#curse of strahd fan fiction

[yandereheathen]

The Cost of Protection [Yandere elf guard x Fem Reader] 18+ Chapter #2

Hoi! Hasn't it been forever? I got the bug again for this boy, and I think maybe Korm :> a little part #2, and I have #3 in the making for later this week! Thank you for all the asks. You are the people I wanted to make this for! approx 1,570 words Warnings: Non-con/kissing/ some violence, obsessive treatment, death threats. As always, I do not endorse relationships like this. It is just for fun! Please do not read in a rough state of mind.

A bitter chill clung to Barovia as you stepped out from your tavern, coin pouch clasped tightly in hand. Hope was scarce in these lands, but you held onto the thought of escaping Maverick’s grasp, even if it was just for a few hours of peace. The market streets were eerie in the early morning light, deserted but for a few drifting souls, hollow-eyed and battered by the bleakness of life under Strahd’s rule. You made your way to the stalls, intending to pick up a few supplies, something fresh and maybe something to brighten up the tavern. Your hand was already reaching for the vendor’s apples when you felt a rough tug at your waist, and before you could react, your coin pouch was gone. You spun around, catching sight of the thief’s shadow darting around a corner. “Stop! Come back here!” you yelled, but your voice barely echoed in the empty streets, swallowed by the mist and despair that never lifted in Barovia. Swallowing your pride, you made your way to the nearest guard post. Two Barovian guards lounged by the door, their eyes cold and bored as they watched your approach. You took a breath, trying to calm your nerves before speaking.

“Please, I need help,” you began, voice barely above a whisper, as though saying it louder would make the shame sting more. One guard sneered, his gaze sliding over you with disdain and dark interest. He stepped closer, grabbing the fabric of your shirt between his rough fingers and pulling you nearer, his breath hot against your cheek. “I can think of a way you might earn some help, sweetheart,” he murmured, his grin twisting with something sinister. Before you could protest, the second guard nudged him with a sigh. “Nah, she’s Maverick’s girl,” he muttered, giving you an appraising look. “He’ll be pissed if we touch her. Go crawl back to him if you want help so bad.” They shoved you off, sending you stumbling back a step as they laughed, their voices fading into the mist. Gritting your teeth, you stomped your foot in frustration. “Bastards,” you spat under your breath. Straightening your shirt, you tried to collect yourself, brushing off their words as you turned back toward your tavern. Back inside, you searched through your small collection of trinkets, fingers grazing over rings and pendants, hoping you’d stashed away enough to sell and make up for the lost coins. But just as you reached into the drawer, you felt a cold sensation on your thigh—the hilt of a sword lifting the edge of your skirt. “Hmm… black today,” a familiar, chilling voice purred from behind. “Trying to shut someone out?” You jumped, spinning around, pressing yourself against the wall as your heart hammered in your chest. There he was, Maverick, still in his guard uniform, looking every bit the devil with that smirk across his face. “I heard you had some trouble today, little bunny.” His voice was low, dripping with mock sympathy, as he set down a small pouch on the table beside you. Your pouch—the one that had been stolen. But now, it was splattered with minor, fresh stains of blood. “A gift,” he purred, drawing closer, his golden eyes gleaming with sadistic satisfaction. Before you could respond, his arms closed around you, trapping you in an iron embrace. You tried to twist away, hands pushing at his chest, but his grip was unyielding. “Please… let go,” you whimpered, your voice trembling as he leaned closer, his breath hot against your neck. “No,” he replied, voice heavy with a hunger that sent a shiver down your spine. His teeth sank into your shoulder, the sharp pain blossoming as you felt his teeth break the skin. You screamed, the sound filling the small room as blood seeped from the wound, trailing down your chest in warm rivulets. He groaned, his breath hitching with sick satisfaction as he licked the blood from your skin, his hold tightening, crushing you against him. You struggled, pushing, desperate to escape, but his grip grew firmer, his amusement rumbling against your skin. He pulled back, his face inches from yours, a twisted smile playing on his bloodstained lips. “Remember this, little bunny,” he murmured, his voice soft, almost affectionate. “You’re mine. No one else is allowed to touch you, help you, or save you. You belong to me.”

Maverick’s fingers grazed over your collarbone, the roughness of his touch stark against the soft skin he’d just marred. His gaze bore into yours, a wicked satisfaction glinting in those golden eyes, watching for every hint of your reaction. You held your breath, your pulse racing as he drew closer, his lips brushing your jawline, his voice a low whisper. “Do you understand, little bunny?” he murmured, his tone carrying an unsettling gentleness that only heightened your discomfort. You clenched your fists, refusing to give in to the sway of his words. Your body tensed as you pushed against him, struggling to twist out of his grasp. But he didn’t budge, his hand pressing against the small of your back, holding you in place with an ease that both frustrated and frightened you. “Stop fighting me,” he purred, his voice soft but commanding, his hand slipping from your back to trace the curve of your hip. You squirmed under his grip, a fierce glare on your face as you met his eyes. “Let go of me,” you hissed, anger masking the flickers of betrayal that your body was beginning to reveal. Heat rose to your skin as his touch lingered, his fingers pressing into you with a possessive intensity that sent unwanted shivers down your spine. You fought the reaction, the betrayal of your body, the way your skin seemed to tingle under his touch despite every protest in your mind. “Why must you resist?” he murmured, pressing his lips to the hollow of your throat, slow and deliberate, savoring every inch of hesitation and rebellion in your stance. His hands traced down, capturing your wrists, pinning them against the wall beside your head, his face mere inches from yours. “Don’t pretend you don’t feel it,” he whispered, his breath hot against your cheek. His grip tightened, pulling you closer until there was no space between you. Every inch of your body seemed to betray you, the warmth of his touch igniting sensations you’d instead have denied, your pulse quickening even as you struggled to pull away. He leaned in, his mouth ghosting over your ear, the warmth of his breath sending shivers along your skin. “You’re mine,” he said again, his voice soft but unyielding. His hand moved, tracing the lines of your body with a dark reverence, savoring the tension, the resistance, the way your breath caught with every touch. You fought the sensations, the rebellion in your mind conflicting with the stir of warmth spreading through you, your body’s involuntary response only fueling the twisted satisfaction in his gaze. He leaned closer, his hands trailing down your sides, his touch both rough and reverent, as if claiming each part of you with a dark insistence. “See, even your body understands,” he murmured, his fingers pressing into you with deliberate slowness, his gaze never leaving yours. Despite every struggle and protest, you couldn’t deny how your pulse raced under his touch, the heat rising against your will. He grinned, having enough, and pushed you down, falling to your ass when he had you mesmerized. “Now. Show me how thankful you are, bunny, for me helping you.” the fabric on his pants was rough and slightly dirty from the mud as your cheek was rubbed with this clothed cock. He lets out a shivering moan. “so soft…but I want to feel something softer.”

You start shaking and crying as you feel his veins and skin sliding in and out of your mouth, young and then lips in a popping noise. He is not as gentle as when he first started clear. A need inside him was burning, screaming to get out, and your mouth would take the punishment of it. Every thrust of your head bounced painfully at the wall, you let out a cry, and he gets rougher now, grabbing your hair and dragging you back and forth. The worst part is. Not that you can’t breathe. Not the pain in your head. But the warm, dizzy feeling in your head and the…warmth dripping on your legs. The room spun, fear blurring your vision as his words sank in, the weight of your captivity closing in, suffocating and inescapable as you felt his cum down your throat. "Mine"

[thetalesofno-one]

Curse of Strahd, Act I: Pt. 1, Ch. II -Visions In The Mist-

D&D Campaign Retelling Part 1/6 Chapter 2/5 ~5k words Content Warnings: Curse of Strahd typical content, Read at own risk

Summary Caught in the mists, the strange group of travelers continue their journey to discover where the strange events in Daggerford have left them. But this land is nothing like the one from where they came and dangers lurk in every shadow. Read CHAPTER 1, also available on AO3

How long have they been walking? Minutes? Hours? The unfamiliar skies keep the secrets of their stars. Dusk or dawn, none can tell. No constellations stamped in night’s velvet or moon to track the night’s passing. If it even is night. The land hangs in the place caught in-between. Lost before the light, settled before the night. A timeless place where all await the eternal promise of a new day in the shadows of the half light before the sun sweeps over the world in golden flame or settles deeper into the dark.

Emet walks carefully at the back of this unfortunate group, hair damp and clinging to his armored shoulders in silver threads as teardrops of rain dot the dark metal. His eyes wander the forests around them, sharp ears strung taught as bowstrings to hear the sounds of danger even as he turns his senses toward the strangers before him. Everything within him pricks with the anticipation of trouble. Nerves like needles beneath his skin, feeling every raindrop muffled by his clothing, the faintest breath of air drift past the scars along his jaw, the weight of mist clinging to his lashes. All around them the forest moans with sharp creaks and cracks as old branches, brittle as bone, give to fracture in the winds. Unable to bend, they break. Unable to bow, they sway. And beyond the undulating movement of the land, raven song. 

The axe will fall.

Whether it will come from the quiet strangers weaving down the wagon trail ahead of Emet or through the choked light of the misty forest around them is where the answer hides. 

Their feet squelch in the thick mud leaving easy tracks along the path marked only by wagon wheels. But there is no helping that. 

The charmer tiefling leads with face fixed stubbornly forward, the rain scattering down the leather of his long coat in strange patterns. His hand always finds a way to linger near his blade, but he never graces those behind with so much as a glance. A point being made to his company about their welcome. The holy man totters about with a faint smile, occasionally pointing off to some interesting thing like a hiker on a light stroll through a lovely park. It is only the rebel who Emet catches checking on him over her shoulder with a sizing glare every few minutes. Though he suspects it is less to see if he is still with them and more to make sure he won’t bury anything sharp and pointed in her spine.

The endless mists swell around them, curling like cats about their legs and slithering across the paths and trees. The movement more akin to a living thing as it devours all in its unnatural chill. Shapes become shadows in its belly, the blurry silhouettes softening into new patterns that only hint at what may exist beyond. It is remarkable how many monsters can be made from shadows. 

The pale burial shroud settles heavily over the land and Emet wonders if it has ever known a day without it. Or if the land was stillborn at its first empty breath.

Behind them, the mists swallow up the path entirely. Ahead, the ghostly road continues, its muddy surface as pockmarked as the plague and settled with dark pools of still water. Their glass surfaces ripple in the light rains.

Lost in the poetry of the land, Emet is about to swirl his hand through a curious wave of mist when the charmer suddenly halts his obstinate power walk. The holy man keeping pace behind him nearly collides with the tiefling’s back and Emet would expect a sharp hiss from the charmer, were his eyes not locked on something ahead. Instead, the pitcher of dread that has hung over Emet since the barn in Daggerford pours out like sour wine in his stomach. He and the rebel crouch and catch up to the others with quiet speed.

The holy man lifts a silent finger, pointing to where the charmer’s eyes have locked unwaveringly upon some brush beside the path. Something crouches there at the edge of their vision where the fog begins to steal away the path and all beyond it. Hunched and still, the shadow watches them. Humanoid in shape. The charmer stares at it with narrowed eyes. The hairs along the back of Emet’s neck slowly rise as he feels the unseen eyes meet his.

“Hey! What are you doing!”

The charmer’s loud voice cuts through the silence sharp as breaking glass causing everyone to instinctually reach for their weapons with a jolt. 

His voice echoes dully through the woods and carries well beyond them as the charmer dashes forward, almost knocking down the holy man. But a wave of thick mist rolls over the area like an omen and the hunched shadow vanishes with it. The rest of them quickly catch up, armed and ready as the charmer searches around the brush with manic haste. 

No tracks, no sign of presence at all. Not so much as a single print left behind in the softened earth even as theirs scar the path deeply with every step. 

Nostrils flaring, the charmer glares up at the skies as though he might demand answers or perhaps find some in the absolutes of nature and time. But the land remains silent, the skies churning in ambiguous light.

His red fist flashes out, striking a tree quick as viper. Faint drops of blood stain the dark bark.

“DAMMIT!”

The rebel crosses her arms and raises a sharply pierced brow as the charmer whips away from everyone, eyes burning, fists clenched tight as his whipcord tail swishes furiously behind him. Without so much as a word, the tiefling begins swiping up fallen branches from the muddy road.

“What are you doing?” The rebel sighs.

The charmer speaks through clenched teeth, forcing an unconvincing reasonable tone through his tense throat, “I don’t what time it is or how long I’m going to be here.” He tosses a particularly feeble branch over his shoulder, “So I’m going to gather some supplies and make a shelter until there’s some sign of when this is! For all I know, this is the back country and that road will lead to nowhere for weeks.”

“Or it could lead to somewhere just ahead,” Emet crosses his arms, the dull chainmail clinking softly beneath the faded cloth and leather of his clothes. “We were just in a town, another could be close by.”

“We’re not near Daggerford anymore. If we were, it would’ve been right behind us when all this shit started.” The charmer’s jaw flexes, his eyes drifting over to the holy man. The old human stares up at the skies as if admiring a sun only he can see, always that faint smile and wonder in his eyes. And that’s all it takes to set the tiefling off even further, “You’re the one who dragged us all here, so what were you chasing after? Why did it bring us here?”

The old man plucks that perfectly white feather from his belt, its fibers untarnished and unweathered despite having been in the mud not but a few hours ago. He lifts it to the rain poured skies and whispers some little prayer, then lets it go. Though the feather flew before, ablaze in divine light, it unceremoniously drops into the mud now.

“Great, this one’s crazy.”

Ignoring or not hearing the charmer’s comment, the holy man sees the feather’s tip points down the muddy road. He smiles, “I think we should keep walking.”

“Because you dropped a feather on the ground?”

“It is a blessing from my god.”

“Ah, holy man.” Condescension drips from the charmer’s tongue, thick as poison, “And what is your god telling you now?”

The old man points a calloused finger down the path, smile bright, “He says go that way.”

The charmer’s eye twitches a moment before he bows with exaggeration, eyes practically rolling back far enough to glimpse his spine, “Well, then lead the way.” 

“Okay.” 

The holy man walk off.

Not so much as a drip of the charmer’s spite sticks to the holy man’s shoes. Something between shock and annoyance crosses the tiefling’s face as the old human fails to rise to his goading, treating their conversation as casually as a discussion of the weather. Emet almost wants to laugh, but as the old man turns from them, the smile fades and the sun in his eyes dims to something broken. 

Emet had caught a glimpse before, sorrow at the edges of the old man’s eyes when they first arrived here. But it flickered away so quickly, he thought he’d seen wrong. But there it is again, a mirage across the waters, flickering with the light and hiding that which is real. 

But the smile returns quick as a spark when the charmer drops his collection of dead twigs and hurriedly catches up to the holy man to try his best to walk ahead of him. You’d think the world would collapse if he actually let anyone else lead by the way he desperately sought control. But the old human only grins and walks faster. Neither break into a jog, but they might as well be.

