Chapitre Huit: Le Roi des Tigres
“Holy Dawn, wake up–! Why is it always on my shift–?!”
Oskar was awakened by Valentina’s yelps just in time for her to kick him in the shoulder. Luckily, even in boots her tiny feet couldn’t do more than a light tap, and then she was flying away to kick someone else anyway. The ache in Oskar’s lower back was worse. In fact, it was quite motivating to get him up and off of the splintering pew where he was sprawled. Around him, the others were stirring with varying degrees of reluctance.
Valentina herself was back at the broken window where she had been keeping watch during her shift. It was on the side of the building which overlooked the tiny graveyard. The one which held both Vicomte Imbert and now Dorian, too. That got Oskar up and moving in an instant. Had their vampire-killing measures not been enough after all? He was at the window beside Valentina before his eyes had fully cleared from sleep.
At first, all he saw was mist. That great, Barovian constant. The blur of sleep was only compounded by the extra fuzz of the gently drifting whiteness outside. It didn’t help that the storm clouds which had begun to gather the previous day lingered in the sky. Again, Oskar was struck by the idea that the bulk of the valley’s ominousness was due to its incredible silence, its lack of natural noises. Such a beautiful, lacey mist like a bridal veil over midnight grass would not have otherwise appeared so disturbing to him. It should have been beautiful.
It also… should not have been moving.
As the fuzziness cleared, the impression of movement grew both clearer and not. Oskar expected to see something solid moving through the mist, causing the sluggish ripple to run through it. He expected to see the ghoulish face of Dorian, risen once more, moving through the little graveyard. Or else perhaps a servant of Strahd, some wolf or zombie, prowling in search of Irénée. But there was no silhouette within the mist, no solid shape or shadow moving through it. What was moving was simply the mist itself.
“Are those… people?” Valentina whispered.
Her words brought some part of the confusing picture into resolution. Those movements were closer to those of limbs powered by muscle than of mist blown by the air, which was why Oskar had expected to see someone within it. The mist was moving like people. Eerie, pale outlines full of holes, dissolving even as they moved and coalesced once more. Far from one or two creeping shapes, the mist seemed full of them. A mass of incorporeal forms, marching slowly across the mud of the graveyard.
They were all shapes and sizes, all races and descriptions. That was another thing that struck Oskar as extremely strange. Almost all Barovians were humans. The Vistani were the main exceptions, but even they had a distinct human majority. These marching shapes in the mist were recognizable in broad strokes as dwarves, half-orcs, goliaths, tieflings, elves… Some seemed to wear bulky, metal armor, while others were clad in flowing robes. They carried staves, bows, swords, axes, and more. In total silence, they marched slowly forward, towards the cemetery’s gate and then out, down the road towards Barovy.
“Those are ghosts,” Oskar said. The fingertip scars on his chest burned like ice. In smaller numbers, with less natural mist around, it would have been obvious to the others as well. These were specters, just like the unfortunate nurse from the Deniau death house which had led them into this valley so many days ago. A wandering, restless spirit held to the earth by its unresolved grudges against the living. Oskar had never seen ghosts in these numbers. The nurse’s grudge was clear, having died under such tragic circumstances. How was it possible for this number of people to bear similarly personal hatreds? In these numbers, their presence could not be coincidental.
“Spirits of the dead can’t leave the valley any more than the living can,” Illyan told the others in a low rumble. “We Vistani say our dead ride on the backs of the ravens. This place… it don’t let go of people.”
“But those aren’t Vistani. Or ravens, or Barovians,” Oskar noted.
“Let’s see where they’re going,” Valentina suggested.
Jinghua stayed behind in the church, in order to continue to keep an eye on Dorian’s grave and Père Donatien. Sveta stayed behind with her, in case Jinghua turned into a ravening vampire. Illyan released the new-built Ivoire (which he had constructed on his own watch shift) with instructions to return once she found the front end of the marching column. The others hastily grabbed their weapons and shoved on their boots in order to hurry, half-dressed, down the road. They stumbled along the verge, slipping on grass and molding leaves, unwilling to walk closer to the center where the column of misty ghosts marched. The trail wound impossibly long, hundreds upon hundreds of ghosts, going all the way down the tiny village’s main road, through the square, past the Sang de dans la Vigne, and then out of the village entirely. Everyone stood at the edge of Barovy, brought to full alertness by the chill of midnight and the brisk jog through town. They took in the ribbon of ghosts which wound ever onwards, along the western road, vanishing into the dark of the trees and the jut of the mountains.
