#so strahds off the table

[xmoriartea]

With Rahadin's marching orders on Vallaki divined by Alkali, there was just one thing left to do: prepare to murder an elf.

Alkali immediately got to work with setting Forbiddance across the town again and discovered the Martikovs had left the Inn in the care of Glita and Gaetor — the local general store owners who Alkali had previously married — while they took care of Family Business.

We grabbed some of Gaetor's egg mess breakfast (the halfling cannot cook yeesh), and whole lot of us joined the Newly Weds™ at their weird pocket fortress they stole from Kalina's attic.

Things needed to get done and we had to game plan - there were so many plans, also we looked over things we'd been stockpiling over the last few weeks.

Lots to do, not nearly enough time. But at least Bandit was vibing.

Before we split up, an octopus floated through the sky towards us. Taron learned new warlock things! Woo! But he was telling us things were ROUGH™ underwater with dead things pounding on their doors. Less Woo.

I sent a Sending to a merfolk vampire we has scared off — his name is Ricardo — and told them if they wanted to prove themselves, to protect the Sanctuaries from the outside. They were Not Thrilled™ but said they'd try. It was the best we could offer the lake until other things were dealt with.

Meanwhile, Tanner, somehow, being the face?? had a few more people to go check in on.

Lady Wachter for one and trying to explain to her that Holtz was Strahd was Something™ APPARENTLY Strahd is just TOO BUSY to meet his people, so she's never actually seen him before.

Busy my ass.

But she was shook enough to maybe believe it, and Tanner made sure she knew what was at stake and what would happen if she turned on us. Then he popped off to the wizard elves who were a little magic hung over in their home-shack (we sort of shoved them in Bluto's old place since he was fish food and Alkali doesn't like the elves anyway).

Kasimir did not want to believe there were People in the lake, and also was not convinced Alkali isn't a man-eating Sahuagin based on Tanner's descriptions on the creatures that terrorized the merfolk prior to Strahd picking up that mantle. But alas, they were warned Rahadin was coming.

Alkali meanwhile took care of updating a very tired Ismark on both the whole Rahadin thing and the whole 'btw two of your council people just got married' thing. Not sure what concerned him more. But he did promise to get her a drink after this and she's holding him to it.

While Tanner had more individual stops to make, she checked the walls, trying to get an idea of what waited for them outside and also told some guards to shove their fucking racism because there were definitely more dead peasants than Vistani out there.

But she DID see an unfortunately familiar Vistani corpse out there.

But the Newly Weds had some Frostwhispers to share the news with, and probably good to do that before war hit the town more so right? So to House Frostwhisper they went.

Faraga was cackling outside and chucking bottled storms at the house to taunt Ethel - Tanner wanted her to bring water to the town... so she got Weird about it. But points for creativity!

Inside, Papa Frostwhisper was shocked by news, a little sad he didn't get to see it, but happy for them. Also terrified for Tanner. GG. Grand/Mother-in-Law Ethel is a nightmare and he welcomed Tanner into the family, but also maybe advised him to run a little

They found Ethel using her current model boy toy to move mechanical bits around for her in her she-shed-workshop out on the grounds. SHE actually made the pump system Tanner was looking for.

Ethel being... Ethel. Did not accept that her ""fAiLuRe"" granddaughter had gotten married. Insisted this was a stupid prank. To which Kalina kissed Tanner to shut up her grandmother, and then dragged him out onto the street.

Grandmother was v angy but Tanner was proud.

Some of out friends had been out looking for supplies or bringing Tanner's things from the Inn to the Fortress, and so the two got to work as soon as they got back - artificers, man, they never stop.

But as the Clerics were rejoining the party.... war horns started to sound...

Rahadin had entered the chat.

With a force of 40~ and 2 fucking undead cyclops behind him, Rahadin had come to Vallaki.

And his grotesque little shouty friend was decreeing they were here to arrest Arabelle on grounds of treason. Like that was going to happen.

Tanner launched a paper bird with a wanted sign for Strahd saying we were investigating him on the grounds of impersonating a noble, but weirdly, that's a charge they didn't care about. So he launched a cold mold bomb at the shouty boi

See Tanner's built these horrific cold mold bombs that just CHASE open flames and do massive cold damage. And when Rowan shot a little bit of fire at it... That shouty bastard did not know what hit him.

Rahadin sent the cyclops forward, prepared to take down our walls, and Alkali simply said No to that, Turning Undead and sending both cyclops fleeing. And you know, Rahadin's not a happy fellow, but it SEEMED like that wasn't how he wanted that to go. Huh. Weird.

Tanner gave us all fly and we took the fucking fight to them, He put up an ice wall around Rahadin, sectioning him off from his army, and Alkali saw her chance.

See Alkali is a siren sort. She guards the ships that sink and she does not save sailors. She makes sure they go down with her ships.

And Rahadin... Rahadin wanted to drain a lake to catch a fish.

She didn't like that.

Rahadin fell, quickly. And one critical hit from our lady elven cleric he'd been quite rude to and one failed save and Rahadin was down.

... his cohorts didn't super want to leave it at that thoogh and called a fucking Undead Dragon down from the skies.

So for under a minute in real time (lol combat) there were two fights going on:

Tanner, Kalina, Mina, and Rowan were all focused on the FUCKING DRAGON.

Alkali and Arabelle focused on taking out the leadership that kept trying to reach Rahadin's body.

See I was going to make sure this genocidal dusk elf stayed DEAD.

And then the amazing happened...

Arabelle managed to counterspell a Revivify on Rahadin.

But the priestess was up to something. Something... I as the party cleric was intimately familiar with.

Y'all its rude to use your player's abilities against them!

The evil priestess got some Intervention. And while her god gave her some UMF, she still had to cast it again. Unfortunately for her, she was right in Sunbeam path and that second revivify never went off. Tragic.

Free diamond though!

Meanwhile, the dragon was doing some fucking damage, it hit like a fucking truck. But Kalina is a paladin now and she slammed some SMITES into those bones. The guards at the gate got to watch their councilwoman just DESTROY a dragon, it was beautiful.

And as the dust settled, Alkali lifted Rahadin's corpse from the field and flew up with it as she and Tanner addressed the army.

Rahadin was dead. Their dragon destroyed. Revaluate. Do you surrender or leave?

One of them got mouthy, so Tanner fire bolted their trebuchet...

...and we returned to the wall to a fucking sea of applause.

They were still concerned about the whole undead army thing outside, but we just cleared out hundreds of them, a dragon, and RAHADIN.

Instant Morale Boost.

Also: Rahadin's in a bag of holding!

That's always fun.

Over lunch, Alkali debated whether she was going to Animate him (SO TEMPTING. SHE REALLY WANTED TO SIC RAHADIN ON STRAHD OKAY) or do the sMaRt thing and funeral rite/curse him so he can't come back. She'd have to think on it more.

#barovian currents #dnd #curse of strahd #yes yes i know #drown is HELLA overpowered #but i made a deal with the DM to use it responsibly #it could only target breathing opponents anyway #so strahds off the table #butttttttt -eye emoji- she had her target planned anyway

[utilitycaster]

Well now im curious, what are your top 10 etiquette violations

I'm not actually sure there are 10 tbh in that these are relatively broad - you could split them up more finely if you wanted but they cover a wide range of behavior. Also this is...a bit stream of consciousness. I do stand by 1 as the absolute Golden Rule of D&D in that it's really just so Me Me Me (more so than main character syndrome) that it's inexcusable, but like...rules 2- 6 are kind of all in the same nebulous position in my mind as are rules 7-10. 2-6 are "really bad, have a talk and be prepared to kick this person out if they don't shape up and honestly I would probably not want to hang out with them irl much if they don't shape up" and 7-10 are "maybe don't invite them to game nights but they could be okay otherwise."

Deliberately going against the general vibe of the table. This is the broadest but also obviously worst trait. If everyone else is here to play a serious playthrough of Curse of Strahd and they're all vampire hunters and whatnot and you're playing a clown in a hawaiian shirt named Jeff you are not funny; you are an asshole. I think that person who made the post of like "I'm playing D&D with my dad's friends and they're all fighters with tragic backstory and I'm a neon firbolg who resurrects our enemies and runs therapy sessions" should be beaten with hammers. Like, be unique, but if everyone else is going for a lighthearted vibe it's not time to bust out your darkest PC and vice versa. (This also goes deeper, like, if your table has decided PC death in-game is okay, you can request a change, but if you've never spoken up about this and then your character dies and you pitch a fit, that's on you.)

"Um actually my rich family solves this" and similar circumventing of obstacles in a way that cuts off all story avenues. It's fine to offer your services to help - sometimes the party will want it! But the worst player I've played with (who still did not violate Item 1) did this and short-circuited like 75% of the plot by being like "well my wealthy merchant family can probably smooth this over" and I wanted to, well, beat them with hammers. Brian Murphy of Naddpod calls this "showing up and trying not to play D&D" and he's right.

Closely related to/overlapping with item 2 but Main Character Syndrome. If you're a wizard and there's a nonurgent trial of strength? that is for the barbarian. If they ask for help, go for it, but don't just do everything. Share the table. Self-explanatory but man do some people not get it. I'm also grouping this with "my character wouldn't help" behaviors. Like to be clear, forgoing your turn as a roleplay thing is fine, but another Naddpod D&D Court regular topic is like "the player for whatever reason would not join combat bc their character wouldn't, and we nearly had a tpk because the encounter assumed our fucking cleric would be there".

Actually violating player agency. Closely relating to 2-3. Conflict is great and good. I think it's fine to lie, cheat, and steal from your party members if your table agrees on that. There are spells or abilities that lead to possession which is also valid if your table has talked through that. But you do not get to otherwise like, force another player character to do your bidding (unless your table has, again, decided this is okay). You cannot persuasion check other PCs into going against their desires unless that's a very specific conversation you've had out of character as a table. Even in game, like, the DC on persuasion checks can be arbitrarily high - even impossible - if someone would simply never do it.

Noncombat/non-violent D&D. There are other TTRPGs that are not heavily based on war games with character classes that aren't like 90% battle abilities and you should check those out. Anyone who plays noncombat/nonviolent D&D and is proud of it is dumb as the bag of hammers I'm beating the people of items 1 and 2 for and I don't respect them. I guess this isn't so much an etiquette violation in that if your entire table wants this you can all be terrible together, but it is kind of a dick move, especially since I both love D&D and find the anti-D&D crowd to largely be the most sour grapes-ass losers of all time, but also believe passionately that there are many things D&D does not achieve well because it is in fact a specific game with specific objectives. You should, if you want to play a game that is all social encounters and skill checks and no fighting, play the many indie games that would love your patronage and suit you admirably, not the most neutered, milquetoast, unsalted margarine version of D&D. I genuinely believe that people playing murderhobos or hardcore metagamers are VASTLY preferable.

Not making a good faith effort to know the rules. You do not have to be good at D&D. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting for not knowing every rule of D&D. You only have to let the soft animal of your body have at least read the rules of your character's class, subclass, and race, and show up prepared, instead of being like "tee hee I listened to 5 episodes of TAZ Balance and am going to twirl my hair at the DM and hope they help little old me." The DM is BUSY and has SHIT TO DO. Read the fucking manual. It's okay to be wrong! It's not okay to be clueless on purpose.

Rules for Thee and Not For Me. Mostly a DM thing, and to be clear, the DM does have special rules bc they are the special one and this is obviously not about that. There are also rules that apply to NPCs/stat blocks and not PCs, and those are inherent to the balance of the game and are fine because NPCs have different abilities. But if, for example, you are requiring an athletics check of PCs to climb up on a ledge and don't permit acrobatics, your rogue NPC villain can't do acrobatics either unless they have some specific pre-written ability.

Metagaming pt 1: excessive metagaming: Part 2 will reveal the "excessive" but like. If you know trolls regenerate because you've been playing D&D for years but you are a level 4 INT 8 sorcerer in-game? you do not know trolls regenerate.