Emet shakes his head and shares another silent expression with the rebel. Neither need words to wonder what in the nine hells they have been dragged into.

It isn’t long before the holy man tries to fill the silence with light conversation. He comments on everything from the weather and poor quality of the road to the refreshing chill of the rain despite the ice in the air numbing them to the bone. Emet is too tired to humor him and the others march ever onward in wet misery. Silence and glares reign in their grim company.

“You all seem like a quiet bunch,” the holy man grins.

“Sorry, my idea of small talk isn’t ‘the raven is pretty bird’,” the rebel murmurs with a slight click of her teeth. She pulls her damp jacket tighter.

“No, no. ‘The weather is pretty bad.’ Sorry, my common tongue is not so good.”

“Ah, well you do you.” The rebel’s large platform boots sink into a rather deep patch of mud and she shakes it off with a scowl, “It’s a stupid language anyway. This blasted—”

The thin grey light filtering through the gnarled canopies suddenly eclipses, enshrouding them in shadow. Hands reach for weapons before their heads snap to the heavens. A large shadow blackens the lands from above, wings blotting out the skies as something swiftly sweeps over them, the shadow gone before they can spy what has passed. No sound or rushing wind. Not even the mist stirs in the beast’s wake, as though nothing had passed at all. 

More shadows follow at rapid pace. Dark reptilian bodies cut through the fog with bats wings, plunging into the mists before being swallowed whole. Dozens of smaller avian creatures rocket past, following the same before they too vanish. No sound rustles the bones of the trees, no winds buffet them from the power of those wings. Silence. 

Visions in the mist. 

Emet barely has a moment to process the shape of the dragon before it’s gone and they are alone once more in the endless fog. Though he has been blessed enough to have never seen a dragon in person, there is no mistaking the shadow that swept over them.

The vision is gone for half a breath before something appears on the road before them, its figure forming like ink blotting and spreading across damp paper. Fleeting and ephemeral, a tall slender figure appears at the edge of their vision where the fog denies all detail. Large elegant feathered wings stretch out from their back, the wings fluttering and spreading wide as though about to take flight. Fog rolls over the road and the shadow melts into the mist.

In the distance another appears. Broad shouldered with an oversized arm tipped in large vicious claws, the figure lurks through moss covered trunks. He slings a large executioner’s axe across his thick shoulders and raises that swollen clawed hand toward them. The claws close slowly as if in promise of slow and agonizing pain. The silhouette seems to hold the holy man’s gaze before fading away.

Another shadow materializes at the edges of Emet’s vision and he whips around, backing up to the others. They take a circular formation, weapons drawn and eyes carved open, seeking every shadow in the mist. A cloak flickers between three ancient yew trees on phantom winds as a horse steps forward in dangerous silence. Its mane flickers as though aflame, a cloaked figure seated atop its back with an air of sharpened knives and slit throats. Though their eyes hide in the shadow of their figure, Emet can feel an empty appraising gaze wash over him.

Thunder cracks through the skies and the vision is gone.

“Everyone else is seeing this, yes?” The holy man asks carefully.

“Unfortunately,” Emet breathes, not daring to tear his eyes from the now empty mists.

“Oh thank the gods,” the rebel says, “I thought it was just me going mad with hunger and sleep deprivation. I’m so hungry…” she adds quietly.

They remain encircled about each other, backs close but not touching, searching the forests around them for another few moments longer. But every figure is gone without so much as a sound or a trace, as though all they ever were was shadow. 

Emet knew women with visions and men who could glimpse the possibility of futures in their sleep. But he’s never been one himself. His vision never stretches beyond the now. And though he knew others who sought the sight of these seers with their cryptic answers drawn from old cards and spilled atop velvet with rolled bones, he never placed faith in their fortunes. Yet something about these visions in the mist feels like omen.

The charmer slings his bow back across his chest, “So there’s dragons. Great.”

“That was a dragon?”

Emet raises a brow at the old human, half expecting this question to be some attempt at light humor. But his weathered face is genuine.

“The reptilian one with batwings, that one was. The others were too fast to tell,” Emet answers.

The rebel rubs her eyes, “Then how is it all gone now. We were surrounded and now there’s nothing, not even a hoof print in the mud.” Her hand pauses and her eyes narrow suspiciously over her knuckles, “This is some sort of mass hallucination, isn’t it.”

Emet waves his hand through the mist, watching it curl around his fingers in familiar smokey patterns. He frowns, “Something to do with the mist perhaps?”

“Oh shit, is this drug mist?” A half smile curls the rebel’s tinted lips and her usually aloof eyes brighten, showing the first sign of interest in anything since Emet has met her, “Maybe there’s drug mushrooms or something in the forrest. Thael.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised at this point…”

Up ahead, the path curves. Barely visible in the shifting tides of mist, the road vanishes and reappears beneath the tidal swells. The fog edges close then withdraws for a spell before returning once more to swallow it whole. Come-again currents move across the lands, obscuring and revealing trees and formations at the whim of the ethereal sea. With every landmark and trail stolen and given, the entire experience feels as hazy and surreal as a dream.

The charmer and the holy man both lead the new press forward, neither allowing the other to walk ahead of them—the tiefling with scowl, the holy man with a smirk. But their competitive pace slows as something large and dark looms through the mist, the silhouette towering as high as the withered canopies. 

The fog withdraws like a curtain before them revealing towering stone fortress walls, the mists retreating with eerie intention from the ancient ruins. An unseen hand setting the scene before them. Large buttresses brace the heavy fortifications like those dug deep into the earth outside the largest of city walls—those built against conquest, withstanding every siege unbroken. The stone palisades stretch as far as they can see into the distance to either side of the road, its shadow stretching further still.

Twin iron gates settle across the road and tower reaching several carts high above them, the curled and twisted metal shaped into a beautiful and dangerous sharp design. Matching braziers of bronze forged into large basins protrude on either side like offerings, their pools of oil alight in warm flame hissing lightly in the rain. The gate’s blackened and rusting metal glints softly in the firelight with beads of perpetual dew shimmering bright as stars against the flames. 

Silent stone sentinels stand before the gates, their decapitated shoulders bearing the weight of time and decay within the grey stone. Armored heads freed of their slit necks lay shattered at the sentinels’ feet with withered weeds tangling across the petrified features and curling across the cracks in a feeble attempt to seek the heavens. 

Above the gate and framed perfectly between the silent guardians, a large eagle with wings spread wide in flight is carved into the stonework by a heavy hand. The seal pressed like a coin into the palisades and dominating the apex of the gates with severe presence and sharp eyes.

Beyond the divide of stone and metal, the dark and misty forest stretches endless onward as though unaware of the stone leash wrapped about its throat. The muddy path unfurls ahead, a ribbon of promise through the deadwood.

Emet’s pale eyes search the symbolism carved into the stonework, but everything feels wholly unfamiliar; from the statues’ garb and weapons, to the eagle’s unusually sharpened features, every feather a blade. In his old life, Emet surrounded himself with books of every kind and read histories far and wide as he cared for the pieces that found their way into his hands and. He spent years of his life reading, and though he would never rival the knowledge of a wizard, he knew a little about a great many things. Most old places in Faerûn bear guardians of some familiar god or legend and their sigils carry the carved fields of well known ruling houses and cities. But all before him evades the familiar. Not the faint strangeness of lands and cultures away, but the unsettling unfamiliarity of worlds away. 

The dread that settled heavy and coiled as a viper in the pit of Emet’s stomach burrows a little deeper.

“Do any of you recognize any of this?” Hoping against hope that one of the others will bring relief to his building unease with a single ‘yes’.

“I don’t get out much,” the rebel’s words drift with carefully crafted carelessness, the fragile kind balanced atop the tip of a needle and easily toppled.

Where in the nine hells are they? And what in the hells happened to them?

The half-elf stares warily at the path beyond ahead, searching, “There’s no tapers or oil. No discarded match ends. No footprints. If someone lit these fires there should be something.”

“Magical?” The holy man ventures.

She shakes her head as she wanders closer, her heavy boots sinking deep into the mud as soft as potter’s clay, “No. There’s no enchantments carved into the basin. This doesn’t seem right…” the rebel’s eyes wander up the doors.

A savage wail cuts through the silence, the twisted iron gates swinging open at the rebel’s approach. She jumps back, hand shooting to the coiled whip dangling from her belt as all instinctively reach for their weapons. The arms of the gates swing languidly open to welcome its new guests, slowing to a gentle stop before hitting the stone walls. The path is empty beyond, the muddy road devoid of prints, and not a breath of wind strong enough to have shifted the heavy iron. The only ghosts around being themselves.

The gates silently welcome with ominous silence.

Emet eyes the dark iron doors, the sharp intricacies of the design feeling wholly dangerous now.

“You ever hear of a honey trap?” The rebel half-elf asks.

The old human scratches his chin a moment, “What is a honey trap?”

“It’s when someone lures you in with something that’s way too good.”

“This does not look good, though.”

“I mean, compared to that,” she gestures behind them where the mist has devoured the path and forest so thoroughly it is like the world has fallen away entirely. 

How did—?

Emet stumbles back from the wall of fog nearly pressing against his back. Something about the ground doesn’t feel right with that step, the soil too shallow as though what’s beneath his boots is as hollow and thin as an open grave. The world gained a new edge when his back was turned and he wonders if all it would take is a single step forward to fall off forever. Emet swallows hard. He didn’t sense the mist’s approach at all.

The half-elf cocks her thumb toward the open gate where the path is still hazy, but visible, “Weird creepy trail sounds better than lost forever in fog, wouldn’t you say?”

The holy man sweeps his arm to the defaced sentinels, “Headless statues, dark forest. Bad bad. Both choices are bad. There is no honey.”

“You make a good point, but this path is slightly less bad.”

A scoff breaks the conversation and the charmer shoulders past them, “If you’re all so scared then I’ll go first.”

He strides through the open gates without pause, though his hand never leaves the hilt of his blade. On the other side, Emet swears he sees the man take a settling breath as though he’d been holding it. The tiefling turns around on the other side, sweeping one arm out as if to say, ‘See, still alive.’

“This devil boy has confidence.” The holy man nods, but whether in admiration or acknowledgement of foolishness, Emet isn’t sure.

“I don’t know if it’s confidence or stupidity,” the rebel comments with the baffled wonder of watching someone step into a worg den.

“Time will tell.” The holy man smiles faintly, that ghost of sorrow flickering across his eyes before fading again, “Though he did punch a tree for no reason earlier.”

“Like, it’s clearly a trap. I mean I know it’s our only path now, but still.”

Emet listens to the exchange in silence as he keeps an eye on the devouring fog behind him. He’s more inclined to agree with the ’stupidity’ assessment. It’s the same brazen confidence of someone who decides careless action is better than careful delayed action. A blazing blade too eager to swing and choosing to deal with the consequences as they come. Clearly ‘devil boy’ has never been ambushed in his life, but Emet’s 229 years have taught him a very different lesson. And if the charmer wants to be the rat that tests the trap, let him. Emet will be the one to step over his snapped neck to the other side.

The tiefling gives another dramatic look to either side for his audience, ‘Oh look, there’s nothing here and nothing over there.’ Seems Emet has been around this man long enough to hear the snideness even in his gestures. Charmer indeed.

The holy man gathers his faith like his robes and walks through next. Willing enough to walk through fire when another has survived the flames, but smart enough to wait until the heat is tested by another. Emet waits for the rebel to go next, intending to be their rearguard, but she holds her ground and gives Emet a challenge in her sharp look, piercings glinting wildly across her face in the brazier’s firelight.

Tired of checking over her shoulder at him, he supposes. No matter. Emet skirts past her—careful to keep a comfortable distance between them—and she trails along behind him after a hesitant glance at the wall of fog behind them. So long as she doesn’t burry a dagger in his back, she can walk where she pleases. Emet’s grip tightens on the broken glaive’s haft, dark memories whispering like ghosts in the hollows of his heart at the thought. Beneath his armor, a deep scar aches across his back through to his chest and he finds his hand lightly touching the place where steel parted bone and left his ribs broken with a river of blood pouring down the valleys of his muscled stomach.

He’s had more than enough blades buried in his spine for this lifetime. 

A defeated sigh behind Emet curls his lips into a faint smile. Seems the half-elf has discovered the first problem with having a seven foot tall moon-elf-shaped obstruction walking in front of her.

The smile quickly dies however as the metallic screech of iron tears through the forest behind them. Emet whips around just in time to see the heavy twisted gates slam shut with a boom of finality, the sharp metal cutting off the path a mere hand’s width behind the rebel’s back. One step less and she would’ve been crushed in two. 

The impact shakes the ground beneath them, the sound echoing loudly through the forest. Emet’s heart hammers in his chest at the sudden shift, withdrawing the blades at his hips in an instant’s held breath. The rebel stumbles back toward him and he instinctively steps out of her way before she catches herself, whip drawn, shield up.

“Probably a gust,” the charmer shrugs nonchalantly in the still air, though Emet notes his swords are drawn as well.

“Then that is a powerful gust,” the holy man adds before muttering a long string of prayers beneath his breath.

Emet didn’t use to be this on edge and a part of him curses how often he finds his gauntleted hands wrapping around his blades in this company. But he has no control when the unexpected happens, his mind becoming blank and muscles quick. His body falling back on training when his head loses itself. He only comes back when steel is drawn and the air isn’t filled with the screams of the dying. Cold calculation and precision only returning to his mind after instinct has had its way. His company use to call him cold for the way he could act without emotion, cutting down the dead without a second thought. They were only ever half right. But now he knows fear and it blinds him.

The paladin he once was died in that cemetery. 

He’s not sure what’s been left behind.

Grounding himself in the silence of the forest, Emet pulls himself out of haunted memory and watches as the rebel cautiously gives the gates a test shove. But the iron doors hold steady. Locked tight. A fine trap if he ever did see one, and they strolled right in. Wrapping her hands around the metal of the doors this time, the rebel gives several rough shakes followed by a swift kick. The doors give little more than a faint shudder beneath her force.

“We might be able to get this open again with a few of us,” she pants.

The holy man pauses his prayers, “And then what?”

“Well, then we’re not stuck in this weird fucking place!”

A shadow stains the mahogany of the holy man’s eyes to ebony as he glances to either side of the seemingly endless wall stretching through the accursed mist. The eclipse passes and that warm smile fills his voice with the confidence only those devoted to gods can conjure, “There will be another door.”

The rebel still pants, trying to catch her breath, but it’s not from exertion. 

“And if there’s not, then we’ll break through this one,” Emet adds darkly. He does not hold the same faith in the heavens. The gods already showed him they do not care.

Emet glares at the backs of the headless sentinels through the iron gates and wonders if they are meant to keep others out, or something in. As the holy man said, only time will tell.

“People made this wall and where there’s people, there’s food, drink, and a bed,” the charmer strolls backward down the road as he speaks, “I want all three, so I’m going this way.”

