thetalesofno-one

[thetalesofno-one]

It is once again time for our typical hiatus between this story's parts so we can have a little rest, catch up on some notes and editing, and work on the next scene to be released.

This break is gonna be a bit longer due to a rather busy summer, so while there won't be any new chapters for several weeks, we hope you enjoyed the journey and do hope to see you again when we come back from break.

Until then, enjoy the vampire free summer and the heat and remember Barovia awaits your return from the sun

[thetalesofno-one]

Curse of Strahd, Act I: Pt. 2, Ch. V -Wine And Memories-

D&D Campaign Retelling Part 2/6 Chapter 5/5 ~8.2k words Content Warnings: Curse of Strahd typical content, Read at own risk

Summary The outsiders settle into the Kolyanovich mansion with Ismark and Ireena, finding a brief bit of reprieve in sharing wine, food, and stories of each other's lives. A warm moment that chases away the dark of Barovia for a small bit of time. Read Previous Chapters also available on AO3

Emet sits on the edge of his borrowed bed watching the flicker of candlelight. The lingering strangeness of being a stranger in a place not one’s own keeping him unsettled. It is never easy for him to rest in a place so heavily haunted by another. The scent of this room’s owner lingers over everything. From the floral bedding upon which he sits, to the walls that have held her every memory since childhood. The scent only familiar to him only because he has met her. 

This is not like an inn where a hundred souls have found sanctuary—or on sorrier nights, love—atop the same bed. Where the mingled scent of many travelers becomes a familiar musk so deeply entwined it faintly resists the soaps used to desperately wash it away. The scent of temporary reprieve. Of a space that is yours for a night paid for in silver and will hold another when you pack your bag and continue on.

There is no neutral traveler’s limbo while staying in another’s room. Instead, it is a place fully infused with the memory of one. Ireena is everywhere in this room, the ghostly imprint of her presence in everything. From the bed that has cradled her every dream to the faint wear on the floors where her feet have walked familiar patterns into the rug. The hairbrush the atop the vanity where she styled red tresses as she searched her reflection’s eyes for answers to questions she’s never dared to ask. The forgotten sock draped over the bathtub. The pair of boots tucked between the wardrobe and the wall with heels still stained in mud.

Feeling very much the trespassing outsider, Emet leaves his bag packed by the door and steps into the hall. However, hesitation stops him before he can get any further, hand resting familiarly upon the broken haft of the glaive slung at his hip.

He shouldn’t bring his weapons to the dinner table.

He’s been told as much once when the air had been filled with the stinging notes of spicy food and the sizzling of vegetables being fired over hot flames. When the warmth of the kitchen had been filled with secret song of knives atop wooden boards, the hum of some unfamiliar tune broken by the occasional curse.

Emet can still see the dark clothes hiding the tanned skin of Azemir’s toned back facing him. Dark hair shorn short along his neck before it tumbles down in black waves curling lavishly around his sharp ears. His hands work quickly with great skill as he crafts his latest masterpiece to set Emet’s mouth aflame. Thin white apron strings wrap around his slim waist and Emet remembers thinking he’d like to untie them. The sun elf turns around before Emet’s thoughts wander further and he smiles. It is a bright thing. Captivating. The sun could burn to ash in the sky and Emet would see a brighter star every day in his smile. 

That is until Azem sees the blades still at Emet’s hips. He chides that while Emet can wield his sword anywhere he pleases, he’ll not do so at their dinner table. The others in the barracks made a few jokes that night about where Emet wields his blade, but he barely heard any of it gazing into those bright amber eyes. 

A stinging pain draws Emet from the memory and back into the present where he is a trespasser in a borrowed room. Alone. No spiced food hangs in the air, no warmth anywhere. A sliver of errant wood pierces his thumb from the glaive’s broken haft and he’s reminded again of what broke it. Emet strokes the reddish purple cloth, bloodstained and now wrapped around what remains of the broken haft when it should still be wrapped around his waist. He adds his blood to it and promises again to come home and fix what’s been broken.

The thought of leaving the glaive out of reach sits uncomfortably in Emet’s chest.

He takes the other short sword instead—a simple blade, practical and unadorned in anything as fine as the elven glaive—and untether’s it from his belt. Emet lays it on the bed for his return. Not the politest he could be in new company, but half as polite is better than none at all.

Emet ducks out of the room, nearly swiping his head on the doorframe with his thoughts in the past. He strides down the hall, eager to be somewhere more neutral. Somewhere occupied so he doesn’t sink too deeply into old thoughts. 

The door beside his where Ireena and Evie will take their rest is open slightly and Emet catches sight of the rebel laying out an outfit on the bed. The fabric is pitch like most everything she wears, but an unnatural shade darker. He would’ve kept walking without a second thought if the style of the cloth didn’t strike him as bitterly familiar. Vestments. Cloth darker than the night embroidered in fine gold and silver twined thread. He can’t see the symbol through his limited view, but he doesn’t need to. The similarity to the holy cloth of Emet’s old god is enough to sour his mood. The high he’d felt only a moment ago spoils into something rotten. 

Emet heads downstairs.

The distant clinking of plates and silverware lead Emet to a hall off the foyer where Ireena crosses from one room to the next in a flash before he can guess at a door to try. Stacks of ceramic and silver sill her arms and Emet doubts she’s seen him at all in the hurried blindness of a host with unexpected guests. 

He follows her into the dining room where a long table crafted to seat a household of guests dominates the center. The surface sits mostly covered beneath a drape lightly dusted from months of disuse. Ireena moves quick as a hare around it, narrowly dodging the sharp corner with her hip. A new fire burns in the corner, still young and half formed in the hearth, its belly not yet full of the fresh wood. The flames crackle slowly to life, barely chasing the chill from the room. Ireena skirts past it, setting the heavy stack in her arms atop a serving counter stretching across one wall before folding the table cover aside. She grabs a dusting cloth hanging from her apron and starts vigorously wiping down the polished surface beneath before she spies him at the doorway.

Ireena quickly straightens herself with an embarrassed smile, the exertion of her task coloring her cheeks warmly. She quickly pats the errant dust off the apron tied over her breeches, the motes fluttering about her hair and dancing in the light of the fire. 

“Please, sit. Make yourself comfortable,” Ireena forces herself not to breathe heavily, though it’s clear she hasn’t caught her breath. “Can I get you some wine or water?”

Emet wanders around to the serving counter and gathers the plates and silverware in his arms instead.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that. Please relax, you don’t have to help me.”

She moves as if to take the stoneware from his arms and he shakes his head, offering her a faint smile so she knows she hasn’t offended him somehow.

“I can’t relax while someone else is doing all the work. Allow me.” 

“I—Thank you.” 

Ireena takes a breath. The tension in her shoulders releases little, but it is a start. He moves about the table and something strangled and coiled within her settles more as he sets the first seat with plate and silver the way Emet has seen in the homes of the lords and wizards who occasionally invited him to their towering homes in Iriaebor.

In time, the anxious air of perfection snapping its jaws at Ireena’s heels eases into something a little more comfortable and the two of them find an easy rhythm. Somehow they do not trip over each other, the tasks splitting with the natural dance born of familiarity that does not exist between them. And yet it seems her dance is similar to an old one he already knows. When Emet isn’t looking, he can almost believe there is another by his side.

Emet wonders how many lordly dinners were served where Ireena was nitpicked about every little imperfection. Tiny jabs that may not have seemed so hurtful at the time. Sit straighter. Don’t hold your fork like that. Stop making a mess. Not that spoon. Serve the guests. Don’t laugh like that. Stop moving your feet. No elbows on the table. Fix your hair. Don’t spill that. Clean up. Be still. Stop talking. Over time they make mountains out of sand hills and bind that which does not fit with words of wire, turning the pain it causes into motivation to conform. Always that promise that it will be easier when you finally give in. Soon you learn to tighten the wires yourself. But nothing changes.

Ireena’s trained bindings slowly uncoil from her ribs and her hold on them loosens with each task Emet takes as his own. Expectation and haste fade with each imaginary demand that passes without consequence or judgement and Ireena finds a pace that does not corset the breath from her lungs. 

Emet sets sticks of candles across the table and Ireena coaxes the crackling hearth into a fire that almost carries warmth into this perpetually cold land. He takes a taper to the flames and ignites each waxen pillar in offering to the dark. A prayer to chase it away. Ireena sweeps to a cabinet and uncorks a bottle of wine with a pop and pours it out into a carafe. One for wine, one for water. After a few minutes to let the drink breathe, Ireena offers each to Emet. He takes the wine with thanks, especially after a day like this one. 

The table is one setting shy by time they finish and Ireena points Emet to the room across the hall where more dishes can be found.

“Kitchen’s just that way, the door right across from this one.” She fills his wine glass, “There’s a cupboard in the corner with dishes and a drawer just beside it with the silverware.”

Emet takes a grateful swig of the wine—a fine blend of sweet and sour—and leaves to find his charge. He passes Roshan on the way, the holy man peeking his head through the dining room door as Emet disappears into the kitchen.

“Do you have a shovel?” Emet hears him ask.

Ireena sets the wine carafe down slowly, her mind momentarily blank with the odd question.

“Yes,” she answers hesitantly, “I think we do.”

Roshan smiles at her expectantly and waits for the shovel without any kind of explanation.

“One—one moment.”

Emet passes Ireena and Roshan in the hall again upon his return, both disappearing further off into the house. The creak of the steps tells him they go up the stairs. The loud wailing screech of hinges in desperate need of oiling followed by a muffled thump tells him there’s an attic entrance somewhere up there.

Roshan ignites his staff with a little light spell and Ireena clamors up into the attic. He holds it high, unsure if it helps, but a few minutes and a few bumps later Ireena returns with a somewhat rusted shovel. The folding ladder snaps back up into the ceiling with a wail as loud as an alleycat in heat. Evie briefly peeks out her door to see what is happening before going back to whatever she is doing in her room.

Roshan smiles and holds out his hand for the shovel, “And where do you want your father to be buried?”

Ireena doesn’t let go immediately, her hold lingering on the rough sanded handle as though wondering if she should give up the shovel at all.

“Kolyan…he lived and breathed this village. Like all who have died, he must be buried in the church. In the cemetery.”

Roshan hoped to bury the man on the property, perhaps in a garden, but he is undeterred, “Okay. Where is the cemetery?”

“It is on the other side of the village. It may be a bit tricky for us to transport the coffin that far, but hopefully with your help we will bring him over. Tomorrow.” She clarifies.

Roshan’s smile is unyielding, “I will be back in a couple of hours.”

Though he senses she does not want to hand him the shovel, he’s learned if he remains relentless he will usually get his way. He keeps his hand outstretched and his smile expectant and Ireena reluctantly gives up the rusted tool. It is a wondrous discovery since he’s found his freedom and one he intends to use as often as possible.

Ireena fusses with her scarf as she leads him to the front doors. She glances furtively out the boarded windows. He can tell she is trying to craft some clever words to dissuade him from his task, but none find her.

“Just be careful outside.” She unlocks the several locks and bars on the door one by one, “Don’t wander too far from the village and…keep an eye out. Night is setting soon.”

Evrrot strolls down the stairs, perhaps drawn by the clinking of locks. That seems like something that would attract his attention.

“You know, I think I’ll join,” the tielfing yawns, sharp teeth glinting in the lamp light. “I need some air.”

Roshan throws a hand up in mock offense, “Why are you following me? You said you did not want to share a room and now you want my company?”

“Alright, now. Get over yourself. I just want air.”

“You get over yourself.”

Roshan grins knowing devil boy will see it as a challenge. It is so very easy to play this little boy’s strings. There’s a glint in Evrrot’s eye and the tension in the air grows to a point of breaking, each wondering who will make the first move. Ireena steps back from the unlocked door, the poor girl not understanding that there is no hostility. Roshan is just having his fun. The moment the door opens, the two of them make a running break for it.

They are forced to a sudden hard stop before either can shoulder through the doorway. 

Hand half raised in a knock that never found purchase, Ismark stands just outside. There is a small bag tossed over his shoulder, its drawstring pinched closed on brown fur. A deeper exhaustion fills her face and darkens the young man’s eyes with the weariness of an old man. A somberness eclipsing the seed of his hope and drawing his face into the same darkness of every Barovian they have met so far. 

“Where are you going?” Ismark asks sharply.

Roshan shoulders back Evrrot and lifts the shovel, “If we dig a hole now, we do not have to do it in the morning.”

“Dusk is arriving, there won’t be much light soon. Are you sure?”

Light. If it weren’t sad it would be funny. Roshan does not think these people have ever known a true day in their lives. He will have to change that. 

“I am use to digging holes, it is no worry. I am quite good at it.”

Ismark’s voice holds no fight, “Alright. I’ll see you later then. And there will be a meal waiting for you when you return. Be back before the night sets.”

Roshan is surprised Evrrot doesn’t abandon his decision to come along at the mention of food, though he does see some hesitation.

“Come on, devil boy. We will be back for dinner.”

Ismark watches them go before shuffling inside. He leans his bow in the corner and slips out of his heavy winter coat in silence. Ireena locks up the doors, keeping quiet in the hopes her brother will fill it with news. But Ismark remains silent outside of a brief greeting to her and a quick nod to Emet in passing. Ismark disappears into the kitchen with his small game bag.

Emet stares at the closed kitchen door and wonders if he should go in and help. The kitchen was their next task, but Ireena shakes her head even though he did not speak. At least the majority of the prep is done, Emet supposes. He holds the dining room door open for Ireena and they take a seat with their wine, the table set and waiting for something to fill it. There is little else to do but smell the scent of cooking dinner in an awkward silence. Emet isn’t sure what happened out in the foyer, but he senses the shift in mood well enough.

Evie finally joins in their silent waiting. The dull clomping of her large platform boots reaching them long before she darkens the open dining room doorway. Without her armor, Evie looks even more like the teenaged rebels in Emet’s city. The dark skirt has clearly been shorn short from a longer one by scissors and left to unravel into thread at the ends. Her darkly dyed tunic looks as though it may have been another color before a home dying session washed it unevenly in black and her large oversized boots threaten to find their place in someone’s ass with every step.

Evie’s many facial piercings glint slightly in the fire and candlelight as she casts a quiet glance around the room, noting the absences and the strange mood. The unspoken question, however, is quickly set aside once offered a glass of wine. Emet briefly wonders if she is old enough to drink, but after a day like today and the news of her friend’s death or capture, he doesn’t much care if she finds some solace in alcohol tonight.

Her nose doesn’t scrunch at the first sip telling him this isn’t her first drink either.

“I’m old enough, if that’s what you’re wondering. I’m a half elf, so my twenty-none-of-your-business years is long past the drinking age.”

It takes an hour for Ismark to return, his hands full of a hefty pot steaming with rabbit stew. He serves each with a heavy ladleful of soup that is mostly vegetable and broth. Only a few small bits of rabbit find their way into each bowl. Ismark even fills the empty bowls of Roshan and Evrrot in anticipation. 

“I can’t promise it will be too amazing,” Ismark apologizes, finally breaking the silent spell over the room.

Evie stirs the hot stew to let some of the heat dissipate, “Rabbit seems popular around here. You’ve got a shortage of livestock, I’m guessing.”

Ismark’s eyes find the floor. “Yes…most of the farmer either fled or were killed in the siege. We’ve been rationing out the remaining stock of supplies ever since. Everyone has had to become quite frugal with what they have, though there is no scarcity of rabbit,” Ismark smiles mirthlessly.

Emet places a hand over his bowl after the first ladle, politely stopping Ismark from filling it up. If their rations are so low, he has no desire to eat into them. It is bad enough their hosts are now feeding six mouths instead of two, they do not need to fill a giant as well. Besides, Emet is sure Evrrot will eat through everything Emet leaves behind anyways whenever he gets back from whatever they are doing. He has a sinking feeling Roshan’s request for a shovel means they are grave digging alone.

Ireena brings out half a loaf of bread and cuts enough slices for everyone to have one, even those absent. There isn’t any left for leftovers. Some of the shame Emet thought he’d chased away returns to her face, amplified by its mirror in Ismark’s. The crust is dried and the bread somewhat stale, but Emet and Evie accept it with thanks. 

Roshan and Evrrot’s bowls sit steaming with no one to eat them.

Ismark catches the elves’ eying the empty place settings.

“The others mentioned they were digging a grave for my father. I assume they are gong to speak to the priest.”

So it is what Emet worried.

“I wish they’d told me,” Evie sighs in exasperation. “I’d have gone and helped.”

Emet nods his agreement.

“We’d probably all be back by now with four of us out there digging,” Evie continues. “I think Roshan knows his stuff though, he seems somewhat knowledgeable in this area.”

“Yes, he was quite amazing,” Ireena nods. “Ismark, he sanctified our father’s remains. We don’t have to worry about his body anymore.”

“He did that?” Surprise fills Ismark’s expression before it shifts, connecting the dots that there is a priest in the group he tasked to guard his sister. Some of the tension bowing his back relaxes knowing now that the hands he will place his sister’s life into can heal.

With everyone served, Ismark finally settles himself into the seat closest to his sister. He scoots in carefully to not knock over a candlestick.

“So tell me about yourselves.” Ismark blows on his hot soup before risking a bite. “How did you arrive in these lands?”

Evie points her spoon at him, “Well isn’t that the big question.”

“We’re not entirely sure what happened,” Emet answers. “There was a storm, then mist, and before we knew it, we were here. Every trace of where we’d been simply gone.”

“None of us actually know each other, we’ve literally only just met a few hours ago.” Evie stuffs a spoonful of soup into her mouth, “The old guy, he was chasing after a feather and we were sort of chasing after him. Next thing we know, we’re here, lost in the woods. Went around in circles for a bit, got drained by some mist, went through some big gates, you know the rest.” 

Evie trails off when she realizes how strange this all sounds out loud and promptly stuffs her mouth full of stew. Emet notes she left out the strange visions and their various objects pulling them into the mist. Her brooch, his amber shard. She only mention Roshan’s feather.

“A feather you say?” Ismark scratches the blonde stubble on his chin, “That is definitely a new one. And back at the tavern you said you’re all from Faerûn?”

“Faerûn?” Ireena cuts in excitedly. She slides to the edge of her seat, a spark of excitement and curiosity in her eyes. The kind found in the young seated around campfires, eager to hear tales of adventure and strange new lands. The perfect set of her shoulders and practiced polite expressions that eased back into her at Ismark’s arrival—albeit a little looser around the edges—immediately falls away and before them is no longer a noble woman, but a friend they’ve not seen in ages, excited to hear how the years have been.

Both elves nod, their mouths momentarily full of stew.

“Please, tell me about your homes. What’s it like in your lands?”

Evie quickly stuffs a new spoonful into her mouth before the last is finished, leaving Emet out to dry. But her eyes are locked on Ireena with a new interest.

Emet thinks a moment, trying to sift through the pieces of his story that are worth mention. The pieces that haven’t been torn along the edges and made to fit, the ones that no longer hold their shape after the pages have drunk spilled wine and blood. How different his life looks after the moment that ruined him. Even what came before does not hold the same color. Stained by proximity into a new shade and all the while that glaring hole at its center where a fragment was stolen. He keeps it in his hand, but it no longer fits. Not until he fixes it. Then all will return as it was.