Metagaming pt 2: refusal to engage with the fact that this is a game: Sometimes you get the reverse, when people are like "well my character wouldn't realize that this magic item was important to your character" despite the other person RP-ing everything or "would I notice you were knocked out directly in front of me? It's a pitched battle!" Like. don't cheat but come on bro. This is, ultimately, a game. I will once again bring up Naddpod both because D&D Court exists AND they will do rule of funny shit (as Murph once pointed out, if you want to say you go to Ruby Tuesday's as a joke, great, if you try to use it mechanically, no, which is a healthy attitude towards immersion) AND Murph understands the concept of kayfabe.

Really extensive indecision that doesn't involve the whole party. This is mostly me but like. it's not fun, and I am impatient. If you're not an actual play livestream, you should take a break and in fact talk out of game and resume because god this drags. If everyone's on board obviously go for it but if it's one person's choice...babe the spotlight is on you, sing your solo or leave.

Basically: remember you are at a table with other people and you are telling a collaborative story in a system that is combat-heavy. I'm not bothered by (for example) someone stealing another character's item so long as they understand that this may lead to consequences for them! If you can dish it out but you're prepared to take it and your table trusts each other? Great! The problem is when people try to win against the other players, ask for special treatment they do not grant others, waste everyone's time unnecessarily, or skip to the end of the story; that's against the fundamental nature of the game. It's inconsiderate AND it misses the point.

#answered #oddswayout #d&d mechanics #i guess?

[transprincecaspian]

SESSION ONE: WELCOME TO BAROVIA

This is the re-cap/write-up of our first session in CURSE OF STRAHD: HUNTED, a campaign run by our dungeon-master ONYX and played by a total of six people around the table. In this session the party first arrives in the plane of Barovia and meets each other, before heading toward the nearest village (also Barovia).

As a note, the character known as Luca does not show up in subsequent sessions as the player bowed out of the campaign and we brought in someone else to take their place in session 2.

View the cast HERE.

For now, though, here is the start of the STORY SO FAR. / (MOBILE LINK)

The session opens with everyone centering in on a clearing, in the woods just south of Barovia.

Melchior and Giselle had met earlier in the day; Melchior introduced himself to her as a werewolf hunter, and seeing that Giselle was lost, agreed to take her to the village of Barovia so that she could start to get her bearings. It's late, and they've just set camp. Suddenly, an elf bursts into the clearing--Lune--and only pauses for a moment to tell them to "run" before they move along, faster than anyone the other two have ever seen before.

Before Melchior and Giselle have a chance to decide what to do, there is another interruption. Falling from the sky is Crafine, the kenku, followed quickly by Vayagol, a cleric who lands on top of them. As the group struggles to get their bearings, with Melchior offering healing word to Crafine, they realize that Giselle has already run off after Lune.

Eventually, the party catches up and gathers together underneath a tree. Up in the branches, Lune is helping Luca (bloodhunter) and an injured hunter, Bernor, down from the tree. Luca is covered in blood down the front of his shirt, and Bernor is limping along with his crossbow.

Crafine's sense power ability reveals a mass of undead encroaching upon the group from every direction except to the north, so everyone heads north. The mists, which seem to be chasing them, funnels them over the bridge and into the village of Barovia. Although to outsiders, the edge of the town is dilapidated, with abandoned houses and shuttered windows, those native to the plane state that it is always in such a state. The party takes note of a mansion nearby, welcoming with warm lights in the windows, though Melchior is disinterested in seeking help there.

Luca goes to seek help in the inn (Blood of the Vine), but the locals are frightened by the encroaching mists and so no help comes. Despite Melchior's warnings, Giselle makes a run for the mansion and prompts the party to follow. They find themselves trapped within Durst Manor, as the fog closes in and gives them nowhere else to turn. Melchior and Luca hint that this might be by design, alluding to a mysterious baron, and the party goes inside to investigate what might be going on within the manor.

Just inside, in the foyer, the party encounters two children: Rose & Thorn. The two children inform the party that their parents are gone (but insist that they will return), and that a monster "lives in the basement, but is haunting them through the walls". Despite Melchior's reticence, the party agrees to help them out. They decide to leave the children with Bernor guarding them, armed with a crossbow in the foyer, while everyone else explores the lower level of the house.

A short rest is taken, and then exploration begins. It appears as though life has frozen in place: the kitchen appears to have been freshly used, a mess with food and dishware scattered everywhere, and there is a hot feast out and waiting in the dining room. No one partakes of any food, though there is some theft of the silverware after Melchior reveals that he is a werewolf hunter, and that werewolves are a threat in Barovia. He says that a table setting is unlikely to do much damage to one of the beasts, but thefts occur regardless.

Upon not finding much on the first floor, save a bungled attempt to open a locked cupboard and an aside that Vayagol might not hear from her god here, the party decides to head up into the second floor. Melchior recognizes the people in the painted portrait at the top of the stairs, and correctly identifies the face of Gustav Durst, the former master of the Durst Manor and whose family used to rule Barovia. He recognizes Elizabeth Durst, his wife, who is scowling down at the baby cradled in Gustav's arms. The two children in front of them, who he states seem to be Rose & Thorn Durst, are smiling unawares.

In the library, Lune discovers a secret passageway; within, they find runic books on the shelves (which neither Melchior nor Crafine had the time to try and translate). Also within the passageway was a skeleton, that had clearly been killed by acidic darts, clutching a letter. The letter reads as follows:

My most pathetic servant, I am not a messiah sent to you by the Dark Powers of this land. I have not come to lead you on a path to immortality. However many souls you have bled on your hidden altar, however many visitors you have tortured in your dungeon, know that you are not the ones who brought me to this beautiful land. You are but worms writhing in my earth. You say that you are cursed, your fortunes spent. You abandoned love for madness, took solace in the bosom of another woman, and sired a stillborn son. Cursed by darkness? Of that I have no doubt. Save you from your wretchedness? I think not. I much prefer you as you are. Your dread lord and master, Strahd Von Zarovich

Lune opens up the chest on which the skeleton was propped up, and retrieves several items: three identified scrolls (bless, protection from poison, spiritual weapon) and three more scrolls that have yet to be identified. In the study portion of the library, Melchior reads through the first page of an open journal that was left out near the fireplace, and locates a silver key within the desk emblazoned with the symbol of a windmill; he recognizes this windmill from his travels.

Across the hall in the music room, Luca effortlessly serenades Giselle with enchanting piano music while she dances along. Crafine and Melchior enter the music room to investigate, so Giselle steps outside to talk to Vayagol. While this is happening, Lune travels upstairs to the third level of the manor alone, triggering an attack on the party by animated armors that suddenly spring to life.

In the ensuing combat, much is revealed, such as: Giselle is capable of casting magic, despite her previous claims that she is unable to do much more than to cook or paint. Melchior spies Luca drawing his own blood in combat, and his eyes turning a bright electric blue. Crafine almost falls unconscious, but Vayagol dashes over to him to heal his injuries before he is lost.

the party calls for a long rest.

in the library, Luca reveals to Crafine the truth that he is a dhampir, and that his blood is electrified(?) He alludes to some fonder familiarity between himself and Bernor. the pair of them play cards with the children, teaching Rose & Thorn how to gamble.

in the servants quarters, Melchior is carefully embroidering red thread into a large sheaf of spare black cloth. he tells Vayagol that his mother taught him how to do, and gestures to the red flowers embroidered onto his shirt. he implies that the flowers are of traditional significance, and promises to teach her the art of embroidery at a later time.

in the hallway, Lune speaks to Giselle, who is sticking close to them out of fear from the recent attack and feeling safer with them. Lune learns that Giselle was not lying to the party, but she has only recently come into her powers. Lune ponders over the amulet around their neck before taking their meditative rest.

end long rest.

after the long rest, Crafine and Luca realize that Bernor and the children are missing. Alarmed, the rest of the party is quickly roused, and everyone agrees to ascend to the third level of the house. (Luca and Giselle first investigate the third floor, but Melchior writes them off and convinces everyone else to keep going). The third story is unlike the first two: it is decrepit and aged, walls peeling, cobwebs strung along corners and dusty furniture. Crafine locates a hidden stairwell hidden in the far wall. the party splits at this point.

Melchior, Luca, Crafine, and Vayagol enter the northern room. In this room, they find another dead body--a man, but no one knows whom. They tear this room apart with perception checks: Crafine locates a safe in the nearby wall, and Melchior locates the key locket hidden within the bed. Within the safe is a jewelry box with an expensive looking pendant and three non-magical rings; Luca takes the pendant, and Crafine tricks Melchior into handing over the rings. Vayagol reminds them that they are supposed to be looking for Bernor and the children.

Melchior notices that Crafine is additionally wearing a wedding ring.

In the southern room, Lune and Giselle open the door and are set upon by a specter who does not want to permit them entry into the room. Both of them attempt to calm the spirit enough to enter the room, but fail. They do get the specter to indicate that the missing children are another floor up, on the fourth floor, accessible only by the recently discovered secret passage.

On the fourth floor, the party locates the bedroom of Rose & Thorn Durst. It is discovered that the children they previously met on the first floor were not the real spirits, but an entity mimicking them. Through questioning the children, it is inferred that Strahd likely killed their parents at a dinner banquet, and the children were left to starve alone upstairs.

During this discussion, Melchior becomes visibly distressed and leaves the room; although he occasionally interjects with questions, he is mostly pale and sick-looking for a time.

The dollhouse in their room reveals that passages to the basement are missing that should have been there. The house is sentient, and was hiding the basement access from the party (either to protect us or to protect itself). Crafine wraps up the bones of the children to properly bury them; additionally, he and Giselle both allow themselves to be possessed by Rose & Thorn. Lune takes the dolls of the children at Melchior's behest.

Before they descend to the basement, Crafine and Melchior have an argument at the top of the stairwell. Melchior insists that attempting to fight the creature within the manor is futile, as everything within Barovia is subject to the will of Strahd Von Zarovich: their best attempt would be to flee and chance with the mist. Crafine argues that it is the coward's way out, and that there is no other way but to the basement. Despite his reservations, Melchior makes no attempt to leave the group.

During this argument, Melchior bares his teeth at Crafine, revealing sharp canines; Luca notices this and asks Melchior if he is also a dhampir, something which Melchior affirms. Luca shows off his ability to spider climb on the ceiling.

As they descend, Crafine moves slowly, allowing for some to get a chance to converse. Melchior and Luca discuss dhampirism (with a few interjections from Crafine), in which Melchior agrees that they are strange kindred, but does not reveal what he hungers for (Luca is revealed to be a classic bloodsucker). additionally, it comes out that Crafine is in his 40s, with two children between the ages of 20-23. Luca is revealed to be physically 24, but due to his dhampirism, he is also up into his 40s. Melchior is simply 24, Giselle is 18, and Vayagol is 19. Lune does not offer their age.

Melchior keeps getting tripped by Something as they continue to head down the stairs. Crafine is using his sense powers skill repeatedly, fretting over a consecrated presence that has repeatedly occurred. As it keeps showing up from behind, he begins to shuffle the party members in front of him on the stairs so that he can narrow down from whom it is coming. Surprisingly, the cleric, Vayagol, is not the source of this consecrated energy. It is narrowed down to either Giselle or Lune, before Melchior, now at the front of the group, is violently shoved down the stairs.

As he recovers and gets his bearings, the rest of the party catches up to him. Melchior accuses Luca, who had been behind him, of being the one to push him. Luca denies this and the two bicker until Crafine puts an end to it, saying they need to keep moving.

Melchior indicates the group should go to their right, and lead them to a crypt. Underneath the Durst Manor is the Durst Family Crypt, which Melchior notes with no small amount of alarm seems suspiciously empty. As they head south, they find the four empty tombs of the immediate durst family: Gustav, Elizabeth, Rosevalda, and Thornboldt.

Crafine puts the bones of the children into their respective tombs (and Lune lays their dolls to rest with them), and the spirits pass on. Crafine and Giselle are no longer considered possessed.

As they head further into the crypt, Melchior is attacked by a hidden creature referred to as a grick. Thankfully, it is quickly disposed of, with Lune making the killing blow.

END OF SESSION ONE.

#cos: the story so far #cos: hunted #session recap #session one #cos: crafine #cos: giselle #cos: lune #cos: melchior #cos: vayagol #curse of strahd #barovia #death house

[strayheartless]

DnD AGSZC. You know you have HCs. Sharing is caring.

oh well, twist my arm why don'tcha!