He twists on his heel and marches ahead without a glance to see if any follow. Emet makes note to never turn his back on this one and to never find himself at the charmer’s mercy. He will slit the rope of a man dangling off a cliff if it’s in his way and leave the man to bleed out on the stones so long as it doesn’t bloody his own shoes. 

With no path behind, and only one ahead, they follow. 

The holy man races ahead, smirking as he begins the game of trying to take one step ahead of the tiefling again. It only irritates the man into quickening his own pace to stay ahead, but still too proud to break into a run lest it reveal how much he desires control. At least someone is capable of lightheartedness on this strange, weary day.

The rebel waits for Emet to go ahead of her and he relents without fuss. He traveled for an entire day on foot before reaching the barn in Daggerford, and for weeks before that, following the amber shard away from home in search of answers and power. It’s been nearly two days since he’s rested. Legs filled with steel and mind drowning beneath a fog all its own, Emet keeps the exhaustion at bay with movement. He knows it will catch up to him, but hopefully not before reaching shelter and safety.

He might be a hollow shell, his soul carved empty by blade and bone to carry another, but this body still knows the burdens of the living. And death will not welcome nor comfort him. It will only curse what he gave everything to save. So he must live.

He must live.

And he must find a way before it is too late.

[wetcatspellcaster]

Metapost: "The Ascendent"

**this is a meta for my fic, Pieces Still Stuck in Your Teeth, and NOT a discussion of the BG3 game canon in any way. If you try and make this into a disk-horse, I will BITE you**

(spoilers under the cut for Chapters 1-23 of Pieces Still Stuck in Your Teeth).

So... remember in the Chapter One endnote when I said I was a Spike/Buffy fan first, and a person second? x

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In more seriousness, there was a number of fictional seasonings/ingredients that went into creating what I felt was the villain of a Gothic horror, and what I felt could turn the Ascendent into something that was both 'fixable', and something I enjoyed writing.

Those ingredients were:

Spike and the idea of 'soulless' vampires in the BtVS canon - do I like this conceit of BtVS worldbuilding and how it's used in the show? No. I think it often underlines how bad Whedon is at writing romance. BUT I do think it gives Buffy this free pass for which vampires she can/can't like or adopt, and I needed some of that for my protagonist. I need a 'I can fix him' moment - BtVS has those in fucking SPADES.

Howl's Moving Castle (this one was accidental, I'm still mad at myself but I can't deny it's there) - man conducts magic ritual for power, removing an essential part of himself in the process that needs to be returned

Picture of Dorian Gray (the idea of an exterior staying pristine while something hidden suffers and decays)

Curse of Strahd (the soulless in Barovia, which I mentioned in Chapter 23)

The idea of default moral alignments in D&D. I have a whole chapter arguing against this in my thesis (mostly bc it's often applied to entire races) but I was fascinated by creating a set of circumstances where I feel like a default moral alignment is valid, actually. 7,000 deaths seems like a good set up. I wanted to imagine a being that was trapped within a default moral alignment, and the laws of its very being prevent it from being good no matter what it tries, and it knows that (this kind of creates a feedback loop with the Spike/Buffy stuff)

The parts of the BG3 canon I took and REMADE (I'm stressing this throughout, I was making a horror story and a horror monster your honour):

Astarion conducts the Rite of Profane Ascension with scars on his back, but has to scar Cazador's back personally, suggesting that um... the Rite REALLY SHOULDN'T BE CONDUCTED BY SOMEONE WHO'S GOT THOSE SCARS. Cazador wasn't going to do it that way, is all I'm saying!!

The idea that Ascended!Ending Astarion is a concentrated version of certain traits that have persisted throughout his story - his flirtiness, his understanding of sex as a mechanism and expression of power, his use of a façade as a mask for trauma he refuses to acknowledge.

The lines alluding to dissociation in the brothel foursome, post-Ascension.

The idea that Astarion seduced Tav to survive or protect himself- in my case, because I made the Ascendent empty save for Astarion's survival instinct, the idea that he would gravitate towards Tav as one of his default modes to potentially survive made sense to me - this is why it becomes an obsession.

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For me, when writing, the Ascendent is a few things:

An intensification of vampirism in a different, fucked-up direction. Yeah, A!Astarion, you can walk in sunlight and you can eat and drink and don't need blood. But you are still a hungering maw of emptiness that feels like it will never be whole or close and connected to the living - just now in a wildly different, metaphysical/existential direction! Welcome to depression, alienation, and otherness!

A soulless being, that knows it is soulless - that initially was very happy with its life but then as the years passed, increasingly spends its every waking moment knowing there is something innately wrong with it that it can't seem to shake, no matter how much it engages with life and all the pleasures of life. (see the 'every meal without savour' speech)

A magically literal metaphor for Astarion's dissociation in moments of extreme trauma, up to and including the fight with Cazador - essentially, the moments when there is nothing but a performance or an exterior, because the self/soul are suffering and they cant' come to phone right now

Astarion's survival instinct. As I say in Chapter 23 - Mephistopheles thinks it is an empty body, who's performance is trying to deny the reality of it's own existence. Rosalie, who has a bit more understanding of Astarion, sees that the performance is not just a coping mechanism but one of Astarion's main modes of survival. The Ascendent is Astarion's survival instinct/techniques for endurance, without any soul or person behind them to protect. This is how I tried to tie in the flirty, hypersexual persona and wrap it with a bow.

I wanted a monster that was undeniably scary, and monstrous to me (oh? you can't fit in or be happy no matter what you do and no matter how hard you try, and you think there's something intrinsically off? how's that autism diagnosis going Emma) but that I also felt sympathy and true sorrow for. I needed to have motivations for him chasing after Tav that I could write meaningfully from and sympathise with.

Not only has Astarion used Tav as a life-raft once before, they've also proven to be the most secure thing he's ever clung to. Of course a rabid survival instinct Astarion would become obsessed, and see them as a potential solution to the problem (this was then intensified by Rosalie also being a walking, overbearing moral compass, and having bound him in a contract in the first week of living, accidentally - a lawful good immoveable objects meets a default moral alignment unstoppable force.)

...Because I also wanted that moral alignment spice!! Wizards of the Coast, default moral alignment is fucked up actually!!! Imagine something trying so desperately to be good - literally being bound in a pact and having been told to be good - but the laws of the universe and its very essence are like "nah mate, we kind of want to destroy and annihilate everything, we're neutral evil personified". That's scary!! that's fucked up!! that's what a birth from 7000 deaths gets you!!!

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So, now for the actual timeline, for people who aren't interested in my silly musings but mostly just want answers lmfao.

Rosalie makes the decision not to intervene in Cazador's mansion, making it seem like she'll support whatever decision Astarion will make there.

Rite of Profane Ascension happens. Astarion conducts the ritual, rips his own soul from his body, the Ascendent is born with literally zero context. Mephistopheles is fucked in Cania, because a bunch of stuff has just gone wrong.

(oh, by the way, the Ascendent knows Infernal as a default language. Bc it's born from an Infernal rite.)

The Ascendent is now default neutral evil, and feeling some kind of way. Rosalie and him break up. He's supposed to have everything, but the one thing he thought was a done deal - his most stalwart suppporter - just rejected him.

Netherbrain defeat (the Ascendent is not invited. Imagine being an all-powerful, hypersexual survival instinct vampire, and your ex-girlfriend neither wants you for sex, nor your power.)

Rosalie accidentally binds the Ascendent (a soulless devil) in a pact demanding that he never kill anyone, when that's literally what the Ascendent's new existence/new default moral alignment is driving him to do. Then, she fucks off and goes into hiding.

Well. The Ascendent can just get another wizard, to help him learn all of Cazador's secrets to cope [Hemlock is recruited].

The years go by! The Ascendent is doing sooooo well. Everything is great, guys! I'm rich, I'm beautiful, I have lavish parties and lots of sex - why do I feel nothing? I'm a vampire perfected - I have no hunger for blood, I can walk in the sun, I can enjoy all the freedoms of a living, breathing man - why do I feel like I'm starving? Why does everything turn to ashes in my mouth? I have friends - oops, I've sabotaged all those friendships with my innate neutral evil destruction. Why can't I feel anything? What's wrong with me? I'm doing everything right? Why doesn't it feel that way?

Also, I can't kill anything to feel better about it, because my hidden ex-girlfriend bound me in a pact.

In this time, to reflect the gradual degradation of the Ascendent's happiness and it's increasing awareness that it is something Other and innately wrong, the reflection starts going weird. Starts going strange. Starts getting a bit fucked up. Almost as if, when he looks in the mirror and sees a person, *nothing* should be what's there. Imagine being a spawn who couldn't see your reflection, and then a vampire who could see it's reflection, but knows that they're innately empty. Knows there's nothing there. I'd freak out a little bit about it as well tbh, I'd go a bit tooth and claw and elongated jaw about it.

The Ascendent finally admits that's there must be something kinda fucked about it. Life just ain't working out, lads. He starts looking for any and all impossible cures that will help with the malaise in his soul (and that innate essence problem, caused by default moral alignment). These include: more bad decisions, such as a house in Cania bc the Ascendent is hoping he'll feel more at home with devils than he does with mortals. All it does is make him feel more isolated and alone.

But eventually, he settles on two things! - Wish (Hemlock's idea), and Rosalie (the Ascendent's idea). Clearly, we just need Rosalie back! Her leaving is actually what fucked him up in the first place - none of this existential bullshit! She fixed us one, she can fix us again.

But looking for Rosalie hasn't worked out. In order to get a shot at her, the Ascendent goes and bargains for his own soul from Mephistopheles. Mephistopheles, adding a new sheet in excel titled 'what the fuck happens when i give this soulless monster a soul to play with?', agrees and starts tracking his new data.

Obviously, just putting the soul back in yourself will fix you. But the Ascendent, the nothingness living inside Astarion's body, will die. Taking the soul back would erase itself. The Ascendent - who is survival instinct personified - would never do this.

So instead, it starts interviewing and cannibalising the soul. Bc a soul is what it needs, this is the closest it's ever felt to being alive. Bc it's made this all about Rosalie, he thinks he's found his solution. The chase is making him feel alive again. It's true love, lads! not the soul.

Wish auction happens - the Ascendent is beaten to the punch by some unknown (hot) wizard.

This avenue cut off, the Ascendent makes the decision to try and win Rosalie back.

Astarion advises that to make her come back to the Gate, he should murder a bunch of people. Because this comes from the soul, not the soulless devil nothingness, it circumvents the pact.

...The events of Pieces begin!

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And finally - the Ascendent tries to destroy Jar!Starion for many reasons in Chapter 19:

The Ascendent knows that it dies, if the soul and the body get reunited (or is that constant high alert survival instinct just no longer needed, because the problem is fixed? you decide.)

The Ascendent values Tav above itself. Tav is going to fix them. Astarion believes he could never fix himself.

Dissociation - that soul isn't me. I'm here, looking at my soul. If I get too close, it'll kill me.

Self-hatred - that soul isn't me. That man made a mistake, and I've had to live with the consequences. He doesn't deserve to live, for what he's made me become.

The knowledge that Rosalie/Tav will only ever want that version of him, not the one that's living and breathing, that sees itself as the most wretched, fucked-up version of itself. So... give them no choice. They have to deal with me and love me at my worst.

And if the Rite didn't work - if the version of the Ascendent walking around isn't the best one, and the one people want... what was it all for? Why does the Ascendent feel like this? Why does it have to suffer?

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....And, that's my little meta post! If anyone has any questions about the timeline or any motivations at any points in the fic, I'm obviously more than happy to explain things via ask/comment, as always!

TLDR: I just wanted to make a Gothic horror. I wanted a dark romance, fucked up obsession vampire/mortal dynamic, but I also wanted a situation that was scary for both Astarion and my Tav. I personally think an Astarion who is so dissociated and separate from reality that he feels that in his bones daily, is scary. It's the lingering impact of the traumas the Rite and those 7,000 souls embodied.

I was literally just trying to make it a horror, for everyone involved.

[maybechristy]

I love creating DnD characters and character backgrounds. It’s so much fun.

I love the creativity I get to have with it. I used to write fan fiction and I used to roleplay so character creation lets me use those creative skills.

Here’s the names of my four characters with either a little fun fact or a couple fun facts about each of them:

Isla (human noble sorcerer) - my first ever Dungeons and Dragons character. My only character that almost had to make death saves in session 0 and 1. Also, my shortest character - 5’6”.

Mara (human noble sorcerer) - my only character that’s ever been used twice. (I made her for a weird one shot that I’d rather forget about and now she’s in a Curse of Strahd campaign.) My first character to ever have a relation to one of my other characters; Isla is her cousin.

Aislyn (half elf criminal wizard rogue) - my orphan character. My most chaotic character. My first ever multi-classed character. Also, my tallest - 5’8” and oldest character - 24.

Eleanora (variant human noble bard) - my newest character (for an upcoming campaign starting this summer) and my youngest character - 20.

I love each of them dearly. Poor Aislyn has the most trauma out of the four…. So far.

[dellamortethelesser]

How do you come up with your ocs? Like what's your creative process

ahh the dreaded creative process question...

sometimes it starts as music or a song that i'm attached to and i build off of that. sometimes ur listening to a song and you're like "this would go hard as a solo fight scene in a shitty freeform show" and you just gotta run with that.

usually for ocs in established media i try to eke out some of the themes already there and interpret it in my own way! "how would I explore this" vs how the creator or other fans do.

usually though when it's original characters for my original fiction or maybe d&d/pathfinder, i kind of... have to work on it for a little while. a lot of the times the character starts out as a vision in my mind and i have to determine how they got there; developing early life concepts is a huge thing for me because i feel like family and community in your formative years will greatly shape who you become (for better or worse).

oftentimes it does come down to using ocs as an outlet and building them around what i'm feeling: grief, loneliness, love, hope, anger. anger is a big one because i'm a pretty angry person; not in a way that i try to display to others but just inside. sometimes im ashamed of my anger, so how do i make a character who isn't ashamed of it and can express it? does this help me as an outlet? also trans feelings. 100% i am making trans ocs to explore the way i feel and relate to identity, gender, and sexuality. idk this feels very not good explanation LOL

for me i throw spaghetti on the wall until something sticks. once an idea has me it doesn't let go: for example, melchior; i knew i wanted a bard. i knew i was playing curse of strahd. how do i make a character that fits into the setting? i had him come from ravenloft and made him downtrodden, cynical, but still with a belief that he has a duty to minimize harm. even when it's hard. even when he can't always do it. because i need to find a way to do that. and forgive myself when i can't.

[vertigovampires]

So small update I have a total of 10 pages of the book so far and a working title about 13 more pages to go before first chapter is finished honestly super proud had to put writing on pulse while I went to my adventure game but I’m back and on top of keeping the pages flowing here a little snippet of one of my favorite parts in the prologue!!

———

I knelt down clawing at stones and digging through the hot ash that burned my hands, my vision started to blur was the heat that intense that it stung my eyes, or was just crying.

———

It’s not much but thought a little teaser would be fun to share as I work on this. So I wanted to give a little bit of context on where the book that I’m working on, is inspired from and how much information I can dive into this .

