cloaks, fur-lined boots, and heavy gloves. It was winter clothing for everyone, essential protection against the biting cold they expected to encounter on their journey up Mount Ghakis. Besides supplies he needed, Obor placed a pair of traps on the counter.

As the party began to count out coins for their purchase, the shop door opened again, casting a long shadow across the floorboards.

A brute of a man stepped in, wearing a heavy coat with iron buckles. "Good afternoon," he rumbled.

The adventurers turned, their hands drifting instinctively toward their weapons. The man introduced himself as Izek Strazni, the Baron’s enforcer of goodwill. While his tone was polite, his presence was menacing, dominated entirely by his right arm. It was a monstrous limb—bulging with unnatural muscle, covered in barbed spines, and ending in elongated fingers tipped with black, talon-like nails.

Izek ignored the adventurers' tension, turning his attention to the shopkeeper.

"Master Izek," Leena said, her grin never faltering, though her eyes remained fixed on the space above Izek's shoulder. "How is my husband? How is Zelemir doing?"

Izek adjusted his coat, the spines of his devilish arm scraping against the fabric. "His treatment is progressing beautifully, Leena. He is learning to appreciate the happiness of our town. He will be returned to you within the week."

Leena’s smile seemed to stretch tighter, bordering on painful. "That is good. All will be well."

Izek nodded, a dark satisfaction on his face. He then turned to the three strangers, his gaze heavy. "Rumor has it you are members of a newly arrived group of adventurers known as the Legends of Greyhawk. See that you follow our laws while you are here. Malice has no home in Vallaki." He paused, his monstrous fingers twitching slightly. "And ensure you attend the Festival of the Blazing Sun in two days. Attendance is mandatory for all who wish to show their joy."

He turned on his heel, opening the door to the grey, mist-choked square outside. Over his shoulder, he offered a parting pleasantry that sounded more like a curse.

"All will be well."

The door shut with a thud, leaving Obor, Duncan, and Drakthar alone with Leena, who continued to stare at the closed door, grinning at absolutely nothing while her hands absently smoothed the fur of the winter cloaks on the counter.

Having completed their purchases, the party decided to visit the coffin maker's shop.

This uninviting shop was two stories tall and had a sign shaped like a coffin above the front door. All of the window shutters were closed up tight, and a deathly silence surrounded the establishment.

Duncan focused on the structure, using his divine senses to detect any undead presence. He didn't sense any.

Duncan walked up to the front door, only to discover it was locked. He knocked on the door.

"Go away," said a voice from inside. "I'm closed today."

Duncan knocked again.

"Can you please stop knocking and go away?" the voice inside demanded.

Duncan considered having Obor open the door his way, but decided to knock again.

"We're closed! Go away!"

Duncan turned to Drakthar. "Your turn."

Drakthar took out his lock picks and began unlocking the door. Within a minute, he had unlocked the door.

The three stepped inside the shop.

The smell of sawdust and stale preservatives hit Obor, Duncan, and Drakthar the moment they entered the coffin maker’s shop. The windows were shuttered tight, leaving the room steeped in gloom, crowded with half-finished caskets that looked like jagged teeth in the dim light.

Henrik van der Voort tried to retreat behind a workbench, a chisel clattering from his shaking hand, but the adventurers gave him no room to run. They loomed over the wretched, hollow-cheeked man, their questions sharp and unyielding. When pressed about the missing bones of St. Andral, Henrik’s feeble resistance shattered.

"I put them upstairs. In the storage room," he whimpered, wringing his hands until his knuckles were white.

He tried to slump against the wall, but the party wasn't finished. With a rough nudge, they ordered him to his feet.

"You lead," Duncan commanded, gesturing toward a closed door nearby.

Trembling, Henrik began to lead the three adventurers, his boots heavy on the creaking wood. Obor, Duncan, and Drakthar followed close behind, weapons ready, the air growing colder and more stagnant with every step toward the second floor.

The wooden stairs ceased their groaning as Henrik reached the landing, opened a door, and stepped into an ample storage space that dominated the entire upper floor.

It was a bleak and drafty void, where the wind whistled softly through gaps in the rotting shingles overhead. Thick, gray cobwebs draped between the rafters like tattered shrouds, swaying slightly in the chill air.