Oskar thought about where he knew that road to lead. Past the River Ivoire crossroads, past the Clan Mercier encampment, all the way to the gates and then to Vallac, yes. But before Vallac, a split in the road to the northeast…
“They’re headed for Castle Ravenloft,” Illyan breathed. Then, with vigor, “Aeon, you recognize ‘em? Any of ‘em?”
Aeon turned a careful eye on the column of ghosts as they went past, scouring each face for what sense could be made of their misty features. His face was no less misty than theirs when he replied, “...No. I don’t recognize anyone here…”
“If it ain’t the rebellion…”
“They’re adventurers!” Valentina realized. “All the people from our plane who died facing Strahd! Wow, have there really been this many?”
Oskar’s head whipped around. People from their plane who died facing Strahd…? He compulsively approached. The ghosts took no notice of him, though the air became so cold that his breath billowed out to join the mist. Oskar stared at the indistinct phantoms, willing them to become clearer. Was that one a tabaxi? Or a leonin? Did that one wear the same kind of cloak as his father? Another, did it carry the daggers favored by his sister?
“I don’t see any tabaxi,” Illyan said. The sound broke Oskar’s frantic focus. He realized the artificer was standing right by him, the glow of their hair lending an almost living cast to the specters. They, too, were scanning the faces as if in search. They looked back up at Oskar, concerned. “Madam Eva said your family might be in the Castle. Could this be what she meant?”
It was an insane thought. There was no way to support it with logic. The two people involved could not have been more different in every single physical aspect. And yet, for just a moment, peering up at Oskar with their luminous, two-toned eyes, Illyan reminded him so very painfully of his sister. Or… perhaps it was that Illyan made Oskar feel as his sister must have done, once, looking down at her frail brother and feeling lit from within by his simple presence. Oskar missed her so much. He wasn’t that frail little brother any more who needed her shelter, but still he craved it. He would do so much, if it meant seeing her again.
But Illyan and Valentina were shivering in the cold, Aeon was staring blankly into space, and the ghosts weren’t paying them any mind. Nobody in the whole village had come out to look as they had. There was no sense of urgency or danger here at all. Maybe Oskar’s birth family was among that throng of spirits, but his current one was cold and tired.
“We’ll find out when we get there,” Oskar growled. “Until then, let’s get back and sleep. You need to regain your strength.” He shepherded the younger two back through the village, to their cozy, little, half-collapsed church. The urgent sting in his heart which for years had screamed at him to hurry, hurry, hurry… was finally silent. Wherever his birth family was, they would still be there in the morning. Madam Eva had been right. He would rest when he found them.
He wished from the bottom of his heart that Illyan could have met Erika. He had a feeling they would have gotten along like a house on fire.
----------------------------------------
In the morning, the ghosts were gone and Ivoire had returned from her all-night round trip to Castle Ravenloft. Thank the saints she didn’t have to sleep, Illyan thought. None of the living party members was particularly comfortable or well-rested either, but they were dry and the spellcasters had been able to replenish their depleted magic reserves. Père Donatien didn’t see them off except for the sounds of his sobs coming from the graveyard as they mounted up and headed back through town.
“Think we should check on Mad Maryse before we move on, me,” Illyan suggested.
“Why?” Sveta grumped from the bed of the Morning Glory. “Everyone in village is miserable. So what if she is crying? Best way to cheer her up will be to kill Strahd.”
Illyan scowled in her direction, but he didn’t have the heart to argue more ferociously. She looked miserable. She was crammed in alongside the armored Chevalier Aeon and now Jinghua as well. The compact harengon didn’t take up an excessive amount of space, but it was certainly tight quarters in the cart bed, suddenly. No more room to even half-extend her legs. The bench was taken up by Valentina and Illyan, while Oskar rode alongside on Crème Brûlée in order to give the horse a rest from pulling the overloaded wagon. It was Bûche de Noël’s turn for that.
“I have a date to get back in time for,” Valentina reminded them all. “And it doesn’t look like anyone is going to turn into a vampire after all.”
“If it was going to happen, it would have happened last night,” Oskar agreed.
Illyan shrugged. “D’ac, Vallac it is. ‘Ey, so this new potion I left on last night, I think it’s gonna let the drinker fly for a li’l bit…”
“Give here. Nemedlenno.”