So to start, Sephiroth is one of THOSE players. You know the ones: makes broken characters that seemingly can do anything by level five; consistently has a rather depressing backstory that drives their character to be a dick to everyone for the sake of "roleplay". one of THOSE PLAYERS (see also: the Chocobro... or as Salty has pointed out to me, the Genebro.)

Likes to dable with his Characters. Though his favorite remains his Dragonborn Oathbraker Paladin, named Azriel who turned on the party in one paticular campaign to join forces with a powerful female Dragonborn Litch... I don't thing I really need to tell you why.

Angeals a pain because he wants to play "correctly". he's not competative but heis a rulebook warrior. Cloud has banned the Player's handbook from the table for this very reason. Angeal complains about "house rules" and the "rule of fun" all the time, even while activly enjoing the game. He's a pain.

He usually plays a Paladine and his drive for adventure is always "to avenge/ make his father proud. he once pushed the boat out at Clouds behest and broke his oath, and it didn't go... Well. to put it lightly everyone at the table cried (esspecially Zack) and Angeal had to make a new character.

Genesis is predictable to the point of hilarity. always a Bard or a Warlock. Always a Tiefling. Always gender ambiguous. if the games not starting withthe party finding Gen drunk and bemoning exsistence in a tavern then are they really playing DnD? He will always be playing a College of Tragedy bard (Thank you Matthew Mercer.) He's never pushed the boat out once in all the time they've played and if he can squeeze a loveless Quote in where he can he's gunna do it.

Genesis is however the table flirt and the Horny player. he's rolling to seduce the dragon. Cloud has Vowed never to let them play Curse of Strahd... EVER.

Zack is never predictable in his Character build. In the beginning he went similar to Angeal except a human young fighter with dreams of being a hero, But now he likes to dabble with his classes sometimes and mess around in terms of race. Cloud likes Zacks approach to DnD cause it keeps him on his toes.

His Favorite build thus far is his Halfling Rough/Monk multiclass he based off of a little girl he met in Wutai (you know who.).

When Kunsels Available to play he plays as a College of Lore Bard. He knows everything and Cloud is pretty sure He's been spying on his notes between games.

They are all suprisingly big on Roleplay which is fine by cloud cause it makes his job more fun. He's made them cry multiple times with his storylines, and His NPC voices are unparalelled. concidering he's not expressive in his day to day, he comes alive as DM.

There has been some massive in jokes that make other people question if they are sane or not. things like all the boys mimicing Clouds voice yelling "DON'T FUCK THE DRAGON!" everytime they gointo monster dens. Or looking Angeal up and Down and saying "I don't have the hit points to clinb you like a tree," .

Genesis begs Cloud to make a LOVELESS based Campaign... Cloud doesn't want to admit he already has one, hes just afraid Gen will pick holes in it.

Zack is a bastard for casting Fireball when he doesn't have the hit points to survive his own spell. the one time he played a wizard he cast it, did 39 points of damage and only JUST survived by one singular hit point.

Kunsel has the magic touch where dice are concerned. He constantly rolls consistently high rolls.

Cloud is absoloutly sure Sephiroth uses loaded dice. but he can't prove it.

Angeal always seems to end up getting attacked by mimics. doesn'tmatter how many times it happens, he always has too much trust in everyday objects.

#ffvii #cloud strife #genesis rhapsodos #zack fair #angeal hewley #sephiroth #crisis core #ff7 #dungeons and dragons #DnD AU #agszc #platonic or romantic #agszc headcanon

[vanhelsingapologist]

//scuttles in

Hey you should totally talk about Kasimir

Kasimir And The Terrible Horrible No-Good Very Bad 400 Years

CW: Sororicide, Child Death, discussion of mental health, discussion on the nature of shame.

This is going to be so, so long. Disclaimer that this is our table's interpretation of Kasimir Velikov. Spoilers for Curse of Strahd and the Dusk Elves abound.

Guilty, Not Remorseful

Kasimir is one of those characters who seems to be very consistent in characterization across tables. I do believe that if you asked DMs to list their Kasimir’s traits, a majority would hit the Trifecta of Misery:

Guilty

Sad

Desperate.

A massive part of our Kasimir’s characterization is how my DM draws the line between regret, guilt, and remorse.

He feels fathomless guilt surrounding killing Patrina, but he never describes himself as feeling remorse. To explain, I’ll divide it like this:

He feels guilty because he knew it would have a repercussion. He did it anyway. Patrina was engaged to Strahd.

He did not expect the repercussions to be all that they were. This was a mistake, but I don’t entirely know whether he sees his decision surrounding killing Patrina as one or not.

He does not feel remorse, because that would require him to regret what he did (killing his sister). Our Kasimir does not feel remorse for killing her, and it makes him guiltier because of everything her death set off, not to mention the love he held for his sister.

He tells himself that he did what he had to do (he did not), and wishes there were another way (there undoubtedly was), which gives way to shame. 

"I had to do it, but I wish I didn't." "... Did I have to? Surely, yes?"

So, he has these interplaying themes connected to the overarching theme of guilt, all of which drive his every action in our campaign. 

He is okay with this.

He is okay with the idea that every day is a punishment. He did what he had to do, he says, and he believes he should pay that price forever. 

The Whole Patrina Thing

In our game, Patrina didn’t seem to be so much in love with Strahd as she was in love with power. My running theory is that she was intending to dethrone Strahd or overpower him once she’d been turned. 

Because (I believe) in our game, he was one of the first vampires, if not The First Vampire, she didn’t quite realize how spawn mechanics worked— and to that end, neither did the dusk elves.

The Story

Kasimir holds to the story he told us. He discovered his sister half-turned, having received two of the three bites required to undergo the bride ceremony. 

I believe he discovered her in the process of trying to feed (a la Lucy Westenra) and came to the conclusion that she had been irrevocably turned into this horrifying, unknowable dead thing. So he gathered the dusk elves and killed her, setting off the chain of events. 

In the years since he’s been confronted with new information regarding vampirization and the process of turning, but he’s also said that if Patrina hadn’t died, she likely would’ve gone through with it anyway. Is this to avoid heaping more guilt onto his shoulders? Maybe. I don't know. Despite his guilt, he still, interestingly, provides a justification.

We have nothing to contradict his word with.

However, he also told us that he’s been experiencing dreams where she tells him how sorry she is, how much she hates him, how much she loves him, and how much she would have changed if he'd let her live.

His foundational beliefs get preyed upon, because what if he was wrong? What if he doomed everyone because he couldn’t compromise his morality for a moment?

Kasimir’s Backstory Is Misery In Case You Were Wondering

In our campaign, Kasimir and Patrina were raised to be the leaders of their communities and witnessed Rahadin’s exile and subsequent alliance with King Barov.

When the Dusk Elves regrouped after a crushing defeat, Kasimir, who is a Druid in our campaign, was voted in to be the head of the remaining families, and Patrina, an Archmage, left for Ravenloft intermittently. 

I think there was an effort for peace being made with a marriage between Strahd and herself, but obviously, the Tatyana Conundrum came in (Kasimir Win!), and then a couple years down the line, the Patrina Conundrum happened (Kasimir Fail!).

By the time he made his big bad decision, he was not only the head of his community but was also the father to a small child and the husband to a man who would die defending their family.

So, as far as he’s concerned, Kasimir is almost directly responsible for the deaths of his entire family.

He’s in a constant internal battle between blaming Ravenloft— perhaps predominantly, Rahadin— for enacting disproportionate revenge and blaming himself for pulling the trigger. Two things can be true. And still, to this day, his remaining people trust him. He still leads them and protects them. Yowch.

Kasimir As The Moral Compass

While traveling with our party, Kasimir was militant about doing what he believed was right. It could’ve been because he might’ve literally snapped in half if he took on any more shame, but probably had more to do with the fact that he was likely projecting heavily onto our party. 

He held his hand on the metaphorical stove for so long that he has nothing but bone left, so when he sees the party tentatively edging towards the fire, he takes action. 

Because he lives in a cesspool of anguish, I think an argument can be made that he wants to ensure his actions aren’t repeated by someone else. That is for HIM.

How It Affects Dynamic

This makes him fun to have in the party, because not only is Sororicide “Hypocrite” Velikov telling us not to do things, but it also provides a good bit of levity to what is otherwise one of the emotionally heaviest characters in our campaign.

Having this ancient elven druid sternly ask if kicking the corpse of enemy #6 made you feel good and having to shamefully tell him ’no’ creates a bond like no other.

It’s also an interesting way to have him trying to semi-atone without explicitly expressing remorse. Because he judges himself so harshly, he judges the party by the same standards.

Kasimir Will Make The Same Mistake Over And Over

The problem is that shame is poison to recovery.

Kasimir does not believe he has a place in a world in which he is not suffering, so whenever he is confronted with redemption, he’ll do what keeps him rotting.

I don’t know how my other players feel about this, but I’m convinced that it’s not that he can’t break the cycle, it’s that he won’t.

In trying to do the right thing, I think he will choose the wrong thing. He will stone her to death again and again and not know why.

There He Goes Again!

It’s why I think these dreams are such a big problem. I think they’re goading him. Whatever’s causing it (the Dark Powers, Strahd, or Patrina herself) knows him well enough that he will make a horrible, horrible decision. As far as theory goes, I think it may really be Patrina, because who would know him better than his sister?

In our campaign, Kasimir is currently acting as a mentor to a half dusk-elven wizard/druid who habitually toes the line between good and evil. He waffles between wanting to save her and wanting to nip the problem in the bud, propelled by his profound shame for wanting to do it.

He knows he shouldn’t have anything to do with it, but whereas Van Richten isolates himself out of necessity, Kasimir creates this wall between them because he sees the cycle starting again and feels helpless to stop it. It’s like he doesn’t realize he’s actively recreating the cycle.

Sound familiar, Strahd?

He and Van Richten are two characters who might have the biggest questions of the nature of redeemability hanging over their head, and both grapple with themes of guilt.

I think they differ because, in our campaign, Van Richten is actively seeking redemption. Kasimir is not.

He can’t imagine atonement even exists.

#asked and answered #this was asked by a player in my campaign #thank you for letting me yammer i've been wanting to talk about this guy for ages. even if this is free notes </3 #curse of strahd character analysis #kasimir velikov #patrina velikovna #curse of strahd spoilers #curse of strahd #We are a party who believes in love as redemption #but we’ve never met a character who so throughly rejects that concept like Kasimir (and maybe Arrigal). #the emilia and kasimir relationship makes me bleed from the eyes. stop looking for your sister in her or you will find your sister in her. #add the rahadin shit in and thatsa one spicy meatball #does kasimir believe good is inherited or cultivated? i think he BELIEVES he thinks it's cultivated. #going 2 put every old man in this module in therapy and then maybe a box #kasimir in general man...... #my DM is very very smart and we're her little rats running around screaming

[emcandon]

the ballad of fancy uncle chucklefuck pt. 6

(previously on fancy uncle chucklefuck: 1, 2, 3 (look at the reblog for the update), 4, 5)

a long one! so this time, a cut!

