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thetalesofno-one · 8 months ago

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Curse of Strahd, Act I: Pt. 1, Ch. V -Shadow Of Barovia-

D&D Campaign Retelling Part 1/6 Chapter 5/5 ~5.1k words Content Warnings: Curse of Strahd typical content, Read at own risk

Summary Free of the deadman's path, the disparate travelers continue on across the misty lands into the shadow of a ruined village. Barovia. Civilization found, and hopefully answers, unknowing that their troubles have only just begun. Read Previous Chapters also available on AO3

Emet stares at the empty ground where the corpse grew its roots the last they passed this tree. The dirt empty and undisturbed, yet the deadman gone. No footsteps scar the mud, no scrabbling prints of some beast come to claim its rotting meal. And yet the body is gone.

He checked for undeath. His god may have forsaken him, but the remnant of that divine power granted to him when he first took his oath never faded even after all that happened. He felt the power, sensed it in his veins like a presence. A doorway he can still open. One his god did not lock and one Emet would have tried to break down if he did. But he hadn’t needed to. When he called on that power, it answered. And that power sensed no undeath when he used it. The body should still be here.

Evrrot steps widely over the area to not sully any trail, his cognac eyes sharper than bourbon checking for any sign of what happened. Finding none he sinks an accusing glare into Emet.

“I thought you checked this shit.”

“I did.”

“Clearly not well enough.”

Emet’s lip curls in a half snarl and he turns back to the wagon path. The road stretching on, open now as freely as when they first walked it. No trick, no compulsion to continue circling the deadman’s path, no clawing thoughts at the edge of their minds, urging them to try again, try again. So why did the deadman obsessively run himself into exhaustion? Why continue clawing tallies into trees on a path that went nowhere when he must have crossed the wagon trail forty-three times? What made death by exhaustion a better choice than following this road? Or did the road not exist for him? The trail clearly started and ended where this group’s feet first set foot in the misty forest. Perhaps their arrival carved it into the land like a sign post, guiding them somewhere. Or perhaps it only exists for those it’s meant to exist. But then where else would the deadman have come from?

Roshan clears his throat though it doesn’t clear the tension in the air.

“I am not the smartest man, but surely the man could not have been this dumb,” Roshan says, confirming Emet’s own thoughts, “Forty-three times.”

“Unless something addled his mind.”

“Maybe he thought he had to,” Evie adds. She looks back at the road that started them on this path and then ahead to wherever it might lead. Glancing at the spot where the body once rotted, her eyes flicker to Emet a moment. She’s the one who knew how he checked, so what does it say to her that he failed? That he is a liar? Or his god?

“Maybe the flaming horseman chased him off the wagon road,” Roshan nods as though that is the only possible answer. He points down the wagon trail, “But this is our only path left now.”

Emet wishes he was wrong—certain the others feel the same way by Evie’s wary look down the road and Evrrot’s scowl—but that may have been the deadman’s wish and look where that got him. Perhaps wishes are dangerous things in this place.

Evie slips the compass from the pouch on her belt again, setting the bronze device in her palm and giving the needle a moment to settle. Her other hand twists the brooch about her neck, unconsciously mimicking the back and forth movement of the red needle still refusing to find North. Roshan twists his feather in a similar fashion, praying to it like a stick of incense and Emet finds himself absently checking the amber shard lashed to the back of his hand, seeking any guidance that led him this far. But the stone remains dark and empty and the compass needle never finds North. It no longer whirs violently beneath the glass at least.

Evrrot glares at them all.

“What do all of you have?” He narrows his eyes, “What are you playing with?”

Roshan looks up from his feather, “I told you. It is a blessing from my god.”

Evie quickly drops the brooch, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Just my spell casting focus,” Emet lies, though only partially he supposes.

“Got any spells that can get rid of fog?” Evrrot asks sarcastically.

“Afraid not.”

Then what good are you, the tiefling’s expression seems to ask. Evrrot clearly doesn’t believe any of them and other than perhaps Roshan, Emet knows he and Evie are lying. They all saw each other get pulled into the mist by these trinkets. All except Evrrot who seems to have nothing as far as Emet can tell. So why did he follow?

The glares persist, each person daring the other to question their answers in silent challenge. But the standoff is quickly broken as Roshan starts trying to blow away the fog with his breath, the mist only swirling about lightly.