The floor was a cluttered maze of industry and neglect. Towering stacks of rough-hewn wooden planks were arranged in haphazard rows, casting long, rectangular shadows across the floorboards. Scattered amidst the lumber were several wooden crates, their lids nailed shut. Each one was crudely stenciled with the word "JUNK" in fading black paint.

Every window was boarded up with planks of wood nailed to it.

The room was silent, save for the wind outside and the terrified wheezing of the coffin maker.

"Where are the bones?" Duncan asked, shoving the old man deeper into the room.

Henrik pointed towards a dusty crate at the back of the room.

The silence of the attic was suddenly shattered as the lids of the crates exploded outward.

Eight figures erupted from the wood shavings, moving with unnatural, predatory speed. These were not mere shambling corpses; they were clad in the rusted, rot-stained armor of adventurers—Mist Walkers who had come before. Among the undead was an elf in tattered leather, a tiefling with broken horns, a human cleric with a coin symbol etched into his breastplate.

All hissed with a hunger that eclipsed their former humanity.

Duncan quickly realized why he couldn't sense the undead from outside. They were all hidden inside the crates.

The melee would prove nearly catastrophic for the three adventurers.

During the battle, Obor slammed his trap onto the floor. He grabbed the nearest vampire and dropped it on the open trap, the trap snapping around the vampire's arm. Obor then picked up the still trapped vampire and threw it towards Henrik. The vampire, still attached to the trap, struck the old coffin maker. The old man fell to the floor dead. The vampire atop the old man recovered and hissed at Obor in anger.

"Hold them back!" Drakthar yelled, but his words were cut short as a halfling spawn tackled him from the side, driving him to the floorboards. Before he could rise, a second spawn—a gnome with sharp fangs—latched onto his neck.

Drakthar screamed as the two spawns began to feast.

Obor, blood streaming from deep gouges in his own chest, waded into the fray. With a roar of exertion, he seized the halfling spawn by its collar and hurled it into the rafters, then kicked the gnome away. He hauled Drakthar’s limp body over his shoulder, the weight nearly buckling his knees, and threw himself toward the stairwell, leaving Duncan alone in the room.

Duncan stood in the center of the room, shield raised, Sandwhisper in his hand, surrounded by the seven remaining vampires. He had slain one already, its body erupting into flames and smoldering ashe.

They circled him, their eyes glowing like embers in the gloom.

He realized he may not be able to outrun the spawn before they could all pounce on him.

His eyes locked onto a boarded-up window ten feet away. A dwarf vampire, wearing the remnants of heavy plate, stood directly in his path.

Duncan didn't hesitate. He charged.

He slammed his shield into the dwarf vampire, driving the creature backward with the force of a battering ram. They hit the wooden planks of the window together.

Wood splintered, and they plummeted into the storm.

They fell ten feet, landing hard in the muddy ground. Duncan landed atop his shield, the dwarf vampire acting as a gruesome cushion, absorbing the lethal force of the impact. The creature convulsed once, its spine shattered, and dissolved into ash beneath Duncan’s weight.

Gasping for breath, Duncan looked up at the broken window, rain slickening his face. He expected the gray light of day to keep the others at bay. Instead, an elven vampire poked its head out of the jagged hole, raindrops sizzling slightly on its pale skin but causing no damage. The storm clouds above were so thick, so heavy with gloom, that they choked the sun completely.

Sunlight cannot burn what it cannot touch, the paladin realized in horror.

Duncan scrambled to his feet, terror seizing his heart, and sprinted around the corner to the shop's entrance. The door burst open, and Obor stumbled out, carrying the semiconscious, blood-soaked Drakthar.

"Run!" Duncan screamed.

They took off through the mud, the town square deserted in the heavy downpour. Another lance of lightning etched itself across the sky, illuminating the world in stark white and black.

In the silence before the thunder, they heard a sound that froze their marrow—a wet, guttural snarl.

Both looked back.

Clinging to the shop's upper window frame, upside down like a spider, was the elven vampire. Her dead eyes locked onto them.

“This is not yet over!” she hissed, the sound cutting through the wind.

The other vampires began to emerge from the window.

With a feral shriek, the female elven vampire leapt from the window, landing in a crouch on the ground.

As the rain worsened, turning the world into a blur of gray, the creature broke into a sprint, closing the distance with terrifying speed.

Duncan and Obor ran into the storm, the hunter at their heels.