VOLO VISITS BAROVIA
A visit to Barovia by Volothamp Geddarm (as told to, and set down by, long-suffering scribe Ed Greenwood).
Volothamp Geddarm at your service, gentles, once more setting forth truths and observations of my adventures before you, like choice Tharsultan grayling prawns poached with plovers’ eggs in garlic butter! (A dry Berduskan pairs wonderfully with that, by the by).
I was most flattered recently to have a longtime rival, Randilus Qelver, of Qelver’s Joyous Journeys in Baldur’s Gate, offer me a commission (ninety newly-minted Waterdhavian dragons, no less!) to explore a place too remote for his current busy schedule of mapping the best anchorages in the Nelanther for him to see to himself. A place called “Barovia.”
This was a small valley realm, I was given to understand, not found on any maps because it’s “hidden behind mists.” (A curious enough description, to be sure, but in fact much of far and fabled Sossal is often in the very same state, due to warm damp air rising out of its deep valleys to meet prevailing frigid arctic winds). All Qelver could tell me was that the lord of this land was a “capitol fellow,” a retired “peerless conqueror of a warlord who now lives quietly in his castle,” one Lord von Zarovich by name, and that I should look him up and thereby have all the treasures of Barovia proclaimed to me, for sharing—after my personal inspection to square the proud hyperbole of the proprietor with what the wayfarer will truly find, of course—with subsequent travelers who allowed themselves to be guided by my screed.
In past dealings—admittedly not many in number, or overly involved in nature—I have found this Qelver less than gracious, nasty even, but mayhap time mellows us all. He was most affable, and even shared some choice green Sardark of classic vintage, and toasted delfarnbread with spiced snail-butter to go with it. Qelver suggested I follow an ancient, deeply sunken “old straight track” into the depths of the Wood of Sharp Teeth, this track commencing at about the midpoint of the forest’s western edge and running northeast straight into the heart of this Barovia.
Well, now. An unknown land, however small, in the deep midst of a wild wood I’d passed many a time over my veteran years of wayfaring across the Realms, but never ventured into? A chance not to be missed! Moreover, funds have been rather slender of late, or to speak with full candor have been all too paltry since my arrival in the late 1400s (another tale, for another time, that), and a commission is a commission. Qelver offered me ten dragons up front, but grudgingly advanced another ten after some hard bargaining. When all is said and done, Volo is the one and only Volo.
Yet mindful of the Wood’s reputation for harboring fearsome monsters, dragons and “eldritch” (a wizardly term for “been there a long time, frightened my innards out of me; ran before I could ascertain proper details”) monsters of tentacles and awesome powers, I thought it prudent to seek the advice of an old colleague of mine, the Sage of Shadowdale, Elminster.
He seemed both amused and at the same time full of warnings he was anxious to share. “Ye do know some places are better left unvisited, aye? Unless ye want to die horribly—or enter, again horribly, a miserable existence in undeath. Not everyone’s life goal, but then, ye’ve always been... different, Volothamp Geddarm!”
I thanked him with modest pride, but his response was to shake his head and mutter, “Though ye may be useful yet. I could have a future pressing need for a prize stone-headed idiot; ye never know. And being as ye’ve had a stellar record—and are gaining this new bout of practice, too—at playing a patsy...”
I’m used to the Sage’s rather caustic judgments of me (standing in the shadow of someone so much younger and more handsome and accomplished must sting for one of his long years and longer reputation), and took it well enough, but he moved quickly on to warning me that Qelver’s directions were unreliable (“Ye’ll never find Barovia when ye want to, lad; that’s not how the mists work!”) and that I could only succeed in finding the place if I accepted a talisman he would craft—and surgically implant beneath my skin! “Aye, lad, ye’re going to launch a hopefully short, and even more hopefully to end well, career as a hunchback! Now, don’t go about removing it, now, and don’t let anyone else remove it, or I cannot offer much chance of your safe return!”