Evie smiles dangerously and points a finger at the charmer. Magic infuses her words as she whispers, “I can’t dispel the fog either, but does this make it creepier?”

Her tinted lips move, forming words without sound, her finger still pointed sharply at Evrrot like a dagger. Emet hears nothing, the magic of the message spell stealing away her words and giving them solely to Evrrot. The tiefling flinches suddenly. Emet almost laughs thinking the charmer has never been on the receiving end of a message spell when Evrrot grabs his head and winces painfully, roaring.

“What the hells?! Stop it!”

Evie’s eyes flash wide at the outburst, holding up her hands and ending the spells casting.

“Devil boy, what is the matter with you?” Roshan demands, sounding exactly like a father tired of his son’s dramatics.

“She’s casting spells!”

The initial concern on Evie’s face rolls away with her eyes as she gives Evrrot the ‘done with your shit’ expression of an older sibling realizing their kin reacted to a pat on the shoulder like it was a slap to the face, “It was a joke, man. Chill. No one’s ever been hurt by a message spell.”

“Jokes don’t hurt!”

“Hurt? I did the little sneaky message thing—”

“That wasn’t a little message,” Evrrot mocks, “That was the voice of the damned screaming in my head. I don’t know what you did, but stop casting spells on me.”

“Mate, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Look, I’m not very magical, I can send little messages and I can do this,” she lights up her armor again with the deep bluish light.

Evrrot stabs a finger, still rubbing his head, “Watch her.”

“My magic is very bad, basic at best!” Evie continues, snapping her fingers to summon a small burst of green flame. She double takes a glance at the flickering fires dancing atop her pinched fingertips like she’s never seen such a thing before. “And that’s green now for some reason—”

A dull whispering voice follows the flame, every ripple of the fire like a whisper from beyond. The green flames dance wildly along her chipped painted nails, more erratic than typical arcane flame. Evie stops talking, staring at the small magical fire with wide kohl painted eyes and a genuine expression of horror. Either this is new and she’s not lying or Emet has sorely misjudged who needs to be watched in this group.

“Okay that’s creepy.” Evie snuffs out the flame.

Roshan eyes her warily, “Did you kill someone in your past life?”

“No!”

“Then this place is haunted.”

Evrrot sweeps an angry finger across everyone again, backing up with his body lightly curled in a fighting stance, hand somehow always near a weapon at any given time with a well practiced ease, “We’ll all playing nice now, but I’m watching each of you. And if anyone stabs me in the back I will not hesitate.”

“Devil boy,” Roshan sighs, “Take the gnarled branch out of your ass. We have to be together for this, okay?”

Evrrot gives him a derisive snort and twists on his heel, the tiefling storming down the wagon road without another word.

“Follow me,” Roshan sighs, waving to Evie and Emet like a father herding his unruly children after one threw a tantrum.

“We’re all walking in the same direction!” Evrrot growls ahead, “We’re not all following you.”

“Okay, whatever you say, devil boy.”

Roshan grins mischievously before jogging ahead to catch up with Evrrot and irritate him further. Emet sighs and offers Evie a shrug that says, this is our life now, and follows. The half elf groans behind him. It’s a moment before he hears the sound of her heavy platform boots stomping reluctantly behind.

Emet tries not to look back at her. The whispers of her green flames echo dully in his memory, haunting soliloquies at the edge of his mind. They did sound like the dead. Voices distant and stolen away. Here, but leagues apart. The desperate cries of spirits screaming into your ears, yet the fathom between life and death dulls their screams to a barely heard whisper. Words shouted right into your ears, yet too distant to make out.

He wonders if they cling to her too or if her flames merely gave them voice.

The dark woods fall away like words at the end of a page. The tree line breaking apart and stopping with the sharpness that can only come at the edge of an axe. Nature halted by the hand of civilization. Beyond the edge, the lands arms open wide and stretch across a large sweep of grassy valley. Only a ribbon of river bisects the knolls, cutting through the fabric of the fields. Still gloomy and misty, the fog drifts as low as a blanket across the gentle hills. It pours out from gnarled forest behind them like river water over a dam, thinning to the swirling stream dancing over the whispering fields of tall grass. Above, roiling thunder clouds twist and boil the dark skies, choking out whatever sun must hang above into little more than thin grey light.