GUESS WHO HAD A BAD TIME THIS WEEK HAHAHAHAHA

my plans to have fancy uncle chucklefuck idly making breakfast for the recently re-traumatized (BY HIS GOD) party were thwarted bc he instead woke up to being physically threatened by another, different god

bc lol the party weren't the only ones his god had pissed off -- an old god of the land itself had come to menace this sad old dandy and make its complaints Known

old god was understandably pretty upset that yet another power was throwing its weight around in barovia -- and even worse, possibly making itself available to strahd?? you idiot!! you asshole!! what's wrong with you!!

sidebar: feral hagdaughter tried to wallop the old god MULTIPLE TIMES bc it was the sensible thing to do! something seem dangerous? whack it until it goes away! DUH.

anyway btwn the old god's ire + the rest of the party's comments about "worst night of our lives" and "truly fucked nightmare" and the like, fancy uncle chucklefuck started to piece together that his god had maybe FUCKED AROUND only to leave him to be the one to find out! come on!! ¯\_(ಠ_ಠ)_/¯

anyway he went from protesting that he didn't really know anything to, well, protesting that he didn't really know anything, but with more detail.

you know, like admitting this power is something he recognizes but could never have expected to wield bc he doesn't even go here. (in terms of both being not of the royal bloodline, also not even technically from the kingdom, so like ¯\_(ಠ_ಠ)_/¯ !!!)

but also in terms of how, well, the power doesn't look like he remembers it looking. he's used it to make light and to heal -- and he only ever saw it used for violence, or to change the course of a mind.

which, to be fair, it has very obviously been fucking around in everyone's brains so ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

tl;dr it's new, he doesn't like it, he's never seen the god -- or whatever it is -- do anything for anyone that wasn't directly harmful, and the only time it ever saw fit to talk to him! it gave him a migraine! so like! ¯\_(ಠ_ಠ)_/¯

but the worst part was arguably when the old god made some comment about how this god loves him.

uh oh

oh no

why

tangentially, uncle chucklefuck asked Seasonal Affective Disorder: the Warlock a thing he'd been meaning to ask her ever since she said something about how there are "different kinds of dead"

namely whether it's possible for the soul--the self--to be carved out of a body, only for the body to still be breathing

(which was probably the most intense rush of emotion i'd felt at the table thus far bc holy shit not the time he wanted to ask that, if he ever even actually wanted to)

turns out this question hit HER in a terrible and unexpected way, but tl;dr the horrible answer is "YUP"

anyway that was around the point the old god decided it was satisfied -- which it articulated by suggesting they all go walk into a lake so as to not bring any more problems down upon its people or its land. buh-bye!

to which the dragonborn herbo was like "actually that sounds great, byyyyeeeee" and promptly exited stage left

the dour divine bard and SAD: the Warlock went to go talk her through her stress/ongoing powerful aversion to God Shit

which was DARLING esp bc the dour divine bard proved far more emotionally deft and gentle than they had yet dared to be!

but THEN the dragonborn herbo was like "THAT. CHUCKLEFUCK. TOLD ME NOT TO BE VULNERABLE. AND THEN WENT AND EXPOSED HIS ENTIRE FUCKING RIBCAGE TO US." (see 3)

here pictured: me, offscreen, wailing with laughter

SAD: the Warlock's answer to this was along the lines of "to be fair, uncle chucklefuck's probably going through it, and i suspect that awful god is too -- but ALSO, if they touch our brains again, i will kill him :)"

which made the dragonborn herbo feel better so we're all good now! we're fine! we're great! it's chill!

meanwhile fancy uncle chucklefuck had offered to make food for the group before answering any questions they wanted answered and feral hagdaughter was Extremely Interested in breakfast.

which was the most sensible thing that happened all morning and made him finally confess she's his favorite.

while they tended to that, a very distressed farmer's wife politely asked the utena butch bard whether the party planned.....to stay....any longer..... and desperately pretended the farmhouse was SO haunted by the most OBNOXIOUS ghosts so they would probably be MUCH happier if they just CONTINUED ON DOWN THE ROAD...

breakfast ended up remarkably chill all things given. dragonborn herbo (NEEDLESSLY!!!) apologizing for her "outburst" and committing to sticking with the group -- and making clear she keeps her fucking promises.

followed by fancy uncle chucklefuck cautiously offering to part ways with the group bc lol! didn't expect to be contagious! sorry! haha! fuck!

tho he was also talked out of this by the double-punch salvo of 1) we've already caught the contagion and distance probably won't help, 2) strahd has already proved Interested in your god and none of us really want him to get it, so!

ultimately we hit the road again with fancy uncle chucklefuck having changed into the farmer's spare clothes bc 1) god he's tired of putting on fancy face, 2) when he runs out of money, the fancy clothes will also be good for bartering.

and we left off on debating how best to deal with hags who have the bones that we want, with the conclusion that we definitely should not bargain with them, probably could not kill them, and therefore ought to steal from them -- so uncle chucklefuck has a new mission! which is teaching these whippersnappers how to do CRIME.

relatedly, two of the party members who are decidedly not actually whippersnappers due to various circumstances (dour divine bard + SAD: the Warlock) had a sidebar where they were like "hey i maybe Get you in a weird way. anyway are you also feeling 'i just met this dragonborn herbo but if anything happened to her i would kill everyone in this room and then myself?' yes? awesome. good talk."

great and functional party with tremendously admirable coping mechanisms you got there. would be a shame if they were to trauma-bond or something.

#dnd #fancy uncle chucklefuck

[petalpierrot]

I would like to preface this post by saying that we made some changes to Rahadin as a character. And I’d like to say outright that I have always liked Rahadin but also felt like there were a lot of things missing, or a lot of the writing decisions were not the best. As a result, I worked with my DM to keep it as close to canon as possible, while still having changes that fit his character. 

Both myself and the DM really like how he turned out in our game, this time around. (this is not the first time we’ve played CoS)

Another thing is DM and I really wanted to emphasize how lonely and deprived of human contact Rahadin is, and how his past and exposure to everything shaped him into the person that he is now. 

I AM probably missing some information (between my transcripts and off-handed DMs) So I’m trying to recreate as much to the best of my ability. 

But yeah, this is what Rahadin is like in our game 👀

Starting at the beginning, there really is 0 information about who Rahadin used to be before serving King Barov and then, in turn, Strahd. So we tried to fill in those gaps the best way we could. 

His family were merchants by trade and they owned an Apothecary business (Medicinal and poisons). Rahadin wanted a better life for his family, so bringing in more wealth was where he set his ambitions, thus Rahadin joined the Dusk Elf Royal Militia, which served the dusk elf prince and the royal family. Because of his combat training and abilities, he became a soldier and a guard. 

One of the bigger changes we’ve made to Rahadin was his relation to Patrina and Kasimir. Rahadin now being the eldest sibling to Kasimir and Patrina, as well as 3 other younger sisters. (we used a table to roll for all of these things)

 (the whole genocide thing is now worse as a result, and there was genuine resentment between Kasimir and Rahadin at the time.) 

Back at the Blue Water Inn Eidys (Moon elf Bladesinger) was speaking with him as they were having lunch, questioning him more about the past and how his service to King Barov started. Because to her King Barov sounded like a tyrant, same as his son. She was curious to know if there was more to his story with the von Zaroviches. 

Rahadin told her that at the time, King Barov had only recently come into these lands as a conqueror. The silver lining at the time was that Barov was a strong leader and the settlements that did bend the knee saw many improvements. He still inflicted cruel punishments but the good seemed to outweigh the bad. 

The newly crowned Dusk Elf prince was not a strong leader and lacked the experience to lead. He was more of a puppet head to his council and their interests of power. The prince, forged in an age of peace while the war was knocking at his very door. 

Rahadin was questioning orders and speaking his mind. As a result, he was exiled for treason. He turned to Barov who took him in and as a final attempt at peacemaking, Barov tried to appeal to the dusk elf prince at Rahadin’s behest, but the young prince’s pride prevented him. Thus it all ended in bloodshed and the dusk elves scattered. 

King Barov was impressed with Rahadin’s battle prowess and as a result, he made him a general, and later on an honorary member of his household. Rahadin resided alongside Barov’s two growing children, and his at the time pregnant wife. 

It was not all sunshine and roses, of course. Rahadin watched as King Barov cheated on his wife, Queen Ravenovia, and in turn, her being mistreated and held to impossible standards. (Queen Ravenovia dismissed the mistress and on another occasion a maidservant who had an unhealthy obsession with Young Strahd) When Strahd was old enough, Rahadin watched as Barov molded him in his own image, making him hard and cruel, just as Queen Ravenovia feared. 

Years passed by and Rahadin also grew cold, distant, and cruel, developing quite a reputation for getting things done. But so did his loneliness grow, which he suppressed for hundreds of years, as he served Strahd, in turn.

Rahadin had been trying to warn Strahd about Patrina when she tried to appeal to Strahd. At first, Rahadin was relieved that Tatyana was a distraction from Strahd wanting Patrina. But that quickly turned sour when Strahd presented Rahadin with two choices, it was either he who would have to deal his revenge or Strahd could do it instead.

Rahadin watched Strahd build Castle Ravenloft, kill Sergei, and chase reincarnation after reincarnation of the one who he believed was his true love. Strahd lost his humanity over the years, demoting him to Chamberlain, etc. 

Rahadin has, since then, tried to rebuild some bridges he’s burned. The dusk elves are not outright hostile to him but they still are ever wary when he comes to the Vistani camp. they allow him to tend to the garden at the shrine and visit the graves.

This doesn't go anywhere but his hobby is baking, and his mother taught him.

#Curse of Strahd #Rahadin #No I don't think he came out da bussy evil as much as wotc wants me to believe that #feels free to use some of this stuff or ignore it #I just think it's neat!

[tea-with-eleni]

This week on Curse of Strahd:

Ludmilla made her next move. She revealed that there are technically three true vampires in Barovia. In this chain of events, Strahd apparently chose to free two of his wives. (His fatal flaw is that he wants a woman to truly love him, after all, and it's hard to say that a woman truly loves you if you own her free will. He got lucky; his wives do actually love him in our version of events.)

Ludmilla shared a cocktail of truths and lies.

Ludmilla claims that a vampire's greatest enemy is another vampire. (To her way of thinking, true.) She also claims, with evidence, that our party is the most effective she's seen stand against her lord husband so far. (Also true, based on the fact that our party has 2/3 artifacts.) She claimed that she's impressed by how the party passed her test; the feast was her doing. She also claimed that Barovia will need an heir. (Dubiously true.)

She claims that she is not opposed to what they are doing and would like to take Ravenloft for herself or to give to its natural heir, Ireena, who was supposed to be in the heredity anyway through Sergei. (A lie.) She also insinuated that she is currently the only bride that thinks this way, but that Volenta could be convinced. (A lie, since this was originally Volenta's idea.) She claimed that Doru isn't Strahd's, but is Volenta's. (A lie; he's hers.)

Then she offered a gift of power, as proof of her intentions: a vial of her own blood. Borrowing heavily from Vampire: The Masquerade rules, she claimed it will give the drinker a portion of the power she has amassed over the last few centuries and that it will wear off in about a month - so it's of little risk.

This will manifest in the form of a feat with the following effects:

+1 Con

Gain the spell "Frostbite" (Int modifier for spellcasting purposes)

Gain the spell "Find Familiar" (Only a cat, raven, or bat, creature type undead.)

Disadvantage on wisdom saving throws against Ludmilla Vilisevic

A minor vampiric trait, such as small fangs, altered dreams, uncomfortable in non-beautiful surroundings, that kind of thing. There's a d8 table to roll on.

She didn't mention the wisdom saving throws part, but of course, if you trust her... why would it matter? Right?

She was very clear that she was not offering to turn any of the party members, since she knew that would set them all off right away. Ireena's hackles went up when Ludmilla mentioned that Ireena should be an heir to the land; she rolled really high insight (22) and recognized that might just be a way to convince her to come back to Castle Ravenloft.

But the party Dhampir did take Ludmilla's gift.... though he hasn't used it yet.

The next move will be to see if the dhampir actually uses her gift.

Also the strategy for getting stuff past the party: lead with the truth, so they can clock your sincerity. Follow it with half truths and devolve into deception.

#curse of strahd #dungeons and/or dragons #dungeons and dragons #strahd von zarovich #ireena kolyana #ludmilla vilisevic #dnd #tatyana federovna

[apricotzel]

wrote something short for my beautiful dnd party in the CoS campaign i run because i wanted to add some depth to doru and father donavich, and also wanted to post it here. if anything contradicts canon its because i forgot or decided to change it my bad. if there are any mistakes please be nice. beware here be spoilers and also a 2nd person pov !!

“Are heroes real?”

There’s a clatter of dishes; a knife slips from your hands and back into the sink, it disappears below the surface.

There’s a pause at the table. Your son sits there, bright-eyed and wondering. He needs a haircut, you think. Maybe spend less time in that watered down sunlight, and he wouldn’t ask silly questions.

You clear your throat, resume the motions. “The Morning Lord is real.”

“And heroes?”

You don’t answer. It could be better like this, better to just ignore and lock away all of foolishness. He’s only young, only a couple handfuls of years, and he’s missing so much in his life. He doesn’t know the sun, and you didn’t either until you had him.

You turn to grab another dish, and he’s there with his eyes that are yours, and he is staring at you.

“Heroes, Father.”