So about two-ish years ago my partner and I started doing a talk PG not game canon but while we were playing curse of strahd table top over two years, I built a whole world, history names of different parts, and a world map along with multiple characters, side characters, and among other things A shit ton of lore. I have enough information that I feel like I can write a decent fanfiction. I used to be a big fan fiction reader but always felt like the books kind of felt quick unrealistic to an extent to a point where it felt rushed there’s nothing wrong with that but I wanted to write some thing that was a slow burn. Kind of like Dracula minus in journal entries because let’s be honest that’s really hard to get through especially in this day and age.

I’m pulling from some old fashion, vampiric tropes along with trying to write fantasy for the minority without shoving it in everyone’s faces in a sense what I mean is the protagonist I based off of my own background of my own heritage I think that’s the only time I’m gonna actually mention it because I don’t want it to be some quick grab for people More of a Hey we’re here there’s a short description in the beginning of the book of the protagonist also known as Annalise looks like along with the cast of people who are all mixed about. I’m doing my best to base Strahd and other people who already written as they are. I will not be changing anything about them their luxe I may slightly pull from Romanian history and clothing accuracy, but nothing more.

Apart from that, I’ve always enjoyed fantasy in horror along with D&D and RPG tabletop games.

And pulling a lot of inspiration from many books, movies in DND. I want to do my best but I’m not expecting it to be perfect as this is my first time writing some thing this long I do have dyslexia, so I am asking a couple people to help me correct grammar and spelling. I’m currently using text to speech whilst typing this out on my phone.

It’s a big block to read if you read it through. Thanks so much I’ll be dropping more updates as time goes on.🖤🖤🖤⚔️⚔️⚔️🦇🦇🦇

Love y’all hope you stick with me while I work on this🖤

[wanderingjournalofshadows]

principium

This journal is a remnant of a wanderer, an adventurer of sorts.

More precisely a solo RPG journal for me, traveling through the mists, and exploring the wonderful and horrifying place that is the home setting of Ravenloft.

The Hickman couple created something in 1983 that captured the fans of gothic horror and at the time emerging Dungeons & Dragons enthusiasts - it became a cult setting for many alike.

My personal experience with the world of Ravenloft runs back to 2017 when I first started to run Curse of Strahd, the 5th edition variant of the classic module I6 - Ravenloft. I was just starting college and gathered a new group of friends to guide them into the mists of Barovia.

Since then I ran the campaign two more times, with more or less success, but I knew that it is the perfect setting for me if I ever wanted to play D&D.

So what is the premise of this blog?

I intend to delve deep into the lore of the setting and explore it through the lenses of a character who travels through the mists and gets to know the colorful (albeit desaturated) Domains of Dread.

I'll write about my adventures, as I slowly slip into the role of this character, and hopefully enjoy my time over the weekly sessions of a couple of hours, and leave behind something that is enjoyable to read as well, since I do have my aspirations of creative writing.

It is also a practice of writing and my (non-existent) English skills, since I'm not a native speaker of the language, but if I'm to write, I need to hone the skill well enough to create something that captivates the readers' curiosity.

So expect grammatical issues, or sometimes errors in semantics, as I power through descriptions and ways to express my experiences during play.

Aesthetics? Format?

I also try to leave behind sketches, and make it pleasing to read this journal. I'm already thinking about the formatting of the text so one can separate the narrative from the game mechanics, and only read the fiction emerging from my dice rolling and decisions. Solo Roleplaying is a very interesting concept in itself, that deserves a dedicated post later on.

I think my time with Play-By-Post (pbp) games gave me a certain standard when it comes to "written play" and how certain things should be presented.

Writing in first person or third person will be always one of the difficult decisions when it comes to the tone of fiction. For the setting the first person perspective offers a certain kind of intimacy, especially to convey the character's emotions, that might be a better option to convey a personal experience. Bram Stoker's Dracula (Read it if you have the time) was also an inspiration for this choice, since the plot is told through letters, written from the perspective of the characters.

And while reading I will listen to music that inspires me, I'll most likely leave a Spotify/Youtube link at the beginning of each post to have an audio ambience for the entry.

In the coming weeks I'll figure out the blog aesthetics as well, refreshing my CSS skills and/or looking for a suitable template.

So who will be the Wanderer?

I don't know at the moment, but I need to find first where I should start. There are many wonderful resources online that can help me choose the first Domain of Dread to venture to. What I also need to choose is the rules themselves. Since the first Ravenloft was written for AD&D 1E - I might opt for using an older version of the traditional formula. There are some pros for it:

It's OSR compatible. I have a truckload of OSR resources, that can be fairly easily adapted to it, thus giving me more creative and gameplay freedom.

Lots of compatible Ravenloft materials. Lots of resources exist for AD&D 2E which also has an easy conversion backwards, if I would ever need to have that, but again the difference between 1E and 2E are minor.

It's simpler. While it's obscure in nature, it is less complicated, and less restrictive with certain aspects of the game, compared to 3E/3.5.

It's crunchy enough. 5E is nice, but lacks a certain kind of crunch that I liked about the older editions. AD&D 1E might have just enough that will be still simple enough for solo play, that I don't have to spend too much time figuring out the system while playing.

In the next post I'll be exploring my options for the character and the first Domain of Dread.

But I think it's good to write down the foundation of the thought process, and I hope it gave perspective for you as a reader on what the hell I'm doing here.

Cheers,

Mythwriter

[cursed-in-barovia]

SESSION 15

The hair emerged from the bathtub to form an arm, and slithered toward Tomogot who was standing in the bathroom doorway.  It then snapped and lunged toward Tomigot and instantly wrapped around his arms and torso.  Tomigot screamed in both disgust and horror.  Others tried to see what was going on, but couldn’t because Tomigot was blocking the entry into the dimly lit bathroom.

The creature continued to rise from the tub.  Tomigot could see that through all of the long hair it was a woman with pruned and rotten skin.  As she rose, she stirred the foul odor of the murky water she was resting in.  Her face turned toward Tomigot.

“Gustav?!” she said with excitement before reeling Tomigot in with her hair, pulling him within inches of her until they were face to face.  Tomigot tried not to look and pull his head away from here, while still restrained by her long hair.  

“I’ve missed you, Gustav!” she whispered.  The woman leaned in for a kiss, but Tomigot was able to keep his distance.

Once the doorway was clear, Zoras set a bonfire near the woman while Zemotta squeeze in to make several attacks.  Though between the bonfire, the smell, and the sheer foulness of the creature, she, or more like her unconscious, was unable to make any contact.

Tomigot tried to muscle his way through the grasp of the woman’s hair, but remained grappled.

“I’m not Gustav.  Who is Gustav!?” he asked, still terrified.

The woman seemed both perplexed and discontent of this information.  She still seemed to want Tomigot’s attention.  Zemotta tried to land a few more attacks and was able to strike her three times.  Zoras’ bonfire continued to burn her.  

Tomigot finally was able to break free of the woman’s hair and continued to try to convince her that he wasn’t the person she was looking for.  

“I’m telling you, I’m not Gustav! I am Tomigot.  What is your name?” he asked, trying to break her focus on smothering him.

“I’m Alana.  Where is Gustav? I miss him.  Can you find him?” she asked, desperately.

“If I agree to find him, will you let me go?” Tomigot said, gently.

“Will you promise to bring him here?” she asked longingly, and then thought for a moment.  “Actually,” her demeanor shifted to scorn, “find Elizabeth!  She’s the one that did this too me!”  She parted her hair to reveal her naked, rotted body underneath, littered in stab wounds.  Tomigot winced at the site.

“Oh!” Tomigot winced at the site.  “Ok, I’ll find Elizabeth, then!” he agreed without question. “Is it ok if I leave now?” he carefully asked.

“Find Elizabeth…and kill her!” the woman said while raising her voice and pointing her hand toward the bathroom door, as a cue to exit.  Tomigot quickly scurried along and made sure to close the door behind him.

“Is everything ok?” Devotion asked. “What was that in there?”

Tomigot was resting his back against the bathroom door, breathing hard.

“I don’t know.  Some crazy woman wanting me to kill Elizabeth.” Tomigot managed to explain.

Nobody seemed to know who Elizabeth was, but Devotion wanted to keep a close eye on the bathroom door to make sure the woman didn’t try to come after the party.  Eventually she could hear water ripple as if the woman had receded back into the tub.  It then became silent once again.

Once the coast was clear, Zemotta went back to inspecting the closet.  It was really dark inside, but with the help of Tomigot, they were able to find a small hole in the ceiling, leading to the floor above.  Everyone gathered around the closet.

“Maybe we should send the owl up there?” Zoras hinted at Nori.

Nori sent Chi through the hole to see what she could see.  It was a very dark room with lots of furniture covered in cloth, as if it were storage.  In the far corner, opposite of the hole, there was a few small bookshelves with various books, a dresser with neatly organized rows of pairs of shoes in all sizes and shapes.  A creature, however, could not be seen.  Nori relayed the intel to the party.

“Help me up!” Zemotta commanded Tomigot.

“Oh…ok!” Tomigot reached out to pick up the Halfling, “Here you go, little one,” and propped her feet onto his shoulders.

Zemotta was just small enough to fit through the hole.  She stuck her head inside to see the legs of a bunch of chairs with draped linens covering the tops.

“It’s really dark in here!” she mentioned to Tomigot, below her.  “Hello? Is anyone in here?” she said calmly.

“Please don’t hurt me,” a trembling voice responded.

“Who are you? Where are you? Are you ok?” she asked the voice.

“My name is Peggin and I’ve been trapped in this house.”

Zemotta whispered down to Tomigot, “There’s someone up here.  I think it’s ok, though.”

“Here, let me come up.” Tomigot demanded.

“You won’t fit,” said Zemotta, before she started to hack at the hole with her quarterstaff, trying to make it bigger for Tomigot to fit through.

Meanwhile Zoras and the rest of the party felt helpless, finding no other obvious away to get to the floor above.

“We can’t all just climb up the hole!” Zoras said, impatiently.  “There has to be another way up.  Ask whoever that is how we can get up to the attic.” “Check behind the mirror in the room,” said the sweet little voice in the storage room.

This happened to be right where Zoras was standing.  He pulled the standing mirror away from the wall to see a crack that formed a secret door.  He opened it up to reveal a dark, cobweb filled stairway.

Tomigot tried climbing through the hole that Zemotta enlarged.  It wasn’t quite big enough as the top half of his body became wedged.  As he shimmied his way out of the hole, the rest of the party managed to make it up the dark webbed staircase and arrived at the attic hall. This bare hall was also choked with dust and cobwebs.  Small footprints could be seen on the dusty floor below.  They followed the footprints to one of the doors.

Zemotta crawled under the covered furniture, searching for the source of the voice.  Then Zoras opened the door into the storage room.  Nori sent in some dancing lights to help illuminate the dark room.  From their view, the room appeared to be clean and packed with neatly organized furniture (chairs, coat racks, standing mirrors, dress mannequins, and the like) draped in dusty white sheets and staged in the back corner.  Closer to the door was a dresser, wardrobe, and two small bookshelves. They could also see the rows of parts of shoes placed neatly on the floor near the dresser.

Zoras approached the locked wardrobe, but before he could touch the lock, the voice could be heard.

“Please don’t touch that.”

Nori sent her dancing lights toward the sound and eventually saw a frightened face belonging to a small goblin who was tucked and hiding in one of the dark corners of the room.  He was clutching what appeared to be a swaddled baby.

“Oh, who are you?  What do you have there?” Nori said, nodding to what the goblin was holding.

Zemotta eventually crawled her way through the furniture to meet with the rest of the party.

“I’m Peggin.  This is Walter,” Peggin said as he lifted the swaddled baby higher for Nori to see.  With a closer look, Walter was actually the skeleton of a baby.

“Peggin?” Nori asked with confusion.

“Yeah, you know, like peg-in-the-hole, peg leg….short people jokes,” Peggin said while shrugging at Zemotta, hoping she shared the same experiences.

Peggin carefully stands and approaches the wardrobe.  “This is my collection, please don’t touch.  I can show what I’ve found here in the house, though.”

“Are you the one we heard in the dumbwaiter?” Zemotta asked.

Peggin nodded.

“What are you doing in this house?” she asked.

“I came to find a book, but instead I’ve been trapped in this house every since.  It’s been months, at least.  So I’ve been waiting for people to help me either find the book and help me get out.  But as long as I’ve been in here, not very many people make it this far,” Peggin said as he raised his hands to signal the attic level.

“What book?” Zemotta asked.

“Oh I don’t know.  Some book that was supposed to have information about the ruler of this cursed land.  The Devil Strahd. I had information that lead me to this magical house,” Peggin explained.

Nori pointed at the bookshelf full of books. “Is the book in there?”

“No, those are just books I found on other adventurers who didn’t make it very far in this house,” Peggin said, disappointed.

“Anything interesting?” Zoras probed.

“Well, there’s a cookbook written in Dwarven, I think, a diary of a teenage girl, a sketchbook containing a drawing of an adorable goblin, a book of celestial poetry…” Peggin held the books out as if offering them to Zoras to read.

“Can I see the book on celestial poetry?” Zoras asked.

“Sure! Knock yourself out!” Peggin said and tossed the book over to Zoras.  He became excited to show the party his collection and revealed the various clothing he’s found and stored in the dresser.  Some had tears and blood stains, but all were neatly folded.  He then waved his hands over the shoes like a salesman.

“Have you found anything big?  Like a really big sword?” Tomigot asked.

Peggin slowly unlocked the wardrobe and opened the doors. “You mean like this!?” Inside the wardrobe were weapons, a shield, and a wooden box.  Peggin carefully pulled a great sword out of his stash.  It was bigger than him, but he was able to hand it over to Tomigot.  “It’s too big for me, clearly, so it’s all yours!”

“Oh thanks!  This is actually for a friend,” Tomigot clarified.

“Well I hope it’ll make your friend happy.  Can I help anyone else?” Peggin offered with a sense of purpose.

The party was like kids in a candy store!  Zemotta was happy to take two daggers.  Tomigot saw the shield and asked if he could try it out.

“Where’s the book?” Devotion asked, redirecting the focus back to the main goal.

“Well, I’ve been everywhere in the house, so it’s not in here.  There’s only one place I haven’t gone,” Peggin explained and then walked over to the corner of the room to open a secret door.  Inside was a narrow, dark descending staircase.  “I’ve been too scared to go down there by myself.  I can hear funny changing noises below.  Rose and Thorn mentioned a scary monster down there, too,” he went on.

“Who are Rose and Thorn?” Devotion asked.

“They’re the kids that belonged to the family of this house,” Peggin said, while point outside the room.

“What else do you do you know about this house?” Devotion continued with her questions.