Sharp jagged mountains pierce their teeth into the skies beyond the shadow of the vale, evergreen trees spilling down the mountainsides and enclosing this valley between sharp stone and needled trees. Snowcaps bleach the jagged grey edges of the stone teeth towering imperiously over the land, the vale swallowed in the maw of some godsbeast.

And yet it is still a far more welcome sight than the forest behind.

Ahead, sickly yellow grasses and farmland sway in the ever shifting tides of mist and wind, wrapping around the sharp edges of some small settlement hunkered down in the trough of the valley. The pale river cuts past the settlement, the winter blue ribbon reflecting the roiling sky in its crystalline waters.

And looming high above the settlement, perched at the edge of a sheer mountain cliff, a dark twisted castle, all spires and stone spines sitting alone in silent oppressive watch. A stone beast haunting the cliff’s edge, the village below its hapless prey. A thread of lightning cuts across the dark skies in a flash, casting the keep in sharp shadow and violent light before a sudden swell of thick fog sweeps across the vale in a wave, concealing both castle and settlement from view.

But at least they know that it is there.

“That place looks pretty nice,” Roshan comments wryly.

Evrrot scoffs, “Yeah compared to here.”

Roshan claps his hands together, “We can all rest up and have a good night’s sleep. And then everyone will be less stressed.”

“Let’s hope it’s not one of those crazy villages where they believe the weather is controlled by sacrifice or some shit,” Evrrot mumbles. “You’d be the first to go.”

“Some gods do like you to sacrifice people, but that is a whole ‘nother thing.” Roshan waves everyone forward, “Come along.”

Emet barely cares where they are going at this point. His stomach stopped its complaining hours ago to settle into a disapproving dull ache and his leaden legs have resigned themselves to swinging forward with each step by momentum alone. It’s only when he stops that Emet feels like he could simply sink into the dirt and never move again. Better to keep trudging along until they find a real bed to rest, lest his body decide the ground is good enough after all.

He’s not sure how long the others have been on their feet, but more hours have passed since they left the deadman’s trail and he’s guessing they are nearing eight or more hours since the mist swept them into strange lands. He was ready to end the day back in the leaning Daggerford barn, now he is close to collapse.

The slate grey armor hanging from his shoulders felt like bars of iron back in Daggerford, now they sit like anvils after so many hours. The clothing beneath is soaked entirely between the rain and the sweat, and the black cloak draped over his shoulder hangs as heavy and damp as a wet blanket. If it wasn’t for the constant chill of this place freezing the sodden wear to his skin and the ever present sense of danger prickling at his frayed nerves, Emet would have started drifting off to sleep long ago whether he was on his feet or not.

Evie seems equally exhausted, her arms wrapped around herself and tugging at the short skirt beneath her armor as though she can stretch it out to keep the wind off her exposed legs. She chews at a lip piercing irritatedly, occasionally blowing a strand of fallen hair from her face with a huff.

Evrrot seems warm however, that charcoal scented leather long coat of his keeping his clothing suitably dry and warm in this winter breeze. Emet wonders absently if his infernal blood warms him as well or if that’s only a rumor. He’s known a few tiefling in his long life, but mostly as clients. Never well enough to venture such a question. And he certainly won’t ask this man lest he give him the fire he needs for warmth through irritation alone.

Misery keeps their company and exhaustion their silence. Only Roshan clings obnoxiously to every fragment of hope this gloomy place spits at them. Where the old man gets his vitality, Emet will never know. The old human looks as weathered as old leather draped in scratchy white cloth—now soaked—but somehow his every step bounces with a spring in it and that near constant smile of his curls up the edges of his salted beard as reliably as the sun rises each day.

Evrrot glares at the old man every few paces with the irritated hatred born from a day that’s gone on for too long and Evie lets slip a small smirk when she thinks no one is looking, but Emet finds his mind drifting to Azem. Roshan’s bouncing gate reminds Emet of the sun elf every time they had set out together on a journey. No matter how long the day or early the morning, Azem always finds a way to brighten it.

Sun elf and sun god, both so bright.

The muddy wagon path twists ahead of them, rolling across the grassy hills down into small valleys thick with puddles before rippling up again. The land folded and rippled like cloth. And all the while their sodden boots trudge it further still with the hope that the mist doesn’t completely swallow up the village ahead in more than sight. It already devoured their last one after all.