“What?” I teased him. “No guarantee?”
And then in unison, we chanted the response I already knew he’d make: “Lad, in life, there are no guarantees!”
He made me lie on a table, atop an old cloak, swabbed my back with something wet and icy, cast a spell that “Will keep ye from shrieking and thrashing about from the pain, as I’ve seen and heard quite enough suffering for several lifetimes,” and refused to show me the “talisman” he was implanting. Which he did by incisions I could not feel, a bucket of leeches that swelled up dark and almost comically round with what must have been my blood, and some unpleasant tugging that I suppose was him sewing me up. Then he cast a long and complicated ritual—several spells, in succession, all unfamiliar to me—that had the effect of making me feel decidedly unwell; empty, or somehow drained. I told him as much, but as he helped me get dressed again, he replied, “Good, good; ’tis supposed to,” and added, “When ye’d return here, say ‘dharts’ firmly, three times in swift succession.”
“Dharts?”
“Lad, lad, I did not name him. Aye, ‘dharts.’ Don’t forget now, unless ye want to reside in Barovia permanently—one way or another.”
Then he handed me four wooden stakes to slide down my boots, a shoulder-sack of “hardbread, cheese, pickles, sausages, sheathed dagger, a spare belt and two spare clouts, and a modest purse full of coins, all wrapped in a blanket,” two waterskins (“holy water and good old drinking water with a little mint in it”) and a handaxe that was actually a cut-down lucerne hammer hooded with a leather weather-cover to conceal its true nature—one end a vicious spike, and the other a flat hammer-head that the Sage told me cheerfully was “for pounding the stakes through a vampire’s heart.”
A vampire’s heart?
While I was still grasping that, he patted me on the back and said, “Now, if ye should meet with a man named van Richten, try to befriend him; ye’ll all too likely have need of him. So, off to Barovia with ye. My way. Don’t want ye getting lost in its mists; they can kill, ye know—or should know.”
And with that, he touched me, there was a whirling of blue sparks the size of my hands that wove around me so swift and furiously that I could only blink—and when I could see again, I was standing in a valley surrounded by towering, frowning evergreen-girt mountains. A strangely still place I can only describe for wayfarers as “decidedly eerie.” It looked nothing at all like the Wood of Sharp Teeth, so I concluded the Sage’s spell must have gone wrong. Typical.
However, I could readily see that I was standing by the side of a muddy road that wound down the valley, that there were farms all around me, and small houses with steeply-pitched roofs and chimneys. In the other direction, the land rose as the valley narrowed, and where distance made even my eagle-eyed seeing dim, I could only just see two tall, dark towers—one cone-capped, the other crenelated—that must be the loftiest eminences of a castle, likely the lord’s abode.
So I headed in that direction.
Where almost immediately, as the road took me over a gentle hill and down into a dell, I espied a splendid little caravan-wagon, fitted with a chimney and lamps and side-windows; a traveling abode rather than a wares-carrying conveyance. A strikingly-beautiful, rather fierce-looking woman with a long fall of dark hair gathered by a crimson headband, and wearing a crimson way-coat of fine cut and make, was behind it feeding the beasts that drew it. She was armed like a warrior or adventurer, and gave me a long hard look as I approached; a look that did not waver when I called cheerfully, “Well met, lady! I am Volo, a peaceful wayfarer! What land is this?”
“You stand in Barovia,” she replied.
“And does the good Lord von Zarovich still reign here?”
She gave me a very strange look, then nodded without uttering a word. So I called thanks, added a wink and a smile that were received with cold and silent scorn, and went on my way.
That castle must stand on high, for it was farther off than it looked; I walked most of the day on strangely silent and deserted roads, and seemed to draw only a little nearer to it. What few folk I saw were farmers, at work in their fields; they regarded me with curiosity, but also silence, and neither answered my hails nor ventured nearer when I tried to converse with them.
