Chapter 30

Cold Bodies and Cold Receptions

While the sleep was restful and warm, in conversing with each other in the morning the four adventurers realized they had all shared the same prophetic dream. In it, they stood alone on a mighty hill in a mountain vale. The trees felt like the Barovia with which they were familiar but high above the sun shined warm and bright. Ahead stood a towering oak tree and in a blur folk clad in animal skins passed by. A priestess accepted their gifts of nuts, flowers, and other forest treasures, and burned them atop an alter at the base of the tree. The animals she killed with a ruinic iron knife and buried the hearts in the soft soil between the thick roots of the trees. The wind blew into their faces and the immense power and balance of the natural world consumed them. It felt like years they stand there as the sun set and rose and set again, until suddenly a chill gripped them, and they felt fear. The sun rose behind a clouded veil and it's warmth was missed. The people stopped coming, the priestess stopped presenting their gifts, and the wind weakened. The great oak tree shed it's leaves, and time slowed. A man then stood before the tree, alone, draped in an exquisete black cloak, his head turned away. The wind died and the air grew deathly still, as the tree turned black. The dream felt connected to the vision Jeny had felt from the ebony stick, but why they'd shared it, and wether it was hypothetical, an insight into the past, or a premonition of future events remained a mystery.

In the morning the group found Jeny in her kitchen hunched over a toad the size of a grapefruit. As Erros stepped forward to inquire more about Fabian and Dyson's curse, she dug her thin fingers into the toads ribs and splayed the creature open on her plate, gingerly reaching in for the heart before gobbling it up. Undeterred, he brokered his question, and Jeny was far from forthcoming with additional information. It seemed that the strange circumstances hanging over the two's resurrections were not solved simply from Jeny's failed attempts to dispel a curse, and that some curses can only be broken in specific ways or by more powerful beings then their casters. Jeny had never heard the name Norganus, though more information about this creature was clearly becoming a priority. In passing, Jeny mentioned something of the Ladies, and as she dug into a second toad, Fabian asked her what she meant. Through the bablings and riddles, they pieced together some interesting information. Jeny spoke of the Ladies Three, three powers of the land, the swamp, the mountain, and the forest. Ancient forces that Jeny spoke to in her walks through the trees, that other's worshipped. She explained that they didn't speak anymore, but Jeny had no idea where they'd gone. She spoke instead of her peers, others who have lived in the woods for many generations, the three old witches of the broken mill, Morgantha and her daughters, and the horrible queen of the bogs, whom she wouldn't give a name. Jeny feared her and laughed when Erros asked if they were equals. She only said that a fight between her and Strahd would be one to remember, though it would never happen because the bog queen was utterly in love with the darklord. With less answers than questions, and Jeny tearing into her third toad, the group thanked her for the information and gathered their things. These ancient Ladies Three seemed just another riddle to solve, and they walked out of Jeny's hut.

The air was damp and heavy as they set out in the early morning from Jeny's hut. She waved a handkerchief in an exaggerated goodbye from her balcony as the dewey iron axles of the wagon creaked into motion. The horses breath fell in clouds onto the melting frost as Pieron gathered her blanket about her and gave the reins a gentle pull. When they'd descended the hill and arrived once more at the Old Svalich road, they resumed their journey northwest passing two additional paths before arriving at the Raven River by midday. The road continued west along the southern bank of the river, presumably to the winery in the southern valley, but their destination took them across the stone bridge over the gentle mountain waters of the Raven. As they made to cross the spied a strange patch of earth on the side of the road and pulled up on the horses to a halt. Erros hoped down from the wagon to investigate, a lone shovel lay amidst the soil, a patch roughly eight feet by ten recently excavated. Were it not for it's size it resembled a grave, and he joked that perhaps the spiders they'd run from were burying their dead. Fabian felt the ground for any signs of evil or undead but felt nothing and with a gloved hand she shoveled several handfuls of dirt from the patch hoping to reveal something buried just beneath the surface. Their curiosity getting the better of them Erros grabbed the shovel and drove it's tip deep into the dirt, only to in that moment realize that digging up whatever had been buried here would likely entail hours of back-breaking work. With a shrug he threw the shovel to the ground and they left the patch behind. The road crossed the Raven and made a sharp turn west, following the river from a small rise before the ground rose gradually to cliffs in the north.

They clopped along a short ways before they saw what appeared to be a lumber mill in a clearing of trees. A sawmill stood on the bank of the river, it's large wheel locked stationary in the water, a tool shed and piles of lumber lined the east edge of the clearing and a longhouse the west, built to encircle a tall oak left standing in the yard, a lone figure hanging from it's branches. They rushed to the tree to see the figure was a woman, middle aged, dressed in leather working clothes, blue, bloated, and hanging from a noose about her neck. The mill was quite and felt abandoned, so Fabian reached up to untie the woman and prop her lifeless body against the trunk of the tree. Her broken neck lolled limply to the side and Fabian closed her eyes and whispered a prayer. Pieron looked about the mill's grounds and saw that the door to the longhouse was hanging from it's hinges in splinters. Stepping into the dim light of the house they came upon a grisly sight. Pools of dried blood soaked through the floorboards and splatters snaked the walls like an infestation of creeping vine. Tables and beds were overturned, ripped to pieces, and deep claw marks gauged the wood near the utterly demolished door. A dozen makeshift weapons littered the floor, felling axes, saws, and carving knives, though no bodies remained. Each weapon was splattered with blood or soaked where they had fallen into thick pools, but none seemed to bear the blood of use, only their wielders. Everyone in the group had seem enough battle to know the look a knife had when it's edge had drawn lifeblood of a foe, and it would appear that none of the weapons had scored a single strike on their targets, a strange mystery.