Evie nods toward something off the road, not daring to unwrap the warmth of her arms from around herself to point. “What’s that?”

All heads swing to where she stares off the trail into the strange mist and the veil of it thins briefly to see a dark weathered stone atop a small knoll.

“Maybe it is a mile marker,” Roshan’s voice betrays the tiredness he is hiding better than the rest, “I will go have a look.”

“I’ll join, shouldn’t be splitting up,” Emet says, not wanting to stand still.

Evie shakes her head, “Don’t worry about it, we should keep going.”

“It is barely 20ft feet away,” Roshan waves his hand at the stone definitely more than 20ft away, “We will be fine.”

“I’m getting bad vibes from this place, let’s not go and explore every weird, creepy thing we come across.”

“Yes, let’s definitely go and together.”

Evie frowns, “That’s not what I said.”

Roshan trudges off path, sweeping aside the tall grasses with Emet in tow. Neither Evie nor Evrrot follow.

Certainly isn’t a mile marker, Emet thinks as they get closer to the dark stone. The stone is slick with rain and soaked through, but rain-darkened words are carved into its rough surface in the common tongue—a good sign. Emet reads the epitaph chiseled into the gravestone. Rose and Thorn, and beneath the inscription the phrase, Lost to the world, Found in Judgement.

“This is a burial proverb of Kelemvor, yes? The God of Death in our Faerûn?” Roshan asks, kneeling beside the stone and brushing away the grasses already grown long around it. Emet notes the grave marker barely looks as though it has weathered a year. Roshan looks up expectantly at the tall moon elf, but Emet keeps his silence hoping the holy man will mistake it for ignorance and not familiarity.

The holy man shrugs, “I think it is.”

Before departing the holy man offers a brief blessing, his hand marking the symbol not of Kelemvor, but of Lathander. Emet doesn’t quite remember which domain that god embodies, he never was the most devout in his order. Maybe that’s why things ended up the way they did. But then again, Roshan seems to have an abundance of faith and he’s still here in this mess beside Emet. So maybe the answer is that none of the gods care.

Roshan slaps his knees as he stands, breaking Emet out of his thoughts, “All done, thank you for waiting. We should head back now.”

The two trudge back through thick grass and uneven ground to Evie and Evrrot, the half elf and tiefling watching them carefully and impatiently. Evrrot’s horns drip droplets of water past his shoulders, hair more slick than ever in the wet rain and wetter still for them having made him wait as the rain picks up a little heavier. Emet is half surprised the tiefling didn’t simply leave as he’s so fond of threatening at every occasion.

Evie just stares past them, out to the stone marker, her mohawk nearly flattened and drooping half way to her armored shoulders. She’d dug a ditch in the mud with her platform boots while waiting, chewing on her darkly tinted lips as though she half expected some terrible thing to burst out of the fog and snatch away Emet and Roshan on their way back. Not out of the realm of possibility, unfortunately.

“It was a just tombstone,” Roshan offers as Evie lifts her head expectantly.

“Ah yeah, nothing creepy about a random tombstone in the middle of nowhere,” she comments.

“You never know, this could have been their favorite hill.”

Evrrot uncrosses his arm, “Alright, you’ve had your fun. Follow me.”

“Of course, devil boy” Roshan grins, “We follow you.”

Devil and holy man walk side by side, already having forgotten Emet and Evie in their unspoken competition. Emet shakes his head and is about to follow when he realizes Evie doesn’t move. She stares off at that grave marker, arms crossed across the wet chainmail on her chest. She barely seems to realize half of them have left.

Evie takes a breath and steps forward, but not toward Emet. She determinedly marches for the gravestone alone. Emet nearly follows, wanting to keep anyone from being alone in this place, but something tells him to hold back.

Platform boots slipping in the thick wet grasses up the knoll’s side, Evie barely realizes she’s gone to the grave marker before she finds herself standing in front of it. It’s not like she wants to be here, just that…she needs to. Or that she should. She doesn’t know anymore.

Her eyes trail over the stone’s carving catching on the curl and slant of the ‘R’ in Rose and the sweeping ’T’ in Thorn with a prick of familiarity. She shakes her head and rereads the names and that small sense rewrites itself in her mind as coincidence. Found in Judgement. A familiar proverb from a familiar god. One she’s probably read or said a hundred different times in her twenty-something years.