“As far as I’ve gathered, this house belonged to Gustav and Elizabeth Durst.  Do those names ring a bell,” Peggin interrupted his story to wink at Tomigot. “It was a good move to leave that lady in the bathroom below.  She’s not very nice, but with good reason.  I think she’s Walter’s mom, the nursemaid, and….well…Elizabeth didn’t like that very much.”  Peggin paused in a short silence before continuing.

“It seems like the Dursts were some sort of fans of Strahd and wanted to impress him by forming a cult.  According to Rose and Thorn, they spent a lot of time downstairs.  But that’s as much as I was able to find out,” Peggin concluded.

Meanwhile Nori checked the far room on the attic floor.  It appeared to be dust-free and contained a slender bed, a night¬stand, a small iron stove, a writing desk with a stool, a wardrobe, and a rocking chair.

“Well, it sounds like we need to go downstairs,” Tomigot deduced.

“Not after a short rest,” Devotion demanded.

Peggin pulled out a vial holder.  “If we’re really all going down there, I have three potions of healing for you if you promise to help find the book,” Peggin said while showing the vials to everyone in the room.

“Yes, of course we’ll help,” Tomigot assured.

“Ok, but we should probably take Rose and Thorn down there as well. I imagine that’s where the family crypts are,” Peggin said earnestly while walking to their room across the hall.

Zoras called for Nori to help pick the locked door to the bedroom.  It took a few tries, but eventually she was able to unlock it to reveal a dark room with a bricked-up window flanked by two dusty, wood-framed beds sized for children. Closer to the door is a toy chest with windmills painted on its sides and a dollhouse that’s a perfect replica of the dreary ed¬ifice in which you stand. These furnishings are draped in cobwebs. Lying in the middle of the floor are two small skeletons wearing tattered but familiar clothing. The smaller of the two cradles a stuffed doll.

Peggin instructs the party that the bones need to be placed in the crypts in order for the spirits to rest in peace.  Devotion decided to take one set of bones, while Tomigot got the other.  When they started to collect the bones, the spirits of Rose and Thorn appeared.

“Are you helping us?” asked the spirit of a young boy, Thorn.

“Yes we are,” Devotion confirmed. “What happened to you?”

Rose took the lead to explain that their parents has simply forgotten about them and left them in their room to die.  They got in trouble a few times and were caught sneaking downstairs to see what their parents were spending most of their time doing, and so their room was boarded up and locked.  Their parents never returned, and now they’re a pile of bones.

It was a terrible story for Devotion.

“We’ll, well make sure to let you two rest in peace.  We just have to collect your bones, if you don’t mind,” she said as if asking permission.

“I’m scared,” said Thorn as his spirit form entered Devotions body.

“It’s ok, just do what I say,” said Rose as her spirit entered Tomigot’s body.

“Now let’s go downstairs!” said Tomigot!

“Wait, what’s in this room?” Zemotta asked, nosily, while pointing to the room at the corner.

“Nothing!” Peggin said, defensively.

“Is it something bad or something scary?” Devotion asked.

Peggin shook his head.

“C’mon, what is it?” Zemotta begged.

Peggin was hesitant to answer, but finally caved.  “Well…I had to eat.  Please don’t judge me.” Peggin’s head tilted down as his shoulders dropped.

Zemotta opened the door to see a web-filled room containing a slender bed, a night¬stand, a rocking chair, a wardrobe, and a small iron stove.   The floor had a pile of humanoid bones.  Some still had meat left on them.  Zemotta then stealthily closed the door.

“It’s ok, I understand,” Zemotta said, comfortingly.

After taking a short rest, the party descended down the narrow wooden staircase and reached the bottom.  It was completely dark and an eerie, incessant chant echoing throughout could be heard.  With their darkvision, Tomigot, Devotion, and Peggin would make out a narrow carved out earthen tunnel that stretched southward before branching east and west.

Tomigot immediately headed east and came across a corner that lead north.  Zemotta closely followed him.  

Peggin carefully walked through the tunnel, with Walter in his arms, and found a few outlets.  He chose one to inspect and found a pair of crypts.  It contained a blank stone slabs meant to seal these crypts leaning against a nearby walls. The crypts were empty.

Nori produced dancing lights to help those without darkvision navigate the dark tunnels.

Soon, Tomigot found himself in an open room with a wooden table and four chairs standing at the east end. To the west were four alcoves containing moldy straw pallets.   As he went to go inspect, he stubbed his toes on one of the many wooded support columns that were installed.  Out of anger, he took his axe to it.  Zemotta tried to calm him down and bring him back to rest of the party.

Zoras met up with Peggin to see if either of the crypts he found were for the kids.  They appeared to be nameless, so Zoras tried creating an illusion by magically inscribing Walter’s name onto one of the blank slaps.  Peggin sunk his shoulders and shook his head.

“I don’t think it works, like that,” he said, before demonstrating by laying Walter’s skeleton in the room.  Nothing happened.  “Let’s keep looking.”

On the opposite end of the tunnel, Devotion and Nori found another pair crypts. One crypt had a stone slab etched with the name Elisabeth Durst. The other had a stone slab etched with the name Gustav Durst. Each crypt contained a stone bier with a coffin atop it.    

“Hurry, let’s find more!” Devotion urged.

At this time, Zemotta managed to get Tomigot to rejoin the party.

Across from Gustav and Elizabeth’s crypts were another pair of crypts.  One had a stone slab etched with the name Rosavalda Durst. The other had a stone slab with the name Thornboldt Durst etched into it.  Each chamber contained a coffin on a stone bier.

“Well, we found them!” Zemotta announced. “Let’s try the bones.”

Tomigot and Devotion took the bones they were carrying to their respective crypts.  They pushed the coffins open and gently placed the bones inside.  As they did, they could feel the spirits of Rose and Thorn leave their bodies.  As Rose left, a “Thank You,” could faintly be heard.

MEANWHILE (DUNDEE)

Dundee begrudgingly used his dagger to pry open the jammed trapped door that lead to the church undercroft where Doru was being detained.  It was very dark and unusually quiet inside.

With the aid of the light torch that Father Donovich was carrying closely behind, Dundee could see the church’s undercroft had rough-hewn walls and floors made of damp clay and earth.  Rotting wooden pillars strained under the weight of the wooden ceiling.  Candlelight from the chapel above slipped through the cracks.  Dundee could also see a faint source of light coming from the back wall.

“Do you see anything?” Father Donovich asked.  “Doru, are you there?” he called out.  No answer.

Dundee slowly approached the back wall to see that daylight was spilling from a roughly carved out hole that lead to the ground above outside in the cemetery.

“What the…” Dundee said as he stuck his head in the hole, looking for answers.  It appeared that someone, or something, was able to dig through the earth and the wall to allow Doru to escape.  “It looks like he got out,” Dundee announced.

Father Donovich was shook.  He wasn’t sure how he could get out, and was even more terrified knowing his changed son was on the loose.

Dundee noticed Scabs’ tail start to flicker in anticipation, her focus being set on the hole.  He always felt a tingle from his whip.  Soon after, the skittering sound of many little feet, and squeaks of many rats started to get louder and louder.  Dundee and Scabs to start to see many rats start spilling in from the hole.  Dundee shot an arrow at the first one to enter as Scabs was ready to swat or bite at the next one to enter.  Eventually they were surrounded by many, many rats!

Father Donovich was in a panic.  He cast a spell for extra protection, and then tried sending his spiritual weapon, a spiked metal sun, to help fight off the rats.  Dundee kept shooting arrows, and realized the rats were too quick.  Scabs was getting a mouthful with all of the rats she was trying to bite.  Then a very large rat wearing a collar walked its way down the tunnel and through the hole.

Father Donovich tried to run upstairs to escape, but even more rats started to flood in from the floor above.

“You should have let me out!” said the rat, while facing Dundee.

“What? Your son’s a rat now?” Dundee asked Father Donovich.

Little did he realize that Father Donovich was being smothered by many, many rats, and therefore was unable to respond.

“I’m ok now,” the rat then said.

Dundee and Scabs were still busy fighting off the other rats. This larger rat didn’t seem to be interested in fighting.

“I’m where I belong now,” the rat continued.

But this time, Father Donovich was unrecognizable, as the rats had consumed most of his flesh and meat. Only his torch lay, still lit, at the floor beside his corpse.

The rats then changed their focus onto Scabs, who was already weakened by the teeth of other rats.  She soon fell unconscious, flooding many thoughts into Dundee’s brain.

In the commotion, Dundee was so flustered that his whip of warning fell to the ground.  His main focus was to revive his snow leopard companion.

He was able to make her come-to and the two started to make their way back upstairs.  Once he and Scabs made it through the trap door, he closed it and tried to take cover in the chapel.  But one look down toward the back of the church, he could see that room was infested with rats, too!  Dundee then placed his ear against the front door and could hear the moaning and groaning of zombies outside.  After taking one look at Scabs, he decided to make a break for it!

Dundee opened the front door to see zombies clawing at the outer walls of the church.  Two were flaking the entry.  He and Scabs tried running past the zombies unnoticed, but Scabs ended up receiving a swipe from a claw.  The two eventually were able to put themselves at a distance to see a depressed looking, now priest-less church sounded by undead creatures.

…To Be Continued

[internettrawler]

Curse of Strahd Campaign ask thing for @mandisawesome:

As for spoilers: we have finished the campaign are our characters are somewhere in the feywild for further chaos

1. Introduce your party: who are they at the start of the campaign?

Elin--half elf feylock whose pact involves being the star of a fey reality TV show

Sariel-Elin’s best friend and a half elf lore bard who is the flesh prison of a demon barbarian that sometimes escapes containment

Narzzy--noble dragonborn thief who learned his trade by stealing food from his family’s kitchens

Sparkle-Narzzy’s forest gnome fighter best friend/self proclaimed bodyguard who is easily distracted by basically everything.

Shaumar-human devotion paladin that was trying to get into fantasy lawschool and did not sign up for this shit

2. How/why did you come to Barovia?

Everyone but the paladin got an invitation to help via a fancy lady that may or may not have been a fey in disguise. The paladin got sucked into Barovia to be the personal plaything of Strahd (aka played came in late and we DM ex machina-ed him in)

3. What did your Tarokka reading reveal?

(The Anarchist) This card tells of history. Knowledge of the ancient will help you better understand your enemy: I see walls of bones, a chandelier of bones, and a table of bones—all that remains of enemies long forgotten.

(the mercenary) This card tells of a powerful force for good and protection, a holy symbol of great hope. The thing you seek lies with the dead, under mountains of gold coins.

(the illusionist) This is a card of power and strength. It tells of a weapon of vengeance: a sword of sunlight. A man is not what he seems. He comes here in a carnival wagon. Therein lies what you seek

(the Broken one) Your greatest ally will be a wizard. His mind is broken, but his spells are strong.

(the Beast) Your enemy is a creature of darkness, whose powers are beyond mortality. This card will lead you to him! The Beast sits on his dark throne.

4. Did your DM make any major changes to the module?

Not really, just let character’s backstories cause chaos. Fey patrons asked for some shit for their show and the bard’s inner demon caused chaos a few times. Paladin almost died of exhaustion from refusing to sleep because of Strahd’s torment, but that was just a slight modification to RAW.

5. Did your party travel with any NPCs?

We tried to travel with Rictavio, but he wanted nothing to do with us. We did the last fourth of the campaign with Ezmeralda.

6. Who is your/the party's favorite NPC?

Blinksy--we bought every toy he would sell us. We were basically Barovian Santa by the end of the campaign. We were also fond of Escher, but he died before we could form as strong a bond as we did with Blinksy

7. Most hated NPC?

The Hags. We hated them so bad. The paladin hated Ez, but even he admitted that the Hags were worse on paper.

8. How did your first meeting with Strahd go?

No one died, but it was at a funeral. We also got our poor tormented Paladin who would have tried to murder him if he wasn’t on like five HP.

9. Did you attend dinner at Castle Ravenloft?

We did. We were polite until the fey patrons insisted on asking the warlock to cause a little chaos by casting remove curse on Strahd. We definitely got thrown into the dungeons and had to escape.

10. What was your favorite location to visit?

The Dread Castle was our favorite place as players. We snuck in at least twice after the dinner. PCs liked Mordenkeinen’s Magnificent Mansion the best because it wasn’t Barovia.

11. What was the scariest thing your party went through?

Baba Lysaga nearly killed everyone in the first round with a well placed spell. Which meant we ended up losing our only healer AND dealing with a demon on top of everything.

12. Did any player characters or beloved NPCs die?

Escher. RIP to a gentleman and writer of moste excellent fictions (which are currently being published and enjoyed by the fey fans). Bard would have died three times if she wasn’t a prison for a demon, Rogue would have died by goat if not for the Fey Patrons.

13. Did anyone find love?

Ismark fell for Paladin. Paladin fell for Bard. Bard rolled shit to spot his feelings, so she fell for Ez, who doesn’t do relationships. Warlock tried her hand at matchmaking and botched it so bad that no one knew who they liked for a while. Escher fell for Rogue. Fighter fell in love with magic and friendship (which is obviously the best ship)

14. What is your favorite memory from the campaign?

Funniest momenst were when Narzzy the rogue botched a slight of hand check to steal from Strahd and grabbed the wrong rod of power and when the warlock bitch-slapped the paladin with eldritch blast because he needed to sleep before he got so exhausted that we had to carry him.

Favorite moment was when we all flew in to stay at one of the player’s houses for the final three sessions for a Strahd murder sleepover complete with creepy snacks and cats (everything’s better with cats).

15. Did you defeat Strahd???

Yes...but we all rolled shit to put that final stake in. Three nat 1s and no rolls above 5 between 5 PC and 2 NPCs for two rounds.

16. Re-introduce your party: who are they currently, or at the end of the campaign?

Narzzy is now a gentleman thief and cook who has started a very successful chocolate trade route into Barovia.

Sparkle is a fighter with more smarts than strength or sense, but now with super shiny sword and a fey familiar that has almost caused two separate inter-planar incidents.

Elin’s show has been renewed for a second season and has a steady stream of fan mail that gives her minor boons (or curses) as she does her thing.

Sariel has gotten a decent hold on her inner demon and accidentally summoned a pegasus. She’s the current fey favorite and the Witchlight monarch.

Shaumar is looking into the feylock’s contract to see if his personal life can stop being broadcast to the entire feywild, especially now since he finally got the bard of his dreams to roll higher than a ten insight to realize that he loved her romantically.