When Emet finds the suitable parts of his life to share, he is glad the somberness of his voice does not take away the wonder in Ireena’s eyes. 

“I’m from a city known as Iriaebor. It’s often called the City of a Thousand Spires. The buildings  there stretch endlessly to the heavens, reaching impossible heights with feats of magic and engineering that are beyond my knowledge. Every spire tries to outreach the ones around it. Every home built to overshadow the last, and all of them holding the dream of touching the stars. It is a beautiful place at night seeing every building glint and glimmer like they are already part of the heavens. Though when you’re on the ground, it can feel a little claustrophobic.”

Emet remembers the narrow streets, the sun’s light choked away by the shadows of the buildings seeking the stars. His own home sat low to the ground above his small shop. The stone never having drunk the warmth of a morning in all his years spent there. Tucked between the spires like a secret. One forgotten and buried.

“But if you are ever granted a chance to climb the spires to visit a wealthy merchant’s shop or perhaps are invited to a noble’s home where you get to stand above the world, it is a sight unlike any other.”

Ireena’s eyes fill with a dreamer’s awe and Emet can almost see his city come alive within them. His words becoming pictures behind the candle drunk cognac of her irises. 

“The whole city has spires? A whole city?”

“Much of it. The oldest districts remain bound to the earth, but even they have grown. And they took the first steps in seeking the stars.”

“And you were invited to noble’s houses! Are you a nobleman yourself?”

Emet smiles, though it is hollow, “I’m afraid not. But I knew some in my previous line of work. Ones who would occasionally need my services. They rarely visited my shop themselves, but they would send someone to retrieve me and invite me to their homes.”

“Ah, what sort of services do you do?”

“I use to be a bookbinder.”

Evie stares at his hands with a disbelieving look as though she cannot possibly imagine someone with hands his size wielding a needling with any kind of skill.

“That was…hmm” Emet shakes his head, “It feels like such a long time ago. Many wizards, merchants, and nobles prefer that their books and various collections be of the finest quality. Unique. And I’ve had many years of practice.”

Evie listens to Emet’s story without comment, only the occasional scrape of spoon against bowl to remind him that she is part of the conversation. Though the rebel doesn’t need to speak a word for Emet to hear the ‘Poncy elf’ directed his way. He can practically read the accusation in her expression. The fine life isn’t one he’s ever had the privilege to live, but Emet sees no reason to clarify. Whatever he says, he’s sure Evie has already made up her mind about him.

“How does one become a bookbinder?” Ireena asks, the rest of the table content to simply listen.

“My mother is a librarian in the city, she’s the one who got me into books. She always told me to never judge a story by its cover, but the cover of the books are what truly caught my eye. They are a story’s first hello. The first glimpse of what magic could hide within. I never did understand the sentiment. The details, the gold and silver debossing, the filigree corners, and the way leather can be molded into almost anything. The covers hold a story all their own.”

He stirs his stew, letting the steam dissipate a little before continuing.

“So I became an apprentice to a man who was far from the finest of bookbinders, or so he’d say. But I disagree. Humbled perhaps by skills he never stopped seeking to improve. But the only thing he lacked was the pride driving the ones he thought of as the ‘masters’ of the craft. When he passed, he left me everything. His shop, his tools, his home in the city. He told me to remake the business as I would a new cover and make it my own before he went. So I renamed it The Vellum & Fold and moved out of the country into the city. My father never did like my going into the city over continuing the wine business with him, but he understood. He is a vintner and owns his own little winery, you see. Sunbough Vines. His most famous blend is his Memory Wines taken after our surname in elvish and it grew rather popular among the wealthy of Iriaebor.He sent many customers my way, more than I could have brought on my own. His way of saying he supported my path, even if I did not walk his.”

Emet pauses a moment, searching the air, “That must’ve been well over a hundred fifty years ago…”

He briefly wonders if he’ll ever see his parents again. Briefly wonders if he should have visited before he left. If they would have even recognized him as their son if he had. The news of what he did would’ve reached them by now, twisted as it’s likely been by his former order. He hopes it does not break them.

Ireena leans forward with every word, drawn closer to his story as though it pulls her into a dream. She takes in every word with rapt attention, holding every piece he gives like the most precious of gems.

“A hundred fifty years ago,” she says dreamily. “You must have lived through so much.”

“I suppose I did. Though life seems small when you cannot see yourself in history. It was just those books for the longest time.”

“You said you use to be a bookbinder.” 

Her curious eyes travel over the scars cutting across his jaw and marring his face, as gentle as a finger tracing them with care. 

“What made you change paths?”

Emet feels himself withdraw even as he keeps the faint smile in place. Though now it is hollow and empty. He breathes in her question like arsenic, sobering him and breaking the charm this young woman placed over him. He’s not entirely sure how he opened so easily in her hands. Perhaps it is because he can see a little bit of Azemir when he looks at her. In the way her eyes glint with wonder, the way she listens to intently it is as though you are the only two people in the room. Emet doesn’t like how easily she charmed him, however innocent it might be.

“I’ve always had questions,” he answers, voice a tad colder than before. “And eventually I found people with the answers.”

Ireena’s wistful smile falters as she realizes she has stepped too far. She slides back into her seat, the flush of embarrassment coloring her cheeks. “Oh, of course. I—I’m glad you found a new path.”

A pang of guilt nips at Emet. He did not mean to steal her daydreams.

“I want to be a doctor.” Ireena offers her words like an apology. A page for a page. 

“My father had a tutor who taught me medicine. How to treat wounds and diagnose diseases. I read many a book on the subject until all the words started to sound the same. So she taught me with experience too, that way the words would be linked with memory and action. I’d remember the difference between the ulna and radius because I’d set them with my own hands. Or how to stitch an open wound because she’d hand me the thread and needle. And if I messed up, the stitches would come undone or the skin would tear. The patient’s pain meant I learned quickly. She sometimes allowed me to shadow her during surgeries and taught me to treat all manner of injuries. I’ve not learned quite as much as her, and now I’m not sure where she’s gone after all that’s happened. But I hope that perhaps I can be a proper doctor someday.”

She offers him a faint smile, uncertain if she has mended that which she has stepped on and Emet offers one of his own in return. For the briefest moment Azemir sits across from him, his hands covered in oil and herbs, his smile brightening as another wound heals beneath his touch. And then he sees Ireena, but it is the same smile and the scent of herbs simply the stew. The wound between them gone smooth once more.

“Are you also a magical healer?” Evie asks.

Emet notes even Evie seems to soften around Ireena. The sharp edges of her worn like armor to cut any who pry instead curling in whenever Ireena speaks. Her bristles smoothing beneath a gentle hand and warm eyes.

“Oh, I can’t use magic,” Ireena answers. “I’m just a physical healer, I suppose. Though I wish I could do magic. Can you use magic?”

“I can though I don’t really like it. Never really wanted to learn, you know?” Evie blinks, suddenly remembering that Emet and Ismark are present as Ireena’s gentle hand unfolds her innermost secrets. Evie quickly clears her throat before Ireena can open her up any further and pivots the question back into her favor. “But since I’ve been here, my magic’s been doing weird shit. Does that happen around here?”

Ireena nods, “We’ve heard that before, yes. Awhile back we had a priest arrive in town and he said something similar.”

Evie’s head lifts.

“He said his magic wasn’t functioning normally,” she continues. “He was an outsider as well, just like yourselves. We also had a ranger. I think that’s what he called himself. A guide of sorts. He had this strange nature magic and used leaves and plants and all sorts of stuff to cast spells. One time he showed me how he could shoot ice out of his hand! He called it a ray of frost. It was amazing.” 

Ireena’s smile warms the room hotter than the hearth.

Evie takes a sip of wine, “It’s curious magic works differently here. What kind of things can I expect?”

“I’m not sure there’s anything specific I can point out,” Ireena thinks. “Outsiders who come here with magic just say it behaves differently. From what I’ve heard it didn’t seem to be the same for Carmine and Fiske. Ah sorry, Carmine is the ranger and Fiske the priest.”

Evie swallows her latest spoonful hard, her hand briefly touching her throat as though the stew has lodged itself firmly. Everything about her shifts after that name. Her movement become tense and forced, trying not to draw attention and yet accomplishing the opposite.

Ireena cuts a glance to Emet, but he is studying Evie in quiet curiosity. 

So Fiske is the name of this friend Evie seeks.

“They said it seemed unsettling, like their magic was being twisted.” Ireena adds slowly.

Evie stiffly adjusts her seat, reaches for her drink, then spoon, then drink again, before finally taking a large swig of the wine. 

Ismark clears his throat, leaning into his sister’s ear and whispering. Ireena’s face blushes brightly and she struggles to find something to say. Stuck between apologizing and trying to move onto another subject.

“So, what did you do, Evie?” Ismark asks smoothly, rescuing his sister before she can bury herself deeper. “Before you came here, of course.”

Ireena sinks into her seat looking like she’s wishing it would swallow her up instead. She offers Evie a very apologetic look.

“Not a lot, really,” Evie mumbles. “I was raised in a temple. My mum didn’t want me, so I was a foundling. Spent most of my years there just…learning the tricks of the trade, I guess. It was a temple of Kelemvor. Don’t know if that means anything to you here.”

Emet’s muscles draw sharply taught, the cold embers of something dark and angry stirring in his gut until the stew loses all taste. 

So the vestments were Kelemvorite adornments. He cuts a sideways glance at Evie and studies her face more deeply, but he does not recognize her. Platform boots laced up to the knees and hair gelled to stand on end wouldn’t have gone unnoticed in his barracks, but those are superficial and changeable if they sent someone after him. But those eyes—blue and white and holding something strange behind their judgement. Something he can’t place yet. He would not have forgotten them if he’d seen them. So if he’s lucky—and Emet only ever counted himself lucky once—then she doesn’t know him either.

Evie continues without pause, “I was training to be an undertaker, gravedigger, what have you. Corpses and coffins are a big part of Kelemvorite duties, him being a god of death and all. There’s other stuff of course, but that was the area I was supposed to be studying. I never really fit in with that life. Not the way I was supposed to, at least.”

“An undertaker is a respectable position,” Ismark says, “But we do not have a Kelemvor here.”

Emet’s brow furrows, “There is a gravestone outside of town marked with Kelemvor’s name.”

“Ah, yes,” Ismark pales. “Forgive me for mentioning your friend again, Evie. But it was Fiske who carved that one. He seemed to…what was it, Ireena? He spent a lot of time out there and he called the task something. A vigil?”

Ireena sets her wineglass down, voice soft and bereft of the wonder that filled it when they first began speaking of home. “Fiske lost someone there. He said he needed to keep watch on the house that lured him and the other outsiders into these lands.”

Evie nods somberly as though she knows what that means. “But you said he also joined this revolt thing, didn’t you, Ismark? If he were performing a vigil, he should’ve been at that grave for a year. He should still be there.”

Ismark blots a drip of soup from his beard. “He did and he was, though not for a year. Him and the other outsiders who came, they were close with Doru, the rebellion’s leader. Doru wanted to defeat Strahd and made a whole big speech at the center of town, right in front of our great grandfather’s statue. He tried to rally everyone to storm the castle. Fiske and the others tried to convince him not to go, but his mind was set. I remember the outsiders were so worried that they’d all be killed…the fools.”

Evie’s eyes squeeze shut, “He should still be here…it seems really out of character that he wouldn’t have stayed the full year. He isn’t the kind of person to abandon his duty to the dead.”

“He said he wanted to stay and finish,” Ireena says softly. “He’d usually spend the entire day beside that grave and only stay here in the village at night. But he said the house that brought them disappeared and that seemed to change something, though I’m not sure what.”

Evie falls back into her seat, “You know what, nothing surprises me anymore. Disappearing houses? Sure. Already dealt with drug fog and plane shifting mist, so why not vanishing houses.”

“I can’t blame you for the sentiment. Though a vanishing house is rather strange for us as well.”

Emet’s mind wanders to all the strange events since their arrival. So much has happened this day—days?—and he feels almost as defeated and drained as Evie looks. They are exhausted and worn thin and the answers they’ve received barely feel real.

“What was this place like before Strahd awoke?” Emet finally asks. “Was it always like this? Sun swallowing skies, visions in the mist, disappearing homes?”

“Visions?”

Emet hates how genuinely confused Ireena looks. It only confirms that they have been dragged into something strange even for this land. Something bigger. Which inevitably means something far worse than any news they’ve yet heard. It’s only a matter of when enough pieces fall into place for them to understand exactly what that is. 

“The fog was always here, even before Strahd awoke. But things were better. Tough, but better than now. We had been dealing with dire wolf problems for awhile and the outsiders helped drive it away. It was some kind of undead beast plaguing the village, coming and going as it pleased. It treated out villagers like prey. But the outsiders managed to slay it and things were better. I suppose we’ve always had problems…but it wasn’t on this scale.”

“Did anyone even know Strahd was in that castle, slumbering above you all? How long was he there?”

“We don’t know how long he was asleep, but we’ve always known,” Ireena says grimly. “The legends of a vampire gone into hibernation have been passed down from our ancestors for generations. So we knew of him, but his grasp was never on our land or in our lives. Or at least, not in the way it is now. Doru heard these same stories growing up and I suppose with the outsiders here—Carmine, Fiske, Kelsey, and Mastaba—he thought now was the time to put an end to it.”

“Did you have vampire problems in the past?” Emet continues as Evie finishes her stew, happy to no longer be under scrutiny. “We noticed the statue in the square mentioned ‘Bane of Vampires’, I believe it said.”

“That is our great grandfather. Ismark Antonavich,” Ireena answers. “He was said to be a great hero. Kolyan always spoke highly of him. In life he was known as Ismark the Great.” Ismark looks down at his soup. Ireena continues, “He was a warrior and he fought scores of vampires in his prime, all the undead left behind when Strahd vanished from public view. Eventually he died defending a group of trappers from a dire wolf attack at the age of forty-four.”

“You say he knew Strahd?” Evie asks.

“No, just Strahd’s servants. The vampires and undead left behind when Strahd went into hibernation.”

“How long has Strahd been in hibernation? Do you know?”

“Generations? Hundreds of years? I’m not sure. All through my father’s life and his father’s life. I suppose that’s why him reawakening is such a big deal.”

“Well, I guess I’d be pretty grumpy after being woken up from a nap like that too,” Evie jests.

Ireena laughs lightly, “Not this grumpy I hope.”

“Some people need their beauty sleep. Sounds like this guy is a total dick, so he probably needs a lot of it.”

Conversation grows a bit lighter after Evie’s joke. Bowls become empty, the breadcrumbs littering dishes the only sign a loaf was ever present, and little pools of wine sit like tiny red windows at the bottoms of glasses.

As the night settles in like a cat stretching itself over the land, darkening the room in its creeping shadow, anxiety slowly invites itself in. An unwelcome guest that lingers in every conversation, turning heads to the boarded windows at every shadow and noise. The more time that passes without sign of Roshan and Evrrot’s return, the more unwelcome the guest makes itself. It drinks the wine and dampens the fire, rustles the old bones of the house and whispers reminders of the one who does not need an invitation into the night.

Now that true night has found its way, Emet wonders how they ever mistook it for the day. Beyond the boarded windows, the dark is pervasive and tangible. Deep and endless without a breath of light.

The elves do their best to distract from the change with small talk, avoiding more conversation about themselves by asking about the lives of these Barovian siblings. It isn’t long before brother and sister forget the deeper shadows hanging over the room and reminisce in stories of their youth. The tales of their family spill into smiles and even some soft laughter. A welcome sight in a place that has seen none since their arrival.

They speak of their father Kolyan, and their mother Korina, the tale softening into the worn smooth pain of an old loss. Their memory a stone set in the pocket of your heart when the pain is still raw and new, occupying the place they once nestled in perfectly. The space now filled with edges too jagged and sharp, the stone ill-fitting in their absence. Over time the memories soften into something smooth, wearing away at the sharpness that reopened the wounds with every visit. The weight never leaves, its heavy surface forever ill-suited to the void it now fills, but no longer a bleeding instrument turned against you at a thought.

“Our mother died fourteen years ago.” Ismark says. “Sickness took her. Our father, Kolyan, did his best to raise us alone. But that is not an easy thing to care for children who do not understand a wound that cannot be mended while trying to tend to his own broken heart.”

“This scarf was hers.” Ireena strokes the hem of the scarlet cloth wrapped lovingly around her neck. Her touch does not anxiously fuss with its placement or try to hide the scars they all know must rest beneath this time. This time the touch is gentle, as though it sits around another’s neck.

“Father was the one who found me when I was a young girl,” Ireena continues, staring off into the flames. “By the edge of the Svalich Wood, near the pillar stones of Ravenloft. I don’t remember anything of my past before then. It’s strange…it’s as if I’ve only lived half a life.” Her brows furrow slightly, the gentle stroking of the scarf growing a little more worried before stopping with a determined release. Whatever emotion she feels shoved down to step above it. “But Kolyan and Korina took me in. I owe everything to them.”

Something in Evie’s eyes shift, softening, “I didn’t realize you were a foundling as well.”

“Yes, I didn’t want to press when you’d told me of your past. It didn’t look like a story you wanted to tell.”

“Sounds like you got a pretty sweet deal,” Evie delicately skirts around Ireena’s opening to say more on her past. “They really seem to dote on you…”

“Yes, she is quite the handful,” Ismark grins.

Ireena elbows him in the ribs playfully before smiling tightly in that way siblings do when they want the other to shut up. The atmosphere lightens with the act, their smiles chasing away the melancholy that settled over the room like wool. Soft and consuming, nestled close with none who wish to leave. The type of sorrow made for burrowing into and wrapping around one’s shoulders that you might dwell in its twisted comfort. 

“They’ve always been good to me. I’m quite lucky, I know.” Ireena continues, voice soft. “Anything could have happened to me in those woods. I could have been killed by wolves or stolen away by those I’d rather not think about. But I ended up the daughter of the burgomaster. I have to be grateful for the good things in my life. Even this loaf of stale bread.”

Ireena nudges Ismark’s shoulder with her own and briefly lays her head on his shoulder. 

“Might I ask how old you were when you were found?” Emet asks. “How many years of your memory are missing?”

Ireena glances up at Ismark and he scrubs a hand across the scruff of his jaw. 

“She was rather young. Seven, I think. Time is a bit harder to pin down when you were a child yourself.”

“Are you older, Ismark?” Evie asks.

“Yes, by two years. I am twenty-five and she is twenty-three.”

A wistful smile finds Evie’s tinted lips, but her eyes are tired with a weight sleep cannot mend. “I bet you were over the moon when you learned you were getting a little sister.”

He laughs deep and hearty and full.

“I was ruined I could no longer be the favorite!”

Ireena punches him swiftly, and not at all gently, in the arm and he laughs again, filling the room with its sound, rubbing the sore spot she left. Emet can’t help but grin to himself seeing the fire in her. She reminds him all the more of Azem.

“I jest, I jest. I was overjoyed. I had a few friends back in those days, but many of them moved to Vallaki. Getting a sister was the best thing that happened to me.” He smiles at Ireena and the warmth of his words bloom within her, spreading out into a smile all her own.