A snake curls in her stomach reading it.

She never really knew how she felt about that phase. Evie knows it’s supposed to be a source of comfort, that the bad will get their due and the good will be absolved and find their eternities in their heavens. But at the same time, it feels like a watchful gaze. A reminder that everything you do, every mistake you make, and every person you disappoint becomes another tally in a book made to immortalize your every sin. A permanent record of every failure that you’ll carry forever…

Evie sighs and quickly makes the symbol of Kelemvor.

Duty fulfilled, she wraps her arms back around herself and trudges back through the mud to where that giant shadow waits for her. She narrows her eyes at him, giving him a look that asks Why are you still here, poncy idiot before angrily stomping past him. He keeps pace, not trailing behind as if he actually remembers she doesn’t want him behind her, and they hurry to catch up with the angry tiefling and the endless well of happiness irritating the ever living shit out of ‘devil boy.’ She almost wants to laugh seeing them both still vying to stay ahead of each other, but it catches in her throat and the sound is all too similar to a sob. She bites it back and keeps walking.

Emet keeps to Evie’s hurried pace, careful not to fall behind.

The ever present mist has thankfully not swept away the settlement like a vision, the tall shapes of stone and wood structures looming within the fog, slowly peeking out between the waves. Mud gives way to slick wet cobblestones beneath their feet and for the first time since the barn, Emet doesn’t feel like he’s in a dream.

Dwellings border either side of the main thoroughfare with windows as empty and dark as the dried broken sockets of a skull. No sound to cut the silence, no light to signal life. Emet has lived through conflicts before in the extraordinarily long life granted to those of elven blood, and the buildings here look like those who have suffered much and been afforded little in the aftermath. Crippled things, wood and stone scarred by blade or claw with glass long shattered and replaced by crooked planks of wood, all leaning against another as though the wall beside it is all that keeps it standing. Remove the one and all will crumble.

Only the flapping of wings fills the streets as a raven swoops toward them from across the way. The little bird settles, perching with a flutter of black feathers atop an errant railing. It fusses with its wings a moment, a curious shade of blue tipping its silken edges before folding them neatly behind its back. It stares at the group expectantly.

Evie’s eyes light up a moment when she sees it. The blue-tipped raven caws loudly and stomps its little feet before taking off, following the street toward what must be a town square up ahead. Beyond this lane, the buildings open up a bit more with what appears to be a statue of some kind at its center.

“I think it wants us to follow it,” Evie says.

Roshan squints after the raven as though seeking some sign, “It looks like a normal bird.”

“It cawed when it looked at me though. When you look at most birds, they just…” Evie flutters her hands, mimicking wings taking off.

Roshan gives Evie the same look the others have given him whenever he pulls out that feather of his to seek guidance. Seems the only one allowed to have signs from the gods is the holy man.

The raven perches on a signpost across the town square, too distant to read from here at the edge of the village. None seem eager to take the first step into unfamiliar territory—and ruined territory at that, the buildings abandoned and dark as far as they can tell. But they all know there is no where else to go.

“Should we be nice to anyone we come across?” Roshan asks.

“Don’t see why not. They’ve not done anything yet,” Emet’s eyes search the darkened windows, the quiet streets, “If they’re even here.”

Roshan studies the grim group. Weary from the days of travel, edges frayed and nerves short, they all wear a mask of misery. Were this a normal town with streets filled with souls, all would avoid them warily with the grim air about them.

“Maybe you should smile, Emet.”

The words slide between Emet’s ribs with a dagger’s edge and drift down his throat like poppy wine. Both numbing and warm and stealing away the pain long enough to feel the heat blood spilling over his ribs and mistake it for comfort. Memory is held in that painful warmth and he doesn’t hear Roshan’s voice, but Azemir’s. A faint smile, hollow and a ghost of what it once was answers and flickers across Emet’s face before the words turn sharp and he feels the dagger behind the wine. The pain of remembered words once spoken dearly by another soul awaiting his return.

The smiles fades as quickly as it appeared, yet none see the blood.

The holy man moves on, unknowing of the bittersweet blade he buried in Emet’s chest.

