Date: June 29, 2025
Players: Sean D. (Sören Ironwood – Aasimar Paladin), Chris (Radley – Human Fighter), Carey (Traxidor – Half-Elf Cleric), Trip (Daermon Cobain – Half-Elf Rogue)
Filed Under: Curse of Strahd, Gothic Horror, D&D Recaps

Twelve days in Barovia and each dawn feels like dusk. At the Blue Water Inn, a messenger arrived with a letter sealed in wax — Strahd von Zarovich’s invitation to dine at Castle Ravenloft. Radley, their sardonic Eldritch Knight, joked about wine with the Devil. Traxidor, cleric and conscience, argued no. Sören, the Aasimar Paladin, nearly growled at the thought of bowing to Strahd’s civility. Daermon Cobain, rogue and blade, said little — his coin flicking through the shadows.

They refused. There would be no supper with monsters — not yet.

Morning brought nails hammering declarations into timber. Lady Fiona Wachter now called herself Burgomaster of Vallaki by the will of the mob that strung up the old Baron. Her orders stripped the last hope from the town: worship of the Morning Lord forbidden, a curfew enforced, all must bow to her Reeve. And every young woman? Inducted into her “Society of Vallaki’s Maidens” — loyalty by marriage or worse.

They walked the scorched town to the crackle of funeral pyres, then turned into Blinsky’s Toys, where horrors wore porcelain smiles. Gadof Blinsky, a jester with a monkey named Piccolo, sang his eerie line: “Is no fun, is no Blinsky!” They found a doll identical to Ireena Kolyana — Strahd’s stolen love. Blinsky confessed he made dozens for Izek Strazni, the Baron’s monstrous enforcer, who always wanted more. The party left with the doll and an unease that clung like a damp shroud.

At the looted manor, they found the Baron’s son Victor’s hidden attic lab. The door’s Glyph of Warding nearly dropped Sören, but inside they found more grim trophies: animated cat skeletons, mannequins facing the wall, and a broken teleportation circle — an escape gone wrong. A dead end — yet the footprints in the scorch marks said someone had tried.

Next, they dug up Miloj’s grave and learned the bones of Saint Andral had been sold to Henrik van der Voort. At his coffin shop, they found the crates cracked open, dirt scattered — and Henrik himself, torn to ribbons, his entrails smeared across the walls and ceiling. They cut off his head like a butcher dressing a pig and took it as proof, though no bones remained.

At dawn, they rode with the Martikovs’ wine wagon to Krezk. Sören, ever devout but unhinged, flayed the flesh from Henrik’s skull on the road. The Martikovs threatened to dump the barrels if the barbarity didn’t stop — until three peasants begged for silver to fight werewolves. In moments, they revealed their fur and fangs. The Martikovs fled with the wine, yelling for the party to run. But the adventurers stood their ground: blades flashed, holy power sparked, and two beasts fell before the last vanished into the mists.

Saint Andral’s bones are lost. Lady Wachter rules in Strahd’s name. The Count’s invitation still waits on a table set for guests who haven’t yet come. And the mists? They watch everything.

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