You can’t silence your way out of this one. You put down the knife, dry your hands - pale hands, shaking ones - and grab his face gently.

“There are no heroes, Doru.”

His face doesn’t fall, he grins like he was expecting you to say that. “Is the Morning Lord not a hero?”

“He cannot reach us,” You say gently. You must’ve told this story to him a thousand times, never has his grin wavered. “The curse of the Devil Strahd blocks him. We wait for his return.”

“A hero could bring him back.”

You had trained anger out of yourself years ago under the training of the Morning Lord, under your own father. You open your mouth as if to argue, but your sun continues.

“Have hope, father,” He says. “I could be the hero.”

You know what happens to heroes, you have told him a thousand times, never has he stopped.

“I could protect you,” Your sun insists. “I could banish the Devil.”

You waver, because you love him.

“I could,” He insists.

“Do your reading,” You straighten up, “Stop this nonsense, Doru. You’re too young.”

He opens his mouth as if to argue, but you are a priest, and you know how to control faith in your hands. You reign him in, harsh and gentle like a dog to a post.

He stomps away with perhaps too much attitude than you should allow, but there are dishes to do and prayers to be said.

A service is interrupted by his singing. He does not realize, in the way he never realizes how loud he is. He moves unabashedly through the world, twirling and singing. He would jump on tables if you let him.

You try to carry on with the word. It’s a quiet service today, and those in the pews are familiar with you and Doru. Your voice wavers, caught on a laugh. It’s rusty and scratches out of your throat, you try to hide it, coughing and stammering over the holy text.

Someone in the front row coughs to stop their chuckle. A gentle, sputtering giggle comes from somewhere else.

A waltzing note follows, off-key and hectic. You duck your face, letting the laughter take you. Foreign noises fill the air as the company does the same. Laughing fills the still air and gets lost in the mist. You glance up and catch him standing in the entrance to the chapel, shoulders shaking and a hand barely covering his smile.

Years later, he asks you the same:

“Are heroes real?”

“What?” You ask. You’re doing something, you don’t really have time for this. He sits next to where you lean over his desk, reading his writings on the Morning Lord, gently pointing out flaws and molding it until it makes more sense.

He fidgets with the quill, shoving the feather into your face until you bat it away. It’s his favourite quill, so you do so gently.

“I found a sword,” He starts.

You try not to sigh. He has never wavered.

“And someone to teach you?” You mutter.

He deflates slightly, head lolling back to stare at you. He needs a haircut. He has a faint tan that you don’t. Always running around in the field, through town, through the graveyard, never praying. You worry, as you ought to do.

“I can teach myself,” He says.

You waver, he sees you do it.

“Have hope,” He presses gently.

You shouldn’t look at him. He will only be looking up at you with those eyes that you can never argue with. 

“Hope is for fools,” You say.

“And the pious.”

You give him a disapproving glare, and fall right into his trap. He’s grinning up at you, mischievous and boyish. How does he find the energy to do that? You don’t know. Even at his age you had given up on this land, and so you turned to the gods to hope for some salvation. He seems to be his own God, your own sun.

“There’s a mage in town,” He continues despite your glare.

You frown. “Many mages come through here.” They all die.

“This one is different,” He insists, because he is young and you had never let him meet the mages that would later die.

Instead, you sigh. Run a pale, shaking hand through his too-long hair and settle it on his shoulder. “Don’t be foolish, Doru. There is a reason no one here has hope.”

He reaches up and clasps your hand, strong as iron at first and then it settles light as dust; you try not to think of a dying breath, how every ghost up on Castle Ravenloft fought until it was over. 

“Please, Father,” He looks at you, imploring. You stare at the mirrors in his skull, and waver. “I could do it. I would make sure that nothing could hurt you ever again. Not a devil, nor vampire, nor zombie, nor hag. You wanted a God and I am your son. Have faith in me.”

He is the brightest thing in this valley, and you vow to never let the curse that suffocates it harm him.

“I forbid it,” Gently, like a prayer.

His face darkens like a cloud passed over it. Without a word he lets go of your hand. You expect him to charge off, to yell, to do anything, but he just turns back to his work. This worries you more than anything.

Later that evening, you pray that the entire world will become weaker because you know you cannot be strong.

He knows more songs than you do, and you’re not sure where he learned them. They echo from his room to yours, out his open window, down the valley like he’s a siren. Even when he is quiet, his voice haunts the house. Always under his breath, songs of love and victory. Of sorrow and a life lived to its fullest. 

You stand outside his door now, hearing him hum and dance, bumping into things and swearing under his breath. Always a pause after every curse where he sends a brief prayer for forgiveness, you can see him without seeing him, the way his body freezes in realization and his eyes flit to the ceiling as his hands fumble to put themselves in the right position.

You knock on the door gently, and a second later it swings open. He smiles seeing you, as if he hasn’t in a while. His hair is wild, brushing his shoulder and sticking to his face, eyes bright. 

It’s not his birthday, it’s not a holiday. There’s no reason for you to unveil a curved dagger from underneath your robes and present it to him. It’s beautiful, even you know, and you are not versed in metals or blood. Wrapped around the hilt and falling down to the pommel is a chain adorned with beads and the symbol of the Morning Lord.

He looks as if you had just given him the world, and takes it with a gentleness usually reserved for children. As if in a trance, he walks over to his window to look at it better. The shine of the metal dances across his face.

He looks over at you, you who are still standing in his doorway like an unwanted fiend that can’t cross, you bathed in shadow, you the priest.

“Why?” He asks with an unsure laugh, like he is waiting for you to snatch it back.

“I don’t want you to use it,” You clarify immediately, “Look at me, Doru. It is not for you to charge to battle with. I just- I want you to know. That the Morning Lord will protect you.” Softer, “I will protect you.”

He turns to stare at you as if lost, light weakly haloing his hair and casting his face in darkness.

“Nothing will hurt you,” You scramble for the words. “I won’t let it happen to you. What happens to those people - the heroes - it won’t happen to you. Not while I’m here. I asked for a God and I got a son. I won’t lose you, too.”

Your sun’s hand reaches up, shaking, as if to grab you. Your own hand twitches at your side, but does not go forth. He grabs his own shoulder and turns back towards the light.

“Thank you,” He says, and his voice is thick and breaking at the edges. You wonder, briefly, how heavy it is to hope. You wouldn’t know.

You nod, and go to retreat. He opens his mouth as if to say something, inhaling sharply and leaving the room breathless.

You waver, because you love him.

His gaze trails down to the dagger in his grasp, shaking hand to meet it like you grab onto the rosary, and you feel like he isn’t yours anymore and hasn’t been in a very long time. He needs a haircut, and you love him.

The door creaks when you shut it.

The door to your room is locked and there is a man in your church. You do not know what is happening and you are afraid of it. They are taking away your son.

That’s not right.

The door to your room is blocked and there is a man in your home. You do not know what is happening and you are afraid of it. Your son is letting himself be taken away.

You wish, briefly, you had spent less time praying and more time swinging swords like he did. As it is now, all you can do is claw at the wood and at the door handle. You kick, feel the jarring follow up your knee and it aches like everything. You were not built to handle such tragedy as the one you were born into, you are just a priest.

“Doru,” You screech again and again and again, and you can imagine blood from the inside of your throat trickling down and choking you with how much it hurts. “Don’t do this. Don’t do this.”

You are just a priest, and all you know is how to beg for someone to listen to you.

Your window lays broken, but people wait outside of it with threatening stances and weapons they grab tighter every time you walk closer.

You hear his voice from the other side of the door.

“I’m sorry,” He says again and again and again, and you can imagine him with his hand laid flat against the door, wincing everytime you ram your body into it. Head laid sorrowfully on the wood like this hurts him more than it hurts you. “I have to. I must fight.”

You scream, guttural and wordless, and slam into the door again. You have never felt fear so potent. All hero stories end the same in Barovia.

Suddenly the fear leaves you, and you quiet down, hands laid flat against the wood.

“Listen to me, Doru,” You whisper, because all secrets must be whispered, “I love you. You can’t do this. Do you hear me? Please, they have enough people. They don’t need you. Stay here. Let me out.”

He pauses, as if his resolve flutters.

“I have to do this,” He says. You scream once again, but he pays no mind. “I have to have hope. We must have hope. If only you could see that is what the valley needs.”

You know what the valley needs. It is not another dead child.

“I’m sorry, Father,” He says, and his voice wavers, because he loves you. It breaks right down the middle. “I’m so sorry.”

You beg, plead, and scream. To him, to the Morning Lord, to Mother Night. To the other gods, those you do not believe in but are desperate enough to try.

“I’ll be home soon,” He whispers, and it is almost drowned out.

His footsteps retreat from the door, and you slide down it, on the floor. Your breath comes quickly, gasping, choking. You think you might vomit, or your heart might stop, or you might just stop existing then and there.

You can see him running down the hill to the army, led by the mage. Your fingers wrap around shattered glass. You cannot cry out, but you do not look away until the mists that surround Castle Ravenloft swallow him whole.

He is sent home by the Devil himself. Your son, your beautiful son who has never hurt anyone. You put the key where no one else will find it, and begin to pray. Your mind unravels, and in the darkness, the frayed edges of his reach out to it, and meet.

#curse of strahd #cos #doru #father donavich #teddie be quiet! #who up writhing over family #for extra context in my game i've aged doru down to 16 #because i thought he was for some reason for the longest time #my boy :( his son :( HIS SUN :(

[mx-lamour]

12 - Pale

[Based on @terrified-spider's CoS concept for Alek 🫀]

There was no amount of vengeance Strahd could wreak on Leo Dilisnya's remaining men that would bite back this other feeling, which rose like black bile in his chest. No amount of blood would drown it. No amount of violent rage, with sword or claw or hammered fist would tamp it down. And no amount of dragging, throwing, pacing, staring, teeth grinding could wear it out either.

Alek's body still lay in his closet.

Strahd von Zarovich was covered in gore. Castle Ravenloft was smothered in red ichor and corpses, and soon enough it would be rancid in the great hall. But the doors to his own quarters opened on a pristine setting. Aside from the knowledge and the slowly congealing filth Strahd tracked in with his soles, the room belied a quiet night like any other. It would not have seemed out of place, in that moment, to peel off his soaked shirt and sit by the hearth as though he had just come in out of the rain.

The image of Alek Gwilym, snow-damp and wind-chapped, hopping on one foot and then the other to pull off his boots and seat himself down by Strahd's fire, sprang unbidden into his mind.

Regret was its name, this other dark emotion which threatened to throttle him if he could not think of a way to appease it.

Perhaps he could bleed it out. Surely he had consumed enough life for two men. More, in fact. And if he could give back to Alek the blood he had taken… would Alek's life then be restored to him, the way it had worked in Strahd the night before?

The only way out of this mess now was to trudge ahead and try to find the other side. Strahd could not fall backward in time. Could not undo his own reckless mistakes. So, he conceived of only the next best possible option, and moved stoically forward with it.

Strahd pulled the carcass of his old friend out of its slumped position in the closet, wedging his hands under Alek’s arms to drag him out onto the middle of the floor, heavy and stiff. A light sheen had formed on the cold and pallid skin, making it clammy to the touch. The creases of Alek’s clothing were still damp with rain and sticky with coagulated blood, his matted hair plastered to the side of his face and neck. His dry, clouded eyes cracked open to stare mournfully at nothing.

But maybe it was not too late.

Strahd knelt down beside the corpse, to pick the soiled hair free of Alek’s sharp features, pushing it aside to reveal the wound in his throat. Made by the man’s own knife, the cut was clean and straight, but in the time that had passed, the skin around it had begun to shrink back and the incision gaped, revealing glossy strands of mutilated tissue and the severed vein beneath. Strahd prodded gently at the wound, as if to close it up again, but the membrane moved too readily and tore. He flinched back.

Strahd retreated to the table in his study, where the accursed book in dark crimson leather binding still sat. His dagger lay there, sheathed, beside it. Strahd picked up the dagger, and flipped the book open. Its page still blurred, the inscriptions swimming before his eyes. Page after page of useless chaos. He closed it once again, with a delicate touch more carnally vindictive than if he had picked it up and flung it across the room.

