Chapter 37
Necessary Interruption
The chanting from atop Yester Hill was unintelligible from their distance, but in the dimming light of evening they saw thick storm clouds whipping up from nothing in an unnatural spiral high overhead, and they knew something momentous was about to happen. They were prepared to thwart it if they could, but Fabian insisted they learn as much as possible before acting, so as not to fall squarely on the wrong side of justice. Before them the trail winded up the hill to the stone circle and wicker-Strahd, intersecting the two cairn rows in the most direct route, but halfway up the hill a sizeable warparty guarded the path, forest folk scanning the treeline surrounded by blight soldiers on all sides. Any hope of dispatching this group quietly seemed foolish, so they hid their horses from sight and slunk south through the shadows of the forest, hoping that leaving the warriors unharmed would not endanger them later. At the south-easterly edge of the clearing the trees grew to the base of the hill, and they used this to cover their approach, then, waiting until the cairn rows above were clear of patrols, they scrambled up the increasing rocky grade, some quieter than others, and dove to the side of a large cairn. They froze there in silence, anxiously awaiting the sound of a raised alarm, but when it didn't come they knew they'd gone unseen.
Ahead of them was the first encircling path, snaking in this section of the hill along a rocky outcropping that would have to be climbed. But the soft sound of chatter caught their ear, and the diffused glow of a torch in the damp air round the bend confirmed a patrol was nearly upon them. They dropped back to the cairn and pressed against it. Pieron whispered to Fabian that she could empower her to understand their language as Erros imagined what advantage he could gain in donning one of their shadows and infiltrating in disguise. Two folk came into sight, but with a stern look and silent shake of their head the battle-readied adventures stayed their attack for the risk of a cry for help halting the ritual before they could learn more felt far too great. Erros waved his hand and the rocky pile they hid behind silently grew, enveloping them in illusory stones. They stayed motionless as the two folk passed, one in familiar garb to the attackers of the winery, the other shirtless despite the freezing wind and covered in ornamental scarring. Torch and crude cudgel in hand they passed. Erros sighed relief, and in that moment a strange voice spoke out of the ether. A faint whisper merged with the wind for all but Fabian, who heard the rumbling, rasping voice just behind her ear as she stood pressed against the pile of burial stones.
Fabian...Fabian.....Fabian....Hear me and remember, for my time is brief. I am Kavan the Red Snow of the Mountain. I sense in you a kindred passion: hatred for Strahd and compassion for my people. I also weep for my brethren of the western wood, who's generations of misguided worship of the dark powers have drained their souls and broken their hearts. I request of you your pity: do not let them suffer...You are not alone in your rebellion, I once stood against the Mighty One, for a time. I am buried in this holy place under her watchful eye. Recover my spear from beneath my carin and present it at Yaedrag, where my bloodline still holds true in the winds of balance. In my children you'll find strength and knowledge, I can feel their heat still amidst the icy cold.
The group wordlessly looked to one another to confirm they'd all heard the ghostly plea, and Fabian raised her right arm and pointed through the hill to the far side out of some supernatural awareness of Kavan's final resting place. They agreed this could possibly be important but overwhelmed with a growing list of actors, motives, mysteries, and tasks left un-commenced they deemed it less pressing than the ritual ahead. The rising intensity of the wind masked small sounds their armor made as they scrambled up the rocky embankment, and as they crested the ledge the sky atop the hill's crown came into sight again, swirling with a maelstrom of dark clouds of ichor. Ahead of them the hill stretched out in a plateau of hardy grass and moss, broken up only by the grove of trees on the southern edge and the wicker Strahd amidst an encircling stone wall, standing taller than any building in Vallaki and regally staring off into the east.