Emet leans back with his wine and watches the two with a hint of his own smile, listening with hunger and satisfaction as the siblings’ conversation turns back to tales of their youth and the mischief they got themselves into. Hunger for the life that still beats so strongly within their hearts and satisfaction for the memory of its taste he nearly forgot. 

The moment is stolen away too soon as the sharp rap of knuckles on the front door jars them all back into the coldness of the room, the dimness of the hearth, and all the shadows awaiting them. It seems only their stories—and perhaps the wine—brought the illusion of warmth and life into this place, for it vanishes as quickly as a dream. 

It is a shame they must wake up so soon.

If you've gotten this far

Thanks so much for reading Part 2 of this Curse of Strahd campaign novelization! We're going to be taking a longer than usual break before starting up on Part 3 due to a very busy next couple months, but the next section will be available soon enough. Enjoy the works of some other authors for now, but we hope to see you back!

[thetalesofno-one]

This week's chapter is gonna be delayed. Life got in the way, but it will be posted as soon as I can finish the edit

[thetalesofno-one]

Played tag in a graveyard

You know, like you do in Barovia

[thetalesofno-one]

Yo, to all the writers out there, rebolog this if you want me to read your stuff

I’ll try to leave a comment or ask, and I’ll get to as many as I can. Or if no one who writes sees this, then just have a good day

[thetalesofno-one]

Around a table with stew and wine, stories are told of the world the outsiders lost.

This chapter will be out next week, June 18th on my usual platforms! I do hope you're enjoying the tale so far. I did warn it would be a long one

[thetalesofno-one]

Curse of Strahd, Act I: Pt. 2, Ch. IV -Where The Dead Sleep-

D&D Campaign Retelling Part 2/6 Chapter 4/5 ~7.2k words Content Warnings: Curse of Strahd typical content, Read at own risk

Summary At the burgomaster's mansion our unfortunate souls trapped within Barovia's mists meet Ireena Kolyana, a blessing that will soon join them on their journey for answers. But Ismark fails to tell his sister of her imminent departure and as they argue, another member of the family is met within a coffin. Read Previous Chapters also available on AO3

Ireena steps back from the door with one final look out past them, her eyes seeking other trouble in the waxing night and Emet finds himself glancing as well. Beside him, Roshan stares unblinking at the young woman with red hair. The old man’s smile falters, and even as Ismark ushers the group of strangers into their home, Roshan holds the woman in his eyes like a man seeing the ghost of someone lost within a stranger. The most precious of stolen wonders. Even when he is shuffled in by Evie and Evrrot nudging him ahead, Roshan seems unaware of all else around him. Only her.

Ireena stands off to the side with arms gently wrapped about herself. She absently rubs the soft wool of the well worn scarlet scarf wrapped around her neck like a gentle serpent. Her fingers worrying at the fabric, settling it this way and that as though never satisfied where it rests. Ireena offers each new guest a brief polite smile and a nod, her eyes flicking to Ismark between each expectantly, awaiting the answers to questions Emet can tell she expects her brother to offer sooner rather than later. Namely, who are these people?

Ismark catches her look only after the last guest enters and he swings the door shut.

“Oh, ah, this is my sister Ireena Kolyana. And Ireena, these are—”

Ismark stutters to a halt, a bit of flush spreading across his face.

“Forgive me, in all our conversation I never asked your names,” he smiles sheepishly.

Roshan snaps out of his strange trance, but his sad eyes do not loosen their hold on Ireena, “I am Roshan. It is of great pleasure to meet you, Ireena.”

Her polite and practiced smile is a little hesitant under his intense stare, but she offers it all the same as she likely has been taught to do so to every guest that has been welcomed within these halls. And once rich halls they have been.

Emet studies the foyer as the others offer their names—first names only, of course—and polite hellos. The manor holds the decadent finery of a middle tier barony, but the metal is tarnished, the wood scuffed and wanting for polish, the tapestry faded and thread worn, the furniture in need of a seamstress’ fine touch. The illusion of grandeur long since having fallen, a lord who still receives invitation to galas, but only out of pity for who they once were. A family clinging to the decadence of a memory that now eludes them. Like the Blood on the Vine tavern, the manor holds the wear of a place lived in, not a callus and sterile palace of perfection that is more a museum to wealth than a home. Wealth lost to time and decay.

Ireena’s burnt honey eyes catch Emet’s gaze wandering about her home with a sense of anticipation and he realizes he is all that is left in these introductions. 

“Emet, the pleasure of your company is mine.”

He dips his head in a half bow, hair spilling past his shoulders and sharp elven ears. Her eyes linger on them and follow him back up to full height with curiosity written across her expression, but she holds herself back before she can voice whatever question holds her captive. 

Ismark quickly shuffles to a set of closed double doors with little scratch marks near their base as if a cat or small dog once pawed for entry in its past. There’s a hurriedness to him as though trying to make up for his previous lapse in introductions.

“Come, we can sit and—”

Ireena’s eyes widen even before the doors open, her hand flashing out in silent command. But it is too late. The doors swing inward to reveal a dark sitting room with a fireplace long gone cold and still, every curtain drawn tight as the grave. Fitting, as an open coffin sits atop the low coffee table.

Evrrot grabs Roshan’ shoulder in the split second it takes for Ireena to reach the doors the charmer is already pointing at the casket, its upper half hinged open with the silhouette of a body just beyond the bar of light stretching across the floors from the open doors. He gives the holy man a look as if to say, That’s a body. That’s a fucking body right there. You’re seeing this right?

Ireena grabs the doors from her brother’s hands and slams them shut behind her back. She leans against them protectively, face flushed half as bright as her hair. Ismark gives his sister an apologetic look and she burns him with a silent glare, torn between embarrassment and frustration. He’d clearly known, but if the darkened circled under his eyes speak of anything, it is a message of forgetfulness born of endless restlessness. Not carelessness.

“Sorry,” Ireena breathes hastily, “Our father…we haven’t had a moment to lay him to rest. We’ve been preoccupied.”

She touches her neck as she says the last word, adjusting the scarlet scarf once more with a gentle tug higher. Her gaze softens toward Ismark, all forgiven in an instant. He kisses the top of her head.

“All is well.” Emet can almost feel the ache in Roshan’s voice as the holy man watches the two siblings a moment longer. Something heavy and dark sits behind his eyes before they shutter shut in an instant, closing as sharply as the doors and the warm smile returns, “Do you have any powdered silver?”

“Powdered silver?” Ireena repeats.

“If you do not mind. I can perform a funeral rite so your father may rest undisturbed.”

“Undis—ah. I’m afraid we have nothing so fine, though I am grateful for the offer. Truly.” She straightens, tapping the door behind her lightly as though afraid they will open of their own accord,” But you are our guests. Please, is there anything I might get you? Drink or food perhaps. Our supplies are limited I’m afraid, but we have wine and I can make a stew for dinner if you are staying?”

“I wouldn’t say no to some food,” Evrrot pipes up, his belly still full—Emet would hope—with his very recent late lunch. 

All but Ireena give him a questioning glance. 

“A man’s gotta eat,” he shrugs. An alluring smiles curls over his devilish fangs,”And anything crafted by your lovely hands would be most welcome.” 

Evie looks like she wants to punch him. Emet wouldn’t mind the distraction.

“Of course, I’ll start to prepare something.”

Ismark stops his sister with a light touch before she can go, a troubled expression having taken him over before the offering for food and having deafened him to Evrrot’s comment. His voice holds a weight in his throat as though he does not wish to speak what he must say, but he steels himself.

“There is something we must discuss first, Ireena. This group will accompany you to Vallaki in the morning. They have already agreed to escort you on their way to their own business. You will be safer there—”

A tight smile cuts across Ireena’s soft features, silencing her brother.

“Would you all excuse me and my brother?” Ireena asks sweetly, though her tone poorly hides the sharp edge within it. She holds Ismark beneath her stern gaze. “There’s something we need to discuss. Privately.”

Ismark’s shoulders fall and Ireena takes his hand, dragging him across the foyer to a set of doors opposite the coffin filled sitting room. The door closes behind them with a sharp snap.

It takes all of five seconds for Evrrot’s tenuous hold on self control to completely disintegrate without supervision. His seductive charming smile drops like a curtain over a stage and he opens the sitting room doors, strolling right up to the corpse filled coffin as though it is a piece of art to be admired. Evie and Roshan share a you first look before they both follow. Emet shakes his head and remains in the foyer. He crosses his arms and squeezes the muscle, releasing his tension with a breath. This isn’t their home. And if Ireena wanted her father on full display, she wouldn’t have shut the doors.

Emet’s never understood nosiness. The people who pry into every place they do not belong, riffling through the cabinets of other’s lives and homes seeking knowledge they themselves would hide. Everyone has their secrets. Some are not meant to be plucked from the shelf and opened like a book upon a desk. Some should stay shelved forever.

His back to the coffin room, Emet listens to the hushed conversation behind him while doing his best to ignore the muffled heated words ahead.

“See that?” Evrrot’s quiet voice carries across the wooden floors. “Wolf claws likely. Not zombie. The cuts are too sharp and deep for any sort of humanoid fingers. Our nails don’t get that sharp.”

“Speak for yourself,” Evie retorts, flashing he newly sharpened talons.

Emet shivers. Phantom hands trail across his body, their cold fingers tracing over every scar with a promise to open them again. The largest of his scars, the deep wound marring his back and piercing through to its twin upon his chest aches deeply.

“The coffin’s poorly made,” Evie says under her breath. She trails one of her sharpened nails along the rough planks and Emet grips his arms tightly, feeling its ghost trail along his bones. Poorly hammered nails and glue keep the coffin together without skill, but there is no lack of care. “Guess there’s no proper undertakers in this place.”

“Or they have been taken under themselves,” Roshan says grimly.

Evrrot sweeps out of the room on silent feet toward the closed door where Ireena and Ismark argue in hushed tones, his interest in the dead lost. Emet half wishes he grabbed the tiefling as he passed, but if the charmer desires the ire of his hosts, it will be all too deserving a fate. With one tapered red ear carefully set against the door, Evrrot closes his eyes and listens. To Emet, the words are muffled and hushed, spoken by people who do not wish to be heard, but having a conversation filled with emotion that demands volume. 

He can make out a few sentences against his better judgement, but there is nowhere else to go. Ireena yells she is no coward, that she will not abandon friend and neighbor. Ismark explaining he does not think her one and that he is not asking her to abandon anyone. He says their people in Vallaki need a leader. They need her. 

There is such silence afterward Emet wonders if all has been spoken. But Ismark voice returns now with a tremor in his voice. It is Ireena’s choice in the end, but he cannot bear to loose her too. Ireena’s fire falls to tears and she tells him she will go. Even if only for him. But she has one condition. Whatever is spoken next is so quiet Emet would guess even the meddlesome tiefling fails to hear it.

Were he a better man, Emet would have dragged Evrrot away from the door by the horns or at least made some noise loud enough for their hosts to realize they have an audience. Were he a better anything, maybe he wouldn’t have listened himself. But Emet supposes he stopped being a good man months ago.

The phantom hands tracing his scars briefly wrap around his throat and fade away.

Evrrot slips from the door deftly, barely a sound as he sidesteps to a nearby decorative table topped with various trinkets and examines them with feigned interest just as the doors softly click open.

Ireena and Ismark walk out together, their faces blotchy and stained with the trails of recent tears. Emet casts his eyes to the side and allows them a moment to wipe away the stray rivers of their eyes and sniffle back the last of what remains. Those who grieve do not need prying eyes upon them.

When Ismark finally addresses him, Emet meets the man’s eyes without letting his gaze wander like a pointed finger to their reddened eyes and noses. They both offer him a faint nod in thanks.

“You look strong, if you don’t mind me saying.” Ireena clears the strain from her throat, “Would you be willing to help bear our father to the church in the morning so we might finally give him rest?”

“Of course. It would be no trouble.”

“I can as well.” Evie steps from the open coffin room, “I’m stronger than I look, especially when it comes to coffins.”

An interesting choice of words.

Ireena eyes her as Evie drifts out of the room she closed off to them—Roshan still within and praying over the coffin. There’s almost relief and resignation in that look. Perhaps there is peace when the skeleton no longer must be hidden in the closet. She gives Evie a nod and Emet realizes he never really noticed how short Evie is until this moment. Even with her platform boots and  swept up hair, she still stands beneath Ireena’s height. Emet wonders how well carrying a coffin will go between the two of them.

“Ismark and I talked,” Ireena continues. “I’ll come with you to Vallaki. It may be best after all.”

Emet thought he’d hear resignation in her tone, perhaps resentment or the continued indignation she’d displayed at plans having been made about her life without her consent. But whatever hushed words were spoken behind those closed doors soothed her anger and warmed her to the idea—even if only faintly. The young woman turns to her brother and takes him in as if trying to remember every last detail should it be the last. Her eyes start to glisten once more.

Were he a kinder man, Emet would never ask now the question they all politely avoid. But if they are to stay here this night and if Ireena is to join them further, it is an answer they must know.

“There is something we should know.”

Ireena wipes at her eyes and Ismark sniffles.

“Might I ask why your…” Emet thinks a moment for a gentler word,” late night visitor is so fascinated with you, Ireena?”

Ireena swallows the lump in her throat and adjusts her scarf once more. He catches a glimpse of the angry punctures along her neck this time, swollen and red. Two deep fissures the width of a human mouth’s canines scarring her perfectly smooth skin, the faint bruising along the rest of her neck where the other teeth once left their indentation. She hides it beneath the soft scarlet cloth as vibrant as the blood that must have spilled down her throat.

Ismark rubs his sister’s shoulder and from the corner of his vision, Evie’s glare threatens Emet  with physical violence. But Emet continues without accusation or blame in his questioning, trying to be as careful as one can with such a delicate subject.

“I only ask to assess the dangers we may face in your company. It is better to know what we are dealing with before it is too late to ask.”

Ireena nods to herself, fingers pressed tightly into the folds of crimson cloth. “I wish I knew…but I don’t.”

There is such vulnerability to those words. 

Within her hands she holds a broken fragment of herself, one violently shattered like porcelain in the careless hands of another. If she held up what was broken it would fit in the space left behind, but it will never look the same. There will always be the lines of fracture. Evidence of harm making sure she can never go back to how she was before. Everything poured within will spill out and remind her again that she will never be whole.

The scar along Emet’s chest aches and Ireena’s eyes find the floor.

“Perhaps they’re like mosquitoes,” Evie smiles for the first time, her dark tinted lips soft and gentle, filled with such radiating warmth. And it is such a genuine, disarming thing, held out only for Ireena. “Mosquitoes have an attraction to red hair.”

Ireena chuckles despite herself, gratitude in her eyes.

Evie’s face reddens a little.

“So what about dinner?” Evrrot asks, leaning against the decorative table. Perhaps it is his own way of diffusing the situation—or perhaps he is simply an ass.

“You just ate!” Evie snaps.

Ireena’s smile brights and throws her head back in laughter, wiping away tears of another kind.

Ismark grabs a thick winter coat from a hook beside the front door and bow leaning in the corner, “It is no worry.  I will hunt us something while I am out organizing the search for Gertruda.”

The ache still radiates hollow in Emet’s chest. He is grateful Evie undid the pain in Ireena. “Please don’t go out of your way for us.” Emet says, “Save your supplies.”

Ismark waves him off and slings the bow over his shoulder, kissing Ireena on the cheek in farewell. She tells him to be back soon and he slips out into the bitter cold of the setting day with promises of return. Ireena locks the doors behind him, several bolts and locks and bars sliding into place.

Roshan looks up from his prayers over the coffin, “How about salt. Do you have salt?”

Emet wonders if the old man is even aware of the past few minutes.

Ireena is just as confused by the sudden change in direction, “We have some, yes—”

“Good, good. I can perform a different rite for your father to help preserve his body. One that does not require the silver.”

It does not take Ireena long to procure a small pouch of salt from the kitchens, the leather satchel barely larger than her closed fist. Emet hopes that isn’t all they possess. His gut sinks at the thought of eating so dearly into their meager supplies.

Roshan bows as he takes the salt and sets himself up around the open coffin. Ireena tosses a few pieces of wood—the few left—into the fireplace and lights it, giving the holy man some light to work by. They gather around the coffin.

Emet glimpses the corpse for the first time, taking in the squared off jaw, the sharp cut corners of his face. The resemblance to Ismark is strong, yet he sees none within Ireena. The body isn’t very old either. Though his flesh is a shade of pale on the dead can achieve, one would think the man were sleeping if he weren’t resting within coffin. The unnatural stillness of his chest, the lack of a gentle pulse in his neck, and the deep gouge of darkened blood peeking above the clean cut collar the only signs that he is not merely resting.

And there’s that emptiness. The kind Emet never could get use to. 

A void where a person should be and though your eyes tell you they are right there, one gentle touch from opening their eyes, you can feel it. An absence and emptiness. The hollow left behind when a soul has fallen through a hole in the world you cannot see nor follow. The sensation of stepping to the edge of a cliff not knowing glass has been stretched across it. You cannot fall and yet you feel the emptiness beneath your feet calling and wonder if you are wrong. 

Emet feels the pull as he looks into the coffin. The body a portal into a fate that awaits him and all on another day. The edge of some place he cannot yet see nor reach. Not yet. But it is there all the same.

“What caused these wounds?” Emet asks, trying to chase away the thoughts and memories of a field of bodies all calling for him to follow.

“Wolves,” Ireena replies softly. She watches Roshan’s hands work, his calloused fingers setting two copper coin atop the man’s sealed eyes. “They were everywhere during the siege. The risen dead, wolves, and whatever else joined the small army surrounding our home.”

“Regular wolves or dire?” Emet pauses realizing this must sound like an interrogation. “Apologies for the questions. I suppose I’m trying to understand the dangers of this land.”

“It’s okay, all of this must be so strange to you. They were regular, I think. Maybe a few larger. My father told me to keep away from the windows before they were boarded up with whatever we could sacrifice to block the entrances. So I suppose I didn’t get a good look.”

“Why him?” Emet presses gently, “If you don’t mind…”

“I don’t. Kolyan—my father—he is the,” Ireena stops herself, “was the burgomaster before Ismark. Ismark isn’t technically burgomaster yet, but he might as well be. The people have no one else to turn to. No one else to blame. He might as well hold the title.”

Though Emet can see the same questions in the others’ eyes, none open their mouths, seeing fit to let him continue swallowing the blade on their behalf. They busy themselves with interest in Roshan’s ritual, but their ears listen.

“And what made the hoard leave?” He asks.

Quiet settles over Ireena, heavy as a mourning veil. Only the hushed murmurs of Roshan’s prayers fill the expectant silence.

“They left after my father fell. For an entire week, they did not break these walls. This old house held out strong and the boards on the windows kept them at bay. Repairing the boards was dangerous work. The more intelligent of the creatures outside kept attacking them like they knew it was the weakest part of our defenses, others battered themselves against the stones mindlessly until their skulls were broken and their hands little more than stubs. A wolf managed to gnaw its way through one of the weakened planks, its jaws snapping and trying to break off more. My father tried repairing it before the wolf could get inside, but its jaws found him instead.” 

Ireena’s voice grows quiet and soft, tender with guilt for all the possibilities she did not make reality. “I didn’t see what happened…I was upstairs. But Ismark told me the beast dragged him through and shredded him. It went quiet after that.”