Kneeling over Alek again, Strahd pulled the dagger clear and set its sheath down on the floor. He set the blade against his wrist. “Don’t look at me that way,” he muttered, and drew the thin edge up, along a brief span of his forearm.

Blood welled and dripped from his arm, but the wound closed too quickly as he brought it close to Alek’s face. Setting his own jaw, Strahd pried Alek’s mouth agape. He pressed the blade into his wrist again and left it there, leveraging his own flesh open to spill the contents of his life down Alek’s throat.

Alek’s mouth filled with blood until it spilled from the corner of his lips and dribbled over his cheek. Strahd cursed. He dipped his fingers into the pool between Alek’s jaws to move his tongue. Blood continued to stream down over his hand, like a potter adding slip to the contents of his turning wheel, pulling a vessel up out of a heap of mud, until it was clear that Alek’s body would not take more, no matter what he did to maneuver it, and the waste flowed over his chin.

Strahd examined Alek’s face. Carefully, he checked the corpse’s eyes. He bent his ear close to listen for breath, and watched the gaping wound on Alek’s neck fail to recover. No color beyond the fresh haphazard smears of red upon his skin returned to those sharp features. Strahd’s stern gaze did little to convince the body to animate.

Irritation simmered at his own foolishness. Strahd cleaned the dagger and tucked it back into its sheath. Perhaps it would take time, he thought. Perhaps…

He looked to the window, where the barest light of creeping dawn had begun to turn the black sky gray.

Perhaps tomorrow, then.

Strahd picked up Alek’s body, now more limber than it had been, and hefted it over his shoulder. Holding fast to the man’s long legs, he descended to the catacombs and laid the body down inside a crypt. Whatever happened, this would be his bed, for as long as he would sleep. In the cave-like darkness, Strahd watched again for any sign of movement. Just as gingerly as he had opened them, Strahd closed Alek’s eyes again. He positioned Alek’s hands over his stomach, as though he really had just fallen asleep, their blood on his face be damned.

. . .

Strahd woke from his own deathlike slumber to the sounds of war. He leapt to his feet, senses alert, adrenaline high, before he could remember all that had happened. He snatched up his dagger, the only weapon near to him, and didn’t question why he had been lying in the catacombs—only accepted it as a fact of the moment, and stalked toward the dungeons, where he heard the voices of men shrieking in abject terror.

And only then did he remember who the occupants of his dungeons were, and why they were there.

He rounded a corner and stopped short. For a flash of an instant, relief shot through him, for there before him was the back of Alek Gwilym, standing on his own two feet.

But he also had his arm shoved through the bars of a cell door, and at his feet lay one of Strahd’s prisoners, the face mutilated and horror-stricken, the throat ripped out. The other man inside had ceased to scream and was blubbering instead, pressed bodily against the back wall of his cage.

“Alek.” The prisoners went quiet at the sound of Strahd’s voice, muffling their already helpless whimpers.

Alek’s face turned toward him. His eyes, now paler than ever before, had an animal wildness about them, but their pupils locked on Strahd, boring into him quick and sharp like arrows.

It was him, then. And yet… it was not.

Alek slipped his arm out of the bars. The ends of his fingers were like claws, which clacked against the iron. As he turned more fully into view, Strahd noticed other changes—and lack thereof, not least of which the wound in his throat, which remained raw and open, catching on the collar of his clothing when he moved. But Alek’s teeth, like his claws, had lengthened. Unlike Strahd’s own fangs, which could be easily hidden, the ones in Alek’s maw were long and sharp, jutting out past his lip. And it wasn’t just his corner teeth; those were the shortest of the lot, far surpassed by the vicious, almost rodent-like incisors.

Strahd fell back by only half a step, but it was enough.

With a furious yell, Alek launched himself at Strahd. He was fast and strong, and Strahd staggered as Alek barreled into him, baring those hideous teeth and lunging for his throat. Strahd’s heels scraped across the stone floor with the force of the impact, but kept his footing. He was strong, too. If he were still human, he would have been dead in a moment.

Instead, with great force of his own, he heaved Alek back and drew his dagger. They fought, Alek swiping at Strahd with his claws. Cuts and parries with the dagger. Strahd ducked and weaved, where Alek seemed to be singularly focused and all too clumsy about it. Alek’s hands and arms opened up with wounds that didn’t bleed and were slow to heal—but they did heal, Strahd noted. He glanced at Alek’s neck again.

That moment of distraction opened him to Alek’s raking fingers. The claws slashed across Strahd’s own throat. Strahd choked. The dagger clattered to the floor. His hands flew up to brace against Alek’s chest again, to push him back as he dove toward the blood which flowed down over Strahd’s own collar. Alek snarled at him. Strahd gurgled, staring Alek down while he waited for the wounds to close. He coughed, and cleared his throat.

“That’s enough,” Strahd said.

To his relief, Alek stepped back, though he was seething, the blood he had already drunk foaming on his parted lips. His jagged hands hung limply at his sides.

He made a horrible, muffled lisping sound that might have been Strahd’s name.

“You’re angry,” Strahd said.

Alek practically hissed.

“You are hungry.”

Alek turned his razor gaze on the nearest cell. The man cowering inside it looked frantically between the two monsters. Strahd produced the key.

“No… no, please.” The man’s words cracked between a whisper and a voice. Only minutes prior, this had been the only thing he wanted—more than anything—for that cell door to open. But now he couldn’t think of anything he wanted less. “My lord, I beg you,” he pleaded. “Don’t.” 

Strahd unlocked the door.

“No. No, no, no! Please—god, no!”

He watched Alek descend on the prisoner, rending the throat with his teeth as he had with the first. Strahd felt no small degree of annoyance that Alek had stolen that recompense from him, but he supposed that Alek was also deserving of the opportunity. While he slurped, Strahd regarded the rest of his collection in the adjoining cells. They all cowered, watching with wide eyes and bated breath, their hearts thrumming like drums in his ears.

He unlocked each of the barred doors. “Go on,” he said gently. “Run.”

The people eyed each other warily. Seeing no better alternative, they slunk past him cautiously and padded quickly through the doors, glancing at Alek’s hunched and preoccupied form in the shadows on their way out. Perhaps the prisoners thought to grasp at a fragment of hope in that dark dungeon, when the cursed Count Strahd had suddenly thought to exercise his benevolence and spared them from such a gruesome fate.

Little did they know.

Strahd and Alek set upon them like a wild hunt. Strahd quickly drank his fill, but Alek kept going. He was a ruthless creature, running them down one by one and savaging each with great frenzy, until there were no living humans left to find.

Only when half a dozen men at least had all been devoured and wrung dry did Alek seem to have the capacity to calm himself. His gait changed, and he seemed to stand a little taller. He scoured the immediate area as though he were back on patrol. Then he caught sight of Strahd again, and his expression seemed almost… cheerful, if not a bit embarrassed. The look in his milky eyes was somewhat more familiar, if not the grin itself.

Strahd went to him. Alek looked as though he had something to say, but he shrugged his shoulders, at a loss. His lips struggled around the new configuration of his teeth.

And then he rubbed his neck, and winced. Perplexed, he touched the spot again, dabbing at it with the heel of his hand.

Strahd gestured, and Alek let his hand fall away. He lifted his chin for Strahd to better inspect what was bothering him. It was the wound in his throat. Strahd frowned. It had healed somewhat at the farthest ends, though not nearly enough for the kind of regenerative properties that Alek should possess, especially after such a feast. He had scratched it with those claws of his, and now the edges were ragged.

Seeing that his own shirt had been torn from his duel with Alek earlier, Strahd ripped away a strip of the linen and wrapped it securely around Alek’s throat. He wasn’t sure what good first aid would really do in this situation, but it might at least prevent the wound from tearing open further.

Even as he did so, he noticed Alek’s eyes begin to glass over again. The sight remained sharp, but the personality inside was retreating. Perhaps bracing itself against the back wall of his skull.

Strahd wiped a bit of bloody spittle from Alek’s chin. It made little difference.

He dared to wonder, for the first time in many years—if not, indeed, the whole of his life…

What have I done?

* * * [Ao3 Collection] [prompt list by @syrips]

#vampentine's 2024 #alek gwilym #tragic #curse of strahd #strahd von zarovich #nosferatu

[aradiamegido]

[google doc link: here]

The next time she and her party are at a tavern, she takes notice of a group of people in the corner of the room. They wear bright colors and their jovial tones can be heard from a fair distance away.

One of them catches her eye and smiles. It's not a pleasant smile, and she shivers. The woman gestures for her to come over.

Ninjena glances at her party, who has already picked out a table and is ordering drinks. They don't notice her.

She goes to the strangers, one of whom has pulled a chair out for her. She sits.

"I believe you know who we are." The woman from earlier speaks, her voice melodious yet cold. "And I believe you know why we're here."

Not trusting herself to speak, Ninjena nods slowly.

"Then I suppose I only have one question for you, paladin." The woman leans forward. "Will you come willingly or not?"

Ninjena spares her party a glance. They don’t seem to have realized that she never joined them at the table.

"I'll come willingly."

—

She leaves in the wee hours of the morning, sitting in the back of a cart with some of the other Vistani. The morning air is crisp, cold on her skin and tongue.

One of the other people in the back pokes her. He looks no older than twelve. "Have you been to Barovia before?"

She hesitates before she answers. "It's been awhile since I've been there."

He seems dissatisfied with this answer. "How come you haven't been back?"

Because I wanted it to be a bad dream that ended. Because I don't want to die again. Because I wished I was insane instead of knowing the truth of the matter.

She shrugs. "Got busy with stuff."

He frowns and lets out a "humph" before he goes back to playing with the small knife he carries.

—

They take her through a dense forest that eventually thins out to plains. From the plains, they pass through a tiny village, go past a lake, and then stop at the beginning of a dirt path.

She hops out of the cart and dusts herself off. "Thank you for the ride."

The woman on the horse nods. "May you be well." She whistles, and then they ride off in a cloud of dust.

Ninjena watches them disappear into the distance, then turns around to face the foreboding castle. It looms over her, dark and imposing.

She crosses the drawbridge, and when she reaches the huge doors, she knocks.

The door slowly creaks open, and an old man steps out. "I'm sorry, the Master is not in at this time."

"My name is Ninjena." Her mouth feels dry. "He's been expecting me."

The man's expression does not change. He cocks his head to the side as though listening for something, and then nods and steps to the side.

"Please, madam, come in."

There's only a flicker of hesitation before she steps over the threshold.

The castle is gloomy, with a few sparse torches and sconces providing a dim glow. The old man leads her down a hallway before another set of doors. He opens them, and with little choice, she steps into the room.

It's a dining hall, decorated with a pipe organ at one end and a long table taking up most of the room. She stands there, hands clasped in front of her as Strahd continues to play the instrument.

"Please, take a seat." His voice is not particularly loud, but it still carries despite the music. "I have one picked out for you specifically."

She nods, slowly approaching. It isn't until she nearly reaches the head of the table that she sees a name tag, white with black ink in a fanciful hand: Ninjena Al-Amir.

"Ah, forgive me." Strahd stops playing and walks over, pulling out the chair for her. "It's been so long since I've had guests, my manners aren't what they used to be." He smiles, and though it isn't predatory, she still feels a chill run down her spine.

She takes her seat, with him pushing the chair in for her. He takes the seat at the head of the table.

"I trust the Vistani treated you well on your journey here?" he asks, producing a bottle of wine from underneath.

"They did," she replies, slightly surprised at how steady her voice sounds. "They're very good at making a journey feel like it takes no time at all."

"Indeed, they are." He pours a single glass and places it next to her plate.

Ninjena lifts the glass and smells. "Wizards of Wine, I presume?"

He nods. "Very good. Their blends are particularly unforgettable, or at least they were." He clicks his tongue. "Maybe someday they'll be able to make better wines with their vineyards. Luckily, I have a personal store of their better stock."

She takes a small sip and closes her eyes momentarily. It's sweet, but not overwhelmingly so. Underneath it, she can taste something earthy.

The dirt of the grave her friends buried her in after Strahd killed her.

She opens her eyes. "An interesting taste. I'm not much of a wine drinker, but it's good."

"Excellent." He smiles again, and this time the light of the candelabra shines on his fangs. He claps his hands twice and a door swings open. A different person comes out with a cart, which has many silver covered dishes atop it. "Please, enjoy."

