Lindsey Darkstar
Lindsey’s watch
The mists are thick, pressing against the camp and fighting back against the dispelling warmth of the campfire. Your hands ache from the biting cold and you think to warm them up by practicing your flute. This does not sit well with your companions. There is grumbling about the noise and a couple poorly aimed pine cones are tossed at you. Frustrated you move out of earshot, or at the very least out of pine cone range and play softly. (Performance, perception DC14)
Some time into your lullaby you look back toward the camp you realize that the mists have completely circled you. You cannot even make out the light of the campfire through them. Too late you realize that this is more than just heavy ground fog. These mists are opaque. There are voices in these mists, crying voices and angry hateful voices. The Mists have taken you.
You feel more alone than you have ever felt. There is a faint glow to the Mists, sometimes reddish or golden, other times a haunting greenish blue. The mist is so thick that you cannot see your own belt or even your outstretched hand. Your eyes struggle to make out anything through the fog. You strain against hope, and soon you start to make out deeper shadows moving in the dark. Some are small and fast, others huge and lumbering. As you peer into the darkness one of the smaller shapes flashes out and you feel a coldness on your cheek. You press your hand to your face and realize that you are bleeding. As you reel from the cut you can make out tittering laughter. You try to run but directions are meaningless. You hear answering laughter from all directions. You make out strange words in a wicked language and then something heavy hits you hard in the back, knocking you prone. Before you can rise another blow lands hard on the back of your head, driving your face into black sandy dirt. More strikes, pushing you bodily into the strange earth. You feel things inside you breaking from the abuse but also you feel pushed further into the ground, as if a number of evil men were hammering you into an undug grave. You feel a thought enter your mind, unbidden. “You are dying.” You expected a moment like this to be full of fear and there is fear in you but in that thought there is hope, hope of an end to this pain. This is met by jeering laughter (insight 15) with so much dirt packing your ears you realize that the voices are inside your head.
The song begins again. Your song, reaching out to you like a lifeline. The mists retreat at the sound, thinning. You sense the attackers retreating somehow. (Con Save 14) Desperate for air you claw your way to the surface. A dark shape becomes apparent, at first formless but soon human-like. It is approaching, appearing more solid as the song grows louder. You lay there panting, afraid of what is coming but too weak to do anything. You feel a hand on your shoulder and familiar words. Healing. You roll over, wanting to look upon your rescuer and there you see a dark hood and within a grinning skull. The skull flaps meaninglessly as a comforting voice says “I liked your song.” It reaches out a hand of articulated bones, offering it to you.
The skeleton draws you back through the mists and the shifting black sand gives way to solid ground and leaves. It leads you to a bonfire and what appears to be a peasant couple holding each other as they watch you both approach. The woman speaks. “Did you find her?”
The skull shakes like a wet dog and becomes a man with long stringy hair and an unkempt beard. He shakes his head sadly. “No, I did not. But I found someone. Perhaps she could help. I can try again in a few minutes. Could you fetch some bread and soup for us?” The man leads you to a log and beckons you to sit. He plops down next to you, looking exhausted, and begins to warm his hands at the fire. “My name is Kai Vintoli. I am a spellsinger from the Great City of Sai Val and I have been trapped in these lands for nine years now. Tell me, who are you and where did you learn that song?”
“These people have lost their daughter. She is assuredly dead but I owe them this. You have some talent. I need you to be my beacon. You play and I will be able to find my way back. Take this book. Play the Lover’s Return. Do not stop until I return or the sky lightens with dawn. I saved your life. You owe me a debt. If you do this, your debt is paid.” (Insight 16) There is a tiredness in his voice. He is not coming back.
The book is black leather with an embossed cover that reads Nocne-morie, the pages equally black of some darkened vellum. Songs and essays on the power and nature of fear and hope are inked in silver. These pages constitute the lessons of a new College of Bardic Lore not previously known to you. This is the College of Nightmares.
Performance 0
Kai does not return. Out of charity the woman gives you her daughter’s room to recuperate for a few days then urges you to continue on to the Abbey of St Markova, overlooking the village of Kresk. She speaks highly of the Abbot, encourages you to seek his patronage, perhaps he could fund your beautiful music.
Being this close to Kresk means that the Mists spat you out some 200 miles away from your campsite. At the mention of the Abbot your thoughts immediately go to Ireena, who had left your company in Vallaki weeks ago to seek shelter at the monastery. You waste no time getting to Kresk, hoping that your companions are soon to arrive.
You travel on foot to Kresk, a walled city wasting away on an escarpment of rock. You set up lodging with a public house in return for performing, hoping to practice your new songs. You learn more of the Nightmare class spells, Detect Thoughts, and you develop a performance where you wander through the minds of the audience, picking interesting thoughts and incorporating them into your song as an improv exercise. With this you are pulling larger tips, more free drinks, and more interesting companions to share stories with later.
On your third night you see a very interesting face in the crowd. The face is human, perhaps 30 years. You can’t really tell if they are man or woman but either way they are possibly the most beautiful creature you have ever seen. You are fascinated by their copper-brown skin and their golden eyes and you cannot help but try to read their thoughts in the hope that you are in them. The patrons say their name is Miniel, Abbot of St Markova’s Retreat.
