Session 11: Nap Time

In the shadow-haunted halls of Castle Ravenloft, where dread and despair cling to the ancient stones like the very mosses of the Svalich woods, our intrepid band of adventurers pressed on—undaunted in their quest to vanquish the malevolent vampire lord, Strahd von Zarovich. The castle, a labyrinthine edifice of gothic horror, seemed to mock them with its myriad secrets and dangers lurking in the dark.

The throne room, with its curiously misaligned throne, had yielded its secrets to them on a prior foray, revealing hidden doors and whispering statues that spoke in riddles of their quarry’s whereabouts. These enigmatic sentinels of stone alluded to the might of the Sunsword against Strahd, and to potential allies beyond the castle’s oppressive walls. Yet, the companions, driven by the relentless pursuit of their goal, continued to delve deeper into the heart of the vampire’s sanctum.

Maledurk, the brass dragonborn of bestial might, cradled the Sunsword—its radiant blade promising hope against the darkness. With the wisdom of his companions, he knew a period of quiet reflection was necessary to attune to the weapon’s power—an hour’s meditation to harness the sun’s wrath.

Their deliberations on the castle’s construction—a puzzle of stairwells, crypts, and lofty spires—were interrupted by the grim reminders of their perilous circumstance. The need for vigilance was paramount; to rest was to invite doom. Elora, the high elf druid once a student of the arcane, now a devotee of nature’s mysteries, pondered the nature of their foe with the aid of her learned intellect. That Strahd’s power would swell under the cloak of night was a grim certainty, and so they resolved to press on.

The study they next uncovered was a sanctuary of knowledge, a haven of lore amid the castle’s terrors. Tempest, the blue dragonborn sorceress whose bakery had once been her world, proposed the use of magic to locate their elusive nemesis. Spells of divination could seek out Strahd or the resting place of his undead form. Yet, in the face of uncertainty, the debate lingered—should they risk the spells now or preserve their arcane arsenal for battles yet to come?

The study, with its opulent trappings and a hearth ablaze with phantom flames, bore the visage of Irina Kolyana, a figure of significance in Strahd’s cursed narrative. Books of history, ancient and valuable, lined the shelves, and Elora’s fingers brushed the spines with reverence, uncovering treatises from lands as distant as Baldur’s Gate.

Yet, it was not tomes or portraits that unveiled the next secret, but a fireplace poker, gleaming with illusory fire, that, when disturbed, dissolved into an explosion of spectral flames. Behind the falsehood of the fireplace, a secret door awaited, leading them to a chamber of smoke and mystery—a skeleton’s final repose beside a chest of coins.

As the party contemplated the cryptic ring upon the finger of the woman in the portrait, they pondered the web of connections that tied Ireena to the vampire lord. A chest, unguarded yet treacherous, unleashed an enigmatic gas that ensnared all but Tempest in a magical slumber. The sorceress, chaos incarnate, found herself the lone sentinel against the castle’s machinations as the doors sealed shut of their own accord.

With her companions ensorcelled in dreamless sleep, Tempest was a beacon of wakefulness in the oppressive gloom. The weasel she had summoned from her Bag of Tricks proved an unexpected ally, strong enough to carry the slumbering elves as they wandered the castle’s corridors. They retraced their steps to the web-choked hallway, where Tempest’s tinderbox set the strands alight, revealing a hidden room and bronze doors that beckoned them onward.

Within, an elevator shaft loomed, its iron chains hinting at vertical paths untaken. But the companions, wary of solitude in such a place, opted instead for the bronze doors. There, amidst more threadbare webs, they found themselves beset by arachnid horrors—five giant spiders, inflamed by Tempest’s fiery retribution. In a swift and furious exchange, Tempest’s spells sang through the air, her magic laying waste to the creatures as the weasel, though unprepared for such conflict, leapt to her aid.

The battle’s end left them amidst a scene of death—five monstrous corpses and the still forms of their friends. The weasel, a creature of nature’s whimsy amidst the carnage, watched on. Their path forward remained shrouded in uncertainty, the resolution of their quest deferred until another moon’s rise.

The gathering concluded, as all such gatherings must, with laughter and farewells. Their spirits, though tested by the castle’s darkness, remained unbroken—a testament to the bonds forged in the crucible of their shared ordeal. The companions would meet again, not under the shadow of Strahd’s domain, but across the span of time and space that separated their realities. And so, the tale paused, awaiting the next chapter in the saga of the Nefarious Do-Gooders.