It was a lively group that rolled past the field of piked wolf’s-heads outside of the Morning Gate this time. The conversation had at some point become a debate about the relative merits of everyone’s backsides. To Illyan’s great distress, his bottom was in the bottom ranking. Valentina, through great wit and persistence, had argued her way to the top against the stiff competition of Jinghua’s physical training regimen. They were greeted at the gates to the Archambault Stockyard by Mssr. Edgar, who had seen them coming and anticipated another stabling fee. Jinghua took the lead arranging this while Valentina sashayed over to admire Le Cirque des Merveilles de Maître Romaric.
“I wonder why he needs such a sturdy lock.”
“Probably to keep the cat locked inside,” Oskar called over.
“The what?”
“I heard and smelled it the last time we were here. There’s some kind of tiger or lion in that circus car.”
“Oskar, is relative of yours?” Sveta asked.
His scowl bared thumb-sized white fangs. “A joke about my dead family? Nice.”
“Pauve ti bête,” Illyan crooned, stroking Ivoire’s leathery head where she sat on his shoulder. “She’s just been locked up in that box for days? She must not be ‘ardly able to turn around!” Furtively, he looked around. Mssr. Edgar had led their horses away and was getting them settled in the stable stalls. They were the only ones in the stockyard. “We should set ‘er free.”
“I agree,” Jinghua said. “No living creature should be kept in these conditions.”
“And what, drag a lion or tiger with us through the streets as we go to meet its owner?” Oskar asked, ears still flattened in annoyance.
“Um, can I vote against stealing from the guy I’m trying to get it on with tonight?”
“Overruled due to bias,” Illyan told her. “Sveta, go ask the cat if she’s ‘appy where she is. If she wants to come with us, we gotta take ‘er.”
Sveta nodded. She cupped her hands around her mouth and whispered into them, “Zovet menya vzglyadom i krikom svoim. I vymolvit khochet, ‘Davay uletim!’” The next noise which emerged from her mouth was a deep, throaty chuff. A friendly jungle cat greeting.
After a moment, the chuff was echoed from within the circus car. The kresnik and the cat exchanged a few more feline noises before she lowered her cupped hands and said, “He wants dinner before he will talk. Says there is hatch in top of car.”
They rustled up some preserved, salted venison from Oskar’s pack. Jinghua sprang up atop the circus car and let her hands down to help Sveta awkwardly follow. There was indeed a window in the car’s roof, open to the elements except for a few iron bars across it. From here, neither woman could avoid the stink wafting up from below of cat piss and rotting meat. They could see that the floor of the car was strewn with straw which had mostly been pushed to the edges by the occupant’s pacing. A few scraps of rotting meat lay among the heaps of straw. In a cleared area, there was a little, well-chewed ragdoll in bright little scraps of clothing and rhinestone jewelry. Crouched beneath the hatch was a massive, waiting tiger. His eyes gleamed green in the light that came through the hatch.
“Good kotyonok,” Sveta said, then cupped her hands to continue to converse with the tiger in his own language. The stance was reminiscent of someone imitating birdcalls, though the noises she produced were feline in nature. Jinghua dropped the meat down, which he promptly snatched up and began to devour in messy bites. In between gulps of venison, he growled answers to Sveta’s questions. “Says he has no name and that his master is blond half-elf man who gives meat twice a day. Has never been in circus show since half-elf master purchased him. Says he has been kept in circus car entire time since purchase, for weeks, he thinks.”
“Would ‘e like to be freed?”
After a consultation, “...Yes. Says he would like to be free to hunt prey.”
“I’ll pick the lock,” Illyan volunteered.
“No need.” Sveta withdrew the Wand of Knock from her satchel and twirled it like a gunslinger, before pointing downwards at the padlock. With a BANG, the padlock flew apart, the heavy chain slithering to coil on the dirt. There was also a smaller snick as a needle shot out of the padlock, looking to impale a thief who was not there. “Good thing we replace you with wand.”
“‘Urtful!”
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“Not as hurtful as needle trap.”
Further banter was cut short as Illyan swung open the door and caught sight of what was within the car. Or, rather than sight, it would be more accurate to say that what he caught was an avalanche of four hundred pounds of muscle and steel. In an instant, the lighthearted atmosphere was wiped away, the rest of the group watching in horror as a massive tiger bore Illyan to the ground.