She looks so small and vulnerable. A wounded creature with blood in her fur and horrors her eyes. Emet wants to mend her pain and take away its burden, but he doesn’t know how. His healing cannot close these wounds. 

Emet glances back into the coffin at the man who was claimed to be shredded. Kolyan’s face is left almost entirely untouched. Strahd must have wanted it to be known without doubt who he’d killed for the deep gouge in the man’s neck is the only visible wound. But like Emet’s, the majority hide beneath his fine clothes. Unnatural wrinkles in the shirt and trousers where the cloth sinks too deeply. The wolf must have eaten well.

Emet pities the son forced to dress the ruined remains of his father. Those are memories that will haunt Ismark’s dreams forever.

“Strahd was likely making a point,” Emet says. “That if he could get to the most powerful of you, then he can get to anyone.”

Ireena quickly swipes away a tear, “That’s what Ismark thinks too.”

Evie inches closer to Ireena, a desire in her eyes to comfort the young woman but not knowing how. She resolves to stand close, perhaps willing her strength into the girl she wants to save. 

Roshan continues his prayers without stop, the words spoken so low and quick Emet isn’t entirely sure he speaks the common tongue at all, but another. One unfamiliar to Emet’s ears. Copper coins glint atop forever shut eyes, the holy man’s weathered and scarred hands sprinkling the salt in patterns across Kolyan’s stilled chest. It seems this rite is no sooner to being done than the moon is to rising and the rest of them are of no aid in its completion.

Ireena reaches out a hand to her fallen father, but stops before she can touch his chest. Her palm hovering over the body with trembling fingers wanting so desperately to feel him, but frozen at the idea. Feeling what has been stolen will only break her again. Emet takes a heavy step away from the coffin, allowing his gauntlet to scrape against the rough wood as he turns. The sound pulls Ireena back and she blinks, withdrawing her hand in a clenched fist.

She straightens her navy doublet and takes a filling breath, releasing the hold of the dead on her mind, “Come, I’ll show you to your rooms.”

Ireena shepherds Emet and Evie out, leaving the holy man to do his righteous business. It’s only now Emet realizes that Evrrot is nowhere to be seen. The charmer likely already snooping where he is unwanted and unwelcome.

Opposite the front doors, a set of oak stairs covered in worn and faded blue runners vanish into the darkness of the second floor. Ireena plucks a candle from one of the sconces and lights the path ahead of them. The stairs creak gently beneath their weight, the tired old bones of the manor beginning to sag and bow beneath the weight of generations. 

The upper floor bisects the manor, two halves of a hall stretching in opposite directions with their stairs at their center. The candlelight—brighter than the sun in these lands—reveals multiple doors lining each path and one tiefling standing in the shadows. Evrrot looks into one of the rooms down the right hall.

“I see you’ve found our guest rooms,” Ireena remarks lightly.

Evrrot straightens, but does not apologize. He doesn’t even appear embarrassed.

“I can take this one.”

A single bed fills the modest room, the decor having seen better days as most have in Barovia but it’s functional and better still than most inns. Evrrot roughly tosses his bag into a corner and hops onto the bed, boots and all. His long coat drapes over the fine linens likely staining them in the leather’s smokey scent. Lounging on the bed like he’s spent his life sleeping in it, Evrrot props his boots up on the footboard and folds his hands beneath his head, careful to avoid the sharp points of his horns. He spends a few seconds adjusting his tail until it lays just right.

“Close the door behind you, please.”

Ireena does so politely. 

A second single-bed room shares its wall further down the same hall. Ireena opens the available room’s door with a brief showing and leaves it ajar as an option. To the left of the stairs, Ireena opens two more doors. The room closest the stairs holds two small beds, perhaps a bit more worn in the way a children’s room is always more worn than that of the parents. Maybe this is where Ismark and Ireena slept as children. 

The farthest room down this left hall holds a modest sized bed with a small bath. This room is clearly lived in more so than the previous guest rooms. A pastel pink canopy falls across the pale bedding embroidered in floral patterns.

“This was my room.” Ireena picks at her scarf, “But I don’t like to stay here anymore.”

There is no delicate way to ask, but Emet tries, “Can he enter the entire building or just this room?”

“Everything, I’m afraid. If your concern is for your safety, perhaps each of you could share rooms tonight. It would probably be safer that way anyways…”

“My concern is less for myself, and more for you.”

Ireena blinks at that, watching Emet as he studies the entry points of the rooms and the proximity and distance between them with an expression caught between surprise and a touched warmth. Emet averts his eyes, finding himself undeserving of the change after the questions he asked so coldly.

“If you need anything, just call out. I sleep little and light being what I am,” he touches one of the points of his ears. “No matter the time, I’ll be there.”

The warmth in Ireena’s faint smile grows until even the candle dims beneath it and she quickly goes about fussing with the room in a flustered hurry. Ireena adjusts the already immaculate bedding and fluffs the pillows a bit more, finding something beneath them and quickly tossing it in one of her wardrobes. She keeps looking around the room as if expecting to find some embarrassing item or two to hide, but finally ushers Emet in to settle himself. 

He sets his bag on the floor beside the door and Ireena debates between closing it or keeping it open. She settles on halfway.

“I’ll have dinner ready in a few hours if you’d like to rest for now.”

“Thank you, I’ll be down.”

Evie keeps to Ireena’s side as the two women leave him for the double-bed room next to his and with the door open, Emet can hear their conversation.

Evie clears her throat lightly, “If it’s alright with you, I’d rather not share a room with a strange man. I’ve only just met these people, literally this day as long ago as that might seem at this point. And…” she ventures carefully, “it didn’t sound like you were too eager to be in your own room. Would you be willing to share with me? If that’s better for you. If you’d rather not, like, bunk up that’s fine too.”

“No, no. It’s completely okay with me.” There’s a gladness in Ireena’s tone that Evie asked first. “This isn’t the best room, I hope that’s alright.”

“That’s fine with me. I mean, I’ll sleep on the floors these days, I really don’t care.”

“That won’t be needed,” a smile in her voice.

“I have a blanket and everything—”

“We have two beds!” Ireena laughs, “And I wouldn’t ask it. I’d much rather you be cozy, especially after what you’ve been through coming to this land. I’m sure you need a decent night’s sleep.”

Emet smiles as he hears Ireena settle Evie into the room.

“May your soul find the ever-rising dawn of Lathander’s light,” Roshan whispers. 

His weathered and scarred fingers sprinkle the last of the salted patterns atop Kolyan’s quiet chest and he voices the final line of his prayers. Roshan’s words ignite something in the body’s core beneath the patterns of salt and he feels it bloom in his own chest. A pulse of heat radiating off hot desert sands and warming his bones. It is the presence Roshan has felt beside him ever since he found his faith at the end of his chains. A presence that has been cold ever since he found himself in these death touched lands. But now it returns.

His god has returned.

Roshan sighs deeply, clutching the warmth in his chest to hold it close forever though knowing that it will rise and set as the sun within him. It is always strong when he uses his gifts, a blazing heat that burns within his heart and hands, igniting his tongue in divine power. And it is a gentle warmth when his gifts are not needed. The affection of a lover that warms the soul and keeps it aglow. 

The heat settles into the coziness of a cat curling up in a sunbeam and Roshan knows his faith has been proven. His god’s favor has found him even in lands where the sun is choked into submission by the dark and it’s warmth is little more than a shallow grave drowning beneath a river’s cold waters. But his god is here. He feels him now.

A dawn light falls over Kalyan’s body though there is no open windows nor sun to cast it. The rays descending from the darkened ceiling, breaking through from the heavens to answer his prayers. It fades all too soon and slips away like a vision in the night. But Roshan knows his prayers are answered. Kolyan’s remains are sanctified and Lathander has found his faithful servant once more.

“Thank you for finding me again, my lord.”

Roshan sits back on his knees and watches with reverence as the last of the ritual’s dawn light slowly fades. But the vision twists as his eyes catch on Kolyan’s wounds. Dark scars cutting deep into the man’s pale flesh vanish to further horrors beneath his clothes. The wounds weep in the light as though the congealed blood has thinned again and the heart has found its beat. 

Roshan blinks and the vision is gone. The wounds dry and blood dark with coagulation once more. He rubs his eyes. The wounds remain old. It has been a long day…perhaps it was simply his eyes.

Roshan rises from his prayerful kneel.

“I am done—where has everyone gone?”

He is halfway out of the sitting room when Ireena quietly descends the stairs.

“Was it successful?” She asks, hope suspended in her voice.

“The body should be okay for about ten days.”

She breathes in relief, “Thank you. That is a weight off my shoulders. Ismark will be pleased as well.”

“Better than having you kill your own father if he rises again.”

That was probably not the best thing to say, he realizes too late. 

“Yes, that—that’s for the best,” Ireena stammers. “I can show you to your room, if you’d like.”

The old stairs complain as much as Roshan’s feet as they climb. He takes his time, leaning on his shepherd’s crook with each step and Ireena slows to match his pace. His feet may truly ache, but that is more because he has spent the better part of two days walking. It has nothing to do with his age. He is only thirty-two after all. But Roshan has learned many things in his life, and one of those lessons is that if you act old, people will treat you like you are old. And they will never guess how quickly you can move. He will laugh the day he dashes around Ireena.

The young red haired woman studies Roshan curiously as they climb the old steps and the not-so-old old man realizes she must have seen the sadness in his eyes when they first met and seeks its source now. It is obvious she wants to ask, but Ireena does not do so with her words. The nobles of Calimshan were the same. Politeness overrules many things among nobility.

Roshan simply smiles warmly at her, a smile he knows does not shine in his eyes when he looks at her. Ireena reminds him of someone he misses quite dearly and the sweetness of seeing a young woman so similar to her is tinged with sorrow’s bitter taste. 

Ireena leads him down the right hall at the top of the steps.

“Evrrot has taken this first room, but there is another just there past it.” She points to the open door down the hall.

“And where is your room?”

“First door on the left,” she points down the opposite hall. “I’ll be staying with Evie.”

He hums to himself. The distance is more than Roshan would like if any threat were to visit this dear girl in the night. Evie may be in the room with her, but he is not certain of the angry girl’s abilities in a true fight. He worries her hiss may be worse than her bite.

“And Evrrot is in this one?”

Ireena nods, “I’ll be just downstairs if you need anything. Dinner should be ready in a couple hours.”

The lovely girl descends the old staircase and Roshan knocks on Evrrot’s door. A loud sigh comes from the room before the door opens. The tiefling raises his brow, the picture of a man who has been interrupted doing something of the utmost importance in his very empty room with nothing to occupy him. Except himself, Roshan supposes.

“Do you want to room together, friend?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Roshan half turns to go, “Is it not better to be safe in numbers?”

“I wanna sleep by myself.”

Evrrot closes the door in Roshan’s face.

“Okay.”

Roshan does not let Evrrot dampen his good cheer in the slightest. His lord has led him to his purpose, guided him from the cursed forest to a town with answers, led him to Ismark and Ireena, blessed him with the power to sanctify Kolyan’s body, and returned to him again as the sun returns to the land every dawn. This is a good day.

And if anything should happen in the night, he trusts his lord will wake him. Either that or the sounds of screams.

Evrrot shuts the door in the old man’s face. 

Does he want to share a room—of course he doesn’t to share a room with the old badger! That doddering old fool chasing his godsdamned “holy” feather is why Evrrot’s stuck in this cursed shit hole and the priest has been stepping on Evrrot’s heels ever since. The others are no better. Tailor—how else would the fucking giant find clothes to fit—and Thorns were dragged by their weird trinkets too, no matter what lies they told him. Arcane focus and heirloom or some shit. Not the worst lies. Not the best.

He should know. 

The best lies hide the truth by using it. And the best liars can tell a man he picked up the wrong sword from weapon collection and make him believe a hilt stuck in a scabbard full of rocks is his while you walk away with a new blade to sell. Tone, emotion, plausibility. All of these are necessary. Threads was close calling that amber shard an arcane focus. Evrrot suspects there’s a small bit of truth to that, but the man tried to sound too casual. Casual in the way someone who’s just had their diary picked up tries to say it’s just a book they’re not particularly enjoying in the hopes the other will lose interest and leave it before their secrets come spilling out of the pages for all the world to see.

And Thorns. Evrrot would’ve expected her to be a born liar with the way she acts and dresses. He can’t imagine a punk on the street would get very far without a silver tongue. Maybe he caught her off guard with the question. She had just been dragged into a new world by the very thing she wanted to keep secret, after all. Guess it surprised her too.

Evrrot surveys the bedroom he’s claimed for the night. It’s close to the stairs should shit go down, there’s only one window, and the planks across it look like they’ve seen the least amount of damage out of all the rooms. He checked. Evrrot suspects one good kick from the inside and he’ll be home free should he need a second exit. It’s a two story jump, but he’s dealt with worse.

At first glance around the room there’s little of interest. But first glances often miss quite a bit and Evrrot isn’t the type of man who likes to miss things. Missed things turn into bad things that can be quite dangerous for one’s health—like when there’s an explosive rune carved into a jewelry box if you don’t have the key. But on occasion, missed things turn out to be quite beneficial when found. That’s why a bit of impolite prying can turn up some pretty interesting secrets. The kind that can be weaponized at the right moment. And the best way to hide those is with magic.

Evrrot’s never been particularly adept at magic. He can’t exactly spit out spell after spell like those wizardy sorcerous types, but he has a few tricks of his own. Tracing a brief sigil in the air with the force of what little infernal arcanum burns in his blood, the sigil ignites like embers in the air and flashes in his eyes. The dark brown burning to hellish gold as the room unfolds around him in faint colorful auras.

If there’s anything here hidden by magic of any kind, it will light up like a faerie bonfire of colored light in his arcana infused eyes. The spell only lasts ten minutes, but that’s more than enough time for someone with his expertise in a room as small as this one.

He glances around with the eager itch of excitement in his fingertips..

Fuck.

There is absolutely nothing. Not a single trace of arcane aura anywhere. That’s not exactly uncommon, but it catches him as a bit strange. Were this a tavern or an inn, sure. The owners would never waste their money on enchanted things that could be stolen by guests. Were this the home of some poor sod off the street, it would also make sense. They can never afford anything beyond the food in their bellies. But a rich man’s house? Even as faded from wealth and high society as Ismark and Ireena have become, he expected something to catch his spell even if it’s no more than a little enchantment on the windows to keep the draft out or some small spell to make sure the bed is never cold.

Evrrot plops himself heavily on the side of the bed, his ass sinking several inches into the plush layers and bending his tail uncomfortably. He shifts it without thought as one born with a tail does after all these years. How the other races exist without a tail, he doesn’t understand. What must it feel like to not have a counterbalance? And how do they not confuse each other when there’s no expression in their tails while they speak? Anger isn’t just furrowing one’s brows and making fists. There’s fiery anger, irritated anger, cold anger and the tail is how he’s always read which he’s dealing with. It’s hard to read tailless folk sometimes, but he’s gotten better over the years.

Bored and hungry, his tail taps an irritated rhythm along the soft covers. Evrrot is about to leave and see if anyone’s made food yet when his eyes drift to the small night table beside the bed. A tarnished candlestick catches the dripping wax of the freshly lit candlestick Ireena lit for him. Next to it, tucked beside a fancy paperweight, sits a small book—a journal likely seeing as it holds no title along its cover or spine. 

He snatches it up and flips through the pages back to front. A habit he picked up in his line of work. People are more likely to hide the best bits near the end or on the backside of pages. Most of the pages are crisp and blank. Disappointing. The only thing of interest is a list of names near the front. None of them are familiar but they all sound very Barovian based off the names he’s heard so far. Lot’s of -vich’s and -yana’s. Several of the names are crossed off, but a small group circled thrice over snags his attention in passing.

Oleg, Mirasov, Svetlana, Liliana, Ivanna. 

All of them ending in Lansten.

Evrrot files the names in his mind incase they will be of interest later and tosses the book back on the night table. There are still several minutes left on his magic detection spell, so Evrrot goes about checking all the usual places people hide their secrets. And when he finishes with the room, he sneaks out and finds the places not welcome to him.

The rich always have secrets.

[thetalesofno-one]

The outsiders meet Ireena within the Kolyanovich home where the corpse of their father lays without rest within the home he died to protect.

This chapter will be out June 5th!

[thetalesofno-one]

Curse of Strahd, Act I: Pt. 2, Ch. III -The Friends We Keep-

D&D Campaign Retelling Part 2/6 Chapter 3/5 ~7.3k words Content Warnings: Curse of Strahd typical content, Read at own risk

Summary The story of Ismark the Lesser comes to light as our weary souls realize their Barovian godsend isn't as clean cut a savior as they'd hoped. Read Previous Chapters also available on AO3

The thick wad of spit hits the scarred floors, spattering thickly on Ismark’s boot. 

“Ismark the Lesser,” the gaunt man hisses, glaring out from a curtain of limp straw hair before making to leave.

Evrrot grimaces at the slime half coating the wounded Ismark’s boot. Why is it so thick? They out of water in Barovia too?

“Eh!” The holy dick proclaims.

The twig of a man turns around long enough to share his glare with the old fool. Nine hells, of all the people at this table who could start a fight, Evrrot didn’t expect it to be the holy man and his magic feather. Maybe Threads or Thorns, but not this chucklefuck.

“What do you want to say to him, huh?” Roshan gestures to Ismark as if giving the scarecrow opening to say what he really feels at the risk of angry feather man’s wrath. If Evrrot hadn’t just been delivered some of the worst news of his life, he’d pay to see that fight. Thin as a wisp scarecrow versus the doddering holy feather. They’d probably smack each other around a bit before getting tired. 

In the momentary silence brought by Roshan’s outburst, Evrrot’s eyes slide to their new friend Ismark. The burro…burgo…whatever the hell he is wears the face of someone who took a beating they know they deserved. There’s a resigned acceptance mixed in with that kicked puppy expression.

“You shouldn’t be sitting with that man,” the spitter rasps.

“And you shouldn’t be spitting on the floor.” Roshan retorts.

But the look scarecrow gives Ismark is what really catches Evrrot’s attention. It’s one of deep betrayal. The kind that comes from having trusted someone only to have lost something because of them. Evrrot knows that look. He still remembers their faces…everyone who got hurt.

Evie pounds a fist on the table and rises to her feet, glowering at the spitter with a spark of that simmering anger returning to her eyes. Evrrot hates that he’s almost glad to see it. Emptiness doesn’t suit anyone. Especially not Thorns.

“Nobody else has offered us so much as a passing glance since we’ve arrived here,” Evie yells. “You all can tell we’re outsiders who don’t belong and don’t have any fucking idea of where we are, or what’s going on, or why we’re now trapped in this damned shitting prison of a land with you. And only this man has shown us the basic minimum of human decency. So yeah, we’re going to sit with him.” 

Evie’s middle finger rolls out for the final period to that sentence. Evrrot suspects that the gesture doesn’t mean anything in these lands, but the message is heavily implied.

“Whatever.” The spitter pushes his way to the tavern doors, huffing, “You won’t last long in these lands anyway.”

 He sneers with the smug surety of a guard knowing he’ll still be here tomorrow while the prisoner he torments will be dead by mooring. The surety of someone who will never be held accountable for his actions. The scarecrow ducks out into the cold.

