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Part I, Strahd exerts the old cerebellum.
"Rahadin, my noble childhood friend," I said, resting in his arms, "may I speak frankly?"
"Certainly, sir."
"What I have to say may wound your eternal Elvish soul."
"Not at all, sir."
"Well then — "
No, wait.
Proceed no further, oh indiscreet reader of the secret journal of mine, and let me marshal my thoughts first. The precaution is necessary to shield your feeble mind from the abruptness of being thrown into the freezing-cold waters of this retrospection. Sure, a lesser man would not have bothered to guard the misinformed and the naive, but the Code of Zaroviches compels me to protect the fools who unwittingly stumble into my care. Don’t thank me. (Or if you do, bear in mind that I prefer red-heads and rubies.)
Now, circling back to the rummy business of Rahadin — my man, you know — how did we end up like this?
First, understand this: The descendants of the proud dynasty of Zarovich are not some weak nobles who will become slaves to their valets. In fact, I have nothing but disdain for such spineless creatures; they deserve all the humiliation, pain and the final annihilation of their family lines that follow such cowardly behaviour. Yet hold on, before you declare my righteous indignation too harsh a judgement, consider this — none of them possesses a valet as competent as Rahadin.
For I am the most honourable man — some even consider me God, and it would be cruel of me to deny them the comfort of their humble praise of my prowess — and always give credit where credit's due. Mark my words, there is no other dusk elf in Barovia who deserves more appreciation than my stoic companion, the most fantastic cove alive — Rahadin. Dashed competent in every respect, whether engaged in the disposal of someone who displeased the young master or serving as a silent guardian and advisor when I need an attentive ear (not counting those that he separates from the unfortunate ones who displeased the y. m., refer to point one).
Unfortunately, every other domestic servant (including my loving spouses or the silly adventurers) regularly barges into my crypt while I am still asleep, causing much misery for everyone. Either in the ill-advised wish to please or to slaughter. But Rahadin... oh Rahadin, manages to divine when I have awoken from my deathlike slumber by some arcane method, a dark spell No Man Was Meant To Know. And within two minutes of the resurrection, I can anticipate my goblet of wine floating into the room, ready to do its part in rearranging the noble profile from the horizontal into the vertical state.
However, this fair night proved to be different. The twilight air was pleasant and mild, the cobwebs swayed gently in the corners of the crypt, and outside the thick walls, the last of the daylight died — just as all my enemies eventually would. That is to say, the evening showed no warning signs of a looming disaster.
As I was ready to draw Rahadin's attention to the inevitable demise of my foes, it occurred to me that I was preparing my welcoming speech for no less than ten minutes now. Alone. My world shattered at this realisation. Rahadin's prompt appearance at my side was not just an expectation but more like a prophecy foretold by the distinguished Madame Eva. Something must be deeply wrong with the world for him to abandon the young master!
A dreadful sensation gripped me. Fear — not for my immortal self but for the fate of my loyal servant... Imagine my distress when I flew on the wings of the night and into the throne room only to find Rahadin sitting in his usual corner and brooding. The sword with tortured Elven souls on his knees, his hands sharpening it methodically and slow, the aura of agony and pain screaming all around him. That is to say, there were no apparent signs of evil curses or fates.
"I say!" I said.
"I beg your pardon, sir," Rahadin answered calmly, straightening up and sheathing the sword with the same swiftness and brutality one would shove a burning stake down his enemies throats. Which in his case, was a meticulous and accurate job. Really letting the delinquent feel each burning bit of it. Dashed competent, as I said.
"I shall fetch the blood at once."
Now, we, Zaroviches, are not a resentful lot. On the contrary, we are the most benevolent Lords and fully capable of forgiving someone after they paid for their indiscretion with their limb, life and immortal soul, drowning the very ground of where the offence took place with their blood, and feeding them cold humiliation and despair until they choke on its bitter taste as it slowly etches through their soul and they die in horrendous agony.
I forgave Rahadin his miscalculation. But I don't mind saying I was still cross with him. The mishap was not like the paragon of all Elves that I knew, and I sensed that his mind was occupied with things other than the well-being of his beloved brother.
I eyed him carefully, as I sat on the throne and asked in my usual fashion, "Anything worth-mentioning in the world outside the misty walls of my splendid realm?"
"Some slight friction threatening in Neverwinter, sir. It appears the dragon's gold is still amiss." He had been on his way to fetch the fortunate one to replenish my thirst upon, but cheesed it courteously.
"And how's the weather inside the realm?"
"Last morning, the first snow of the year fell in Krezk, sir."
"Ah. Always a joy to the young cubs, I am sure."
"Decidedly, sir."
"Celebration and all that."
"Yes, sir."
"In the winter, Rahadin, one especially feels the cold creeping upon the soul and is driven to the nearest companion to unburden the sins less they drag one down into an early grave, don't you think?"
"So I have been informed, sir," his brow wrinkled minutely. Encouraged by such an explosive show of emotions, I pressed on.