In the light of day, such as there was beneath the dark storm clouds, they could all see that this was no ordinary tiger. It was at least twice as large as any they had ever seen, with saber-shaped fangs that protruded from its mouth even when closed. It almost looked like a prehistoric sort of tiger, except that its pelt was the usual red striped with black. What of its pelt they could see, anyway. The light revealed that the tiger wore a set of forged steel armor along its back and forelegs, including a helmet with scoops cut out so as not to impede his ears. He rattled when he moved like the beat of rain along a tin roof.
“Don’t hurt him!” Valentina squealed. From beneath the tiger, Illyan laid even odds against whether she was referring to the tiger or to himself. The weight of the tiger on his chest felt like he was being crushed by that shit-monster all over again. How much more dented could one genasi get?
Aeon and Oskar sprang forward at the same time. The sound of the chevalier colliding with the armored tiger was like dropping a dozen cooking pots onto a brass bell. Oskar and the tiger let out nearly-identical snarls. Together, the strong men of their party managed to wrestle the tiger to the ground and pin it there. Illyan scrambled away, panting harshly and grateful that he hadn’t soiled himself.
Strangely, the tiger was not struggling. Not really. He writhed a bit and tried to kick his back paws against the dirt while whipping his tail around in a circle, but he made no effort to bring his massive claws to bear against either of his captors. His green eyes remained fixed on Illyan as they fled to the opposite side of the stockyard.
Sveta awkwardly descended the side of the car and marched over, hands cupping her mouth. She let out a demanding growl. The tiger answered with a series of chuffs.
“...I ask tiger why he attack Illyan. Says Illyan is prey. Tiger is allowed to hunt prey. Master said so.”
“Prey? What? Me?!”
“Because he’s a genasi?” Valentina gasped.
Some more conferring growls. “Says Illyan is only one here who is prey. He knows because of way clothes look and smell.”
“Because he’s a Vistani?” Valentina gasped.
“I ain’t, even! This is some merde! I don’t even get to be a Vistana anymore but I’m still gonna get discriminated against?!”
“I doubt the tiger is read in on the current political state of the clans,” Oskar grunted. “I think you’re just dressed like a Vistana.”
“Oh. Eh, bien…”
“I tell him prey is animals, not people,” Sveta said sternly, then repeated the sentence through her cupped hands. The tiger seemed to haggle over this definition for a little while before settling down. Sveta nodded. “Is not so convinced, but you can let him up.”
“Are you sure? Are you sure about that?” Illyan’s voice shot through three octaves over the course of the question.
“If he attacks, I turn into same size tiger and I tear off whiskers.” She repeated this through her cupped hands.
Cautiously, Aeon and Oskar removed their body weight from the tiger. He hardly moved except to sprawl on his side more casually, picking up one forepaw and licking it with an ominous, threatening rasp. His eyes were still fixed on Illyan. For a moment, everybody stood ready to spring once more.
“What now?” Jinghua wondered, finally hopping off the circus car herself. The movement made the tiger’s ear flick in her direction, but he made no move to get up. They all took in the knowledge that they were now collectively responsible for a homicidal, racist tiger which was loose in the city.
“Again, it’s not like we can parade it through town,” Oskar pointed out.
“I will take tiger into woods. We will talk and practice on not killing people.”
“Please,” Illyan begged.
Thus it was that it was a party of Jinghua, Oskar, Aeon, Illyan, and Valentina who approached the town square on foot. They weren’t able to come within sight of L’Auberge de l’Eau Bleue before the street was choked with throngs of people. Guardsmen stood on every corner, mounted and holding pikes, their eyes on the gathered townsfolk. Those townsfolk ran the gamut from beggar to nobleman, blacksmith to laundress, elderly to babes held in their mothers’ arms. It looked as if the entire population of Vallac had been stuffed into the square and were overflowing its boundaries. The space issue was not helped by the broad aisle which had been left along the western road towards the Baron’s residence. Despite the initial appearance of a festival, the atmosphere was not lively. The Vallacians stood in almost total silence, their eyes lowered so as to avoid making eye contact with anyone else in the crowd, clutching their children closely. The group wove cautiously between the villagers, finding that they parted readily to let someone, anyone else stand between themselves and the cleared space.
Approaching down the center of that cleared aisle was Baron Villeneuve. He walked at the head of a short column of people. At his side was the Baroness, smiling in a rictus across her face and waving gaily to the townspeople as they passed. Most of the townspeople were doing their best not to meet her eyes. Between the two walked a short, teenage boy dressed in a dour fashion that matched his expression. At the little family’s heels walked both of their black mastiffs.