[simul16]

The Curious Case of the Original Women of Ravenloft (or Loose Canons Can Be Dangerous)

For many years, we in the Dungeons & Dragons RPG studio have considered things like D&D novels, D&D video games, D&D comic books, as wonderful expressions of D&D storytelling and D&D lore, but they are not canonical for the D&D roleplaying game. -Jeremy Crawford Those among us who are fortunate enough to become shepherds or stewards of the D&D game must train ourselves to become art and lore experts so that we know when we’re being faithful to the game’s past and when we’re moving in a new direction. We decide, based on our understanding of the game’s history and audience, what artwork or lore to pull forward, what artwork or lore needs to change, and what artwork or lore should be buried so deep that it never again sees the light of day. -Chris Perkins There is a very simple statement to be made about all these stories: they do not really come off intellectually as problems, and they do not come off artistically as fiction. They are too contrived, and too little aware of what goes on in the world. - Raymond Chandler, "The Simple Art of Murder"

There's been a bit of a stir in the D&D community over some comments that Jeremy Crawford made at a press briefing prior to the D&D Live event about how only the information published in a WotC Fifth Edition D&D product is 'canonical' for D&D. There was enough of a reaction that Chris Perkins, self-described as "one of the D&D Studio's principal game architects", published an article on the WotC site (linked under Perkins's name above) explaining this statement and explicitly calling out what it means when discussing an intellectual property with a long-standing and vast catalog of lore, where that lore is one of the primary positive features of that property.

On the surface, it seems pretty straight-forward. Crawford's comments focused on not overwhelming partners with lore requirements when producing peripheral products like novels and video games so that they can focus on producing their product rather than meeting arbitrary lore requirements (not that this seems to have helped the most recent video game product release). Perkins mentions this, too, explicitly evoking R.A. Salvatore's novels and how Salvatore (perhaps infamously) used to incorporate elements into his stories that were outright illegal according to the D&D game rules (such as Drizzt's dual-wielding of scimitars, only made legal in 5e, or his creation of Pikel Bouldershoulder, a 'mentally challenged' dwarf who believed himself to be a druid and even eventually displayed druid-like abilities, even though dwarves in the D&D of the era of the Cleric Quintet series, where Pikel appeared, were not allowed to be druids). Perkins's comments also refocused the discussion on players, DMs, and their games, making the point that every campaign develops its own canon, and that the version of the Forgotten Realms run at a given D&D table does not perfectly match either the version of the same world run at a different table, or even as presented in the official published campaign sourcebooks.

This position is easily defensible; I even presented it myself in a response on Twitter to Perkins's own comment on an event in the Acquisitions Incorporated campaign he runs and records for online consumption. A restaurant that exists in the Forgotten Realms of Acquisitions Incorporated might have been shut down for health reasons after a shambling mound attack in a different campaign, or a previous party of PCs might have made a disastrous error during the war with reborn Netheril that led to the fall of Cormyr, with the coastal area of the former kingdom being absorbed by their rivals in Sembia while the interior lands were allowed to be overrun with monsters migrating out of the Stonelands (which makes for a nearly ideal 'starter zone' for a new 5E Realms campaign, IMO).

But just because there are benefits to such an approach to canon doesn't mean that it's the best way to approach canon, particularly with respect to a property which has had a long lifespan and is expected to have an even longer one. There are plenty of ways to criticize such an approach, many of which have been brought up by other commenters:

In any long-lasting intellectual property, there is a core of fans that are devoted to the lore and canon of that property -- see Harry Potter, Star Wars, etc. 'Loosening up' the lore not only convinces your existing super-fans not to continue to support and evangelize your property, but also prevents the creation of a new generation of such fans to continue your property's life into a new generation of fans.

Since much of what is on offer in a published sourcebook is the current 'canon' (despite Perkins's statement that "we don't produce sourcebooks that spool out a ton of backstory", the reality is that much of the content of sourcebooks like the Sword Coast Adventurer's Guide and Van Richten's Guide to Ravenloft is setting material: i.e.: "backstory"), if you're not going to stand up for the lore of prior editions, and by implication make it clear that future editions aren't going to be beholden to the lore of even this edition, then why get heavily invested in the lore at all? (This ties into the above point, as the fewer people who get invested in the lore of a property, the fewer evangelists for that property you will produce.)

If you have any Organized Play for your game (which D&D does, as does so-called 'living card games' which are based on an advancing storyline), loosened canon makes it easier for those authors to produce content, but simultaneously makes it harder to incorporate the content that players enjoy into the overall game. In addition, the later stories can't take into account all of the potential outcomes that a given group might have taken through a given adventure, so in effect, this turns all adventures into "railroad plots" with respect to the larger campaign narrative, where the best outcome is assumed for each adventure and thus the PCs don't really have the ability to influence the overall metaplot. (This gets complicated, because it necessarily involves different campaign outcomes contesting with one another to become the 'canonical' outcome, which is itself pretty challenging. Regardless, one of the attractions of a 'living campaign' is that the campaign in theory adapts to respond to the actions of the players; a 'living campaign' that doesn't do this is no different than a traditional scripted campaign.)

Perkins's final point in his essay, though, seems just as important to the current 'administration' as any of the other explanations, and that's the quote referenced at the top. In effect, what Perkins is saying is that the 5E team wants to be able to take what they consider 'good lore' and keep in in the game, while revising or outright eliminating 'bad lore'. Again, this seems like a defensible position, but it also has a flip side: it assumes that your changes to the lore are not just lazy or arbitrary, but are made consciously and for specific reasons. This could work well if you actually follow through on your intention, but given the realities of publishing on a schedule, it's inevitable that some amount of lazy or arbitrary decision-making will occur, and in those decisions, you can inadvertently (or allow someone without your knowledge to deliberately) make decisions that harm the canon. The statement seems reasonable, but as we'll discover below, it's actually fundamentally dishonest.

With that in mind, let's explore...

The Curious Case of the Original Women of Ravenloft

The original Ravenloft setting as released in the early 1990s, like the game studio that released it, contained a lot of old white guys, and it didn't necessarily get any more diverse with time. The early 3E Ravenloft product "Secrets of the Dread Realms" by Swords & Sorcery Studios lists eighteen Domains of Dread, half of which were unambiguously run by old white dudes. Depending on how you want to define 'old' and 'white', you could even add a few more domains to the list (such as Verbrek, ruled by the son of the former old white dude darklord, and Markovia, depending on whether you consider Markov to still be human enough to qualify as an old white dude). Only five domains were ruled by female darklords, and one of those (Borca) isn't even wholly ruled by the female darklord. Comparing the darklords of Secrets of the Dread Realms to that of Van Richten's Guide to Ravenloft points out just how much of a priority it was for the 5E team to increase the diversity of darklords in the setting.

Curiously, though, the female characters retained from classic Ravenloft don't appear to have been changed in a manner that fits Perkins's explanation of what they consider when deciding what to bring forward from older lore, as in nearly every case, the character became less interesting and possesses less agency in her current 5E presentation than she did in her original pre-5E incarnation.

Jacqueline Montarri

Let's begin our survey with a character who technically doesn't yet exist in 5E lore, and thus by Crawford's definition doesn't exist in lore at all. It might seem odd to begin my presentation of 'female characters deprived of agency by their 5E presentations' by starting with a character who wasn't presented, but on the other hand, being removed from canon and thus from existence could be argued as the most severe loss of agency possible for a character.

Jacqueline doesn't exist in 5E because the organization she founded, the Red Vardo Traders, doesn't exist in 5E. In older editions, the Red Vardo Traders was both a legitimate trade company as well as a criminal organization engaging in smuggling, assassination, and other crimes, and are based in the Barovian town of Krezk. The version of Krezk presented in Curse of Strahd, however, makes no mention of the Red Vardo Traders, choosing instead to present Krezk as a small village dominated by the Monastery of Saint Markovia*, a location that does not exist in pre-5E Ravenloft. The Red Vardo Traders were founded by Jacqueline for a specific purpose, and thus both their legitimate business operations and their criminal pursuits are but shells for their true purpose: to find Jacqueline Montarri's head.

* - Saint Markovia himself was initially presented in the late 3E reboot adventure "Expedition to Castle Ravenloft", as one of the inhabitants of Castle Ravenloft's crypts; Markovia was changed from a man into a woman as part of Curse of Strahd, and the Sanctuary of First Light, the largest church of the Morninglord in Ravenloft pre-5E and placed in Krezk by its developers, was re-written in Curse of Strahd as the Monastery of Saint Markovia.

Montarri sought the secret of eternal youth, and in doing so, consulted with the Vistani seer Madame Eva to find it. Eva originally resisted, but finally revealed that the secret rested within the library of Castle Ravenloft, and Jacqueline, out of a desire to be the only possessor of such a secret, out of a need to do evil, or perhaps both, murdered Eva before departing for Strahd's castle. Unfortunately, Jacqueline's infiltration of Castle Ravenloft attracted Strahd's attention, and she was captured, turned over to the villagers in Barovia, and beheaded for her crime against Strahd. However, some of Eva's fellow Vistani asked to take custody of the body, explaining that the woman had murdered their leader, and Jacqueline eventually awoke -- wearing Madame Eva's head. She since learned that she could 'wear' the decapitated heads of others, and cannot survive long without one. Jacqueline's body has not aged, but her head ages a year for each day she wears it, requiring her to continually murder (and possibly assume the identities of those she murders) to survive while she searches for her original head, the only thing that can break the curse that Eva's kin placed upon her.

That's a pretty amazing backstory, and one I'd think would be very worth including in a new Ravenloft setting, save for one problem: Madame Eva's death. Now this isn't actually a big problem in the context of classic Ravenloft: both Eva herself and her tribe of Vistani were known to have a 'curious' relationship to time (former Ravenloft writer John W. Mangrum explicitly called Madame Eva a "time traveler" when it was pointed out that Eva's continued existence in Ravenloft canon suggested that she had not actually been killed), but it did cause confusion among those with a more static approach to continuity. Since Eva unambiguously exists in 5E Ravenloft, being referenced in both Curse of Strahd and Van Richten's Guide to Ravenloft, it appears that the decision to jettison Jacqueline and her Red Vardo Traders comes mainly from a desire to untangle that confusing bit about Eva actually being dead but still walking around.

Granted, the need for an organization like the Red Vardo Traders is perhaps less significant in a Ravenloft where the Core doesn't exist and every domain is its own Island of Terror, but given that Van Richten's Guide to Ravenloft still lists a number of organizations known to be capable of travel between domains, including two that they just invented out of whole cloth, it would seem as though making use of a pre-existing organization might have worked just as well. The other complicating factor is that Montarri is not herself a darklord; with the focus of the 5E Ravenloft experience on darklords as linchpins of the setting, having a compelling NPC who isn't a darklord (but who honestly could be made into one fairly easily, as her curse lends itself to a darklord's punishment and her formation of the Red Vardo Traders into her way of dealing with the limitations of being a darklord) would seem to detract from what the 5E designers were trying to do with the setting.

But this isn't the only or even the worst example of a female character deprived of her agency in the new regime...

Gabrielle Aderre

Unlike Jacqueline, whose elimination from Ravenloft seems like an editorial red pen taken to an otherwise merely irritating issue, anyone familiar with Gabrielle Aderre's backstory realized that her background would have to change significantly given the changes to the Vistani in Van Richten's Guide to Ravenloft.

In pre-5E Ravenloft, the Vistani were an exotic human culture of outsiders, driven by their heritage and abilities to make their own way within the Domains of Dread, and having developed mysterious abilities and customs to protect themselves from its dangers. Non-Vistani were viewed with suspicion, to the point where the Vistani had a specific word ("giorgio") for non-Vistani, and those who chose to breed with non-Vistani and their offspring were frequently outcast from Vistani culture. Female Vistani were often gifted with 'The Sight', a precognitive or divination ability, but the Vistani took great pains to ensure that no male children were born with The Sight, lest that child grow up to be a prophesied doom-bringer known as a Dukkar. (One such seer was Hyskosa, whose legendary prophesies eventually led to the Great Conjunction which nearly tore the realms apart.) Because of their separation from mundane society, more traditional settlements tended to fear the Vistani, especially their rumored skill with fashioning deadly curses when wronged, and though Vistani would often trade with such settlements, they were never truly welcome in them; ultimately, the Vistani would follow their wanderlust and move on, leaving even more strange tales and confusing lore in their wake.

Van Richten's Guide to Ravenloft changed all that. Now, the Vistani are simply a sprawling human culture who "refuses to be captives of a single domain, the Mists, or any terror." Their abilities are no longer unique -- there are a number of Vistani who "possess the Mist Walker Dark Gift" that can be taken by any character -- though they are said to "understand how to employ Mist Talismans" with their "traditional magic". Instead of being seen by others as mysterious outsiders, now "the news and goods Vistani bring ensures a genuine welcome" from more traditional settlements, and only "more dismal communities view Vistani with suspicion"; likewise the Vistani themselves no longer refer to non-Vistani as "giorgio", nor do they seem to have any issues with those of mixed Vistani blood traveling or dwelling among them. Most significantly, the legends of the Dukkar no longer exist, with both male and female Vistani serving as spellcasters "with many favoring divination magic for the practical help if provides in avoiding danger." In fact, Hyskosa is no longer a lost seer prophesying the doom of the Dread Realms, but "a renowned poet and storyteller" who is alive and leads his own caravan of Vistani through the Mists.

Given all of this, Gabrielle's pre-5E backstory would need to change quite drastically. Gabrielle's mother was half-Vistani, and possessed enough of The Sight to prophesy that Gabrielle could never seek to have a family or tragedy would be the inevitable result. Learning to hate the Vistani based on her mother's incessant refusal to acknowledge her desires for a family, Gabrielle eventually abandoned her mother during a werewolf attack, fleeing into Invidia where she was captured and brought before the darklord, who sought to enslave her to command her exotic sensuality. Instead, Gabrielle made use of the traditional Vistani "evil eye" to paralyze the darklord, murdering him and assuming his lordship over Invidia. Not long after, Gabrielle was visited by a 'mysterious gentleman caller', after which she discovered she was pregnant, eventually giving birth to a boy who proved to possess The Sight. Delighted that she had managed to give birth to a Dukkar, she failed to realize how quickly the boy grew or how powerful he proved to be until her son, Malocchio, usurped her throne (but not the dark lordship of Invidia) and cast her out of his court. Though there are definitely some problematic things in this story, it's not so terrible that it couldn't still serve as the foundation of a tragic Darklord's origin.

In Van Richten's Guide to Ravenloft, Invidia is detailed among the short descriptions of "Other Domains of Dread", and her pre-5E backstory has been utterly thrown out. There's no indication of how Gabrielle became darklord of Invidia, who the father of her child is, or anything from pre-5E lore. Instead, Gabrielle has become one of the parents from the story of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory -- a rich, bad mom convinced of her child's greatness and willing to accept anyone who supports that story while turning a blind eye to her child's misbehavior and cruelty toward his servants and teachers.

Pre-5E Gabrielle wasn't ideal, but at least she had a drive: she wanted a family, and refused to accept that her desire could not overcome the inevitable grinding wheel of fate. 5E Gabrielle arguably isn't even evil, just supernaturally deluded (ironically, her main flaw is her blind acceptance of the rightness of her own privilege), so it's not even clear why she rather than Malocchio is the darklord of Invidia. Rather than wanting a thing she can never have, 'modern' Gabrielle assumes she has a thing that doesn't exist, and is less a tragic figure desperately trying to assert her own agency than a deluded puppet, acting out a part in a drama that makes no sense. Granted, as we noted above, some degree of Gabrielle's old backstory would need to change to accommodate the other changes to Ravenloft lore as part of the 5E transition, but the decision to simply throw out the old Gabrielle and turn her into a character who isn't even aware of her own lack of agency in her situation is, in its own way, even more tragic than Gabrielle's original pre-5E story.

