Each victory in Barovia costs a soul. Sometimes, it’s your own.

The party’s story in these twin sessions begins in ash and ends in resurrection. After the execution of Traxidor, his companions refused to leave his body on display in Vallaki’s square. Lady Wachter had expected their sentimentality. When they came for him, she unleashed hell.

Literally.

A Barbed Devil pursued them through Vallaki’s backstreets, flanked by smaller spined fiends that shrieked from above. Radley carried Traxidor’s corpse, stumbling under the weight; Daermon darted ahead through fog; Urihorn fired arrows from his panther’s saddle. Every street burned with infernal fire. The city was a cage of smoke.

Then came salvation in human form. Van Richten—scientist, monster hunter, cynic—appeared from the mist. His walking cane flashed; the devil struck. For a heartbeat, it seemed the hunter would be torn apart. Then came a burst of blue radiance, and the creature vanished into nothing. “There are seldom any guarantees,” Van Richten murmured, brushing ash from his coat.

The escape wasn’t over. At the southern gate, guards demanded they halt. Van Richten didn’t. The horse thundered forward, smashing through the barrier as the vardo lost a wheel. Guards advanced; a warden fired necrotic bolts. Radley and Daermon lifted the wagon by brute force while Van Richten cast Mending, sealing the break. The group fled Vallaki forever.

At the Abbey of Saint Markovia, the Abbot received them with holy calm. The crumpled wedding dress—muddy but intact—delighted him. When they asked him to restore Traxidor, he warned of divine balance. But something in him shifted. Perhaps gratitude, perhaps madness. He agreed. “For the redemption of Strahd,” he said. By dawn, the cleric lived again, pale and trembling.

When Burgomaster Kreskov saw this miracle, he broke. His grief erupted into rage: “Why not my son? Why not Ilya?” His wife soothed him and armed the party for departure.

The road east led to Argynvostholt, the ruined keep of a fallen order. Snow whispered through cracks in the roof. A great dragon statue watched them enter. Shadows coiled like breath. Inside, the heroes found a chapel of kneeling knights. Daermon, ever curious, touched one with Mage Hand. The knights rose, rusted armor creaking, hollow eyes burning.

The revenants struck without hesitation. Radley’s shield rang, Urihorn’s arrows hissed, Traxidor’s radiant magic flared. But nothing stopped them. The heroes retreated through the darkened halls, out into the cold daylight beneath the dragon’s gaze.

Barovia gives no peace. Devils fall, angels sin, and the dead still kneel to forgotten gods. The adventurers lived another day—but for how long, no one could say.