Chapter Text
The warmth of the fire dances across your face as you cradle a glass of wine, fingers daintily tracing the rim. Around the table, your companions are a blur of laughter and familiar faces: Halsin, Shadowheart, and Gale. It’s a quiet tavern in Beregost—a far cry from the chaos of Baldur’s Gate—but it’s the perfect place to rest for now. The plan is to have a few drinks before leaving to meet with the rest of the gang back in the city. You are to reminisce for “old time’s sake.” Quaint.
It’s hard to believe a year has passed. Shadowheart speaks of her quiet life with her parents, though her voice still falters when she mentions her faith. Shar is a scar that won’t heal, and Selûne feels like she's behind a fogged glass pane. You offer what comfort you can, but you’ve always found the gods a bit too loud and demanding for your taste.
Besides… Gods are for the living.
Across from her, the bear of a druid and the Wizard of Waterdeep are deep in their own cups. Halsin’s tales of the orphanage are punctuated by Gale’s boisterous, ale-soaked laughter.
Gale slaps the druid’s broad shoulder, nearly sloshing his drink. “—and I said Mage Hand? I barely know her!”
Shadowheart smiles, shaking her head. “That was awful,” she critiques quietly.
You watch them over the rim of your glass, the dark wine a swirling whirlpool that echoes your amusement. Gale, now a professor in Waterdeep and finally rid of that tedious Orb, looks far too comfortable in his own skin.
“I’ve heard better from a drunken bugbear,” you snicker.
As for you? You’ve returned to the shadows and the quiet of the night. It suits you, though it lacks the… theatricality of last year’s events.
“Astarion?” Shadowheart turns her glass toward you. “I’ve missed you. It’s nice to be back.”
You shrug, the urge to protest rising habitually to your lips. You want to mention the lingering scent of wet bear or the way Gale’s monologues could put a skeleton to sleep. You want to complain about the permanent knots in your back from those god-awful bedrolls. But the defensive tension in your shoulders gives way to a rare, genuine nod.
It’s a dangerous thing, letting sincerity show. But here, among them, it feels safe. “I suppose so. I do miss our merry little gang.”
You’ve always had an affinity for Shadowheart over most of the group. Like you, she has a playful bite to her words. Like you, she has a protective guard around herself. Like you, she has had everything taken away from her and was left to rot in the shadows.
“Can’t wait to see the others,” she says.
You nod. Baldur’s Gate isn’t far; just a few more days and you’ll be reunited with the rest of the troupe.
Suddenly, the doors burst open with a loud thud—far too much force for a simple patron. A hush falls over the room, chilling even Gale’s drunken laughter. You look up from your wine. Standing in the threshold is a man in elegant, colorful garments and a large-brimmed hat. He is tan and bearded, his hat pulled low to obscure his eyes.
The man steps forward, the rhythmic chink-chink of his jewelry marking every stride. The tavern slowly returns to its hum, though it’s a nervous, thin sound. He stops at your table, his presence smelling of strange spices and woodsmoke.
“Friends,” he says, opening his arms and tilting his hat up just enough for his dark eyes to sweep over the group. He’s draped in layers of shimmering scarves and vibrant fabrics—beautiful, exotic, and entirely foreign to your well-traveled eyes. “You are adventurers, no?”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes, glancing at Shadowheart. She catches your gaze, a knowing tilt to her head. It’s always adventurers, isn’t it? The world simply won’t stop needing to be saved.
“Retired,” you reply flatly, taking a pointed sip of your wine.
He looks over the group, but his eyes linger on you. You feel a sudden, prickling heat behind your ears as his gaze drops to your neck—to the twin marks you’ve spent two centuries trying to hide, or forget, or both.
You instinctively scratch at your collar, tilting your chin as a silent snarl coils in your chest. The wine is abruptly forgotten, replaced by the weight of the dagger hugging your hip.