Isolde

Isolde is a fascinating character, because she was created after the Carnival, the group she leads in Ravenloft lore. In pre-5E Ravenloft, the Carnival was the Carnival l'Morai, run by a sinister being known as the Puppetmaster. The events that led to the Carnival breaking free of the Puppetmaster's influence are detailed in the 1993 Ravenloft novel "Carnival of Fear". Then, in the 1999 supplement "Carnival", John W. Mangrum and Steve Miller take the Carnival l'Morai and introduce them to Isolde, a mysterious woman who joins the Carnival and assumes the role of its leader and protector. Much of the internal story within the supplement itself involves the theories that many of the other characters have about who Isolde is and where she comes from, and how various aspects of the Carnival, such as the Twisting (a change that comes over those who remain with the Carnival for any signficant amount of time and seem to bring hidden or secret traits to the surface as exotic abilities or mutations), relate to her. In the end, though (spoiler alert!), Mangrum and Miller reveal Isolde's true backstory -- she is a chaotic good ghaele eladrin who voluntarily chose to enter Ravenloft in pursuit of a fiend named the Gentleman Caller (thus the Carnival supplement is also the origin of the Caller, one of the signature non-darklord villains of the setting). The Twisting is revealed to be a side-effect of Isolde's 'reality wrinkle'; as an outsider, Isolde can re-make reality in a short distance around her, and one of the ways she does this is by bringing someone's inner self out and making it visible to others. Honestly, if you wanted a domain or group whose underlying reason-to-exist seems tailor-made for a modern RPG audience, it would be one where having your inner self revealed to the world, one that you've been taught is freakish and strange, proves to be beautiful to those who accept you.

But that's not what we got in Van Richten's Guide to Ravenloft, perhaps because of the book's insistence on page 6 that "Nowhere Is Safe". Instead of the 3E ghaele eladrin, Isolde is now just an eladrin, a 4E planar elf variant. Instead of entering Ravenloft and finding the Carnival l'Morai in need of a leader and protector, she was manipulated first by a powerful archfey into leading a fey carnival, then inexplicably decided to swap carnivals with a different carnival run by a group of shadar-kai through the Shadowfell, even going so far as to accept the intelligent (and evil) sword Nepenthe, who is the actual darklord of the Carnival.

Again, as with Gabrielle, some simplification of Isolde's backstory was probably inevitable, as the original backstory made use of very specific Ravenloft mechanics that the 5E version simply doesn't want to deal with (mainly Isolde's 'reality wrinkle' which drives the Twisting). But not only did the designers take a character who had explicitly chosen both to enter Ravenloft in pursuit of the Gentleman Caller and to take leadership of the Carnival to serve as its protector and changed her into a character who is manipulated into doing everything she does that gets her into Ravenloft (and leaves her no memory of how or why she got there), the designers didn't even decide to keep Isolde as the most significant character in Carnival, allowing the sword Isolde carries to take that starring role.

Oddly, a lot of the changes to Isolde's story are reminiscent of the classic Ravenloft story of Elena Faith-Hold and how she became the darklord of Nidala in the Shadowlands, which suggested to me that perhaps at one time the Shadowlands were not going to be included in Van Richten's Guide to Ravenloft, and the changes to Isolde's story were meant to be a call-out to what would be the missing story of Elena. But the Shadowlands also exist as an "Other Domain of Dread", so in the end, the changes to Isolde served no real positive purpose.

Interlude

It's worth taking a moment to contrast the characters above with the domains in Van Richten's Guide to Ravenloft that gained female darklords who didn't have female darklords previously:

Dementlieu, formerly ruled by Dominic D'Honaire, is now ruled by Saidra D'Honaire; it is hinted but not stated explicitly in Saidra's backstory that she is not actually related to the former darklord, but simply assumed the family name as part of her assumption of the rulership of Dementlieu, in which the Grand Masquerade must be maintained above all else.

Falkovnia, formerly ruled by Vlad Drakov, is now ruled by Vladeska Drakov; Vladeska's backstory makes it plain that she is a female re-skin of the original Vlad Drakov, himself a character from the Dragonlance world of Krynn. Other than her origin, which is now no longer tied to Dragonlance, her backstory is largely the same as her predecessor's, save that instead of the dead rising to battle Drakov's attempted invasions of their northern neighbor, Darkon, now the dead rise to reclaim Falkovnia itself from Vladeska's attempt to 'pacify' it.

Lamordia, formerly ruled by Adam, the creation of the mad doctor Victor Mordenheim, is now ruled by the mad doctor Viktra Mordenheim; Victor's hubris in his attempt to create life are matched by Viktra's attempts to defeat death.

Valachan, formerly ruled by Baron Urik von Kharkov, is now ruled by Chakuna; in one of the few backstories in Van Richten's Guide to Ravenloft that acknowledges a former darklord, Chakuna's backstory is that she had to become a monster (a were-panther, specifically) to defeat a monster (a panther who was polymorphed into a man as part of a revenge plot, fled from the Forgotten Realms into Ravenloft upon realizing what he was, where he was transformed into a vampire...look, not every convoluted backstory for the old Ravenloft darklords was necessarily a good convoluted backstory).

I'd argue that each of the darklords above retains her agency in Van Richten's Guide to Ravenloft, but it's curious to note that each of those darklords seems to have inherited that sense of agency from her relationship to the male darklord that preceded her, sometimes literally (in the cases of Saidra and Chakuna) and sometimes figuratively (in the cases where Vladeska and Viktra are mainly female re-skinnings of the original male darklords). The designers clearly have the capacity to allow a female darklord to exercise agency and have drive and purpose to her existence, if that drive and purpose was inherited from or inspired by an original male character. If the character was a woman all along, though, then agency and drive and purpose are not really important to the designers, if they can fit that character into the specially designed hole the size of the concept they had for the new domain. Which brings us to the character who I feel was done dirtiest by the designers in moving from classic Ravenloft to 5E...

Jacqueline Renier

Jacqueline Renier is one of the original Ravenloft darklords, tracing her origins all the way back to the original "Black Box" campaign setting released by TSR in 1990. She appears in two different places in that boxed set -- once as the chaotic evil darklord of Richemulot in the Realm of Terror booklet, and in a portrait of the Renier family included as a handout in the box. The Renier family was actually an ancient wererat clan in the world they originally came from, and Jacqueline herself was the granddaughter of the patriarch of the clan, Claude Renier. When the Reniers fled into Ravenloft to escape the justice of their original world, they first appeared in Falkovnia, where they ruled the sewers until finally forced out by Vlad Drakov's troops. Fleeing into the Mists, the Reniers found themselves in the new domain of Richemulot, and Claude found himself the domain's darklord.

Jacqueline proved an eager student in the manipulative ways of her elders, however; both her grandfather, who maintained control over the clan through a combination of coercion and sheer force of personality, and her mother, who murdered Jacqueline's father seemingly only so that Jacqueline and her twin sister would not need to lose the Renier name. Jacqueline learned the game so well that one day she manipulated her own grandfather into his destruction at her hands, so cleanly that no one else in the family dared to oppose her ascension. Jacqueline was now the matriarch of the Reniers, and the ruler of Richemulot.

But 3E Ravenloft added a few additional wrinkles to Jacqueline's backstory. In the Ravenloft Gazetteers, it was revealed that Jacqueline's ambition to assume control of her clan and the domain of Richemulot were not just driven by a desire for power, but in the name of a vision of the future where wererats would reigns supreme over all other humanoids. She began encouraging migration into the largely undeveloped and underpopulated lands of Richemulot, while overseeing work in putrid laboratories to develop the Becoming Plague -- a disease that would transform humanoids en-masse into wererats under Jacqueline's ultimate command. In every speech Jacqueline would give about the glorious future of Richemulot, it was not the future of humanity she was referring to, but rather the coming age of the rat.

Jacqueline's backstory wasn't perfect -- as with other female darklords, she also got saddled with the 'she desperately wants to be loved and is terrified of being alone' trope -- but for the most part, this is a truly impressive backstory. And in our age, a domain featuring an ambitious politician pushing nationalism to motivate her partisans, only for that nationalism to not be what her partisans believe it is would seem to be an extremely fitting template for horror. It would certainly seem possible to re-write the few problematic aspects of her character with more modern tropes; make Jacqueline an 'ace' (asexual) but who still craves romance based on her upbringing and is both attracted to and terrified by anyone who might potentially prove to be her equal, and you've got what I'd consider to be one of the best darklords in the setting.

As you might expect, given Jacqueline's placement on this list, that's not nearly what we got in Van Richten's Guide to Ravenloft.

Instead, Jacqueline was born as a noblewoman within Richemulot, and was quick to notice that the rise of the bourgeoise would threaten the power of the nobility and lead to their diminution in society. Jacqueline's grandfather was not the charismatic, sadistic mastermind of a clan of wererats, but an aging nobleman growing infirm in his old age, and he proved unable and/or unwilling to work to change things, so Jacqueline would need to be the person to reverse her family's fortunes and the decline of the nobility in society. Not by doing anything herself, mind, but rather by trying to find an organization of nobles working to maintain the supremacy of the nobility. Finding them, she learned too late that they were secretly a society of wererats when she was forcibly made into one of them, but she quickly adapted, rising to command both the rat and wererat populations before finally unleashing a plague -- the Gnawing Plague -- upon the populace. Rather than converting the population into wererats, the Gnawing Plague just killed them, and when the people begged Jacqueline and the nobles for aid, Jacqueline made helpful noises but did nothing useful (it's not recorded if she uttered the words "Let them eat cake," as she watched the peasants die). Her 'torment' as a darklord is that she wants to return to the privileged life she had as a noblewoman, but can't, as the need to supervise the creation of new, more virulent plagues and unleash them to keep the peasantry from revolting and overthrowing the nobility prevents her from building the kind of society that would actually support a thriving nobility.

Instead of a domain where we have seen the future and humanity has no place in it, we have a one-percenter using every ounce of her privilege to stay above the ranks of the peasants she despises. Instead of an intelligent, ambitious planner capable of executing long-range goals flawlessly, we have a vapid, shallow socialite yearning to return to her days as a debutante. As villains go, Jacqueline has fallen a long, long way from her portrayal in pre-5E Ravenloft.

Probably the most offensive part of the redesign of Richemulot as 'the plague domain' is that we've spent over nineteen months living through a plague of our own, and the kind of horror that is presented as Richemulot's primary adventure cycle, the Cycle of the Plague, bears almost no resemblance to the reality we've lived through. Van Richten's Guide to Ravenloft presents a world where common people are to be feared, and authorities abuse their power to heartlessly quarantine the sick to stop the disease from overtaking everyone, yet say nothing about the horror of those who refuse to accept that the plague exists, or who profiteer from bizarre 'cures' and treatments. The designers present Richemulot as an example of 'disaster horror', where "the world has fallen into ruin -- or it's getting there fast," when the domain could be an example of the most classic of all horror tropes: humans are the most horrible of monsters.

Thus, the final quote leading this essay. It's not my place to argue that the folks who wrote Van Richten's Guide to Ravenloft are good or bad writers, and as Raymond Chandler noted, it's not really necessary. After all, "[t]he poor writer is dishonest without knowing it, and the fairly good one can be dishonest because he doesn't know what to be honest about." And ultimately this entire drive, to try to distance the product from the mistakes of the past by also distancing it from its successes, all while presuming that one can correct the deficiencies of the past without committing mistakes that, in hindsight, will seem just as obvious to our successors: that undertaking is fundamentally dishonest. The people writing, editing, and publishing Dungeons & Dragons today grew up on the old tropes that are now being rejected as no longer being relevant, as unnecessary complexity, as potentially harmful, without realizing that the harmful bits aren't just what was written down, but what was learned, such as a woman's motivation and agency meaning little unless they correspond with those of a man.

Yes, there's a lot of stuff published before 2014 that seems bad to us today that, for whatever reason, didn't seem bad to us back when it was published, read, and became part of our fictional worlds. But there's also no reason to assume that process ended in 2014. Update the lore where it's needed, but realize that the process never ends, even with the lore you're writing today to replace it.

[yandereheathen]

The Cost of Protection [Yandere elf guard x Fem Reader] 18+ Chapter #1

Based in Barovia (Curse of strahd, some dusk elf lore spoilers) Warnings: Non-con touching/kissing/ some violence, obsessive treatment, death threats necromancy?

Living in Barovia was hard enough; trying to do business in it is quite the other. Besides all of the ghosts, Undead creatures, and living under the tyranny of a centuries-old whiny vampire, everything was complicated. Still, you had your own set of struggles. Your Tavern was not necessarily famous, but it did good business. You had your regulars, Travelers who would sometimes come and try their hand at defeating the vampire lord Who you never saw again unless it was their Undead body, and some other travelers who were peddling wears pies, toys, weapons, anything that you could imagine then there was the common folk and Crafts People. Everyone was welcome in your Tavern. You offered a warm smile, a glass to drink, and whatever you could scratch up to cook that day; however, you had one unwelcome guest who changed your path forever.

 Maverick

 It wasn't uncommon that Dusk elves would come into your Tavern. They followed Vistani and often went through the cities of Barovia on a standard route, and more and more did you feel like you saw them integrating with the town, so seeing one dressed in a guard uniform was unusual but not unheard of. His long dark hair was braided up in leather twine, and his eyes were the standard golden color, but you did see a tiredness in them. He was only an inch or two shorter than you. After all, you were pretty tall for a human, but he was well-built and had hands that showed both work and strength. His smile and his voice were the things that stood out most. It had a ruggedness that you admitted caused a little heat in your cheeks the first time you spoke with him.

  Speaking of the first time, You remember clearly the first time he stopped by your Tavern. You treated him sweetly, flashed a smile, and put your arms down in front of him, looking up at him with innocent eyes leaning at the bar.

"Anything to drink, sir?"

You Tend to be flirty with everybody. It was basically in a bar person's job description. Still, you noticed that some visitors would give you an extra coin or became regulars if you gave them special treatment. However, his smile made you a little uneasy, almost excited. It was a smile that said he appreciated your treatment and wanted more, how much more you didn't quite understand that time. Did you know that that smile would lead to many other things? He just put your hand just under your cheek and, tilted his head, and said

"I think a beer or mash number 8 would be okay before I have to eat. I could live off your voice and those beautiful eyes forever.

 You just left thinking he was making some flirtatious joke, pulled his draft, and handed it to him. From what you've gathered, asking him simple questions about his life gave you non-committal answers or general mods. He was pretty new around town and it was just getting to know all of the local businesses, and he heard that you could get a good cup for cheap and that a cute shop girl was serving the drinks. You laughed again at his flirtatious joke, but you noticed that his eyes never left you from your lips to your shoulders, down your neck to your chest. Even to your backside, when you were turned around and helping other customers with their drinks, you didn't think much of it then. Still, it definitely left you a little unnerved.