The group spied a patrol of forest folk depart the grove of trees making for the stone circle. They threw themselves to their stomachs atop the hill and as they waited silently for them to pass, their attention turned to the west. They could strain to see the silhouettes of the broad mountain range encircling Barovia in the darkening twilight, but this close to the edge of the valley they realized the mountains were obscured further, like peering through a milky wall of fog, drapped like a curtain over the landscape just a league away. It was the suffocating mists of Barovia, the impenetrable barrier that held all but the Vistani prisoner within Strahd's realm. At this spot however from the top of Yester Hill, Fabian and Erros peered closer, drawn into the mists by something dancing about the edge of vision. It was impossible to truly be there the two of them thought, but they saw it clearly none the less, the faint shimmer of their homes. Fabian saw nestled in the mountains the acres of farm land she played amongst as a child. The cottage, the river, all such familiar sights in an unfamiliar place. And Erros saw snaking up from the snowy slopes the smoke stacks of the city he spent his adolescent years weaving the streets of. The soot-choked alleys and dim-lit watering holes in which he played ballads and cut purses. The warm and sorrowful embrace of nostalgia threatened for a moment to drown them, but Dyson's gruff word of the patrol's departure pulled them back. He and Pieron's homes eluded their more pragmatic minds and together the four of them ran crouched low across the field to the wall of encircling stones. Neither carved nor mortared, the mound of boulders proved easy enough to climb, though ten feet tall it sloped on either side at a 40 degree grade, and daringly they raised their eyes above the top to peer into the proceedings below.
From their position they could hear the chanting clearly now even amidst the howling wind. It was rythmic, in a language they'd heard before but could not comprehend, and seemed to be emanating from the base of the wicker statue, where the familiar antlered headdress of the forest folk leader bowed and swayed about wildly. The leader and four of their followers chanted at Strahd's feet, as a dim green light pulsed slowly from deep within the statue's chest. It was responding to their vocalizations, ebbing and flowing with each verse, it had to be one of the gems stolen from the winery, and this seemed to be it's fell purpose. All about the ring, fractured by trenches, rocks, and brittle trees, were enemies on guard: forest folk spellcasters, hulking berserkers and motionless blight creatures, undoubtedly there to protect the proceedings. Perhaps strangest of all, a lone scarecrow perched motionless just a dozen yards from their hiding place, looked on silent over the grounds. The forest folk seemed to pay it no mind. Even with it's back to them the scarecrow resembled the one they'd seen in the vineyard before it's strange disappearance, but when whispered attempts to speak to it caused not the slightest stir, they resided to simply keep their eye on it for now. No more debate was needed and the chants spoken did not need to be understood: everyone in the group agreed they had to stop this unnerving ritual. The sun was already set, and soon Erros's curse would consume him again. They spoke quietly and decisively amongst themselves and hatched a bold but risky plan. Erros crouched back amidst the rocks as the rest of the group slunk to the far outskirts of the hill and made their way slowly around the southern edge and back up the western side. They reached their position, now hidden behind the giant statue, and waited. The chants grew louder, the green light pulsed faster, and the storm clouds above burst open in a freezing rain that whipped about their faces, but still they waited. With torches now lit, the forest folk continued their chants, and as the final film of dusk's deep blue haze faded at long last to black, Erros slipped away into an eternal dream of the hunt. His body transformed as the last of his free will pushed him over the rock wall and into the light of the nearest torch, before he was truly gone, and the beast that remained howled into the night.
After that the world seemed to move in slow motion, each brief moment a lifetime. Cries amongst the forest folk went up as the stone circle sprang to life. Berserker's and druids ran for the beast, blights burst from their slumber into shambling action and in no time at all the beast was surrounded. Pieron raised up in the dark, spied her target point clearly in the enemy torchlight, and with a flick of her wrist let loose the small mote of flame they hopped would turn the tide for them once again. It whizzed through the rain to the dirt at Erros's feet, and an instant later the air ripped apart in explosive fury. Blights disintegrated where they stood, the charred forms of forest folk were sent soaring through the air to break apart before even hitting the ground. Erros rose amidst the corpses of nearly half their enemies, and from the darkness Dyson and Fabian charged, closing the distance on the leader before they could react. One of the chanters broke off and engaged, but the ritual continued, as they all fought with a ferocity and urgency they'd only know needed to fully tap into. The pulsing was quick now, nearly the speed of a heartbeat, the chanters not yet halted, and from the darkness of the northern path the flickering light of torches signaled the impending arrival of reinforcements. It felt like near half an hour, but in truth it had been only seconds, and already they were running out of time.