“I know adventurers when I see them. Please!” He turns to Gale and Halsin, his voice taking on a desperate, melodic tilt. “My people need help. We are not far but we are not powerful… not like you. Please! You must help.”
He fumbles through the vibrant folds of his silks and pulls out a letter, thrusting it toward you. You take it gingerly. The parchment feels aged and dusty, smelling of dried ink and—unmistakably—the metallic tang of copper.
“From my… Master,” he says.
Your fingers tighten around your glass until you fear the crystal might snap. An ache lurches in your chest, as if your heart were beating. When he locks his eyes with you again, for a terrifying second, you wonder if he can see the invisible leash you spent centuries wearing.
“You have a priest, a healer, yes?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, his gaze flitting over Shadowheart and Halsin. “We are just several hours southeast by foot. But go by day! For the Svalich Woods are no place for the living at night.”
Svalich Woods? You know the geography south of the city well enough—the Wood of Sharp Teeth and the path toward Beregost—but you’ve never heard of a “Svalich” forest. The name sounds like a cold wind from a place that shouldn’t exist.
The man struts to the bartender, slapping a handful of coins onto the counter. “A round for these fine adventurers!” He sweeps back to your table and offers a final, low nod.
“Please, read the letter. I cannot stay; I must go back. But, if you be of honor, adventurers, you will help. Yes?”
He turns to leave.
“Wait,” Shadowheart speaks up. “What is your name?”
The man pauses, his silhouette framed by the door and the unnatural, swirling grey that seems to have swallowed the street outside. He does not look back.
“Arrigal.”
The name is short, sharp and final. Then he is gone, the door swinging shut with a heavy wooden thud that echoes a bit too long in the suddenly cramped tavern.
Hail to thee of might and valor,
I, a lowly servant of Barovia, send honor to thee. We plead for thy so desperately needed assistance.
The love of my life, Ireena Kolyana, has been afflicted by an evil so deadly that even the good people of our village cannot protect her. She languishes from her wound, and I would have her saved from this menace.
There is much wealth here in Barovia. I offer all that might be had to thee and thy fellows if thou shalt but answer my desperate plea.
Come quickly, for her time is at hand! All that I have shall be thine!
Kolyan Indirovich,
Burgomaster
The four of you stare at the letter. Up close, the metallic tang of copper is overwhelming; the ink is dark and thick, dried into the parchment like a scab. The script itself is too perfect—the flourishes far too elegant for a simple village official.
You've no reason to trust a stranger like Arrigal. None at all.
But while concern furrows the brows of your companions, the promise of coin rattles in your skull. You have always been… persuadable when it comes to riches. And “all that I have” is a very tempting amount of “all”.
“This smells rotten,” Shadowheart says, her fingers hovering near the edge of the parchment as if it might bite. “But… what if he truly is an honest man? What if this Ireena is actually in danger?”
Halsin nods solemnly. “I would hate for there to be truth to this message and turn away those we are more than capable of helping. What is the harm in a quick detour?”
“And,” Gale adds, leaning in with a scholarly twinkle in his eye, “several hours by foot is only a couple on horseback.” He motions over his shoulder to the door.
You almost protest that southeast is exactly where you don’t need to be heading, but then you hear Arrigal’s voice again as if he is reading the letter himself: There is much wealth here in Barovia.
“Barovia…” You swirl the remains of your wine, looking thoughtful. “I’ve never heard of such a place. And I make it a point to know all the best places to be seen—and all the worst ones to avoid. It’s… intriguing, if nothing else.”
You flip the letter over, running your thumb over the red, waxy seal. The impression is a family crest—a raven, wings spread—but it’s entirely unfamiliar. Surely, you would know of a wealthy house along the Sword Coast with such a mark?
“But… suppose you’re right,” you add, your voice smooth as silk as you tuck the letter into your vest. “What’s the harm? As long as we are paid for our… charity. Heaven knows I could use a new doublet after this trip; this one is practically a rag.”