Behind them, a group of children bore along a large woven-wicker sculpture of a sun. Though the word was somewhat crude, the shape was still unmistakable. It was stuffed full of straw tinder poking out between the woven sticks. The children all wore ill-fitting costumes stitched out of red, yellow, and orange cloth. These children were followed up by a pair of men on horses, one of whom was both striking and familiar to Illyan. It was the one he’d seen directing the posting of flyers the last time he had been in Vallac.
The man was somewhere between six feet and six-and-a-half, tall for a human, with broad shoulders that tapered down to a trim waist. He wore all black leather armor with silver rivets over sleeveless white linen. His hair was a long tail of white-blond gathered at the nape of his neck, but the small goatee and mustache which he sported were both pure black. His eyes were pale, watery blue. All of that was secondary, however, to the most eye-catching feature of all: His right arm was that of a red-scaled dragon. It bulged unnaturally large compared to his frame, the claws nearly brushing his knees, and he wore no bracer on it as he did on his left. His back was straight, apparently used to the difference in weight between his two sides. He loomed behind the Baron and scanned the crowd with an indifferent gaze. His posture and the double-headed axe he carried made his position as a bodyguard clear.
The little procession advanced to the center of the town square, where the Villeneuves stepped aside to allow the children to place the wicker sun upon the cobbles. The children immediately retreated into the arms of waiting family members in the crowd. The mounted bodyguards maneuvered their horses to flank the sun facing outwards. The odd-looking one brought out a torch, which he held to the palm of his draconic arm. A spark appeared from nothing, lighting it. He then passed this torch down to the Baron, who raised it and faced the crowd, grinning widely.
“All will be well!” he proclaimed.
There was a scattered, sullen echo of the words from all present. This poor show of enthusiasm seemed to satisfy the Baron, who stepped forward grandly to touch the guttering flame to the wicker sun.
There was absolute, total silence across the crowd, as if every Vallacian present were holding their breath. This meant that the sizzle was clearly audible as a few raindrops fell precisely onto the torch, extinguishing its flame right as the wicker sun was about to catch. A wisp of smoke was all that was left.
Into the silence, a voice barked a harsh laugh.
The Baron drew back, his face turning scarlet. “Who did that? Who laughed?! Ignace, seize ‘im! Seize the traitor!”
The dragon-armed bodyguard dismounted immediately. Whether he’d already known who the culprit was or whether he was simply moving to find them, the guilty party instantly gave himself away by scrambling to escape. The crowd, still in eerie silence, refused to move aside for him, but did not actively move to block him either. They kept their gazes down and away, as if nobody was even aware of the poor man shoving and fighting his way to freedom through them, even as a few were sent sprawling. Nobody wished to be accused of associating with him. The one person aside from the man himself who reacted was an old woman who had been standing with him, who let out a shriek of despair as Ignace’s huge claw closed around the man’s neck.
“Should we be doing something to stop this?” Illyan hissed. His whole body was locked up with tension. Aeon dropped a hand on their shoulder and shook his head solemnly. He cast a significant look at the surrounding guards, and Illyan understood. If they made a move to intervene, they would just end up in the same situation as the unfortunate laughing man. There was no way the five of them could win a fight against every guard in town.
With all the effort of scruffing a kitten, the bodyguard dragged the struggling man behind him back to his mount, then tied his feet to the saddle horn on a long lead. The old woman sank to her knees, sobbing, as Ignace stepped back, holding the halter with his human hand, and gestured to the Baron. Baron Villeneuve, puce in the face with fury, leaped astride and dug his heels into the creature’s flank viciously. The poor thing leaped forward, eyes rolling, and galloped hard in the direction of the baronial townhouse. The still-mounted bodyguard hastened to follow. The unfortunate man’s wails of pain and terror faded quickly down the street. Soon, the only sound left was the old woman’s choked noises and the Baroness’s stifled laughter.
The bodyguard called Ignace, left on foot, cast indifferent eyes across the crowd. His gaze briefly skimmed over their group as he called out in a deep voice, “All will be well.” With this, he herded the remaining Villeneuve family back towards their home. The crowd dispersed in hurried, terrified silence, leaving the square echoing and empty.
As if she had been holding the word back, Valentina burst out, “Intorchent!”
“I’m resigning myself to ending up like that man,” Oskar said, almost thoughtfully, “when one of you inevitably mocks the Baron to his face.”