“Doesn’t look like the natives are doing much better!” Evie bites back as the doors slam shut behind him. She drops into her seat, heavy as lead and muttering curses under her breath. 

Although Evrrot thinks they’re all being a bit hasty in their defense of a man they’ve only just met, it’s better that the girl is angry. That emptiness in her eyes before didn’t sit right.

Thorns and Salt back and forth, riling each other up with their complaints and comments on ol’ spitshit’s behavior while Emet sits between them, clearly trying not to get hit with the flying hands. But their words barely register to Evrrot. His mind catching on the hook dangled before them. We shouldn’t be sitting with Ismark. Why?

Evrrot sizes up the almost-lord with narrowed eyes, tail flicking behind him.

There’s guilt there. 

He’s hiding something.

Evrrot quietly gets to his feet and leaves after the departing man. He can feel Emet’s cold eyes trailing him silently. Just beyond the doors, Evrrot’s devilish ears catch the hushed curse of someone who’s made a mistake. The front doors creak open slowly and the man tries to reach in to grab the coat he’s left behind. Evrrot smiles.

The scarecrow startles seeing Evrrot out of the corner of his eye, and what started as a man assured of having picked and won an easy fight quickly shrivels into someone realizing he doesn’t stand a chance in a real one.

Evrrot may not be as big as Threads, the walking monstrosity, but he’s not a small man and he knows he looks the part of the devil when he wants to be. But scaring the straw man isn’t why he followed, so instead Evrrot raises the hand that isn’t holding an ale to show he’s not here to wring the man’s neck until he can’t speak again. Which he could do. But of course, the gesture doesn’t hold the same message of parley when it comes from a devil horned tiefling with red skin and a spiked tail in a land that’s probably never seen one. So of course the scarecrow cowers, folding himself into something small and pathetic as his curses turn to whimpering. 

Roshan laughs.

Evie turns next, sensing blood in the water and looking ready to turn her frustrations into an altercation. Emet sizes up the man like a branch to be broken and Ismark quickly tries to wave off the aggression in the atmosphere before it blossoms into something dangerous.

“Please don’t! Don’t do anything.”

“I’m not.” Evrrot answers the almost-lord without removing his attentions from the now very small scarecrow huddled in the corner, “I just want to talk outside.”

Ismark finally gets Evie and Roshan to sit at his insistence, Emet never having risen as though he’s already assessed the odds of a fight between the two men and is satisfied Evrrot wouldn’t need help if it came to that. Evie takes out her dagger and begins filing her nails into nice little points as she glares at the cowering man, her eyes promising harm if he tries anything. 

Ismark musters a bit more authority, “Stop this.”

Evrrot waves him off and escorts the man outside. 

Alone.

It doesn’t take much pressure to force the straw man out the doors, Evrrot guiding him more with his presence than his hand. Every step closer Evrrot takes, the scarecrow cowers back two more. It isn’t long before he has walked them both out onto the front porch and closes the doors gently behind them, every action meant to show he’s non hostile.

Evrrot sips his ale.

“I didn’t mean no trouble towards you!” The scarecrow stammers.

Evrrot’s surprised he hasn’t tried to run off yet. “I believe you—”

“—Just towards him.”

Evrrot nods understandably, calm in a way that unsettles the man. It’s really damn difficult being a tiefling.

“I believe you,” he repeats. “I’m new here as you can probably tell and so I’m just trying to learn. And the first thing I’d like to learn is why the man who bought me food, drink, and offered the only answers I’ve received so far, is someone I shouldn’t be associating with. Ismark. Has he done something wrong? Why is he the ’lesser’? And why shouldn’t I be talking to him, hmm?”

The straw man’s face reddens, hands clenched into fists that couldn’t injure a leaf if he tried, but he looks like he’d try for Ismark.

“It’s his fault!” The man’s voice breaks, “It’s all because of him!”

“Alright, easy. I’m just trying to learn, remember? I know nothing. So if he’s someone I shouldn’t be talking to, I want to know why.” 

“You don’t talk to that man, you don’t talk to him. He’s the reason why most of us stayed here when we got the warning. He told us to fight back, defend our homes and take a stand. He was wrong.”

The man’s rage crumbles with each word, faltering and fracturing, breaking like a porcelain box slipping from trembling hands until all that’s left is what the fragile walls held. The soft and bruised heart left to bleed without its armor. Exposed for what it truly is. Sorrow. In one quaking moment, his trembling fists become claws grasping at his chest as if he can put the pieces back together to keep from falling apart. And his eyes that burned with flame now drown in a well of tears.

“He’s the reason why we have lost so much! Why we’ve lost our families! Our loves! He’s the reason I lost my—” he chokes, “my wife!”

The man collapses in on himself, the grief like bell too heavy for its tower as he nearly falls to his knees, grabbing the nearby railing for support. Long fingered hands clamp over his mouth as though he can take back what was spoken, as if having said it aloud only now made it true. Tears pour down the hollowed edges of his gaunt face, spilling over his hands and mingling with snot into a viscous stream.

The words are a hammer to Evrrot’s chest, ringing the heart he thought he’d fixed. Opening the cracks he’d thought he’d finally patched closed. It was held together with nails and stitching—enough to keep him going—but now the nails loosen, the stitching rips and he feels that terrible hole that refuses to close still yawning inside him. Evrrot finds his hands on the shaking shoulders of the broken man before he even realizes he’s done so, his sharp fingers gripping him tightly.

Evrrot stares deep into the man’s hollowed out eyes.

“I know your pain.”

The man collapses even further, his thin frame now supported almost entirely by Evrrot.

“It hurts so much…” he cries, “So much…”

Evrrot pulls the man into an embrace, half expecting him to pull back or snap out of his grief and shove him away. But the man melts in Evrrot’s arms, his heavy tears soaking into the tiefling’s shoulder.

“Oh, Frederich,” Ismark whispers worriedly to himself.

Emet studies the someday-burgomaster with the patience of a dragon. Ismark glances over his shoulder every few seconds with a tension that could shatter glass, the man desperately trying to glimpse for a sight of the two figures outside despite the thickly planked windows. He wears the discomfort of someone who knows exactly how easily things can go wrong. But if Evrrot and this Frederich have not yet come to blow, they likely never will.

“Do you want to go back to your house?” Roshan asks with the kindness of a father to his anxious child.

“Yes,” Ismark answers automatically before realizing half the meals on the table have barely been touched. He stops himself, the need to be a gracious host outweighing his worry. “Ah no, please take as much time as you need to finish your meals and drinks.”

Evie blows on her freshly sharpened nails, “Are you going to tell us why he called you ‘Ismark the Lesser’?”

As if in answer, the muffled outburst of the man outside cries loud enough for all within the hear. Ismark’s shoulders sink when the anger spills into sobs, blame into pain. It is not easy to hear if anything more is said after.

“I…” Ismark’s head falls, “I tried to defend this town. After the devil’s servant delivered his warning, I made a speech and…”

Emet can read the guilt as easily as the threads of a book, every stitch a word said to him or about him. Every puncture inflicted willingly until he wielded the needle himself.

“…I believe many of the people died because of my mistakes. And a great many who survived do too. Being known as ‘Ismark the Lesser’ is the least I can accept for my punishment.”

“Why did you do it.”

Evie’s question—harsh and weighted as that of a judge before sentencing—snaps Ismark out of his thoughts. He blinks at her question and Emet wonders if it is one none have asked. Maybe not even Ismark himself. 

“I, um…” Ismark swallows.

Evie continues to stare at him, the entire table silent.

Ismark glances around the sparse patrons of the tavern, at the empty faces and hollow souls left behind without a home to return to. He sighs, but when he speaks it is with the surety that must have driven his fated decision.

“I didn’t want my people to lose their homes. I knew that nearby Vallaki would not be receptive to refugees and that even if we fled, we would have nowhere to go. If we abandoned the village, what would we have all become? Vagabonds? Homeless and wandering with no shelter or skill to survive in the dangers of the woods? No. I wanted to defend this town like my grandfather did. But I…I did not live up to his name. And now I am lesser for even trying.”

“So there’s no life for them in Vallaki and now there’s no life for them here,” Evie presses, her voice harsh and without mercy. “What did they even fight for? You sent people to die for nothing.”

Ismark takes her words like a knife. 

He nods, voice soft, “I know.”

“Better to die fighting than sit back and be slaughtered for nothing, Evie,” Roshan says gently.

Evie turns her stern gaze on the holy man like a cleaver.

“And what about the people the fighters left behind?” She asks, “What about the people who didn’t die? Is it better for them? Is it easier to be the survivor when the people you loved are now dead?”

The light in Roshan’s eyes falls to familiar shadows, “No, it never gets easier.”

“It is not,” Ismark admits. “I may have made the wrong choice—”

“You think,” Evie cuts in.

“I know.” He corrects, “And now I can only do what I can to pay penance for my mistakes. For my people. But you are right, I am the lesser.”

“At least you understand it.” Evie withdraws the blade of her voice from his throat, “There aren’t many people that would acknowledge that they’ve made such a big mistake. That’s brave. And at least you stayed too. You didn’t make them stay and fight while you ran off to save your own hide.”

“I did not force them to stay,” Ismark says. “Many decided to go to Vallaki anyways. They fled there, but the journey is dangerous. I can only imagine how many more lives were lost along the way. I need to assemble more search parties. I need to find everyone that’s gone.”

Ismark swallows, clearing his throat, “But please, finish your meals and we’ll head to my mansion once your friend returns. I can offer you lodging and a place of respite. I am sure you are all very tired.”

The others revisit their cold meals.

Emet is not of the same mind as Evie. Not very fight is victory, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth the battle. He thinks it a far worse fate to have done nothing. The dead would have come whether they fought or surrendered, and the dead do not understand mercy. The few that now live were those who did not fall or bow, who scraped and clawed their way through hell with life in their teeth, refusing to let go. If the people hadn’t, Emet and the other outsiders would’ve stumbled into a graveyard, not a town. 

Evie is young and untried. She has the heart, she has the fight when it’s a battle of words where she can shout down her opponent, and strip them down with knives of shame and ideals. And Emet suspects she’s picked a few scrapes in her past with fists, but only the kind she knew she could win. He wonders how well her idealism will hold when she tastes blood in her throat and her eye is swollen shut. When her bones are broken and the cold press of steel against her neck promises oblivion. Will she still think it better to accept defeat? Or will she finally understand why Ismark fought?

Emet hopes it is a lesson she will never have to learn.

He takes in a sip of cold stew, all its meager flavor lost with the warmth, his mind tossing in a torrent of thoughts. A stormy sea of all that has happened this day and all the knowledge they have learned of this strange land and its curse. Everything he set out to search for swept out from beneath his feet in an instant, his every hope broken against the shoals of unfamiliar shores. He stares at the amber shard lashed to the back of his gauntlet, the fear of losing his promises edging closer to his thoughts like the tide.

Emet is not a stranger to warring against impossible odds. And now he will have to do what no one else in this prison has managed.

Find a way home.

The impossibility of the task weighs as heavy as the sea over his mind. When the depths grow and the weight of the world above threatens to break all beneath it, wrapping a chain around his throat with only the promise of drowning should he ever try to escape. Memories of being a boy visiting the deep sea docks of a floating island flood him. Of stepping over a rope uncoiled across sun warmed planks. Of the line above his head breaking beneath a heavy load. The way the heavy cargo slapped the water with a sharp snap and sunk so quickly it dragged a nearby fishing boat half under. The way the rope beside the boy’s foot suddenly came to life and dragged him across the rough wooden slats faster than anyone could grab him. The cold shock of the sea as it swallowed him before he could steal a breath and all the lights bubbled into shadows. 

A deep sailor dove in and cut the rope before it could drag Emet into the cracks of the earth. But he would never forget the pressure along his bones, promising to break him. There’s something about this land that dredges up bad memories. It is oppressive. It is broken. Half buried in the grave and he does not want to stay. He cannot stay.

Emet stirs the remnants of the rabbit stew in front of him, letting his worries spiral away with the movement. He needs to think. He needs to rest. Or he will never find the secrets of escape. His mind is too worn thin to tackle unbreakable curses right now.

He takes a bite of the meal, colder now than this tavern that never seems to keep the warmth of its hearth. But he barely notices, his thoughts a thousand miles away knowing they run tirelessly without going anywhere. But still they run all the same.

A bed will do him some good tonight.

Beside him, Evie forces herself to finish off her bowl with the enthusiasm of someone knowing they need to survive and nothing more. The food will buy her the strength of another day, the taste doesn’t matter. And Roshan watches them both silently, the holy man’s thoughts ever a tangled mystery to Emet. 

The holy man nods to himself and gets up, patting Ismark on the shoulder with a quiet word to remain. Roshan follows the muffled sound of sobs outside.

A beam of thin warm light falls over Evrrot and the gaunt man sniffling back the last of his tears. Roshan fills the open doorway behind them. A moment of lucidity suddenly strikes them like a bucket of cold water, their quiet and private moment now violated and exposed. The man pushes himself off Evrrot’s shoulder and wipes the snot and tears from his face, the holy man offering that annoying smile like he didn’t just invite himself to a private meeting. 

The man sniffs back a rather large wad of snot dripping down his nose and gives Roshan a brief unappreciative glance before speaking to Evrrot.

“Just don’t follow him.”

Evrrot nods and the man quickly stumbles down the steps. Not from drink, but from the disorientation of having one’s broken heart exposed. Evrrot ignores Roshan’s presence and calls out to the man before his foot leaves the bottom step.

“I don’t know what I am now, in this place. But I use to be a man means. So if you need something, you can talk to me.”

The man turns back, his hand raised to keep the now heavy rain from his eyes. “Name’s Frederich. It’s good to meet you.”

“Evrrot.”

“Be careful out here, Evrrot. Be very careful.”

Frederich leaves. Shattered and broken and tinged with shame, he stumbles off into the mist toward whatever empty home and cold bed awaits him. He has only memories now. And a void in his home another was meant to fill. Where another once did fill. Evrrot wonders if it can even be called a home anymore when half of it has become an emptiness that cannot be filled. He’s not sure. He lost both before he could ever find out.

Evrrot stays until the fog swallows up Frederich’s stumbling shadow entirely and wonders if he looked that broken to everyone around him when the hole in his heart was still raw and bleeding. Roshan waits in silence, but Evrrot can feel his unwelcome presence like a finger tapping his shoulder. Evrrot’s already had more than enough of the old man. He takes a clearing breath and meets Salt at the door without a word. The old man holds the scarred wooden plank open for him, but Evrrot does not step through.

“We need to talk,” Evrrot looks pointedly at the table where the elves are listlessly finishing off their meals under Ismark’s watch. “All of us.”

“Talk about what?”

“About how we’re going to play this whole thing.”

“Okay, but first we must rest. We should take Ismark up on his offer and sleep in real beds tonight.” 

Roshan tries to usher Evrrot inside, but he holds his ground.

“I’m not so sure about that.” He pulls Roshan out of the doorframe and closes the doors quietly, pointing to where Frederich disappeared, “If this is how everyone sees Ismark, maybe it would be better for us if we don’t associate with him. No offense to the almost-lord, but we don’t want to impede any relationships we might make that could be beneficial to us because of a first day blunder. We shouldn’t burn our bridges for a decent meal and some answers. And if others see us associating with him, that might make them reluctant to talk to us.”

Us. We. When the hells did he start associating himself with these people. An hour ago he intended to ditch them once they’d gotten food and rooms. Leave before the sun rose and forget their faces by the next morning. Write it all off as a bad dream and move on.

“Evrrot, it takes courage to stand up against oppression.”

Evrrot flicks his tail. “I’m not making a comment on whether what he did was good or bad. I’m making a comment on the current relations he has with everyone else. We need people to talk to us and possibly to help us.”

Roshan opens the door again and glances back at the table where Ismark now watches them with a silent askance if all is well. The old man gives the young lord a nod, and speaks again to Evrrot.

“I will go with Ismark. If you want to talk to the others, that’s fine by me. I do not need to burn or have bridges.”

“That makes two of us. But we’re in a bad situation right now and we need information. Anything and everything we can get from whoever will open up. But yeah, I’ll talk to the others.”

Evrrot cuts in front of Salt before the old man can get in the door, Emet’s head lifting slightly in anticipation of their arrival. Ismark is stressing his point to Evie that they should go to Vallaki if she seeks answers on her friend by time Evrrot stops at the table’s head.

“It is safer than Barovia village there—”

“No.” Evie shakes her head, “You said he was here so I need to speak to your sister.”

“Okay, that would actually be of mutual interest to me in another regard. If you do change your mind and go to Vallaki, I may have a favor to ask of you involving my sister. All of you.”

Evrrot eyes him with suspicion, “And what would that be?”

“During the recent attacks, my sister was bitten,” Ismark’s voice grows quieter. “On two different occasions…by the devil Strahd.”

Emet’s attention snaps up at that. 

The tall bastard’s probably wondering the same thing Evrrot is. 

“Strahd broke into our manor…”

“I thought vampires could only go where they’re invited…” Thorns asks, poorly hiding her accusatory tone.

“How did you know?”

“It’s something everyone knows, isn’t it? It’s one of those facts your mum tells you when you’re little and she’s trying to scare you with a story about vampires so you learn not to open the door to strangers.”

“I suppose it is the same where you come from. And yes. It seems he managed to…charm his way inside.” Ismark’s jaw flexes, his fists clenching until the knuckles turn white. “And I couldn’t do anything to keep her safe even once I learned of the first visit. It is not safe for her here, not even at home. So long as she remains in the village, she is vulnerable.”

“And why would she be safer elsewhere?” Evie asks.

“In Vallaki, there is a church. Saint Andral’s. It is said to be hallowed ground, a place the dead cannot touch. Especially vampires. I know that moving my sister is risk that makes my stomach turn just thinking about it, but she must get to hallowed ground and I have heard Vallaki is well defended. She is vulnerable to Strahd, but I am hoping if she can get to the church—perhaps with good company,” he eyes up Emet, Evie, Roshan, and Evrrot respectively, “Strong company—then maybe she will be safe.”

Evrrot trails Ismark’s trailing gaze along each of them.

Evie speaks with the self-righteous surety of someone who has never left home, but she wears her armor with training and the comfort of someone who has lived in it for many years. And though the longsword and whip at her waist don’t particularly look as though they’ve seen any real battle, Evrrot doubts Evie’s training ended at her armor. Besides, she’s got the shit-eating personality of a kid that’s gotten into plenty of scrapes in the streets.

Roshan wears a grandfatherly smile, full of warmth and a weird sense of comfort with words to match, but his hands and face are covered in fine scarring and Evrrot doubts his shield was dented from a fall. His eyes may be filled with a brightness that mimics his god’s sun, but they carry depths of shadow and sorrow within their dark pools. The kind that only a man who has survived much and came out smiling can bear.

And Emet. If ever there was a man with a dark secret, it’s him. His armor is too nondescript, too purposefully scrubbed of all identity it makes criminal eyes like Evrrot’s all the more certain the elf has something to hide. The man may look like a spirit fresh from the grave, but his face is marred with fighting scars and his eyes are sharp with a dangerous intelligence. The kind that puts Evrrot on edge. Evrrot isn’t sure what the others see when they look at him, but Emet is no stranger to horrors and perhaps that will be enough.