You do not heed Arrigal’s warning about traveling by day. It is a few hours before midnight and you were prepared to depart anyway; you must run on a strictly lunar schedule. As much as you would adore the “bright warmth of the sun,” those days of a magical illithid parasite infection are long over. Now, the sun is once again your executioner, and you have no desire to blister and flake away to ash for a simple detour.
Before you depart, you question the innkeeper and the few locals still nursing their drinks. They shrug, mentioning that the man was likely Vistani—a nomadic, cheerful people who appear in colorful wagons to trade silk and silvers and stories. You’ve never heard of them. In a city like Baldur’s Gate, you’ve met everyone from every corner of Faerûn, yet these “Vistani” have somehow eluded your notice.
You all mount your horses, light your torches, and head into the night. A bitter chill settles over the road, a damp cold that bites through your layers and clings to your skin. The wind howls through the trees like a wounded beast. Barely ten minutes pass before you spot a rotted wooden sign jutting out of the fog. An arrow points toward a narrow, hazy trail: OLD SVALICH ROAD.
Perched atop the fencepost is a lone raven, its feathers as black as the void. It watches you with an unsettling, intelligent gaze before letting out a sharp caw. You point your horse toward the trail and follow the post, leaving the safety of the high road behind.
The lingering comfort of the wine fades, replaced by a cold that feels almost sentient. The fog only grows thicker with each passing clop-clop of the horses’ hooves. It clings to your mount’s ankles like spectral fingers, unmoving and heavy against the animal’s stride. Soon the world blurs into an opaque, smokey haze. You can barely see twenty feet ahead; your companions have become little more than ghostly silhouettes in the gloom. You pull on the reins, your horse’s nervous huffing the only sound against a silence so damp and heavy it feels like physical weight.
“I can barely see where we are going,” Halsin says, his voice muffled as he rides closer. He shakes his head, his usual confidence replaced by a deep, animal wariness.
You both look back toward Gale and Shadowheart, who have slowed to a crawl behind you. “Should we turn around?”
“But those people,” Shadowheart interjects, her voice small but firm. “The girl in the letter. We can’t just abandon them.”
“In all sincerity, despite my connection with the wilderness,” Halsin says, his voice dropping as he scans the shifting grey walls around you, “I fear we may be lost. I’m not even sure which way is back. And the air has gone strangely still. No crickets, no rustle of leaves… It is unnatural.”
“Bloody Hells,” you hiss, the words puffing in the cold air. “This fog is impenetrable.” You turn your horse, trying to find the path you just traveled, but there is only a haze of silvery mists that swallow everything.
“Well,” Halsin says, shaking his head as if to clear the gloom, “no matter. Stay close, and press forward. We’ll clear the fog eventually.”
An hour passes. Then two… three. You trot in what feels like maddening circles, the air feeling heavy as if you are breathing in wet wool. A primal anxiety bubbles deep in your gut, sharper than any hunger. Time is ticking. You are acutely aware that if you spend much longer outdoors, the dawn will find you—and the first ray of light will be your last.
“I hate to interrupt the fun we are having wandering in nothingness,” you start, your voice far thinner and more brittle than you’d prefer, “but if we stay out here much longer? The moment these mists clear, I shall become a very expensive pile of ash.”
Gale looks over with an apologetic frown. “Forgive me, Astarion. Seems we’re entirely turned about. I do have a heavy blanket in my pack, though; I’ll throw it over you if that happens. And I can create shadows with a few choice spells. You’re in good hands!”
You roll your eyes, though the gesture feels heavy with exhaustion. “My hero.”
After more aimless meandering, the mists finally begin to pull away. The forest they reveal is drained of all vibrancy, a landscape in mourning. The trees are twisted, skeletal things, their bark blackened and their branches reaching up like gnarled fingers of the buried. The road beneath your horses’ hooves is slick, dark mud, and the air… it smells of wet earth and ancient decay.