You almost lose your place in the song as you are blasted back by a powerful will. The Abbot does not even register your attempt, apparently lost in a discussion about drinks with the barmaid. Night after night the events repeat. The Abbot arrives and your heart sings, your spell fails to register even a hint of information, the Abbot leaves without speaking to you and your heart breaks again.
On their ninth appearance, the Abbot asks for you after the show. Your hands tremble, your nerves burn at the thought. You wipe away anxious sweat. Without a second thought you recast your new spell, desperate to know their feelings for you.
You exchange pleasantries. They offer you a glass of wine and you drink it too fast. You flounder at small talk. They are fascinating to listen to, each word musical. You reach for anything to keep the conversation going, so you ask about Ireena. Their response is baffling. They say that they have received word that she is being escorted to Vallakia, and then on to the Abbey, but you saw her to Vallakia weeks ago. She should have been in Kresk for a fortnight by now. You ask what day it is. They say Tuesday. You press them for the date and they tell you the 14th of Harvestmonth. The mists have spat you out a full month in the past! They must register your confusion, for they reach out to touch your hand comfortingly.
Whatever was blocking your spell is broken by their touch. All in a rush you are forced to know their thoughts and you are horrified. You see a dark room, stinking of stale and fresh blood. You see a cleaver, chopping all too human meat. You hear screaming. You see chunks of flesh being lovingly, grotesquely stitched together and all at once you know. This creature must not be allowed anywhere near Ireena.
The clammy sweats return but this time instead of nervousness you are overwhelmed with panic. You have trouble even stringing together words. You spill your drink. They fumble to help you clean it and their touch brings more terrible visions. Ireena a carved up and restitched patchwork in a white dress. Strahd’s face! They have seen Strahd before!
You stumble back, falling hard but jumping up before they can assist you. You catch your breath, conjure a long foamy belch that brings all of the conversation in the room to a halt, and haltingly announce that you “need some air”.
From outside you hear laughter in the pub. You focus on breathing, hands on your knees. Anyone watching would just see a drunk trying not to be sick. Looking out into the night you see so many abandoned buildings and the seed of a plan forms in your brain.
You find a suitably sturdy cottage in the north of town and clean out a family of feral hogs. Then you go shopping. The Nocne-morie says that silver is anathema to the undead, that they cannot even bear its sight. You ask around town for a whitesmith but the best you can find is a weaver woman who has some silver thread. You buy up her whole stock and spend a week winding it around your impromptu safehouse in a webwork. The holes are large but hopefully it will keep dead eyes from snooping. Once prepared you ride out, desperately hoping that you do not cross in the night.
You reach Ireena’s carriage camped on the Svalich Road. They are easy to find on account of the howling.
Her guards were beyond saving. Her coachman was close behind. Ireena was cradling him in the middle of the clearing, trying to fend off two huge wolves with the coachmen’s arming sword. They were clearly toying with her. The game was over when you showed up.
You heal the coachman and he passes out. Then you set to explaining your plan to Ireena. You are surprised at how eagerly she agrees. The bandage on her neck from Strahd’s first bite is still fresh. There is a steel in her eyes that wasn’t there before. You convince Ireena to lay still while you stain a fresh white sheet with unsettling amounts of blood from the various corpses and drape it over her, making sure that her face is visible in the moonlight. You cast your Death Shroud, taking the visage of the ravenous vampire spawn from Father Donovan’s basement. You stomp roughly over the coachmen and as he stirs you pantomime feasting on the apparently dead Ireena. Predictably, he scampers away into the night toward Vallachia and you give brief chase to drive the story home. It won’t convince Strahd but surely his minions will hear the drunken tale of Ireena’s passing.
You and Ireena sneak back into Kresk under cover of Invisibility and set up in your safehouse. Ireena pesters you to teach her how to defend herself properly and honestly the companionship of training her and hiding out together forms a surprising friendship. She has no art for magic and her voice is a terror but she takes to swordplay almost effortlessly. Soon she is surpassing you. She tells you that she is done being the victim.
Before she was a restless complainer, now she has a determination about her. She does not whine at her confinement. When you tell her that it is not safe to leave, she practices. The log that she does her cuts on soon needs to be replaced.
She asks to watch you perform. You tell her that it is not safe for her to be seen. She asks you to make her invisible, just for a little while.
You bide your time, waiting for the days to catch up to you. You can’t protect her forever, not alone. You need your companions.
One night the pub empties at some gossip. When you follow the throng outside you see an orange glow to the night sky. Everyone wonders at its source but you know. That is the Morninglord Cathedral in Vallachia burning. This is the night the Baron died. The time is getting closer.
The following Friday the town is hit by a terrible rainstorm. The whole town seems to be sheltering in the public house, looking for cheer but you have none. You remember this storm. You remember who you lost this night. You play for Dawg, mournful songs without words because your voice fails you. The audience is rapt. You share your pain with them and they weep for your friend and you feel a little less alone.