None of them are likely to be written about in song, but each of them individually stands a better chance against a threat than any soul they’ve yet met in Barovia. This whole village is full of victims and traumatized survivors. Whatever warriors existed here—if there were ever any at all—must have already found their blood spilled on the land they died for. If they hadn’t, Ismark likely would have sent his sister to safety long before this moment.

“What direction is Vallaki?” Roshan asks.

“West of here,” Ismark points behind him. “It is about a day and a half journey from the village, but if you are to go I would wait until the morning. The roads are dangerous at night.”

“Seems like it’s always night here,” Evie mumbles under her breath with a complete lack of subtlety. Evrrot makes note he might have to school Thorns in the art of giving a damn, or at least in pretending to. They don’t need more enemies.

But it’s starting to sound too much like these people are just going to accept this stranger’s request before they’ve even considered what’s at stake or who’s asking. 

Evrrot clears his throat, “I have to ask something of everyone here.”

Roshan’s eyes widen. The old man probably thought he would wait to bring this up until Ismark wasn’t around to hear it, but Evrrot never much cared what others thought of him. He speaks plain and blunt when he’s not trying to charm his way out of something—or into something—so he doesn’t particularly care if he brings up ditching the shunned lord to his face. In fact, doing so in front of the tavern’s audience might actually work in his favor.

“Ismark, this is no offense to you, I’m just reading the situation. But we should decide if we really want to stay with Ismark tonight. And before I clarify, Ismark, is there any specific danger of not staying with you? Perhaps in this inn? I’d ask if it was somehow safer staying with you, but you’ve just admitted your dread lord seems to have free reign in your own home and even your own sister isn’t safe, so…”

Ismark’s shoulders tense, but his expression falls into shame, “Regardless of where you stay, it will be dangerous. My manor has some fortifications at the least, but no, it has not stopped Strahd.”

“Well then,” Evrrot crosses his arms and speaks past Ismark like he’s no longer in the room, “I’m bringing this up is because of that little display we just witnessed with Frederich and his decoration of Ismark’s boot. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I don’t want to stay here. I’m not planning to spend the rest of my life trapped in some cursed land. I do want to get out—I will get out. And if everyone in this town sees Ismark in a similar poor light while we’re here trying to gain information and resources to figure out our next steps, we could be shooting ourselves in the foot just by associating with him.”

Evie glares at Evrrot like she’s just tasted something rotten, “I’m not leaving without my friend. So I’ll be talking to Ismark and his sister with or without you.”

“I also have nothing against Ismark,” Roshan says for all this time, “Or bridges to burn.”

“Okay,” Evrrot flicks his tail sharply, “I can see everyone’s tired and right now, none of you are really thinking about the big picture of anything. So we’ll start with something simpler. What’s the plan for tonight?”

No one answers him which is answer enough.

“Fine, I don’t know. Maybe for tonight I’d be open for staying with Ismark. But only because we’re very new and so far he’s the only one who’s been friendly to us. But I don’t think this is a long term solution.”

Roshan shakes his head, the old man disappointed now and Emet never looks happy so it’s hard to tell with him if his cutting glare is any sharper. Evrrot should compliment his poker face, the elf would be good at cards.

“It is one night, Evrrot.” Roshan states as if that is final.

Ismark grits his teeth, but it’s not anger in the gesture—or at least, not toward Evrrot—the anger turned inward as self-blame, “I understand.”

“Ismark, this is no offense to you,” Evrrot raises hand, repeating, “I’m not making a judgement on you. I’m just reading the situation right now.”

“No, he’s just being super political and slimy,” Evie sneers.

“It is okay.” Ismark answers tensely, staring at the spit on his boot. His tone says he only has himself to blame. “I know people do not really like me around here. Your concerns are well founded. In that same spirit, it may be best not to mention my name to some people. Especially Bildrath, in the general store. I am sure you will have need of him in the days ahead.”

“Good to know. And Evie?” Evrrot meets the girl’s venomous gaze, “Sometimes being ‘slimy’ has its perks. We’re trying to get out of a bad situation, so curb your comments please. I’m acting in all our of interests.”

If looks could kill, Evrrot would wager Evie would have buried him several times over, but words will never be the thing that kills him. Before she can retort, Ismark gets up from his seat and tries to assuage the rising tension once more.

“It is okay. You all have gone through a lot, I can tell. Please, even if you don’t have me, at least have each other. You may be strangers now, but it is important you stick together amongst yourselves. There really isn’t anyone else in these lands who could understand what you all have been through. One day you may realize how valuable that connection is.”

“Sure,” Evie scoffs, rolling her eyes.

“Let us go to my manor. You can meet my sister and rest for the night.”

Ismark raises his hand to Arik the barkeep in silent promise to pick up the tab tomorrow and ushers the friction-filled group outside into the foggy streets.

The walk to the manor isn’t a long one at least, and the fog is so damn thick Evrrot takes some comfort that if anyone were to look out their windows, they wouldn’t get a good look at them or the company they keep. 

He doesn’t understand why the others aren’t seeing his point or why they don’t seem to realize he’s thinking about the long term. For all of them. Who you associate with and the relationships you foster make all the difference in life. Some people raise you up, others drag you down. And others still will keep you where you are like a prisoner in your own life. Connection is everything. And the way Evrrot’s seeing it, Ismark is one of those people who will count as a negative in their books. He’ll drag them down, cut them off from people they may need in the future and prevent them from rising to the places they may need to go. He’s a cost, not a benefit. 

The others would be grateful if their heads were working and they weren’t so fucking exhausted.

Evrrot keeps to the rear of the group this time so his back doesn’t feel Evie sending curses with her eyes. The girl walks beside Roshan just ahead of him, dragging her massive platform boots along the cobbles loudly. Emet glides in front of them, and Ismark ahead of him. Though in this thick fog, Ismark is little more than a vague shadow to Evrrot.

Evie fidgets with that dark choker around her neck.

“That Mary called Ismark ‘burgomaster’, that must mean she thinks he’s good, right?” She asks quietly to Rohan, probably hoping Evrrot doesn’t hear. “There must be a reason to call him that. Evrrot’s just making stuff up, right?”

There’s such naïveté in that passing hopeful expression, it almost makes Evrrot feel guilty. Almost. But that expression is the kind worn by those desperate to cling to something without taking the time to work out for themselves whether they’re clinging to a rope or barbed wire. Both might be capable of pulling someone out of a pit, but one is going to cause more injury than it’s worth. 

Hope like that gets people killed.

“Not all leaders are seen in a good light when they have lost,” Roshan offers the half elf. “When they win, it is a different story. Everyone hurts, but it hurts a bit less when there is a victory to ease the pain. Winning makes it feel like it was all worth it. It is hard to stand up for what is right when there is no guarantee of victory, Evie. Fear can do a lot to a person, and even more to a people.” His eyes grow distant, “I know.”

“But the lady must think he’s good…”

“She believes he is right. And I believe she is right. But only time will tell.”

Evie falls silent ahead of Evrrot, whatever answer or validation she sought not sated. At least for the moment. At least she’s questioning. She might come around to Evrrot’s way of thinking after all, though he doubts that Roshan ever will. The man is hopelessly hopeful and that has always been a dangerous thing in Evrrot’s experience.

From the mists, a towering shadow looms through the haze.

A fortress, imposing and large, its shape standing at more than twice the height and size of most of the other buildings they’ve passed in the mists. But as they near, the illusion fades. Rusting iron gates greet them, the metal twisted and torn aside. The left gate barely hanging on by its hinges, the right entirely cast off and half sunk in the mud. 

What appeared a formidable keep in the illusion of the mists reveals itself to be a tired looking manse. Weeds choke the grounds, pressing and climbing up the aged stonework in a tangle to arched roofs already bearing the slight bow of a tired back. The grounds are half trampled into mud by prints of many feet and many paws. Blackened splotches of burnt stone and claw marks of some large beast gouge the walls. Not a single pane of glass survived whatever happened here, the windows boarded over with whatever surface would keep them from being assailed. Planks of rough wood intermixed with pieces of polished ones as though furniture were dismantled and floors torn up for material. Pieces of metal stripped from gods only know what intermixed.

The siege must have been something terrible.

But Evrrot notes the fog masks much, making iron fortresses out of weary manses. Perhaps it also makes monsters out of men.

“This is a…lovely abode,” Roshan says awkwardly.

Ismark lets out a mirthless chuckle, “Yes, the exterior of my home suffered a lot in the siege. But I assure you, the inside is better kept. Nothing ever got inside.”

The holy man smiles that disarming grin, “A mansion is a mansion, that is all that matters.”

Ismark catches Threads eyeing the footprints in the trampled grounds and great many paw prints mixed within, their prints as large as men’s feet. Evrrot’s never seen wolves of that size. 

“They sieged our home for a week,” Ismark says. “The entire building was swarmed. Zombies, wolves, and whatever other servants the devil called.”

The large double front door—likely once finely crafted and beautifully made—stands almost double the height of an average door, its paint shredded by claws and fingernails. The grooves blood darkened from zombies with no thought to their own pain, only the drive to enter at all costs. Blood dried in dark trails down the marred surface. Evrrot shudders at the sight. He’s seen the inside of coffins that looked like that. Desperate bloody trails carved into the wooden lid from fingernails worn down to the bones as someone mistakenly buried alive tried and failed to escape.

At least the door did not break. That’s what actually matters.

Ismark gives three quick raps on the door, calling out, “Ireena! Ireena, are you there?”

A few moments pass before a soft feminine voice, muffled by the thick marred door, answers.

“Who goes there? Who is it?”

“Ireena, it’s me. Let us inside.”

A series of clinks and scrapes of metal on metal, several, one after another is heard as what must be multiple locks and bars are undone. The heavy door opens carefully, one last metal bar in place to keep anyone from barging inside unwelcome. The sliver of a young woman peaks out through the thin crack, searching each guest and the area around them.

The door closes, the bar sliding aside and opens again.

Evrrot’s heart skips a beat.

Thick auburn hair spills past Ireena’s delicate shoulders in lavish waves parted neatly off to one side. A curtain withdrawn to reveal the sun. Fair skin as soft as moonlight, and a face so lovely he would expect it to grace an artist’s masterpiece rather than this grim and dreary land look out at all of them with the most beautiful dark eyes Evrrot has ever seen. A thick scarlet scarf raps around the young woman’s neck, one fair hand touching it delicately as though afraid it will slip. Evrrot finds himself wanting to adjust it, wanting to unwrap the old wool cloth and replace it with the finest silk. 

Where Ismark is all hard edges and squared features, Ireena is soft and delicately rounded in all the right places. Her features more akin to clay gently shaped with the greatest care by a potter’s hand than stone carved with sharp tools. The difference between the supposed siblings is striking.

Bathed in the soft glow of the mansion’s interior, Ireena’s soft and wary eyes take in her brother’s unfamiliar strays and Evrrot quickly adjusts his coat and slicks a hand under his horns to make sure his hair is in place. Something between surprise and curiosity chases away the lovely lady’s wariness as she searches the new faces with interest. Evrrot smiles when her eyes fall on him.

“Oh, I did not realize we’d have guests. Please do come in.”

Her voice is even more enchanting than her features.

Ireena steps aside and ushers all within their home, quickly adjusting the finely embroidered navy blue doublet over her white blouse and brushing off some imaginary dirt from her brown breeches. She seems to straighten with poise, like an actor readying for a scene. The curse of being a noble, Evrrot supposes. Everything is an act and a dance, one Evrrot knows how to play when he wants to.

Evrrot isn’t the only one drinking in Ireena like a vision. 

Evie hasn’t breathed since catching sight of the red haired beauty and even Emet’s eyes linger a moment longer than usual. Though what catches Evrrot’s attention most is how Roshan’s enraptured gaze catches on Ireena. A wistful, longing like seeing a memory long thought lost. The sadness in his eyes drowns away every bit of the sun in his smile and he stands in the shadow of the doorway, a man seeing everything lost and thought for a moment returned, only to realize it was simply a reflection of something still gone. 

The holy man clasps his white feather and is swept inside with the jostling of the others, his old bones carried into the relative safety of the manse by the movement of those around him too eager to leave the darkness of the day and find some real rest.

Ismark shuts the door behind them, resetting the several locks and thick metal bars back in their place to ward out whatever monsters may come to visit Barovia’s newest guests.

[thetalesofno-one]

My entire group did a double take meeting Ireena instead

started curse of strahd tonight. every single one of my players wants to romance Ismark.

[thetalesofno-one]

Ismark Kolyanovich, Barovia’s tiredest, hardest-working doormat. Will the poor guy ever catch a break?

(Like this? Consider visiting my Patreon.)

[thetalesofno-one]

Though it was thought help is finally found in the land of Barovia, it seems their savior is not so highly regarded among his own people. And the story of Ismark the Lesser reaches their ears.

The next chapter will be out May 21st

[thetalesofno-one]

Curse of Strahd, Act I: Pt. 2, Ch. II -Prisoners Of The Land-

D&D Campaign Retelling Part 2/6 Chapter 2/5 ~4.5k words Content Warnings: Curse of Strahd typical content, Read at own risk

Summary The outsiders learn of their curse, trapped within Barovian lands with the mists as the bars of their prison and a powerful vampire as their gaoler. Read Previous Chapters also available on AO3

Mary swallows hard, clutching desperately onto Ismark’s hands.

“It’s Gertruda, I think she’s gone to the castle!”

Her voice is barely more than a choked whisper beneath panting breath, and yet the tavern falls into a sudden and absolute silence. The bad kind of silence. The heavy, suffocating kind that crawls into your throat and stills the lungs, coils around your tongue stealing words and breath alike. The kind that only arrives with death on the wind.

Ismark reels back. He barely pries one of his hands free from the old woman’s clawing grasp before he stumbles, catching himself on the table. White knuckles grasp its surface, fingers pressed so violently against the wood the blood leaves them pale as corpse rose petals. He steadies himself, swaying like a someone who has taken one too many hits in a brawl. 

What the hells is happening? Emet thinks to himself, hand still wrapped around his broken glaive in a vice after that abrupt entrance. He about near took out the table standing that quickly. The others share a similar alert and confused glance between each other.

Ismark’s shock shifts into one Emet knows all too well. Pity. And the worst kind. The one paired with an offering of hope knowing there is nothing that can be done.

“My condolences, Mary.” Ismark swallows hard, “I will organize a search party as soon as I can. When the last one returns, I’ll send another.”

He doesn’t promise anything and that says everything. But the woman doesn’t seem to hear that his words do not carry a vow to find her girl or bring her back, instead clinging to what she’s heard with such desperate faith that she reads a promise between the lines. 

“Thank you! Thank you!” 

The old woman clings to both Ismark’s hands again and presses them against her bowed forehead. Her shoulders shake with another choked sob. Ismark gives her bony fingers a comforting squeeze and Mary sniffles back her tears. She thanks hims once more before hurrying back out through the open tavern doors to deliver her news to whoever will listen. Cold wind spills through the portal to the night in bitter drafts and another patron gets up to close the doors behind her, sealing in whatever dark mood Mary delivered into this place.

Ismark returns to his seat unsteadily, carefully lowering himself into it as though half expecting he will fall along the way. A carved out expression hollows his face into shadow. Whatever small stone of hope he held at Emet and the others’ arrival now scooped out and stolen away, leaving nothing but a hole where a light should be.

Evie is the first to venture one of the many questions on their minds as they all slowly settle back into their seats.

“How many people go missing around here that you’ve got multiple search parties out?”

Ismark wipes his face, eyeing his drink hungrily. But he does not take it.

“We’ve recently suffered from a siege of undead—”

Emet’s gauntlets dig violently into the wooden armrests of his chair.

Evie and Roshan to his either side give him a strange look.

“Many have vanished and continue to vanish,” Ismark continues unawares. “I’ve dispatches several search parties throughout the Svalich Wood to seek survivors, but it is fruitless work. Fewer people come back each time. For every person gained, another is lost. We still don’t know how many are missing from the initial siege and how many have gone to search themselves without telling anyone. It is dangerous work, but they would go even if I did not organize them. At least this way they have numbers on their side.”

Emet’s heart hammers against the forge of his ribs and every muscle coils taught as a gnomish spring wound to the breaking point. But he forces himself to release the armrest. 

Deep gouges now cut into the wood. “What sort of undead?”

“There are types?” Ismark asks hollowly. “Zombies, I suppose? The kind raised from graves that still wear the faces of those we lost. And wolves. Very large ones though they may not have been undead. They sieged our village like an army. For a full week…” his voice trails off, his eyes distant and reliving some memory before he shakes himself out of it. “We are still suffering from the aftermath of it all.”

Ismark swallows the lump in his throat, his eyes glazed and distant with detached pain. It sits apart from him rather than within, speaking its contradictory lies that he does not hurt—cannot hurt—because nothing happened to him and yet everything happened. It is the pain of those who have had their home and safety violated and survived. 

The not-quite-burgomaster sinks deeper into his seat and takes in the face of each outsider individually.  He lingers on each of them with the forlorn sympathy of someone looking at a person that does not yet realize they are dying.

“I must explain where you are,” Ismark says finally, a doctor about to give the fatal diagnosis. “You have entered the land of Barovia. A land surrounded by deadly fog and ruled by S—” Ismark stops himself before he can speak the name, quickly lowering his voice to a hushed whisper, “Strahd von Zarovich.”

“Strahd von Zarovich?” Roshan repeats at normal tone. Ismark reaches out a hand as if to shush the holy man, the tavern becoming deadly still once more. “Is that the man in the castle?”

Ismark offers the rest of the Barovians an apologetic look before speaking.

“We do not say his name so loudly here, friend. And most times, not at all if it can be avoided. But yes, he is the one in the castle though he is no man. He is a powerful vampire who slumbered in Castle Ravenloft until very recently.”

“You sound as if you deliver dour news, but I have not heard any.”

Again that pity. 

“We occasionally get outsiders such as yourselves in these lands—”

“That’s how most lands work,” Evrrot cuts in. “Although no offense, but I don’t want to be here. So if you could just give us directions out or something.”

Ismark twists his untouched drink atop the table, beads of condensation dripping down the glass sides. He steels himself for whatever news he does not wish to deliver.

“I am afraid there is no escaping Barovia once an outsider has entered this place.”

Emet crosses his arms, his drink long forgotten, “Is this some sort of magic?” Or curse? Though he does not say it.

“I do not know. All I know is—”

“No.”

All heads turn to Evie at the broken strangle in her voice.

“No, no, no. I can’t—” Evie’s head shakes rapidly, her white streaked hair flinging about her face despite whatever gel she uses to keep it upright. There is a panic so close to the edge one would think she has woken up buried in her own coffin and is trying so desperately to not believe what she is seeing. Her eyes widen to the whites, but Emet isn’t sure she is seeing anything. 

“I can’t be here, nononononono. I’m—no!”

Evie stands up and sits down before standing up again, caught somewhere between bolting and realizing there is nowhere to go.

“I have to—I have to find—No! No! I need to get home!”

Ismark leans over as though to he might take her hand, but doesn’t. “I am so sorry.”

Evie shakes from head to foot, her boot tapping wildly on the floors in a rhythmless manic pattern. Her head rolls like a pendulum as though she can end this nightmare by sheer denial. She suddenly grows very still and for a moment, Emet swears the air crackles around her. Evie lunges at Ismark, grabbing him violently by the collar.