The servant lifts the covers off one at a time. A bird with some sort of savory smelling sauce, roasted vegetables, and more greet her, and she's surprised she still has an appetite.

A few cautious bites quickly turn into an almost frenzied feast. She's been traveling for so long, surviving off of fresh game, rations, and on bad days, the druid's goodberries that she's almost forgotten how delicious a home cooked meal could be.

Strahd simply watches her with a glass in his hand, from which he occasionally drinks. She feels his piercing stare and pointedly ignores it in favor of enjoying her food.

At last, she sets down her fork and wipes her mouth with a napkin. "Whatever you're paying the chef, it isn't enough."

He laughs at that. "If you want to talk finances, I would be more than happy to introduce you to my accountant."

She shakes her head. "I don't really have a head for numbers, but I appreciate the offer."

How strange, to be conversing so casually with the one who has murdered you, who you have murdered in return.

He stands. "If you'll follow me into my study; I prefer to conduct business away from prying eyes."

Though every fiber in her body is screaming no, she nods and stands, following him through the castle.

Flashes of fights, of riddles solved, of bonds tested.

He at last leads her to a large wooden door, which he opens for her before following and closing it behind him. Inside is what looks to be a fairly typical study, with a bookshelf on the far end of the room and a large desk taking up most of the space.

"Please, have a seat." He gestures to a chair across from him as he goes to sit.

"I prefer to stand, actually."

There's a flash of anger in his eyes, but it's so brief that she wonders if it isn't a trick of the light. He stops and straightens up.

"Very well." His tone is cool, professional. "As I've said before, I have a proposition for you. Something where both of us benefit."

She raises an eyebrow. "I find that hard to believe."

"I believe," he says, ignoring her, "that you have some questions about your father, yes? Something your mother said about him being 'from the stars,' as it were?"

Though her face remains stoic, the pit of her stomach still falls out.

She told me that when I was little. How long has he been inside my head?

"Perhaps," she replies. "I don't see how you can help with that."

"What if I told you I knew who your father was? What if I told you where he was, so you could go see him?"

"I'd say that's impossible, but I've since retired that word from my vocabulary."

He smiles thinly. "Anything you want to know – and if I can't answer it myself, he certainly can. I can put you in direct contact with him."

She hums. "And what would you get in return?"

His smile widens. "Oh, I have plans for you. First, though, I want you as my…ambassador, if you will."

"Ambassador?" Her stoicism is exchanged for confusion. "I don't understand."

He clicks his tongue. "That's not quite the right word, but there isn't exactly what you would call a modern day equivalent. It's…how should I put this? I want you to bring adventurers here."

"Bring them here?" Her mouth is dry. "But how will I find them?"

He waves his hand. "You've found parties of people before you came to Barovia. Just get them to come here. I'll take care of the rest."

"No." She shakes her head. "I'm not going to lure innocent people here so that you can feed on them."

"Feed on them? You wound me." He places a hand over where his heart would be if he had one. "I merely want to play with them, that's all."

She shakes her head again, harder this time. "No, absolutely not. I'm not going to work for a monster like you."

"You aren't curious about your parentage? Haven't you been wanting to know who your father was for your whole life?" he presses. "Don't you want answers?"

"Yes, but not from you." There's anger in her eyes. "I'd rather die than be your servant." She spits on the floor.

His face remains unchanged. "As you wish, paladin."

He lunges forward, fangs bared and arms outstretched. She clumsily dodges, her armor clanking loudly as she hits a wall.

"This would be much easier if you would hold still!"

In response, she grabs for her sword, only to find an empty scabbard.

How did he

Her thought is interrupted as he successfully grabs one of her wrists. "I really had hoped we would part on good terms. Oh well."

She tries to kick and punch him, but even through her armor it's like hitting stone. He grins, seeing the flames in her eyes replaced with mounting panic.

"Oh, don't act so scared. After all, you've died before. What is there to fear?"

"Let go of me!" Her voice is a scream, even though she knows that anyone who can hear her doesn't care.

"I'll see you in a while, paladin," he says.

Then he yanks her down and sets his teeth upon her throat and everything goes dark.

#my writing #ninjena #Strahd #strahd von zarovich #dnd writing

[crowholtz]

Helene Backstory Drabble Word Count: 962 I'm sharing a tidbit taken from a bigger fic I wrote of a time Helene was in Baldur's Gate when she was 18 and one of Strahd's spies was watching her (though he was scrying through the spy's eyes at the time). Even then, she felt him through their weird mental connection they share.

Please imagine Strahd sitting in his study, looking into his orb of scrying, sipping a glass of wine and listening to Danse Macabre on his record player while he spies.

Rapping her fingers against the wood, the young cleric was perched upon a picnic table, waiting patiently for Con to return with food. She was coming down from the buzz of her encounter with the merchant, though there still was a strange amount of giddiness.

Helene scanned the crowds of people which, thankfully, began to thin out or at the very least, calm down with the drag of the day. She always liked to watch people, noting how they behaved and interacted with one another. Some even sparked enough interest for her to write small sonnets about them. For the most part, she simply observed. Fitting in was hard enough, but perhaps if she learned of how they talked and moved with each other, she would eventually.

With a sigh, her gaze shifted to the big stage set up to the north of the group of tables she sat at. It was surrounded by a big red and white striped tent lined at the top with stringed lights. She wasn’t quite sure what sort of entertainment would be playing there - for now, the curtain was half closed, various storage boxes able to be seen being moved behind them from the right angle. 

The smell of cheap whiskey wrinkled her nose as a group of rowdy young noblemen passed by her table and sat themselves at one nearby. Helene frowned and angled her body away from them, wishing to withdraw into herself. She kept her posture straight and held high, however, the training of proper etiquette burned into her muscle memory keeping her from indulging in her isolation.

Even so, even with so many lively people around her, Helene still felt alone. The world was wide open, leaving her exposed and vulnerable. There was a time when the open skies made her feel safe and at home. Now… now the Citadel was safer. Even so, no matter if it was the walls of the Citadel or the open air of the Gate, Helene still felt that entrenching loneliness. 

Helene continued her people watching. There was always the hope that if she watched enough, it would ease the ache.

And then she felt a small tug. The feeling was nothing tangible – it never was. It was like a light fluttering in her gut, an instinct. 

A pull.

A chill ran down her spine and it was as if a string yanked her taut, back straightening even more. Alarm ran through her. Helene looked around, letting the instinctual pull direct her gaze until it fell upon the eaves of a nearby tavern. She squinted her eyes until they adjusted to the darkness shadowed there, the color of the world falling away into dull grays. 

Hanging upside down from the eaves was a black bat. It was small, having pulled its wings into itself, its eyes just peeking over the tops of them. 

It seemed to be staring directly at her. 

This wasn’t an unfamiliar occurrence. Bats are pretty common, at least as far as she’s seen in her life. They’re always around. Even back at the orphanage, a scrawny bat often spent its nights hanging from a tree outside the window by her cot. Hells, even back… even back in the before, Helene recalled her mother shooing them away.

Off you go. Shoo. Out of the house. Tch. Filthy, dirty creatures. Helene, dear, when you see a bat, let mum or dad know, ja? They carry so much sickness and disease. We can't have you getting sick. You're too precious. 

The memory of her mother's voice fell away as Helene fully locked eyes with the bat. It stared at her, unblinking, unwavering. She realized it had been watching her the entire time since the sun went down, the feeling of being watched a familiar undercurrent that followed her even here, even to the city. 

It was not an unwelcome sensation. 

Every bat that lingered by her staved off the loneliness that hung over her head like a black veil. When everyone else would leave her, ignore her, or treat her like an impurity, at least she had solace in the idea that filthy, dirty creatures took succor in their shared ostracization. Birds of a feather flock together.

Or bats, she supposed.

This one was no different, the chill down her spine shifting into a cool breeze on her overheated skin as she smiled softly at it. It continued to stare back at Helene with that unwavering gaze, tethering her. The sounds of busy crowd chatter and the call of seagulls dimmed, becoming muffled and muted in her ears. Helene felt less and less connected to her body as she remained in this staring contest with the bat, becoming so far from herself as though she might drift away. Music began to play somewhere in the distance, unseen. No… it did not have a direction. It was like it was reverberating in her skull. The melody felt entirely separate from the sounds of the city around her. It filtered its way in through the muffled quiet, a violin played with a delicate touch. It didn't sound quite right. It was tinny, echoing on brass through her mind. Even still, the tune was enchanting.

Unbidden, Helene began humming along.

#ch: helene crow #cos blogging #*writing #*mine

[barovianchickenandwaffles]

Barovian Tales: Elven Knights and Summer Misery

So, there I was one quiet Tuesday, wondering if business would pick up when I got a letter.

Usually such letters are bills, notice of collections, lawsuits, or (gulp) a summons to Castle Ravenloft. But this was different. It was a letter from the Dusk Elves of Vallaki.

Dear “Uncle” Oleksii,

We hope this letter finds you well, and that business is good. (Ha, if they only knew) We request your presence at our community as soon as possible. Please cookingware and ingredients, and be prepared for some cooking.

We believe you will find this worth your time.

Warm regards,

Tharivol Moonglow

Huh. Now that’s something. Elves, for some reason, tend not to like my cuisine no matter how much lard I bake into it. They prefer “healthier food” with “more vegetables”.

Further, my short-lived business venture in Sithicus went down in flames (literally) when Elven rebels there rose up in revolt.

So, why now?

Well, a business opportunity is a business opportunity. I packed my gear and set out.

The trip to Vallaki was miserable and creepy.

First, that weird, faceless creature that haunts the outskirts of the village, and sings in a warbly voice, followed me silently for an hour outside town. Shudder.

Then, the old hags selling dream pies had a lemonade stand by the road. I knew better than to consume their wares, but then they insisted I listen to their business presentation. They wanted to sell me membership in a “Vacation Club” with time-allocated property in Kartakas. No thank you. I may have a 4th grade education but I ain’t that dumb.

Thankfully, I didn’t even have to go into Vallaki proper, just the outskirts. Too many bad memories after my betrothed was eaten by an enormous frog monster there.

I pulled my donkey wagon to the elf village just south. It’s about the closest thing to a lovely spot in Barovia (which is saying a lot) and it’s a shame I don’t come more often.

As I approached a tall, thin elf was waiting for me. This must be Tharivol Moonglow.

“Greetings Master Oleksii, and welcome,” he said in a falsetto voice, “please leave your cart here and follow me up the hill.”

I did as requested and we strode up toward the center of the village. “Your timing was impeccable.”

“Oh?” I said, suddenly getting a bad feeling.

There I saw the elf houses arranged in a ring around a common grounds in the middle. At the grounds were two sets of tables, and a makeshift hearth for cooking.

And there, smiling at me smugly was none other than Vlad, owner of Barovian Wieners and Pancakes, my rival.

“Hello Oleksii,” he said.

“Hello Vlad,” I grumbled.

“And hello to both you losers,” said a voice that sent chills down my spine.

I turned and saw him: Rahadin, the right-hand of the Devil Strahd.

“Look if this is about that kickback I sent you last week, I had no idea those coins were slugs. Honest.”

Rahadin chuckled, “we’ll discuss that later,” he said.

I couldn’t hear half of what he said over the creepy aura of screaming voices around him, but as far as I could figure, Rahadin invited us both for a cook-off. Elves don’t usually eat fried chicken, wieners, or hotcakes. Instead, we’d be asked to cook three dishes based on a random selection of ingredients, and the Dusk Elves would be the judges. The winner would have a charter, signed by Strahd himself, to open a shop in Vallaki. Not bad for business.

The ingredients were:

An assortment of vegetables from the Elves

Wheat flour

Salt

Eggs

Spice from some faraway land that smelled of curry.

Dried noodles from another land

Finally, a slab of 100% all-Barovian “mystery meat”

We were given 1 hour to come up with three dishes.

“May the best chef win… me,” taunted Vlad.

“If it turns out anything like your food, I’ll be in Vallaki in no time,” I shot back.

“Yeah, well, in your dreams Oleksii.”

Nice comeback, Vlad.

I stood at my grill and noticed a large glass vial with some kind of oily fluid in it with the words “Vegetable” and “Oil”.