When dusk drew down—both suddenly and swiftly, thanks to the mountains walling in this so-far-less-than-welcoming valley—I made for the nearest house to ask for shelter or directions to an inn. It was a smaller, sorrier hutch than many of the farmhouses I’d passed, and looked frankly abandoned; lightless, with the shutters closed over its windows, and having a sag in its roof that my veteran eyes could clearly see simply must let in damp at any prolonged rain. And it stood hard by a small but fast-flowing clear stream, so situated that it probably flooded if spring storms came to this valley. Perhaps that was why it had been abandoned; I hastened, to check for foxes or snakes or worse inside before the light failed entirely, for if a bed or clear, level area of floor survived, it could serve me as a resting-place for the night. Wrapped in my cloak and with my head pillowed on the sack Elminster had given me, I’d be more comfortable than many past nights of my life.
The place was damp and full of rotten furniture, with spongy floorboards festooned with toadstools underfoot. It consisted of only three rooms, or so I gathered before I found myself—I confess my heart made quite a leap—face to face with someone coming out of the darkest back room: a pale, almost purplish-skinned man with burning red eyes; he did not look well.
“Who,” he hissed, “are you?”
“Volothamp Geddarm,” I made haste to say. “At your service, gentle sir. I confess I believed this house to be empty, and could serve me as shelter for the night. I intend no violence, and can pay for a bed and a meal! I’m a traveler from afar, and have lost my way. What are these mountains called, that hem us in so?”
“The Balinok Mountains. Bed through there.” He pointed whence he’d come.
“And your name, good sir?”
“Andramar,” he said flatly. Ah. A man of few words. “Meal,” he added, and turned away. I headed through the doorway he’d indicated, into pitch darkness, and stumbled immediately—for the floor was broken and uneven—and fell against one wall.
And that saved my life, for even as I struck the floor, there was a sharpish hiss right above me; Andramar was lunging through the air where I’d stood, eyes two red coals, hands like claws, and his mouth gaping to reveal teeth as long as fangs.
I scrabbled for my belt knife, swinging the sack off my shoulder and up between us to try to serve as a crude shield of sorts, and—
Above me, Andramar stiffened, arched unnaturally, and let out a huge shuddering gasp. I could only conclude this peculiar behavior had something to do with the long sharpened spear of wood that had just burst out of his chest.
Behind him was its wielder, the woman from the caravan. “You! Volo!” she snapped at me. “Take his ankles!”
I mumbled my incomprehension, and she took hold of the helplessly-staring Andramar under the arms, started dragging him back through the doorway, and snarled at me, “Grab hold of his ankles and help me carry him, fool! Or do you want to be slain by a vampire spawn?”
“Oh.” I made haste to oblige. “If you put it that way—”
“I do,” she said severely, and I couldn’t tell if she was trying to be funny, or was utterly humorless. As we carried Andramar—he was heavy—outside, me bringing up the rear with his worn-through boots and filthy breeches and her determining where we went, that sharp wooden spear protruding from my would-be murderer’s chest and bobbing with our steps, I put on my most ingratiating smile and asked, “And you are—?”
“ Busy, lhobb,” she snapped, leading the way to the stream. “Evil must be attacked and fought, not shrunk from and allowed to fester!”
“No, no—I, that is, yes, of course, to evil being fought, but what I meant was: what’s your name?”
“Ezmerelda.” She said her name flatly, like flinging down a stone—and waded right into the stream.
“Lady Ezmerelda?”
She shrugged. “Ezmerelda d’Avenir.” Towed by the starting-to-struggle body of Andramar, I had to follow her into the stream, splashing and almost falling. The waters were ice-cold, and running fast. She forced Andramar down, grabbing the spear to hold it in place—and as he went under, the vampire spawn started to flail like a madman. Ezmerelda sprang onto him like a wrestler, pinning him, her face intent but calm.
“Lady Ezmerelda, what means ‘lhobb’?”