"Anything else on your mind, Rahadin?" I held my breath. Not that I needed it to continue my existence, but it added to the dramatics of the moment as I bent over the backrest of my throne and stared deep into his gloomy eyes.
"No, sir. It is my practice at this hour to improve my fencing technique, but if you desire my services, this can easily be postponed."
We exchanged significant glances. At least, I gave him a fairly significant glance, and he looked as impassive as ever — as is his habit when faced with delicate matters. Granted, Rahadin never leaps about and rolls the eyes when you spring something sensational on him, preferring to preserve the calm impassivity of a stuffed frog and cutting the offender to pieces before they have a chance to amaze him further, but this time, there wasn't even a touch of the Soul's Awakening about it.
After that, it seemed rather difficult to go on with the conversation, and without a suitable battle plan up my sleeve, I dismissed Rahadin. Before I even finished, the blighter was already gone. Shimmered away. Many a spectre from my castle would have been less slippy.
Part II, The tension intensifies.
The situation stunk.
And I did not mean it in a metaphysical sense the poetic chaps use to gloss over the harsh reality of life — even though I am something of a poet myself; as it is evident from the elegant style of this recollection — however, this time it was truth and nothing but the truth. The trace of Rahadin and his frequent, untimely disappearances had a distinctly foul odour to it. The one I recognized immediately since it reminded me of that one place under the mists of my realm that I tend to avoid at all cost. The Ruins of Berez.
The Ruins were a muddy business. And then there was dirt too. And swamps. And Aunt Lysaga. Not related by blood — thank Mother for small mercies! — but, alas, somehow still part of the family. She's the kind of woman who rags you before breakfast while squeezing the life out of small bat babies and then continues with chewing her way through Orc armies, full-plate armour and all. I dare say there are creatures in the world — mind flayers and beholders come to mind — whom she couldn't intimidate; but all the others would immediately feel their spine turn to jelly under her stern gaze.
No, I really didn't anticipate any great pleasure from gnawing a bone in her society. But the severity of the situation with Rahadin drew me to extreme measures. Not for a second did I believe that he could have turned his gaze from me on his own accord! But if she was the one messing with my bosom friend, I would not be afraid to lay fire to the marshes all the way down to Hell and back. If not — well, anyone else who might be foolish enough to try; the old witch would surely know the culprit. I was even prepared to bear the habitual disappointment I sensed whenever her eyes fell on me, making me wonder whether she was hoping to see someone else in my stead...
Yet before reaching her old hut, I heard a curious sound, something rather offbeat to the natural gurgling, slurping, and buzzing noises of the marshes. A sharp female voice echoed through the soggy dampness of the landscape.
"Sometimes," the immaterial voice coming from the open window of the hut announced for all the frogs and insects to overhear, "Strahd seems entirely foolish and brainless. At other times, there are things which suggest that there are some hidden possibilities in him. That, properly stimulated, he might overcome his inflated ego and actually do something worthwhile. And it drives me positively mad that I can not get enough of a grip on him to forcibly mould him into his better version!"
I imagine at this point, Aunt Lysaga could see that the other woman was looking for something to break as a relief for her overflowing feelings and courteously drew her attention to a terracotta figure of the Morning Lord that she must have taken off of a fresh group of adventures. The following smashing sound shattered the earth around me, and droplets of water plopped down my collar from the fearfully trembling ferns.
"My dear girl, you are absolutely right," the deep voice of Aunt Lysaga tolled in. Though I only could assume it was her, since I never had a chance to hear that exact phrase coming out of her mouth when I was the intended recipient, "Someone should stop him before he idles away in shallow degeneration and fades. Someone like a strong-headed wife who can breed him into something useful before it's too late."
"I say!" I said to the fern leaf mockingly dangling in front of my face. Not too loud, though, more like a menacing, angry whisper full of righteous indignation. Very threatening, I assure you. Because you see, aside from Aunt Lysaga, the other voice belonged to Patrina Velikovna, a frightfully arrogant sort of filly who reads stuff like Rediscovering the Fundamental Causation of Magical Theory: Arcane Magic, Divine Magic, and the Deep Structure of the World for amusement and intimidation of lesser mages (to whom I fortunately not belong, but whose trembling before her is both ridiculous and pitiful to behold).
— On a side note: Tragically, the current generation of mages is such a sad bunch that they are easily swept off their feet by the likes of Patrina, who is surely a mighty wizard in her own right, but also a dreadful bitch. Whereas a noble soul such as self continually lacks the proper recognition. This is only due to the regrettable fact that when faced with so many virtues, the mob tends to get overwhelmed. Unable to comprehend the greatness of one individual, the ordinary mind turns to the more easily digestible admiration of the mundane and the mediocre. —
Anyhow. Apparently, at one point in our acquaintance, she started to dream of the most wondrous of the conjuration spells, The Dreadful Walk up the Aisle, to forever shackle this pinnacle of mankind to her person. A sentiment certainly understandable, yet irritating in its persistence.