I yelled over to the judges, “is this some kind of joke? Vegetable … oil?”

You haven’t seen a facepalm until you’ve seen an elven facepalm. Better yet, an entire panel of them.

It was a fast, intense hour. I poured my heart and, er, “soul” into my cooking, using my years of experience. My Babusya would have been slightly proud of me. She might have even nodded in acknowledgement.

When at last time was up, we stepped back and offered our dishes to the judges. Vlad was first. He presented some dishes I hadn’t seen before and I was bewildered. Where did he learn to cook such things. The judges chewed thoughtfully, but it was hard to read their faces.

Next was my turn. I lifted the cover on my dishes and was greeted by a gasp from the judges.

“You cooked … waffles … and fried chicken?” inquired Rahadin. To be honest, all I heard was:

(Scream, mumbles) cooked (more screams and mumbles) fried (screams)?”

“Yes?”

“Out of all the ingredients?” said a similarly stunned Tharivol.

“Um, yeah, wasn’t that I was supposed to do?”

I made cabbage waffles with deep-fried mystery meat, dried curry noddle waffles with fried mystery meat, and deep fried turnip waffles with fried mystery meat.

I know, like, 2 recipes only.

Three days later I was back in Barovia without a charter. I got bonus points for somehow converting dried noodles into waffles, but otherwise no win.

Further I managed to ruin the mood of the contest after making a passing joke about needing some lady elves around there to pretty up a “batchelor pad” like their village. Awkward.

When I came back, I learned that Rahadin and his goons had been around and filled my entire office, from floor to ceiling, with metal slugs as “payback”, and my lockbox had been broken into. That’d cost me about three weeks worth of earnings, never mind how long it would take to clean out the office.

Later, I found out that Vlad’s new restaurant went under after some customers were eaten by an enormous frog monster, and the rest were flogged by Baron Vallakovich for not being happy about it.

I sipped my bitter, bland Barovian Chicken and Waffles-brand coffee as I looked out the window thoughtfully.

Just another week in Barovia.

The End

p.s. thanks for all the positive feedback on the last story. It is appreciated. Also check out an older story I wrote last year.

#ravenloft #dnd #ttrpg #barovia #tumblrloft #d&d #dungeons and dragons #waffles #life in barovia #barovian tales #curse of strahd

[yourplayersaidwhat]

Basement Explorers Part One: Oh, New People

Context: Our group is playing through the Curse of Strahd Death House adventure. This particular session was gold from start to finish. Especially for me. Last session, two of our players couldn’t make it and a player that couldn’t make it for the first two sessions was finally introduced in the basement of the Death House. This session, we had a player leave the group, so we invited two more to join us. One of the players that was missing last time couldn’t make it again, so their character is still missing. The dwarven monk, the barbarian, and the high elf rogue (me) were about half-way through the first level of the basement when we resumed. We play on Roll20.

DM: You enter a large room. To your right, you see the room extend and along the sides divide into little alcoves, in which are set moldy straw pallets once used for beds. To your left and ahead of you there’s a simple scrubbed wood table, not unlike what you would see in a tavern, and on the far side of it you see a strapping muscley paladin-

Paladin’s player: I thought I was by the entrance?

Cleric’s (male) player : That’s actually my [female] cleric. She’s standing there in the corner.

DM: Oh, oops. Your tokens look the same to me for some reason. Anyways, you see a fierce-looking woman in chainmail with a glowing symbol carved into her forehead. It seems to glow not by some Prestidigitation but rather something internal.

Cleric: *holds up her halberd and points it at us* Halt! Who goes there?

Barbarian (who sounds EXACTLY like Kronk from Emperor’s New Groove): Is it an undead? Should we kill it?

Me (rogue): *lowering his swords* Nah, it talked. Who are you?

Cleric: I am [cleric’s name], a cleric of the god Helm. *some purpley-prose speech later* And who are you?

Me: Ah, new person. The dwarf can handle this. *goes off and investigates the alcoves*

I’m searching the lower parts of the room while the monk and the cleric talk. There’s nothing there, so I return as the cleric mentions she’s from such-and-such order from some-name-or-other temple (I was roleplaying my rogue pretty hard by not paying strict attention to this person).

Me: I’ve never heard of such a place, or order. Where are you from?

Cleric: It’s nestled in the northern mountains of Barovia.

Me: Aah, so you’re from here. That explains it.

Barbarian: We’re tourists.

Me: We’re from the Forgotten Realms. No wonder I’ve never heard of your organization.

I then start tapping the walls on the upper part of the room, trying to find any secret doors. The monk, cleric, and barbarian, on the other hand, start exploring the alcoves that I already went over.

Me: I’m tellin’ you, there’s nothing down there.

Monk:*with terrible Irish/Scottish/Something-up-that-way accent* Aye, but there’s more yet to search.

All subsequent rolls made by them reveal… nothing.

Me: What did I say? *strolls ahead through the next doorway, going down the hall*

The monk’s player moves his token next to mine down the hallway. We’re moving our tokens in the same space in tandem, trying to get ahead of each other.

Me OoC: So, the dwarf and I are jostling each other down the hallway trying to be first…

DM: Heheh, well, as you round the corner, the two of you run into, for real this time!, a strapping, muscley, balding paladin, as the hallway brings you around back to the basement entrance.

Me: Oh, another person.

Paladin: Is everyone all right? I heard the sounds of battle and a scream of pain come from inside the house. I immediately came in searching for whoever may need help.

Me: Yeeaahh, that would’ve been our ranger, who is currently missing. *turning to the dwarf and the barbarian* You know, we never did go down those halls where the zombies popped up out of the ground, down by the cafeteria. *Runs off to where we fought the zombies the previous session**Never introduced myself to the paladin, once again relying on the dwarf to do it*

I make it all the way to the “cafeteria” (read, old dining hall strewn with bones with evidence of human cannibalism) when the barbarian joins me. We cross it, stopping at the four way crossing on the other side. We already went down one of the ways, so that left the 2 directions where the zombies had come from. While determining which way to go (via flipping a coin), the paladin and the cleric check each other out, since they both serve the same god. They check each other out pretty hard.

DM: It’s like fifth grade in here. I noticed you noticing me noticing you etc.

Monk, who stayed with the new people: *hurrying them along* Okay you two lovebirds, quit making eyes at each other and let’s go catch up with [rogue] and [barbarian].

Spoilers for Part Two: They catch up to us.

#shit my players say #dnd #rpg #submission #long post #multipart post #official module #team spirit

[operationslipperypuppet]

so i’m running strahd and i’ve wanted to have a dream mechanic as part of it where i have the players make a wis save every night when they rest and if they do real bad they get a haunting prophetic dream.

we didn’t play a bunch at the end of the year and just finally tonight got to them taking a long rest again and three of them failed the save! (which was exciting until i remembered that meant i had to improv three dreams off the goddamn cuff)

the paladin, who i had the most planned for, got a nat 1 and i have him specifics in his dream based on an item i want to eventually give him but he focused on a different (RANDOMLY DETERMINED BY A TABLE I HAVE) part, which is actually super in line with a plot within strahd so now i’m very excited that it all worked out and they actually all liked their creepy dreams and thought they didn’t seem too off the cuff so woooh

#sorry to ramble i just like when i’m actually proud of myself after a session #esp when i go into it feeling like i’m winging everything #alli plays dnd

[dexadin]

What's your opinion on female Strahd/"Strahdyana"? I know it's a popular way of reducing the creep factor inherent in the CoS module, but it always rubbed me the wrong way somehow.

This will also probably be a long one because I have been shaking it around in my brain like a snowball.

So first off, I do not actually care if you make your Strahd a woman, I know that there are Big Name D&D players who do it successfully. I believe Ginny Di runs a female Strahd, and what I've seen of it from over on Twitter seems pretty neat. That being said, I think about Strahd, like, too much, and also spend a lot of time on CoS reddit and twitter, and I do think a lot of DMs use female!Strahd as a quick & dirty way to reduce the creep factor, like you said, without really considering the power imbalances and forces at play that allow Strahd to be a creep. I think that might be why it rubs you the wrong way the same way a lot of it rubs me the wrong way. It isn't actually the gender swap that's the core problem, but the lack of assessment that goes into a lot of these types of games. I'm going to go into Probably Too Much Detail as to why below the cut

CW for discussions of sexism, sex/gender based violence, suicide, and homophobia, as well as major spoilers for Curse of Strahd below the cut

As written in the module, Strahd is a horrible fucking monster. He acts like an incel and is a manipulative, jealous, psycho-sexual creep. Strahd works as a timeless villain, because he's more than just a bogeyman. He is not only the monster under the bed, but the monster sharing the bed. He's deeply pathetic and deplorable and terrifying all at the same time. I think this is something a lot of tables don't want to tackle headfirst for obvious reasons, but still want to enjoy the classic gothic horror of CoS, and I think that's great! D&D is supposed to be fun, and as written, CoS is a meatgrinder that can be a pain in the ass to slog through at times. But in my opinion, it requires a lot of work on the part of the DM to really look through the module and see what needs to be kept, what needs to be reworked or reinterpreted, and what needs to be scrapped.

I think that it's very easy to see a character like Strahd whose main plot revolves around gendered, sexual violence (pursuing an unwilling Tatyana to and through her death) and say that changing him to a her will fix that gendered violence in a way I really do not vibe with.

For example, simply changing Strahd to lady!Strahd isn't going to make finding a 16-year-old Gertruda in her bed any less terrible. Lady!Strahd might make the initial discomfort of the pursuit of Ireena less uncomfortable, especially if you change the subject of Strahd's pursuit to Ismark, but it doesn't actually change the immorality of the actions. And obviously, lady!Strahd will not fix the fact that she pursued Tatyana (or even guy!Tatyana) until she is driven to suicide.

If you change Strahd to a woman, are you also going to gender-swap the rest of the characters, or are you just going to have a woman be responsible for the torture and killing of so many women and children? In the same vein, are you going to consider the potential homophobic implications of having a lesbian predator treat women the same way as-writ Strahd would? Are you going to dismantle the power structures that exist in CoS just as diligently as you would with a male antagonist? Are you going to make sure that your changes aren't diminishing or making light of gendered and sexual violence perpetrated against men by women? Will these changes alone be enough to make CoS enjoyable by you and your players? Obviously, if the answer is yes, then go off! Use your safety tools and keep communication open. I just think that sometimes DMs, especially on Reddit, think they're doing a lot with lady!Strahd without doing much at all.

That said, I do think there is some interesting potential in CoS having a woman antagonist, though. I think it could be fun to explore some antiquated gender dynamics-- is it really Tatyana that Strahd is after, or is Strahd jealous of Sergei because he's the male heir who received their parent's keep, while Strahd had to go out and fight for her respect? How would Strahd's relationship to Rahadin, or Fiona Wachter potentially change? I think a woman Strahd would make a great baseline to bring Baba Lysaga to the forefront as a more prominent, plot-important enemy than she's written as. I'd love to see what could happen with that maternal dynamic with a hardened woman instead of an entitled man. From what I've seen though, that's not the kind of thing most DMs who gender swap Strahd are looking for. I could be wrong though!

TLDR: lady!Strahd can be a fun way to challenge preconceived notions about the module, and to revamp (heh) the story a little. It can also give your players a new way to simp over Strahd, because BBEG-fuckers come in all genders and sexual orientations. However, I think a lot of DMs use it as a way to fix the module through 'girlboss-ifying' Strahd instead of confronting its many, many issues, and I don't think it should be used as the DMs primary method of 'fixing' the module. In fact, I think it can actually open more ideological cans of worms than running it as written.

On a lighter note, I do think Strahdyana von Zarovich is a silly name. Like, Strahdyana doesn't feel particularly Slavic, it's not good to look at or say, and it feels weird especially when you are keeping Tatyana's name Tatyana. But most importantly, it should be von Zarova because that's how Slavic surnames work. The naming conventions are frustratingly inconsistent in the book, but if you're gonna do it at all, I say do it better LMAO

#again this is from my personal experience from what ive seen on reddit #i'd love to hear someone else's interpretations of lady!strahd #curse of strahd #strahd #cos #dnd #dnd 5e #dm tips #dexadin dms