“ Idiot,” she replied, with what seemed to me like great satisfaction, and added, “Volo, hold the spawn under the water, no matter what happens—and look also all around and tell me if you see anyone approaching. Or any beast. Even a bat.”
I did as I’d been bidden, finding myself still able to see—if poorly—in the dying twilight, and reported truthfully, “No.”
“Then you just might live until morning. Now, let go of the spawn and run. Get your things from the house, and get right back out to the road, and make haste the way you were going!”
“But—”
Andramar was struggling like a fiend under her (and I speak as one who’s seen actual fiends struggle), and Ezmerelda was being dragged this way and that.
“But—” My usual glib tongue seemed to have temporarily deserted me.
“ Move, fool! Get you gone!”
I moved. As I scrambled into the house, a cool night breeze arose. Most of me was soaked, and it was cold. I swore as I fumbled for my shoulder-sack, but remembered to call out thanks as I trotted to the road.
“You’re welcome, foolish man, now run!”
“But—but—” Her face told me this was not the time for pleasantries, so I saluted her and called, “Until next we meet!”
“Here’s hoping you’re alive at that meeting!” she snapped back. “You want the Blood of the Vine, an inn in the village over the next hill! Stop or leave the road for no one!”
Well, I hardly need say that I obeyed her to the last syllable. Her voice held the snap of command, and I admit I’m swayed by bold action; Ezmerelda D’Avenir is very like the best warcaptains I’ve met. Flashing eyes, nigh-fearless, and knows what she’s doing when it comes to battling undead. I couldn’t help but notice there was something odd about her right boot; it didn’t match her left. Perhaps just an affectation of fashion; I admit I cannot keep up with the changing fads and styles. If I had to sum her up in a word or two, those words would be “dashing” and “fierce.” As she dwells in a mobile caravan, I can’t speak for where she may be encountered if you visit Barovia, but she is certainly impressive, and well worth watching out for.
I heard the howls of distant wolves as I hastened (from up in those dark mountainside woods, I judged), and when I reached the inn (which proved to be just as Ezmerelda had described it), I duly noted this down for the benefit of wayfarers, and was gratified to discover the oilskin bag hanging around my neck and on my chest had not only protected my throat with its gorget-plate, it had kept my parchments dry, and my inks and quills unbroken (though Elminster long ago showed me the trick of using your own cut-to-a-point fingernail as an improvised pen).
The inn was barely more than a large, old rambling house, sporting a few extra chimneys where back and upper rooms had been made over into guest bedchambers. Every interior door I saw—even the one leading from the forehall into what I’d have called the front parlor or lounge—had a stout bar that could be swung down to hold it shut against any forceful intrusion that didn’t involve an axe. But the place is warm and cozy, if a trifle shabby, and I got the impression it doubled as a neutral meeting-ground for locals to trade, gossip, and pursue hobbies (from pipesmoking through whittling to gambling) away from their families.
Those locals, by the by, call themselves the “Vistani,” and dress in bright hues; they tend to have abundant hair that’s dark unless they are elderly, possess pointed noses and what might be termed “sharp” features, and eat, drink, and undertake things with gusto, singing loudly, laughing often, and reacting quickly.
I would term the Blood of the Vine “as comfortable as home,” but utterly lacking in luxuries, with simple but hearty fare (stews and ale and warm round loaves of dark nut bread with strong yellow-green cheeses of unfamiliar local varieties). The resident owner prefers to call his house a tavern, and himself its “master,” as the sale of food and drink to locals far outstrips the rentals of his rooms—which he says are most often made use of by weary travelers caught by night far from home, or someone temporarily apart from their kin due to some quarrel or other.