Leaden, slate clouds blanket the encroaching dawn. You look up, gnawing your lip anxiously, praying they remain thick enough to keep the sun at bay. Halsin pulls his mount to an abrupt halt, his knuckles white against the leather of his reins.
“This feels… familiar,” he says, his voice thick with a dread you haven’t heard since the shores of Moonrise.
Shadowheart snaps her head to him, her face pale. “I was just about to say that. I feel it too.” She glances to the back of her hand—at her ever-present mark of her old goddess—her brow knitting in pain. “We have been here before.”
“The Shadowfell,” Gale whispers, his hand instinctively moving to the center of his chest, as if checking for the thrum of the Orb.
You look around, the hair on your arms standing up. You understand, too. Stagnant air and sour soil cling to a silence that seems to be holding its last breath. It feels…
Dead.
There is something else, too—a weight in the air, a sense of being watched by the very world itself. Another raven caws somewhere from deep in the woods, sounding like a burst of mocking laughter echoing against the bristling, gnarled trees.
“Maybe we should turn back,” Shadowheart suggests, her voice barely above a whisper.
But when you glance behind, the road has vanished. In its place is a thick curtain of fog. You crane your neck, looking for any break in that grey wall, but it soars upward endlessly, until it swallows the leaden sky. It isn’t just a mist anymore; it’s a border. A cage.
“We’ll just get lost again,” you mutter, though the word you really want to use is trapped.
You turn back to the road ahead. The path forward is the only thing left in the world that remains clear, but it feels like a path into a predator’s mouth. Left with no other choice, you kick your horse into a slow, hesitant walk. You press forward, into the waiting arms of silence.
As the forest thins into a clearing, a massive gate looms out of the haze. It is at least five stories tall, a monolith of marble and stone that seems to anchor to the very earth. Two gargantuan, headless statues flank the entrance like disgraced sentinels, their stony heads now lying forgotten among the weeds at their feet, chipped and cracked by the centuries.
“Look,” Gale says, pointing a gloved finger to a symbol emblazoned in the center of the gates. “A family crest?”
You usher your horse forward, narrowing your eyes at the mark. It is a raven, wings spread wide, as if to claim the valley beyond. The crest is elegant—impeccably maintained compared to the weathered stone around it—with a cold, stagnant beauty.
“It’s the same crest as the seal on the letter,” you whisper, the realization turning your blood to ice.
Without warning, the metal groans—a deep, tectonic sound that vibrates through your saddle and into your very teeth. You let out a startled yelp as the horses skitter and huff in alarm. The giant iron-bound doors slowly swing inward, as if pulled by invisible, welcoming hands.
You look to the others and raise a brow, a sharp, defensive mask of a smile on your face. “I suppose we are invited—expected. How very hospitable.”
You pass through the gate. The moment it clears your horses’ tails, it closes with a shuddering groan. The final, deafening clang thunders against your eardrums, echoing through the hollow valley like the tolling of a funeral bell.
High atop a ridge, you look out over a sprawling valley framed by jagged, distant mountains. The trail dips down, snaking for several miles toward a small, colorless settlement below. To your left, a river cuts through the earth, disappearing into the mist behind rolling hills.
The wind howls through the basin, a mournful sound that seems to carry the weight of a thousand years. Your gaze is pulled magnetically to the right.
At least a thousand feet high above the grasping trees, perched atop a sheer pillar of stone that defies the laws of nature, sits a castle. It is a bristling, dark silhouette against the sickly ashen sky, its windows like empty eye sockets staring down at you. It doesn’t just sit there; it reigns.
“I wonder who lives there,” Gale says, his voice small, though carrying a trace of his usual scholarly curiosity.
“I don’t know, but… it looks menacing,” Shadowheart remarks. She points to the village below. “Suppose we’ll find out; I’m guessing that’s our destination.”
You cast your gaze toward the thick clouds above. Dawn has broken, but the sun is no threat here. As you snap the reins and urge your horse toward the village, a cold, familiar weight settles in your gut—a phantom tug on a leash you thought you’d broken.