 After that, he became one of your regulars. You knew his drink by heart, you knew what he liked to sit in at what time, and you learned exactly how to speak with him. Not too much, but he did enjoy hearing a little bit about your day. He wasn't much of a talker, but you don't mind, or you did not have the time. 

One night, a set of particularly Rowdy young men was causing ruckuses in your Tavern. You tried to compile them with free drinks and sweet words, but you needed more. It all came to a head when one of them tried to get handsy on you, and he was greeted with a sword to his neck. The man went still as Maverick whispered in his ear, pressing the dagger a little bit closer enough to cut into his neck. He looked at the other two men and said in his low, deep voice. 

"Oh, did you both want to be next? As much as I would joy putting all your heads on a platter and making it for the next stew, this one would not appreciate making a mess of her Tavern. How about all of us be nice to you all? Get the hell out of here before I make an example."

 They tried to avoid messing with a guard, let alone a dusk elf. There were rumors of them knowing dark magic. Magic rants to them after the travesty of their women being wiped out, dark magic that was taught to them by Rahadin, the right-hand Master of the lord of the world. The ability to raise the dead and control minds are abilities right from hell."

 They all scurried off. You were thankful, bowing to Maverick and taking his hand, promising free drinks for the rest of the night. Still, he took your hand and looked at you, his golden eyes hidden behind something mischievous, something lustful that weighed heavy on your heart. In your chest, you felt the heat rise up from your stomach.

"Darling, we can make a better arrangement. How would you like me to offer my protection?"

 You looked at him, confused, but still held his hand, your head tilted. 

"I would always be thankful, but isn't that what you usually do? I wouldn't want you to give me special treatment."

 "Oh well,"

 He takes your face and his hand. Squeezing your cheeks ever so slightly, 

"If you give me special treatment, I'll give you and your customers special treatment. After all, you wouldn't want anything to happen to you, your Tavern, or your customers, would you, darling?"

 He forces your eyes up to his and brings your lips closer. The rest of the Tavern, already daunted by the commotion, looks away. You simply nod in agreement, and he lets you go, patting your shoulder and laughing good-heartedly. 

"well, perfect, I think I'll take my first payment tonight."

 You panicked, thinking about how much she could get into the day, and said, 

"How much are you asking for? I've already offered you free drinks. I don't know what more I can do.-"

 He cuts you off, putting his finger to your lips. 

"Don't worry. You have everything that I could want to need."

 And he walks off.

 After closing, when all of the lights in the streets were out and the spirits were already roaming the streets, you clutched to your apron, putting up the last of the chairs. The candle lights were just barely about to go out. You counted up all of your money from the day, and while you made enough of an earning, you were very worried that he would not have enough to pay for this new extortion. You had heard stories of guards and heroes extorting young men and women for protection. You did not think it would happen to you that living in a place of cold and darkness was curse enough, but it looked like the fates had a little more for you. 

You almost didn't hear him come in as he stuck his hands around your waist and up your throat. You tried to yell out, but his hand covered your mouth, and he kissed just the side of your ear as you immediately felt yourself wanting to flee. Then he whispered in your ear, 

"Oh, now that's a pleasing darling. As much as I would have so much fun chasing you, I don't have the time tonight to have my cute little rabbit." 

He put his hands down your hip, lifted your dress, and ran his hand up your thigh as he kissed your jawline and neck. You stammered, still trying to get free. 

"You said you wanted payment. I'm really to pay. The draw is open. Take what you want. I don't care. Please, just don't hurt me."

 You cry through your struggles, but he just laughs, nipping where your neck and your shoulder mean, 

"Oh no, my little rabbit. As much as it delights me to hear you after having to endure hearing you simper over every man who can give you coin, I'm finally able to take the prize that is Rightfullymine after all that will be our deal."

 He lifts you up and plenty down on the closest table, the wood scratching into your shoulder, your head banging painfully on it. You cry out in pain. It is silenced by his mouth crashing into yours in a kiss. A rough kiss. He pins your hands down, holding his fingers In times with yours as his tongue searches into your open mouth, wrestling to pin it down. You see his golden eyes boring into yours like a beast unleashed. You stand there stunned, unable to move with his weight pushed against you. Even with your slight height Advantage, his trained muscle and sheer force can do nothing. 

He breaks apart, your lips bruised and your tongue hanging out of your mouth, a stream of saliva connecting both of your mouths. 

"Please, why are you doing this?"

 You manage to choke out as you feel him grinding into your lower half just underneath your dress. 

"Well, it's pretty simple, my cute little rabbit. I only joined the guard because I was bored, and I thought I could find some fun beating up the locals or helping young maidens. Still, I saw you, a bright Lily, and a swamp of muck to see simpering and pampering to everybody who entered your Tavern was so endearing I knew I needed to have you. I knew that you were mine, don't you understand? When elves mate, they mate for life, so that means."

He cried to you rougher you feel his hard cock rubbing into your own sex with a need want to be inside you. 

"You will be mine for the rest of your life. I will ensure that. If you don't want to be mine, it's pretty simple- you don't have to."

 You blink this as he lets you sit up, but he still stands between your legs.

"You mean you'll just let me go. You won't do anything?"

 You look at him, hoping that this is some weird pass, and you would know he would just leave you alone. But your hopes are soon crushed.

"oh no, my darling, if you say no," 

he moves in closer, and his sword falls at the back of your neck. 

"I will kill you and make sure you are raised as a zombie who has no free will and who is forced to do my bidding for the rest of your Undead life. Do you understand me, my cute little rabbit?"

 At that, you feel a heat emanating from his sword, a Blackness clouding around the edges of your eyes, and you know that his promise holds truth. Your body goes rigid and shakes, and tears silently stream down your eyes as he takes you in his arms, rubbing your back oddly comfortingly or trying to be with his sword. His other hand grips your bottom, pulling you closer as he snuggles into your neck, inhaling your scent.

"so you decide to make, my darling. Either I can have you here of your own free will, where I will love and protect you in this Tavern, or I will have the pleasure of seeing your beautiful blood dripping down your chest. I can have you as my perfect little Undead doll."

 "The choice is yours. You pretty little rabbit."

[thetalesofno-one]

The first chapter is out! Read the full chapter on Tumblr HERE or on AO3 HERE, but for now, have a little snippet of this disparate group and their rough beginnings.

A party of untrustworthy strangers whisked away to Barovia and forced to stick together.

Nothing can go wrong there, surely.

[wetcatspellcaster]

Hi there!

I know you might get a ton of messages regarding Pieces, so this might be redundant, but I join the appreciating gang here.

I just wanted to say thank you for that amazing take on the ascendant and giving us a real fix-him/save-him story! 💙 I have to say, this is maybe the first ever AA story I actually liked, and damn I can't emphasize enough how immensely I do so.

I am a huge fan of Rose, she is such a seriously well done OC, with flaws, story and personality. I often reread Party Favours for her personality alone as well, but Pieces really went up and beyond establishing how different she is since her original state.

But maybe the biggest plus for me, that made me adore this fic the most, was how much actual dnd lore there was. The spells and items used were very on point, as I usually commented under the chapters. 😅 Those made my nerd brain go crazy there.

So just wanted to say congratulations on finishing it and thank you! 💙

kind messages are never redundant, my love. thank you for taking the time to speak with me, that act means a lot :)

I'm really glad you enjoyed it! I'm not sure how Pieces compares to other Tav/Ascended!Astarion dynamics, but I knew this would be how it played out in Rosalie's timeline specifically. A very fun, very fucked up mixture of both their bad endings, guilt, and neither of them being able to change - Astarion being frozen in at a point of self-loathing because of how I conceive of Ascendency and just desperately trying to find a solution that won't work, and Rosalie honestly just being so stuck in a moral binary that even if she lowkey wanted an Ascended!Astarion (which, um, she did) she'd never be kind enough to herself to let herself have it. I mean what I said in previous asks, about the appeal of the AU being that it was tragic for the both of them, which I guess is why Rose 's personality and her own issues ended up featuring so heavily.

Luckily the plot (informed by several of my favourite fictional dynamics) made all of that legit in the end!

Writing a higher level wizard was honestly so very fun, and I'm glad you enjoyed the mechanics because it was also my self-indulgent excuse to do things I'll probably never get a chance to do in an actual D&D game! My sorcerer got to Level 13 in Curse of Strahd and so I did get a taste of that sexy high-level spellcaster life, but Pieces allowed me to play around with spells in a way that wouldn't really work within an actual game narrative :) I love D&D's worldbuilding (not the actual worldbuilding, with all the Problems, but the way spells and magic works on paper) so a Level 18-19 character was a really fun way to indulge that.

I'm so glad you enjoyed it, thank you so much for sharing it with me :D

[epiphany-of-a-madwoman]

Me working on a Dragon Age fan fiction using my d&d characters that would take place post Curse of Strahd and span over DA: Inqusition...it’s more likely than you think

[irregularwebcomic]

[Irregular Webcomic! #1752 Rerun](https://ift.tt/2MDeOl5)

Betraying the fans.

This phrase really annoys me. I see it as a manifestation of unrealistic expectations on the part of people who enjoy some form of entertainment. No artist or entertainer can realistically be expected to keep on producing material that produces the same (or greater) pleasure as their earlier works, ad infinitum. At some point it's inevitable that the next thing they do will be of lesser quality, or will conflict with what went before, or will change the context of what went before to the point that it no longer seems as good as it used to.

So what? People are only human. They produce bad work now and then. They make mistakes every so often. They do boneheaded things sometimes. It's extremely rare that they are actively trying to annoy and alienate the people who most appreciate what they do.

And how, exactly, is making a mistake now "betraying" what they did before? Nothing anyone does can invalidate the pleasure you got out of enjoying some work of fiction or art in the past. You enjoyed it - you can't un-enjoy it.

The obvious example - the one most of you are probably thinking of already - is Star Wars. George Lucas did some really stupid things with the special editions and the prequels. But how is that a betrayal of anything? Suddenly people don't remember that Han shot first? The Empire Strikes Back now sucks all of a sudden? You realise you didn't actually enjoy those movies for 15 years before they got modified?

Remember the good stuff. Don't dwell on how someone "betrayed" you and gave you something that wasn't as good as what they gave you before. Because they didn't. They didn't take away the enjoyment you already had. They just gave you something that didn't live up to your hopes. If you let that ruin your recollection of how good things were, you've betrayed yourself by painting your pleasant memories with bitterness.

I see a similar thing when publishers release new editions of things like games - roleplaying games and Magic: the Gathering cards are examples that come to my mind. Bunches of people complain that suddenly their old editions are now "worthless" or "useless". As if it's now impossible to even use the previous edition when a newer edition exists. Well, you know, it's still possible to run a first edition game of Dungeons & Dragons today. That simple fact seems to elude some people.

These are all symptoms of what I see as a tendency to live in the present, and consider the past as something not worth remembering. In this day of immediacy and instant global connectivity, people tend to flit from activity to activity, garnering joy and fun where they find it, and always seeking new and more exciting stuff to do now. Which is fine in itself, but not at the cost of savouring the good times you've already experienced.

Nobody can ever take away the sense of wonder and amazement I felt when, as a child, I sat entranced by Star Wars in the cinema. Nothing George Lucas can do can betray that memory. He could come to my place and axe his way through the door and burn me in my sleep - that would be betraying me as a fellow human being - but he can't betray me as a fan, no matter how many crappy prequels he makes or how much he mangles the original movies. Because that memory is mine, and I won't let anything spoil it for me.

Why do people let things ruin the enjoyment they've previously had? You don't have to let it. Preserve your memories. Relive the joy you've felt during the good times. Remember the good things. Life is more rewarding that way.

2018-06-30 Rerun commentary: I did in fact run a First Edition Dungeons & Dragons (i.e. Advanced Dungeons & Dragons) game not long ago, after Fifth Edition had been released. I did this for two reasons. Firstly, although I wanted to move on to Fifth Edition, I hadn't run D&D for several years - most of my recent gaming had been using GURPS - and I wanted to try running a rules set I was more familiar with first. (I skipped running games in all of Second through Fourth Editions, although I did buy some of the source books.) Secondly, the adventure I wanted to run was the classic First Edition adventure Ravenloft. Although an adaptation of this adventure to Fifth Edition, titled Curse of Strahd has since been published, it wasn't available at the time, and besides, I wanted to replicate the full First Edition experience for my players. As it happens, they didn't enjoy the game as much as subsequent Fifth Edition adventures I've run. This is because the D&D publishers have in fact improved the rules over the years, making them more streamlined, easier to use, and more balanced in gameplay. Also possibly perhaps because I was a little rusty in my game mastering skills.

[thetalesofno-one]

Curse of Strahd: Campaign Retelling (Summary and Introduction)

Summary

A long and winding tale, a retelling of an ongoing campaign exactly as it happens beyond the dice. 

The tragedy of Barovia and its enigmatic Strahd, told once more by the hand of one with the voice of many. The twist of my own band of adventurers and all that befalls us. Even we do not yet know our fate. This story full of blank pages still being filled with the grim ink of a flickering light in the shadows of a world swallowed by the mist and kneeling beneath blood-tipped fangs.

We are a group of friends currently playing the infamous Dungeons and Dragons module of Curse of Strahd. Though I pen this retelling, I am a player at this table. The story itself played out and created by all of us before I bring it to paper and give it new form. 

But this campaign isn’t yet finished, and so the ending unwritten. All know blood will be spilled. Just not whose.

Follow us for a story in the making and journey with us into the mist.

Introduction

What I love most about Dungeons and Dragons is the depth of the stories that can be crafted with a little bit of imagination and guidance. A tale like this one has been played by many and yet none are the same. The same rules never beget the same outcomes, and the actors at the table and the weave master pulling all the strings somehow never manage to craft the same story. Each person brings fragments entirely their own until a mosaic is made from the pieces only they can offer.

I typically write the notes for my group, but while bullet points can spark the memory of what we all lived in our minds, the emotion and the depth can be lost to time. What we remember isn’t the people at the table or on the screen, looking at the little boxes of our world through a Zoom call, but the story as we lived it together. The soul we put into characters beyond ourselves and yet a part of us. That is what I’m bringing here. A memory—the one we live.

A gift.

A memento.

One that we’ll carry with us now in more than just heart and thought.

And with my group’s permission, a seat for you at this table. Your role might be that of the unseen observer, but we hope you will enjoy the journey and walk with us in this tale no matter where it may lead.

My friends and I pour ourselves out when it comes to stories. We build, and grow, and create together. We embody our characters wholly in every campaign we’ve built. This is simply the first to be written in such a way.

Consider this an unpolished and imperfect tale. But one that I hope will outlast an ending we cannot yet see. 

----

So join us, take a seat at our table. Bring a cup of something warm and come with us to Barovia.

I'll be posting the first chapter of this story here and on AO3 on Jan 22, 2024.