I will be honest and admit to having a weakness for a corking profile, and Patrina makes quite the picture when viewed from the side. Yet by some cruel joke of the Old Gods, the supple sweetness does not extend to her interior qualities — the woman is a true hag in disguise, dreadful sense of humour, short temper and all — and after a few months of exposure to said temperament, I was having second thoughts about our liaison. Third, fourth, and fifth thoughts were already marching up rather impatiently to plead their case, and I bowed my head before their superior numbers.
Unfortunately, when a girl like Patrina declares that she will marry you, you can't very well voice a preference for being dead in a ditch, unless she kindly offers to help you on the way. Speeding up the matters considerably. No, it was a challenge, a clash of wills between me and the two scheming women in the hut. There was a time when the prospect of facing Aunt Lysaga alone would have been enough to send me bolting for cover like a rabbit. But since then I had passed through Hell and the Amber Temple, died and been resurrected, and the sight of her judging eyes no longer filled me with dread. With a good deal of quiet self-satisfaction about my inner composure, I tactically retreated.
Part III, The hero's reward.
Now, more than ever, I wished for Rahadin to be at my side.
My friend and guardian followed me in all battles, but this challenge I had to face alone. As ultimately all great men are, isolated by their superior knowledge and power...
For all my solitude, Patrina was still ghosting through my mind. She was there beside me as I climbed the steps to the Amber Temple, the ultimate destination of the foul road that led Rahadin away from me. And as the air grew thinner and colder, her voice rang even more shrill in my ears. Over and over reminding me why nowadays I preferred mellower brides — like that lovely high-elven maiden, Maerith, who wisely chose me instead of her inadequate adventurer friends... Thinking of it, Rahadin somehow gave me the impression that he wasn't keen on Maerith. Perfectly within his usual range of stiffness and all that, but there was a kind of rummy something about his manner when he saw her gliding down the stairs of my castle. Maerith was a perfect treasure, though, and seen sideways, most elegantly good-looking. Especially around the ears. If she had a fault, it was perhaps a tendency to act a touch imperious with the other races. Of course, I did not tolerate any of this nonsense in my realm, but surely you can’t blame a girl for her love of the Elven traditions!
Yet all thoughts of women disappeared with a bang as I saw Rahadin kneeling before the entrance to the Temple, his head bowed deep in supplication. Snowflakes already started covering him up and many an inexperienced cleric would have been deceived by his silent and immovable manner and started embalming on sight. Yet there was something alive in his hands, struggling to escape the iron grip. Something green and almost frozen. Something that reminded me of the Berez Ruins...
At this moment, Rahadin stirred. There was a soft mumbling of a prayer and he bent to kiss… no, to eat the darn thing!
“Dear chap!” I cried out and Rahadin turned his face to me, one green leg sticking out to the side of his mouth and vigerously kicking.
Amazed by this scene, I gaped and apparently my upper brain functions ceased for a second. My foot slipped on a treacherous cliff, sending me tumbling down, and the back of my head hit the rocks. The impact made me see stars for a second, all eight of them dancing the jig. Rather like something out of the pictures another one of my newest fiancés liked to dabble in. One in particular came to mind: "The Summer's Arrival". It's all green dots and red splashes, and with a huge white eye staring out of the middle of the mess. As if summer, just as it was on the way, had stubbed its toe on a hidden warding glyph and exploded onto the canvas. Smearing its interstitials in the most gruesome manner, poor thing. On days like these, I was grateful that the usual colour palette of my realm was a tender grey.
"Ugh," I said plaintively, as I felt strong arms holding me up. Fortunately, Rahadin always knew exactly what I meant, even when my Pact with the Dark Powers and a concussion prevented me from saying so directly.
After regaining both my composure and the vertical position, I asked, "Why, Rahadin?” Subsequently following up with a meaningful, “Why?”
Rahadin answered all the way down to the matter, finally showing the proper feudal spirit. "I gathered that a sacrifice was in order to ease your pain of being trapped in a Pact that was not entirely to your satisfaction, sir. And ever since your childish remarks of my resemblance to a stuffed frog, I considered the animal to be my spiritual animal of sorts. And by extension a sufficient medium for my supplication."
He had a grim, almost martyred air, his brows drawn together a whole quarter of an inch closer than usual. I have not seen him that agitated in centuries.
"Rahadin, my noble childhood friend," I said, resting in his arms, "may I speak frankly?"
"Certainly, sir."
"What I have to say may wound your eternal Elvish soul."
"Not at all, sir."
"Well then — please, cease stealing Aunt Lysaga's frogs. I promise you, their premature demise will not help my prediction."
"As you wish, sir." The whiff of Rahadin's sadness was delicate like a cough of a snail on a distant hill.
"There are more pressing matters, my friend, where your help is direly needed."
"I am at your disposal, sir."
After that satisfactory conclusion, I decided to maintain a manly, brothers-in-arms silence about the whole business, avoiding all those tearful explanations and other rot. But feeling benevolent, I wanted to thank my friend. His loyalty was above all doubt.
"Rahadin. You may get rid of Maerith."
"Thank you, sir. I sacrificed her last night."