This barkeep, Arik, was a quiet, wary-seeming sort who was forthcoming rather than garrulous; he related to me the layout of Barovia, and everything I saw thereafter confirmed his words. The dark, thick, wolf-roamed evergreens climbing the mountains around the valley are the Svalich Woods; the largest of the Balinok Mountains (the snow-covered one) is Mount Baratok; and the bald, slightly smaller mountain nearby is Mount Ghakis, with Lake Zarovich between them. South of the lake is the palisaded town of Vallaki, and atop a hill west of the two peaks is the walled village of Krezk with the Abbey of Saint Markovia standing in its center. Between Vallaki and Krezk lie farms and the still-impressive ruins of Argynvostholt, a fortified mansion once home to a now-fallen knightly order. East of the mountains lie more farms in plenty, and as one continues east, the road winding through woods as it climbs to reach it, the unwalled village of Barovia, where I now found myself. The village, I learned, was overlooked by Castle Ravenloft, the abode of the Lord of Barovia, Strahd von Zarovich. The castle perches atop a rock column called the Pillarstone of Ravenloft—and yes, there are ravens.
I related my encounter with Ezmerelda to Goodman Arik, and he informed me she was one of the vistani, a wandering people who could come and go from the lands of Barovia. Arik was so kind as to recommend me seek out another newcomer to Barovia like myself—a half-elf bard by the name of Rictavio, who came from distant lands to Barovia in a carnival wagon, with a cane in his hand and a pet monkey perched on his shoulder. This bard is a carnival ringmaster by trade; he dwelt in an abandoned tower on an island in Lake Baratok for some months, then came to Vallaki to recruit new actors for a future carnival tour; he’s apparently a friendly sort who likes to tell tales of the lands he came from, and sound out people to see if they have good singing voices, comic timing, and acting abilities. He’s not averse to buying food and drink to entice folk to sit and talk with him.
Well, now, this seemed almost too interesting to be true, so on the morrow, I set out to visit this Rictavio. My journey to Vallaki was uneventful enough to not warrant telling you of, other than to observe that the character of the town of Vallaki (“Vah-LAH-key”) seems a more cheerful place than the rest of Barovia, under the reign of the festival-loving Baron Vargas Vallakovich. They consider the ruler of Barovia, Strahd, to be a devil here, and I found Rictavio easily enough, at the Blue Water Inn in town. (They did warn me that the wolves are bold and growing bolder, and seemingly more numerous, and have even begun to attack travelers on the roads, not just in the woods!)
Rictavio looked and acted... old. A colorfully-dressed (a stylish mauve-and-orange full-sleeved shirt, and a leather tabard-cut jacket over it adorned with many trios of accent-buttons; very grand) half-elf with, yes, a monkey on his shoulder and a cane in his hand—and it looked very like a sword-cane to these worldly eyes.
He seemed suspicious of me at first, but a few glib anecdotes about my thespian flings caught his interest, and we sat down over some wine to chat. After hearing the tale of my visit to Barovia thus far, he shook his head and said of Randilus Qelver: “Strahd’s creatures seem everywhere! Like the wolves, he grows bolder, and reaches farther… this cannot go on. Yet any change, to avoid real violence and disaster, requires careful planning. Strategy. Forethought. Like a good carnival act, things must be planned, not improvised.”
When I told him of Ezmerelda d’Avenir, he seemed very excited, and said, “This sounds very much like a woman I’ve not seen for some time, who is like a daughter to me. Where did you see her last, again?”
He warned me not to go to Castle Ravenloft, “whatever enticements you’re offered,” but I came here to see Barovia, and could hardly depart without at least seeing its namesake village. So we parted amicably enough, after a night at the Blue Water Inn (fair/reasonable; my standards are mellowing, I confess) in which we traded many tales and I fear he began to think of me in the same wise as the Lady Ezmerelda had, though he was too polite to use words like “fool” or “idiot.” He thanked me for the quips and jests I’d let drop before his ears, though, and made me promise once again not to accept any invitations to Castle Ravenloft or be bold enough to ride up to its gate towers—or beyond.