“And maybe you should be happy, Evrrot. Angry devils are usually a very bad thing. Evie, you are fine.”

“Do I not come off as a happy person,” Evrrot comments, face as grim as a gravestone.

“Do I not come off as a miserable person?” Evie asks, affronted.

Roshan grins, “No and no.”

“I’m very cheery,” Evrrot glowers.

“Maybe once you’ve had some food in your stomach.”

“That’s probably the first thing you’ve said that’s made any sense.” Evrrot throws caution to the wind once more and strolls down the street, “Let’s go find an inn and see if you’re right.”

Muddy cobblestones scrape beneath their boots, the sound as loud as horse hooves in this eerie silence. If this place is occupied, there should be at least one or two people in the streets, shouldn’t there? Someone fetching the days errands, or a merchant tending their harvest stand, a kid chasing a dog, anything. But no, hollow as a tomb and quiet as the crypt. Only the wind whispering through the broken glass windows gives voice to this dead village. The swift breeze creaks a few half broken signs with rusted wails.

As they near the square, a beam of light briefly breaks through the darkened clouds and casts a pillar of pale white glow upon the statue. Even freed from the prison of clouds, the sun’s light is choked and faded, sapped of all warmth as it falls upon the figure dominating the square. Carved of old stone, the armored man’s shoulders are chipped and cracked from disrepair, matching the destitution of the village it protects. He holds a blade triumphantly aloft in stark contrast to the loss echoed all around him, a heavily booted foot resting atop the severed head of another man. Fangs jut from the severed head’s mouth, the snarling lips curled back with its jaw hung open at a broken angle. A sign of protection for those who live here and a warning to those with ill intent, but one that rings hollow through the empty shell of ruins.

The metal of the weatherworn plaque at the base carries the green tinge of aged copper. Deep clawing gouges from some beast cut across the words hammered into the surface, but the name is still legible.

Ismark Antonavich the Great

Burgomaster of Barovia

Bane of Vampires

618-662 BC

BC? That’s not the common dating notation utilized in Faerûn or anywhere that Emet’s heard of. And Barovia is equally an unknown. Granted, the moon elf isn’t the most well traveled, or even the most well read despite his past, but one glance at the others tells him he is not the only one lost as to when or where any of this is.

Roshan is the first to voice their questions, “What is Barovia?”

“What is BC?” Evie asks.

“Oh, is that strange too? I don’t know the actual years, so I don’t know what it is supposed to be.”

Emet and Evie’s eyes settle on the holy man. Not knowing the day or maybe the month is understandable, but the year?

Evrrot remains fixated on the plaque, “Bane of Vampires…”

Roshan lifts a finger, grinning, “That word I do know.”

“Are there vampires here?” Evrrot wonders.

Emet tilts his head to the shrouded skies where the dim light of sun weakly pours through the heaviest of the storm. Its beam sallow and faint as though the skies themselves suffocate their star. Every day a slow and agonizing breath above the land, a single gasp above the night’s waters before it is dragged below each night into stillness.

“If there aren’t then there were,” he answers.

Evrrot joins him in squinting up at the skies, the thin beam snuffing out at last as a wave of thick clouds rolls overhead, “It’s certainly ideal if this is the weather every day.”

A shrill caw breaks their conversation, the blue-tipped raven shouting its displeasure at being ignored like a lordling demanding attention. The bird stomps its small feet with little clicking sounds as the talons dance along the top of a wooden post jutting out from the side of a building no more remarkable than any of the others. Though its build and size suggests it may indeed be an inn. A wooden sign hangs precariously from the post by a single chain—the other broken and clinking lightly in the wind—is painted with a once vibrantly green vine dripping in what may be blood or wine. The paint half chipped and cracked by the natural fissures in the wood still bears the name.

The Blood on the Vine Tavern.

“Hey, look at that.” Evrrot casts a hand toward the sign, “The raven led us to beer.”

Satisfied its message has been received, the regal raven quickly flutters off into the mist. If Emet were a faithful man, he’d call it a sign.

“Seems your prayers were answered,” Emet murmurs as the tiefling makes his way to the double doors.

NOTES

Thanks so much for reading Part 1! I'm going to be taking a brief hiatus to catch up on some writing and notes, but I will be back. Part 2 will be available on April 23rd, hope to see you then

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