Upon seeing this carnage Fabian returned to the woman now slumped in the yard. She searched her body for cuts or bight marks, found no wound besides her broken neck, but noticed her knees, calves, and forearms were caked with dirt and a theory quickly formed amongst the group. This mill was recently manned, by perhaps a dozen individuals, but was attacked by a horrible foe, most likely a werewolf or several. The woman could have perhaps been the culprit, or merely survived the attack, and had used the cart stored near the mill's tool shed to ferry the bodies of her friends to the southern shore of the Raven, where she had buried them all in a mass grave. When she'd returned, she'd killed herself. The tracks about the camp seemed to confirm their theory, though the woman's relocation of the bodies had masked any tracks they could have gleaned of the werewolves themselves, and it was impossible to determine their number. Whoever had attacked, the loggers stood no chance, their clean blades were proof of that. Fabian desired to bury the woman with her kin, but unable to take the time, she reluctantly gathered leafy branches of spruce and pine to cover the woman in a makeshift effigy to her final sorrows, and no further jokes were made. A crack of lightning opened the dark skies that had threated them all morning and freezing rain fell in a steady shower. Solemnly the group mounted their wagon and carried on.

An hour from the mill they left the Raven as it turned south and followed a northern path from the main road to the base of a mighty hill. The ground rose at a steep grade to a sheer cliff where nestled at it's base were the fortified stone walls of a village. Wisps of smoke rose in pillars above the ramparts past a switchback path that lead up the cliff to a brick monastery, the sun iconography of the Morning Lord visible even from the ground. This could be none other than Saint Markovia's abbey, which would make the town below Krezk. It was small, much smaller than Vallaki or even Ravenloft village, and more closely resembled a fort than a town. The trees about the crown of the hill were cleared, a thousand feet from Krezk's walls, their ancient stumps grown over with moss and grass, so that none could approach the town and avoid notice. There was not an acre of farmland in sight and no structures built outside the towns walls, imposing even from the base of the hill. They drove their wagon onward, the path winding unnecessarily around stone roadblocks to slow their approach, and stopped several times to unstick their wagon from the increasingly slick mud. The rain did not let up, and an uneasy sense of vulnerability pierced them as they stared into the black arrow slits of the town walls far ahead. When they finally reached the gate, a voice called down to them from behind the stone, the form of a helmed guard visible in the slit when they shielded their eyes from the rain. The guard asked where they were traveling from, but gave no indication that their answer would have any bearing on his next statement, that though they must be unaware they would not receive entry. Krezk's gate opened to Krezk citizens alone. But Fabian stood boldly forward and with conviction warned of a great evil that had befallen Vallaki and vowed to protect Krezk from a similar and impending fate. So knightly was her confidence that the guard withdrew to fetch the town's burgomaster to hear what they had to say.

After several minutes a face-hatch was swung open in the thick wooden gate, though the opening remained reinforced with wrought-iron bars, and the form of a cloaked man approached. He stopped three yards short of the door and lifted back his hood to reveal an aged but muscular face, silver, balding hair, with his left eye clouded white, a scar running the full length of that cheek. He introduced himself as Dimitri Krezkov and Fabian reiterated her plea. Dimitri chuckled and spat at the name Vallaki, decrying the evil and corruption that for years had already penetrated their walls. He showed no fear and little concern for Strahd's, so he rightly named him, ability to threaten his people. But his imprudence gave way to solemnity as he spoke of his true concerns for the impending winter and their unpreparedness. He asked the group their names, to which they offered yet another set of aliases though convincingly enough, and as he looked deep into each of their eyes to size up their character, he said he valued loyalty and trust above all else. If they insisted that their need required entry into the town in which he was tasked to protect, he would grant it, on the condition that they back up their wants with action. One of the few things they could not produce for themselves was wine, and a three week delay on their stockpile shipment without word was worrisome. If they could investigate the delay and complete the delivery in full they would be welcome into Krezk with the burgomaster's upmost appreciation. They agreed, but in asking if they could spend the night before their departure they received a no that did permit discussion. But with a compassionate sigh the tired ruler permitted them to rest in the safety beneath their walls. With a kurt word of luck Dimitri turned on his heel and walked into the rain with the regal elegance of a man who deserved his position.

Though there remained several hours of daylight left, the group had no desire to camp a night on the road they didn't have to, and instead spent the remainder of the afternoon huddled together in their wagon, snacking, tinkering, and conversing with one another, enjoying the rest and steeling their hearts for the unknown challenges ahead. It was a pleasant respite, if a bit chilly, and as the sky darkened to night they pulled blankets above their heads to enjoy what body heat they could keep from leaking out. The Krezkian guards kept braziers lit atop the stone wall to bathe the hill in light, and the midnight howls of wolves and greater beasts felt for once truly distant.