“Get me out of here!” She growls, a feral snarl curling her tinted lips.

“Sit down!” Evrrot glares, “We don’t know the full—”

“No!” she whips around on him, “I don’t need to know, I need to get out. I have—”

Her voice breaks. Scraped and broken and too thin along the edges, it fractures across the final word and crumbles broken from her lips. Evie grabs at her hair, pulling it down so hard to cover her face Emet worries she will tear it out entirely. A storm of rage and terror and panic swirls in a terrible maelstrom within her and at the end of it all, there is only the horror of Ismark’s words. That there is nothing that can be done.

“I have a very important thing I need to do at home.” She whispers, “I can’t be here. If I’m here than I can’t—”

The world breaks within her and she collapses back into her seat with nothing left. The rage crumbles to cold ash. The panic fades to grim emptiness. And in a moment, Evie joins the hollow residents of Barovia.

There is such a pained look in Ismark’s eyes.

“I am very sorry, but going home is impossible. There is no escape from these lands…”

Those are not the words she needs to hear in that moment. Evie rocks back and forth in her seat, clutching her hair tightly and hiding her face behind its chopped length.

Emet closes his eyes as Ismark’s words settle their rotten roots into his soul. He’s not sure when he put a hand over his mouth, but his fingers clench so tightly across his jaw the bones ache. The pain fends off the wolves of madness snapping their jaws at the edges of his mind. Emet forces himself to think. To focus. What does this mean for his goal now?

He doesn’t have forever.

Every day that passes steals more away. And the only magic Emet knows that can fix this mistake is too powerful for him to wield right now. It would destroy him body and soul in the attempt. And worse, Emet would lose him. The ticking clock in Emet’s head warns him again and again that there is a time limit to this magic. There is only one year at best for the weakest of these spells and three months have already passed with Emet no closer to his goal. And at worst, two hundred years for the most powerful. That’s all he has…

And it isn’t enough.

Not if Emet now needs to spend his years battering himself against this prison’s walls. If he has to break the walls with his bare hands, he will. If he has to tear himself into pieces to escape, he will. If he needs to kill whatever god of this land trapped him, he will.

“So what is this,” Evrrot grills into Ismark, “a different plane or something? Is this still Toril?”

“I am not sure about planes, but I do not recognize the name of Tor—”

“Fearûn?”

“I’m sorry, no.”

Evrrot dances his fingers atop the table in an irritated rhythm, his tail whipping in sharp switchbacks behind him. The tiefling stares at the pattern of grain across the wooden table. Plans form and vanish within his eyes, each spread out and examined before being crumpled and tossed aside. 

“Outsiders usually speak of different worlds where they have come from,” Ismark says softly, “But this isn’t your fay-roon or tor-ill.”

Evie sinks into herself, resting her head against the table. Ismark gently sets his hand atop hers, and she lets him.

Frustration swells in Emet. A sharp vicious thing full of teeth and cutting edges. It claws up his spine from the grave pit in his gut where he buries all that needs to die and drags its bloodied knives up his throat to sharpen his tongue. His voice levels over the table like a blade, cold and scythed.

“What happened to the other outsiders. What aren’t you saying?”

Every eye settles on Ismark.

He swallows and opens his mouth to speak, but Ismark’s reply is cut at the roots as the barkeep drifts to the table with a tray full of steaming hot food balanced in his hands. If Arik knows he’s interrupted them, the barkeep does not show it. Distant eyes seeing nothing but the broken field of his mind. The spirit settles bowl after bowl of rabbit or onion stew before each person in silence, the soup sloshing in once fine bowls, now chipped, worn, and broken. 

Ismark gives the man a thankful nod.

“Thank you, Arik.”

A sickening mixture of emotion churns around the table, simmering openly beneath the surface for most. Emet’s mind descends into cold rage. He wonders what he will need to break, destroy, or kill to leave this place. And how much blood will his blades drink before it’s done. Evrrot loses all interest in his food, a thousand thoughts in his eyes as though Ismark’s words are a puzzle box to be untangled. He twists and turns it over in his mind, seeking its secrets and pressure points. Evie’s fire and panic dissipate into something worse. Something empty and broken, drained of everything with nothing left to give. A haunting mirror of Arik. She stares at the bowl of onion soup as though there is nothing there at all. All the world fallen and gone. It is only Roshan—the holy man, the godsblessed with his divine feather—who radiates a strange sense of calm. Contemplating Ismark’s words rather than burning at them. 

Roshan circles the table and gives Evie’s shoulder a small squeeze.

“Just because no one has found a way out yet does not mean we won’t.” 

Emet never noticed how much sorrow the old man’s eyes carry. But still he smiles. 

“I do not wish to be here either,” Roshan continues gently, “but my god sent me to this place for a reason. Maybe these lands will help me with my own purpose. And maybe it will help you with yours. Perhaps this place holds the answers we did not think to seek.”

Evie doesn’t respond, still withdrawn in her own thoughts.

Ismark releases Evie’s hand and takes a long sip of ale before he can meet Emet’s cold glare.

“You asked about the other outsiders, yes?”

Emet gives a stern nod.

“Ah…well,” Ismark takes another long swig. “Outsiders do not usually last long in these lands…”

And there it is.

“We had another group of outsiders about eighteen weeks ago. Four unusual visitors who drew a lot of attention from the villagers. They stayed with us for a short while, but we have not heard from them since.”

There’s something he’s leaving out.

“What were they like and what were their names?” Roshan asks as he massages Evie’s shoulders.

“I did not have the pleasure of acquainting myself with them at the time, but news of them spread fast enough. They were a strange lot by Barovian standards. One was a human-size tortoise that spoke and walked on his hind legs as though he were half man. Another was elvish, but he had a single deer antler sprouting from his right temple. Another wore a mask and a cowl at all times, I do not believe any saw his face. And the last was a priest of sorts—”

Evie’s head snaps up, startling him into silence. Her blue and white eyes burn into Ismark with the intensity of someone catching a glimpse of something stolen and thought lost forever.

“Tell me.”

Ismark’s tongue catches in his throat at the sudden change—

“Tell. Me.”

“I—I do not know his name, but he was a priest and dressed in black—”

“Silly little mustache,” Evie mimes with a finger over her upper lip. “Big hat?”

“Uh—yes, I believe so.”

“Oh course he did it…” she laughs without humor. “Looks like you’re right, old man. This is exactly where I’m supposed to be…I can’t deal with this!”

Evie holds herself so tightly and Emet wonders if it is all that is keeping her together.

Ismark looks helplessly between the outsiders as if they can help her, but she is a stranger to them. All of them outsiders even to each other and right now, none of them are in a good mind space. Their worlds have been broken over this table, the pieces scattering to ruin across the floors. Evie is simply the one voicing what they all feel in their own way.

Emet wants so to desperately to shatter something. To dig his claws into its throat and feel it break beneath him. Make it taste even just a fraction of his rage. Let it know his pain. But there is none worthy of his anger here, so he shoves the ruined creature back down and buries it beneath a promise of later. When they find what keeps them here, Emet will unleash it and leave his gaoler in pieces across his prison. And then he will go home, fix what’s been broken, and save the rest of his fury for the god that ruined him.

Roshan rubs Evie’s back, but the holy man’s concerned eyes fall on Emet as though he can sense the vicious creature within. 

Evrrot slides one of the drinks from his collection to Evie. A half finished glass.

“I think you need this more.”

Ismark grasps for a thread of hope, “Perhaps your friend is right. Maybe you will find this man you seek now that you are here.”

“Idiot…”

Ismark’s smile falls, a wounded look in his eyes before Evie sobs the word again and again, and he realizes it is not meant for him.

“Idiot, idiot, idiot…”

Roshan holds up a hand before the young burgomaster can offer more empty words.

“It is a lot for us to process, Ismark. This has been a long day…night…I do not know what time it is or how long it has been.”

“It is midday,” Ismark answers meekly. “Sometimes it is difficult to tell when the days exist in perpetual shadow. Please, if you need anything of me—another drink, more food—I am happy to get it for you.”

Evrrot rubs his chin, his thoughts still unraveling the puzzle, “Who exactly is this Strahd you mentioned?”

The tavern has been quiet with all that’s happened, but that unsettled stillness follows the name of their ruler once more with only Evie’s quiet sobs to fill the silence. Each time the name is mentioned without whispered care, Emet swears another of the patrons leaves to drown their sorrows elsewhere.

“So he’s one of those guys,” Evrrot remarks.

“Is he a boogeyman?” Roshan asks.

“He is the devil,” Ismark sighs as another man stumbles away. “So it is best not to speak his name. There is a superstition that his name gives him power or draws his attention. There’s many variations of it and most folk in these lands believe it whole heartedly. I do not, but it is best not to speak it regardless. They say his spies are always watching. This I do believe.”

“Spies?”

“As the vampire that rules this land, he has many eyes. Bats, wolves, ravens, even trees or so I’ve heard. It could be anyone, anywhere. No one who goes to the castle returns, yet he leaves as he pleases and seems to know more than he should. I think him a curse that has been placed on this land, perhaps for some forgotten sin of our past. The land has always been cursed by him even as he slumbered. And now that he has awoken, everything you see here,” Ismark gestures toward the tavern, at the marred tables and chairs only recently repaired and what might be fingernail and claw marks across the floors and walls, then beyond to the ruin of the village outside, ”is a result of his retaliation upon our people.”

Roshan nods, “So he is the reason for the undead.”

“Yes. Str—He,” Ismark corrects, “sent them as punishment for a revolt started by one of our people. Doru. He is the one who led it. A man no older than me, I suppose, but he always had fire in his heart and stories in his head. Doru wanted to start a revolution and take the castle. Slay Strahd as he slept and rid our land of this curse before he awoke. Doru gathered a small mob and made his assault. The outsiders were among their ranks…”

The burgomaster takes a swig of his drink and swirls the remaining amber liquid at the bottom of the glass before he finds his next words.

 “There has been no word since. And after Doru’s revolt, a cruel looking man visited the village and delivered a warning to us. He said the devil had awoken and our village was being given ninety days to make peace with our gods.”

Ismark’s eyes travel up Emet’s scarred jaw, tracing his sharp pointed ears, “A man that looked like you. An elf. A dusk one.”

Emet’s never heard of such an elf.

“Many fled for Vallaki, but the majority chose to remain in Barovia and defend their homes. Two weeks ago the devil made good on his threat. Exactly ninety days after the dusk elf’s warning. We fended off a hoard of undead for a week, besieged within our own homes. We suffered dozens of casualties and many missing.”

Evie turns her head from where it rests on the table, dark eyeliner stains trailing down her tear-rimmed eyes. She looks up at him with the empty resignation of the damned awaiting the headsman’s axe. Ismark’s voice catches in his throat.

“I believe your friend, the priest, was among the vanished rebellion. I am sorry…”

She closes her eyes at the confirmation, burying a silent scream.

“He always does this.” She whispers to herself.

“My sister, Ireena, was curious about the outsiders and was very friendly to them. She may know more than I do,” Ismark offers. “Perhaps you could speak with her.”

“Hold on.” Evie stops him, sitting up and sniffling as she wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “You said no one goes to the castle, but that woman said this Gertruda is going. They can’t both be true!”

“I do not think Gertruda is in her right state of mind,” he says delicately. “She is likely seeking her betrothed. Doru. But that doesn’t necessarily mean—well, I don’t want to presume anything. I don’t know what happened to your friend, or any of them. Speak with Ireena, she may know more of what came before. We can only hope for what has come after.”

Evie’s voice softens, knowing the answer to the question she asks but needing to hear it anyways.

“You don’t think he’s still alive, do you.”

Ismark’s eyes fall and Evie closes hers. 

His mouth opens as though about to say something, but he stops himself. Then he forces himself to meet Evie’s gaze. “I believe none return from that castle. I am very sorry. But maybe I don’t know everything either. I am still just a man.”

Evie grasps the brooch about her neck, “Gods I hope he’s dead.”

Ismark is not taken aback by that statement, but rather nods in understanding. It seems only the dead know peace in that castle. It is the living who must be pitied.

“You all have been through a lot, but I do not think there are any rooms left in this tavern. Many of the survivors of the siege have made it their home. But perhaps you can come to mine. I’d be happy to have you stay.”

Roshan gives Ismark a generous nod, dipping his head deeply, “That would be lovely, thank you.”

“I am sorry I do not have more to offer. Whatever other answers you are seeking, I am not sure you will find them in this village. Nor protection from the devil.This village is an unsafe place for outsiders such as yourselves. We are far too close to the castle. But I can offer you shelter at my home, in the very least.”

“Ismark,” Roshan says, “Do you know of a Seer in these lands?”

“A seer?”

Roshan nods.

“The only person who comes to mind when you say that word is Madam Eva.”

“And who is she?”

“I believe she is the leader of a Vistani caravan east of here. They were camped near Tser Pool the last I heard. But I am not sure if that is still true as they travel around a bit.”

Emet has been lost within the shadows of his own mind most of this conversation. The thoughts and events of the day—days?—repeating over and over in his head as though he can find some trick to leave or answer they might have missed. Anything to get back home. But he finds none in the memory of the strange mist that whisked them away from their lives. O the deadman who evaded his divine sense and vanished. Or the visions in the fog. This entire day has felt like a strange half remembered dream. 

And of all the words Ismark has spoken, the one about Strahd being punishment for a forgotten sin resurfaces the most in this thoughts. It lingers like a needle pricking the edge of his consciousness, nudging certain threads of thought but he cannot see where it leads yet. Not fully. But if this lord is all that keeps them prisoner here, then maybe there is a way out after all.

“You said Strahd was set on these lands as a curse for some sin. What sin?” Emet asks, perhaps a bit too harshly but the days have been long and his patience is tried.

“I do not know,” Ismark answers honestly. “It is merely something we all believe. He must be, there is no other explanation I can think of. Whoever he was, he is Strahd now. Our own personal divine monster, for the gods have seen fit to let him reign.”

Emet’s heart bristles coldly.

It is always the gods who fail mortals.

He settles in his seat, arms crossed and pinching the bridge of his nose tightly, not caring that his gauntlet digs harshly into the bone. He doesn’t have forever…

“It seems you’re my only hope, Ismark.” Evie’s voice is so filled with despair it feels like a desecration of the person she was. “All I have to help find my…friend.” 

The broken rebel sighs, “I am so fucked.”

Roshan rubs Evie’s back in soothing rhythms, glancing between her and Emet. Those old eyes see too much. The holy man sweeps his gaze across the rest of the tavern, settling a moment on each solemn face and every broken spirit. 

“I think I was sent here to break some fangs.”

Ismark offers the old man a half-hearted smile, “I hope that is the case, my friend.”

A chair scrapes loudly across the floor and a scarecrow of a man with long straw-colored hair limply framing his gaunt face rises suddenly from his seat. Wiry muscles taut beneath his dirty tunic, his fists and teeth clench, the man’s glare burns with open flames of hatred.

He spits at Ismark’s feet.

[thetalesofno-one]

The next chapter is running a little late because I lost track of the days, but I'm almost done with its last edit before posting

[thetalesofno-one]

Sneak peak of the upcoming chapter! Our unfortunate souls learn the name of their prison keeper.

[thetalesofno-one]

We're back!

The first Chapter of "Part 2: Welcome to Barovia" in our Tales of No One: Curse of Strahd campaign novelization is out to read and lure you back in into the mists beside us!

If you haven't joined us on our ongoing campaign as the spirit haunting our side, then this here is the Masterpost that will help you catch up.

And if you've walked with us before, this is a quick collection of links to help you recap and see even the next chapters will be released.

So thank you for reading this tale and we do hope you will discover Barovia and its tragedy beside us

FICTION MASTERPOST

The Tales of No One: Curse of Strahd

Act I

Part I: Into the Mist Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5 Part II: Welcome to Barovia Chapter 1, Chapter 2 (May 7th), Chapter 3 (May 21st), Chapter 4 (June 4th), Chapter 5 (June 18th), ... Part III: The Dead Own the Night ... read here or on AO3

[thetalesofno-one]

Curse of Strahd, Act I: Pt. 2, Ch. I -Blood On The Vine-

D&D Campaign Retelling Part 2/6 Chapter 1/5 ~4.6k words Content Warnings: Curse of Strahd typical content, Read at own risk

Summary The cobbled and ruined streets of a village have been reached, but the place our unfortunate souls soon learn is called Barovia is far from a safe haven. And every sought answer steals away their hopes like a clever thief playing a cruel trick. There is no relief for weary travelers so far from home and far worse things stalk the dark in these lands. Read Previous Chapters also available on AO3

Notes Welcome to Part 2 of Act 1! So glad you came back with us into the mists! Or if you've stumbled onto our tale for the first time, we're glad to have you. This story is a long one, but you'll be a bit lost if you start here. Best to read the previous chapters in "Part 1 -Into The Mists-" before carrying on I suppose I should spell it out here now that we've reached a rhythm of sorts. This story is broken down into Acts, Parts, then Chapters. Each Act will roughly be a book's length and each Part like a scene holding its Chapters nestled within. Breaking up the stories like this gives me the time needed to actually be a player in this campaign before translating it all into this one day magnificent campaign retelling. Every Chapter is posted biweekly Every Part has a short month or so long break at its end before the next one starts. We're still early in the game to be worrying about Acts, but for now, we hope you'll enjoy journeying along beside us with every step we take into the misty lands of Barovia. It is a long and winding tale, so bring a good pair of walking shoes and watch out for things with sharp teeth.

Faint light stretches long golden fingers out into the darkness through a prison of planked windows. Thin cracks of golden thread along darkened wood. A shallow pool of warmth spills out beneath the tightly closed doors of the Blood on the Vine in a quiet promise of shelter from the world of shadow.

It is a wonder they did not miss it. Perhaps they would have if the lovely raven with the blue-tipped wings had not danced upon the sign. Roshan turns toward the silent ruins knelt around them in broken defeat, eyes traveling swift as sparrows, seeking the signs of life where it may hide now that he knows it lingers. 

From the vantage of the town’s heart, a few more buildings bear the faint golden thread of carefully concealed light. The town is broken and bent low beneath the darkness of the land, but it is not abandoned nor dead. Roshan takes gladness in the sight, a warm sun upon the stone of his heart. Though it hides, the light prevails. And one day, the sun will shine bright upon these lands. It is a promise. When the light of his god broke through the storm, he knew it. 

He is meant to be here.

“We can start in this tavern,” Roshan smiles, “But I wish to ask questions of the locals as well.”

Evie trudges past him, her voice weary, “Your funeral, old man.”

“We should know what has happened here, no?”

“We don’t have to do anything, that’s just what they want you to think.”

“Who is ‘they’?”

The young woman sighs loudly, “They, old man. Like…” it takes her a moment to find the words, her hand sweeping out as though the empty streets will hold her answers, “Like them, you know? Patriarchy, big governments, the royal they.”

Roshan feels her words slip through his mind like sand through fingers and though he tries to grasp her meaning, it escapes and catches in the wind. Emet’s cold eyes slide over his skin like ice as he struggles. He does not think the man means anything by the look, it is simply what it feels like to be under his pale scrutiny. Perhaps that is why the very tall elf does not make friends so easily. Roshan wonders if Emet knows what the young woman is saying. If he knows what a ‘Pay-tree-arc-ee’ is. Roshan’s common is only so so and this is a word that he has never heard.