I was in full agreement with him the next day, when I set out once more under frowning skies. Lowering storm clouds cloaked the valley, imparting the gloom of near-twilight and warning me I’d probably be drenched ere long. Nearing the gates, bound for Krezk, I encountered a smiling (but wary and far from happy) and rather plump man. He was a burgomaster or merchant, by the cut of his tailcoat, and he made haste to inform me that the Lord of Barovia, Strahd von Zarovich, would entertain me at Castle Ravenloft at my earliest convenience.
I would ordinarily have thanked the fellow and assured him I would be delighted to accept the invitation, but some confused memory of hearing bad things about the name “Strahd,” long ago in a tavern in Suzail, made me say, “Oh, that Strahd! I would love to, but fear I find myself in an urgently pressing hurry to be elsewhere!”
“Where?”
“Anywhere! I—uh—that is to say—”
The man’s face hardened, and he began to say something stiff and formal that began with the words, “It is unwise to scorn an invit—” but that was as far as he got before something behind me caught his eye, his face went as pale as new butter and he scuttled away, clearly in the grip of profound terror.
I cast about for the cause of his fright, and was still doing so when a bat flapped to the ground, twisted and grew amid a burst of dark smoke or mist, in a horrible boiling manner—and became a man, standing smiling at me. He was tall and richly dressed in half armor and a cloak, and had skin as pale as chalk, a haughty countenance, aquiline features, pointed ears, dark brows, and an imperious stare. His smile was not a nice smile.
“And what, sir, might your name be?” he asked, quietly and pleasantly enough.
“Volothamp Geddarm, at your service!” I replied brightly, putting on my best smile.
“You are indeed,” he agreed. “I am Strahd von Zarovich, Lord of Barovia. I’ll expect you to dine with me at my castle tonight. I would hear of where you hail from.” His eyes narrowed, and he added, “And of the strange magic I perceive you carry.”
“Magic?” I asked, contriving to seem the very soul of innocence with my usual glib success.
“Yes,” he repeated simply, and turned away. “Until tonight.”
And a moment later, I was alone, a bat flapping away from me—east, in the direction of the castle whose two towers I could again just see, in the misty distance.
I watched it out of sight, then said, “Dharts!”
And nothing happened.
“Dharts!” I said again, louder this time.
I was answered, out of the empty air, with a cold, mocking chuckle.
“Dharts! Dharts! Dharts!” I told the gloom around me insistently, and I don’t mind admitting the tiniest thread of panic wriggled within me at that moment. Growing.
And then the world around me went away. A most unpleasant feeling.
It was very cold, and very dark, and I seemed to be falling, endlessly falling, my head full of mist.
Until, quite suddenly, I was lying on my back, blinded by what turned out to be a simple lantern, and Elminster was bending over me.
“Still alive? And in one piece?” he inquired cheerfully. I managed to nod.
“Right, roll over,” he said briskly, getting out a wicked little knife. “We need to get that talisman back out of ye. Has a piece of one of Strahd’s fingernails in it, ye know; that’s the only reason it works. Yet it also means, if he summons time and determination enough, he can reach out to ye. And that would not be good.”
“I can believe that,” I told him, and meant it. And then, of course, I had to know how the magic worked.
Elminster gave me what is probably best described as a “withering” look. And said, “I separated thy body from thy soul, then attached body and soul to the talisman and to each other by strands of the Weave. So the talisman can be, ahem, yanked back to where the soul is—here—and bring ye with it. It only works because of a fragment of fingernail and some Vistani traveling between Barovia and not far from here at just the right time; most who venture to Barovia are trapped there forever.”
“Forever?”
“Unless they can destroy Strahd.”
“Oh. Forever.”
Elminster smiled. “I have every confidence in thee, Volo, but I suspect ye’ve seen enough of Barovia. Aye?”
“Aye—I mean, yes!”
So that is my Barovian adventure, and why I cannot recommend it as a wayfarers’ destination. I enjoyed my time there, of course, for when all is said and done, Volo is Volo!
KaC2009