When he finally asks, Evie is more than happy to bring a coliseum’s worth of words and points, fully laid out as though she has spent a great deal of time arguing this subject in the high places of law. Roshan listens with interest and learns a lot more about the structures of power in the greater lands, the ones he could only dream of when his roots were still small in the sands of Calimshan. 

Though he does not understand everything she says, Evie speaks with such passion it brings a smile to Roshan’s face. By his guess, Evie looks as though she may be in her mid-twenties, not much younger than him though their years have aged them quite differently. One as wine, the other as leather. Roshan enjoys her fire and some of her points are rather insightful, for he knows well that wisdom does not come with age, but knowledge and experience. And though her words hold crystals of wisdom, these same words betray that she has lived a life with little experience to age her. 

A blessing, were this a kinder world.

Some of Evie’s points are more complaint without answer. That is no shame, for it is how every great rebellion starts. Injustice begins as unsatisfied murmurs without solution and as long as the flames are tended, answers will grow in the embers. She holds the fires of youth seeing injustice everywhere. Raging against it. Seeking fights to change a world she doesn’t yet feel she’s been allowed to take part in. Shouting in ears that do not hear and making arguments with the air. And only the drive of unfocused passion without answer. Not yet, at least. Answers will always grow the longer the passion is fueled. 

Roshan remembers being the same once and hides a light smile so Evie does not think he is ‘patronizing’ her—a new word he now knows. Let her rage. Passion turns to knowledge and knowledge to wisdom. And if she manages to keep her flames until the end, maybe she’ll be able to change things after all. Someone has to. Why not her?

Though it seems not everyone is enjoying the young woman’s fiery speech as much as his weathered heart is. Evrrot rolls his eyes as Evie goes on and pushes through the tavern doors with a very rough shove. Someone should really teach devil boy some manners. 

Though their entrance is one that would normally scare those within, the patrons likely heard them coming long before the doors swung open with Evie’s fiery words. Several sets of eyes meet theirs with the wariness of a people who have learned that strangeness breeds trouble and strangers carry it with them. If they had been any quieter outside the doors, Roshan expects they would have all jumped at the sight of this weary group stepping through their darkened doors. But a tiredness of the soul sits heavily on the patrons’ eyes. The hopelessness of people who would let a blade cut them down without a fight so long as it is done quickly.

Evie’s fired discussion of the patriarchy embers out on its own, silence begetting silence as though the atmosphere itself demands the hush. She withdraws, her head sinking into her rising shoulders like a tortoise trying to hide within its shell as she tugs her hood up, concealing the faint point of her half-elven ears.

All within are of human blood, like him. No dwarf seated among a wall of empty pints, no elf sipping her wine in appreciation, nor gnome, or half orc, or any other of the myriad races that make Faerûn a melting pot of culture and life. Roshan cannot help but feel for the others, their kind even further out of place in this land. Trespassers carried in by the fog. 

Long worn finery fills the tavern, its decadence faded to a shade of shabby that can only come from heavy use and the neglect born of a place meant to be lived in and not admired. Handsome carved chairs with scraped legs sit around finely crafted tables, their surfaces worn almost entirely of polish in places. Tapestry like those Roshan has only ever seen the rich merchants buy hang like well worn rugs on the scarred wood and stone walls. The threads are faded and moth eaten, carrying the memory of its faded beauty. Further trinkets and trophies decorate the walls, all coated in a heavy hand of dust. An iron chandelier covered almost entirely in half melted wax flickers with a dozen candles above their heads and a dozen more melted to nothing, the blackened iron wheel beginning to rust beneath its waxy coat. A large stone fireplace fills the large open room with barely enough warmth to chase away the bitter cold, but it is enough.

The tavern sits half barren.

A barkeep with ragged dark hair and tanned skin almost as dark as Roshan’s looks up from his work as he sets a new bottle of spirits on the counter. His eyes seem to look past all of them rather than at them, as though they are little more than visiting spirits in the dark. At one of the tables, three colorful ladies dressed as vibrantly as desert flowers in their skirts and jewelry huddle a bit closer at their arrival. They whisper amongst themselves with mildly curious eyes, the cards in their hands all but forgotten. 

A few more spare individuals are scattered about the place—all human. Many pick at a plate or bowl of food with the hollowness of someone who has lost their tongue. The careless shoveling of what is placed before them, so long as it fills their bellies. There is no savoring of flavor, or enjoyment of taste upon their grim faces. It is as though all they eat is ash.

Roshan keeps to Evie’s side behind Emet—the very tall elf makes for a good obstruction—stepping ahead of her to block the vision of the three colorful women still weaving their baskets of gossip. Their eyes are not filled with mischief or merriment, however. Rather the careful study of prey at the watering hole wondering if today the lion will eat them. 

Emet ducks through the doors behind Evrrot, long silver hair spilling over his shoulder in a brilliant cascade. Roshan didn’t realize quite how tall the young elf was until this moment. When they were in the forest, it wasn’t quite so obvious standing among the indeterminate heights of trees and bushes. Seeing him now, however—towering among standard sized objects like tables and chairs, ducking through a door that Roshan’s head can touch only if he jumps beneath it—it is much harder to overlook. How does the man find anything to fit him?

They all linger back by the door in the waiting silence, both sides judging the intention of the other in that hesitancy. Emet scans the room before him carefully as though anyone here would be a threat to a giant like him. And Evrrot’s eyes go to the ceilings and walls like he is measuring the room before his gaze cuts sharply to the sad little blaze in the hearth. His eyes linger there a moment, whatever threat he seeks not found. 

One individual catches Roshan’s eye. 

All within the tavern either look through them with hollow gazes, lose interest and go back to their card games, or failed to notice their arrival entirely, lost wholly in a world all their own. Only one keeps his attention rapt on the newcomers with unhidden interest. 

The man sits perched on the edge of his seat, one hand on the table as though about to stand though he doesn’t yet leave his seat. A field of faded golden hair spills over the man’s shoulders, those stained-wood eyes of his openly staring at them, wide with interest beneath a heavy brow. A squared face covered in light stubble and broad shoulders beneath a dark shirt, the hard edges of the man could be considered handsome.

Evrrot seems not to notice the unblinking attention of the stranger. It is as if all the rest of the world has drifted away from him at the siren song of a warm meal and a good drink and the tiefling makes a beeline for the bar. 

He sets a heavy hand on the counter, “Your largest ale and a plate of hot food for a weary traveler.”

The barkeep continues his listless scrubbing of an already clean glass with unfocused eyes. So withdrawn within himself the rest of the world may as well be a dream from which he cannot wake. The man barely registers the devil-horned man in front of him until Evrrot raps the counter with his knuckle a few times. This does not bring the dazed man back, nor snap him into focus, but there is a brief moment where the barkeep makes eye contact long enough to realize someone is placing an order. Even as he fetches the drink and begins to prepare the food, the man merely drifts about his business as though already a ghost in his own life. Nothing breaks the thousand yard stare. 

Roshan wishes he did not recognize that hollowness, but he has seen it far too often in far too many eyes. Worn it himself. He has seen it in the old as they clutch their partner’s still body. He has seen it in daughters torn away from their homes with golden chains, wedding veils worn like funeral cloth. He has seen it in children rattling the bars of iron cages too small for their growing bones. Whatever happened here claimed this man’s soul and left his life to wither slowly. 

A living death.

Loss.

A piece of yourself carved out and stolen with nothing left to fill the void. A beloved, a pet, a way of life, a dream, a home. Anything can be lost if enough heart is given to it. And the price of love is always loss. If one is lucky, they will reap many years of comfort and joy and love before loss takes its due. But there is no amount of wealth or riches or power in all the world that can pay the cost. The price of love can only be bought in sorrow. 

Roshan wonders what mosaic of this man’s heart was stolen to leave him so shattered.

It is then the staring young man finally gathers his courage and stands to his feet. With an unsure hand raised, he speaks from across the tavern.

“Forgive me for presuming, but you must be new in town, yes? Please, let me buy your drinks.”

The man—likely in his late twenties—quickly moves to the bar to intercept payment of Evrrot’s drink.

An unfamiliar accent marks his voice, one that bears heavy as a dwarf’s hammer in certain places and rolls smoothly over others like a baker kneading dough. It is the same accent as the barkeep when he finally speaks to acknowledge the request and likely the same as everyone within this town.

Evrrot gives the young man an appraising look as he pays for the tiefling’s drink, one that Roshan is worried means he will abuse the generosity as greatly as he can. Roshan will have to keep an eye on that devil boy.

“Greetings, my name is Ismark,” he looks to each of them in turn, “I can see that you are visitors to this town. It it a pleasure to have you.”

“Not the Ismark from the statue?” Evie asks bluntly.

Ismark’s eyes fall slightly with a faint mirthless smile, “Ah, no…not the statue. That is my great grandfather.”

“Sorry about that, I have no idea what fucking year it is.” 

Ismark blinks at the directness and Emet seems to wince at Evie’s churlish words and he puts half a step between them as if that would somehow disassociate him from them.

“You’ll think that makes no sense,” Evie continues.

Ismark shakes his head, “That tends to be the case for—I hate to presume, but outsiders, yes?”

“Is it that obvious?”

He looks them up and down with a kind smile, “It is rather obvious.”

Evrrot gives the man a cutting glance and Ismark gestures to the rest of the crowd.

“We do not get many people who look like you.”

It is not hard to see the exoticness of their arrival. Outsider is a good word for it. Where the locals are entirely human of pale complexion in a style of dress Roshan has never seen the likes of, the tiefling’s deep red skin and large black horns curling back over his head with his slicked hair—tail no longer swishing angrily like a waspish serpent now that a cold drink is in his hands and the scent of food is in the air—stands out greatly in the contrast.

Evrrot shrugs and goes back to his drink.

Evie pulls her cloak tighter, shifting her shoulder to make herself even smaller.

“Well, we don’t usually get many visitors at all…” Ismark adds sheepishly.

Despite the claimed rarity of guests, especially outsiders, most of the other patrons have returned to their sullen business. A few glances continue to find their way, though however rare the event of outsiders is, the spectacle is barely interesting enough to drag most out of their own solemn conversation or quiet descent into the bottom of another drink. Only the table of colorful ladies finish off their drinks, pack up their cards, and set out into the ever gloom beyond the cold doors.

Ismark gestures to the empty table he had haunted before rising to greet them, “Please, come sit down. Perhaps I can offer you some drinks and food.” He hesitates a moment as though unsure of his next words before steeling himself, “Perhaps I can enlighten you on what is going on…”

Emet studies the man with sharp narrowed eyes as though expecting some swindle or sly craft to be in play. Eager conmen have a terrible habit of flocking to newcomers unwisened to their tricks like flies drawn to honey. But Roshan only senses sympathy in those eyes. As if Ismark is looking at people meant to be pitied. Emet seems to sense the same and Roshan notes how the tired moon elf tenses with the realization, a second wind of alertness overpowering his exhaustion. 

There is trouble here.

All the better then to learn of it. 

“I will take a drink,” Roshan says as he heads for the bar, briefly brushing past Emet’s large frame in the cramped entryway. The moon elf flinches away from his touch as though it is a hot iron pressed into his skin. Cold violence briefly darkens his eyes before it flickers away as though never there. Roshan watches his broad back with great confusion as the man slinks away toward the table as though wanting to blend in, though his great height eliminates any chance of that. He supposes it must be a force of habit then. Dragging one of the end chairs out and away, Emet seats himself with a careful distance between his seat and the others, somehow managing to do so without it looking strange or deliberate.

“I’ll take one as well, but I want to get it myself,” Evie says as she moves past, her heavy platform boots sounding all the more heavy and loud as they pound across the wooden flooring in this quiet place. 

The young woman gives Ismark a challenging look that threatens the use of knives should she attempt to drug her. Why are both of these elves so violent?

“That is well,” Ismark nods toward the lifeless barkeep. Roshan hopes that means he is picking up their tab and not some unspoken signal for future trouble. 

“What might I offer you to eat?” Ismark asks.

“Whatever’s hot,” Evrrot barks.

“What are you offering?” Evie asks blandly.

“Whatever is your favourite,” Roshan smiles.

“My favorite?” Ismark repeats, clearly not having expected the question, “We don’t have much here. Rabbit stew perhaps?”

“That is perfect.”

“Done.” Evrrot adds.

Evie grimaces at the suggestion, “I’m not sure I can stomach meat right now. We saw a very dead horse earlier.”

Roshan shakes his head in disappointment, “You do not like the dead horse, but say nothing of the dead man.”

“I’ve seen dead people before, old man,” Evie bites back defensively, “That horse was something new.”

Roshan looks on the young half-elf with pity which only seems to infuriate her further. But he cannot help the worry in his eyes that such a young person sees no value in life and those who have lived it. Perhaps it is unkind or hypocritical, but it feels an even greater shame that of the deaths they have witnessed, it is the man who affects her the least. A man who must have been loved by someone Every part that defined him—the things he liked, the skills he learned, the people he made smile, the difference he made with his presence—now stripped away until he became little more than an object on their path. A leaf in the mud. 

It is a great sorrow that Roshan did not do more to give him a respectful passing. 

“Speaking of dead people,” Evrrot says callously as he leans against the counter, staring at the barkeep filling their drinks, “Barkeep over there looks like he’s seen a ghost. That what he’s always like?”

Ismark studies the hollow man to see if he’s heard—he’s certainly close enough to have—but the man is miles away.

“You must forgive him. He’s been through…a lot. We all have. I’m sure you have many question, please ask away and I will try to enlighten as best I can. But let us sit, first.” He gestures again to the table Emet now haunts, “I will get your drinks.”

“And I will help,” Roshan offers.

Ismark nods appreciably as Evie gives him a look that demands he better watch for any funny play with her drink. She leaves with Evrrot for the table and Roshan watches again the empty man behind the bar.

The barkeep continues to wipe down the same mug he’s been cleaning since their arrival, his gaze hollow and miles away. Ismark waits patiently, that same look of pity in his eyes—or perhaps it is guilt—before the empty man is drawn back to the now by Ismark’s gentle patience just long enough to take and begin fulfilling the orders. He goes about his business with a rhythmic efficiency as though every step is so well practiced and known, he does not need to be present to complete them. And somewhere along the path, he drifts away again. Even as drinks are served and the food set to cook, he never misses a step.

The barkeep’s hands tremble as Roshan’s glass is set down last.

Roshan marks the symbol of Lathander’s sun across the man’s chest when he hands him his drink, bowing his head in blessing, “May the Morning Lord bless you, my friend. Thank you for this drink.”

The barkeep stares blankly at him a moment, but the drowning man does not come to surface before he turns away and goes about fixing the meals atop the stove. Sorrow fills Roshan’s heart. 

Ismark gives Roshan a curious look as he collect the other drinks, but says nothing. The two of them deliver the cold beverages to the table and the barkeep returns to cleaning the same pristine glass, staring off into a place only he can see.

The table is a communal affair, one of those makeshift accommodations for larger groups where the table itself is marginally larger than any of the others, but the quantity of chairs all squeezed tightly around it, arm to arm, make it a “group” setting. Once they all squeeze in, it is only Emet who has managed not to sit quite literally shoulder to shoulder with everyone else.

Roshan takes the seat beside him and throws up a hand, “Eh! Do you have boundary issues?”

He cuts his eyes over sharply, “Merely staying safe.”

“I respect that,” Evie comments as she wipes a trail of beer foam off her dark tinted lips. She takes the other seat beside Emet and wiggles herself comfortably in the space he’s created for himself. She drags her seat a little further from Evrrot on her other side, but she lacks the height advantage of Emet and so is forced to scoot back to the table in defeat. She sets her drink down protectively close and settles a hand over the brim whenever she is not taking a sip.

The holy man waves them both off, muttering to himself in his mother tongue about the strange elves and their emotional damage. The confused looks confirm the others do not understand him and he is glad of it. They should not hear such words from a holy man.

Evrrot does not seem to care one way or another about the proximity of the seating. It would seem four of the drinks in Ismark’s hands are his, the devil boy having taken full advantage of the man’s generosity. Both hands full, he hooks a foot around the chair between Ismark and Roshan and swings himself into it. The glasses clatter loudly on the table. It is a wonder how he did not spill any of the drink. Their host winces at the sound and casts an apologetic look to the oblivious barkeep.

Devil boy downs half a glass before wiping the foam from his mouth with a satisfied sigh.

“So how far away is this place from the nearest city or port? I wanna get out of here as soon as possible and get back to my business.”

“We were in Daggerford, if that helps,” Roshan offers.

“Daggerford?” Ismark shakes his head, “I do not know the name. And as for cities and ports…there, uh, are none. The closest thing you will find to a city is Vallaki which lies several hours west of here. But there are no ports in this land.”

“Huh…” Evrrot stares at the man over the rim of his next drink as if deciding if this is some strange joke.

Evie’s brows furrow, “How do people get anywhere then?”

“Well,” Ismark answers uncomfortably, “usually we walk or go on horseback. The land is rather small.”

“And if I want to go somewhere else not in this country?” Evie presses, her voice growing tense.

Ismark looks like a small willow that has been yelled at all its life and now bows eternally along the ground rather than reaching for the heavens.

“Forgive me, this is never easy,” he answers apologetically, “It’s always the hardest part. I will need to elaborate on the exact circumstances you find yourselves in. You see, this land isn’t quite like your own. You are in—”

The twin tavern doors burst open with a violent crack as the doors slam harshly against the walls, swallowing up Ismark’s next word. A rush of cold wind gusts in like an unseen wave, flickering every flame in the room. Evrrot’s eyes snap warily to the hearth. The bitter atmosphere grows all the colder and a huddled figure rushes through the door, barely stopping in time to keep from toppling over a table. Emet’s hand reaches for the haft of that strange broken glaive on his hip and the others too half stand from their seats, ready for trouble.

The middle aged woman dressed in little more than grey rags pants heavily as she catches herself with a shaking hand on the table nearest the door. The other tightly clutches the ends of a decorative scarf cowled over her head, wild unkempt dark hair spilling out from beneath the old scarf. Fretful widened eyes, blotchy and stained with tears, search the crowd with desperation before settling like a sigh on Ismark.

“Burgomaster Kolyanovich!” Her every word shakes and catches in her throat, “I apologize for interrupting you and your guests,” she takes a trembling step forward looking as though about to crumble, “But I need your help!”

“Mary!” Ismark, already half risen from his seat, abandons it entirely and takes her shaking withered hand. What little strength carried her this far gives out in that moment and Ismark swiftly catches her, settling her into the nearest seat where one of the ash eaters watches with some concern.

“I am not yet burgomaster,” Ismark chides gently, but the rest of what he is about to say dies in his throat as the matronly woman snatches his hands, knuckles white and trembling violently, and looks up at this burgomaster with a desperation that sets a chill along Roshan’s spine. 

“What do you need?” Deadly seriousness fills Ismark’s voice as though whatever she asks, he will do all he can to give it.

Mary swallows hard and sways a moment as though about to faint, but not before she speaks her message.

“It’s Gertruda. I think she’s gone to the castle!”