“Can you imagine doing that? Crime?” the cleric said, bright and innocent as summer sky.
“I don’t feel good about letting that ‘appen,” Illyan said.
“...I don’t feel good either…”
“I don’t either,” Oskar admitted. “But we’d have been slaughtered if we’d tried to stop it. There were no good options.”
“I thought this place seemed better than Barovy, at first,” Illyan said. “But it’s just as fucked-up as everywhere else in this valley. Just because the Baron opposes Strahd don’t make it any better.”
“...Nothing will get better until Strahd is gone…”
“Speaking of my main man, time to meet my Monkey Man!” Valentina led the way across the square to L’Auberge de l’Eau Bleue. They were obliged to take the front path at a run, due to the fact that as soon as the mob of ravens on the roof caught sight of Oskar they burst into noisy violence. Once more, their entrance was fairly chaotic.
The interior was almost the same as the last time they had visited. The stately woman still manned the bar while her two children played around the taproom. The men in wolf pelts were missing, either having been part of the crowd watching the failed festival or simply out working today. In the same corner as before sat Romaric, the sandy-haired man tuning a lute in his lap in between jotting down notes in an open book on the table before him.
As before, the others took their own table while Valentina boldly joined Romaric at his. He looked up with a wide smile.
“Ah, ma belle Irénée, what a pleaseer to see you once again! Did you see ze Fête?”
“I saw something, all right.”
Romaric laughed. “Zat ees true enough. Ze Baron ‘as no patience for zose ‘oo do not show ‘eem and ‘ees celebrations utmost respect. ‘Ees preesons are filled with such unfortunates!”
From the bar, the bartender called out, “I will thank you not to talk treason in my establishment. I ‘ave no wish to fill anyone’s prison.”
“Apologies, Madame Devin.” Romaric mimed a seated bow in her direction.
“So, I saw your circus car as I came into town,” Valentina commented. “Was that a tiger you had in there? How do you take care of such a thing?”
“Eh, oui, I purchased ze beast from a Vistana man I met outside ze valley. Eet ees deefeecult to keep ‘eem fed, I admit! I purchase meat from a butcher een town ‘ere and bring eet out to ‘eem twice a day. Unfortunately, no ‘ostler will consider keeping a tiger in zeir stables, so in ze car ‘ee must stay.”
“Oh, so you know a Vistana? What’s his name?”
Another laugh. “Yann, I believe. I don’t recall ‘ees clan name. Eet may ‘ave been ze local one. I met ‘eem zrough my apprentice, ‘oo ees Vistana ‘erself.”
Alert at the mention of another woman, Valentina shot off questions rapid-fire. “Your apprentice? What’s her name? Why isn’t she here with you?”
This, at last, sobered the habitually merry man. He turned his attention to tuning his lute for a moment or two before speaking. “‘Er name ees Esmé d’Avenir. We parted ways before I came eento ze valley. A difference of opinion.”
At the other table, Illyan was listening with rapt attention.
“Do you know a Yann or an Esmé?” Oskar whispered.
Illyan shook his head. “Esmé d’Avenir ain’t a Vistani name,” he whispered back. “Even if ‘e’s just not sayin’ ‘er saint name, there’s no Clan Avenir. By ‘the local one’, ‘e must mean Fontenot.” He was hardly one to throw stones about traditional Vistani names, he knew, but it added to the mystery of this man’s story. Illyan had no saint name of his own as well as a Barovian surname. Was this Esmé of mixed blood as he was, named by her non-Vistana parent?
“Oh no, I’m sorry to hear that,” Valentina expressed. “Where is she now, then?”
“I do not truly know,” Romaric admitted. “She lost ‘er kin long ago, as did I. We were somezing of family to each ozer.”
“So why did you separate?”
“...Entering ze valley ees dangerous. Eet ees not a decision to be taken lightly. Esmé and I quarreled over eet, and, een ze end, ‘ad to go our separate ways.”
Everyone at the other table was holding their breath. Narrow eyes scanned every inch of the strange man, taking in his every twitch and microexpression, every wrinkle and fold in his clothes, every fidget of his fingers. Oskar’s broad nose wrinkled as if in a snarl. Illyan’s fists clenched on their lap until the knuckles were ash white. Aeon’s brows furrowed in deep sadness. Jinghua drew in a deep, slow breath and allowed her shoulders to sink. All four of them met each others’ looks in the center of the table, an unspoken understanding shared in that precise moment as strongly as if it had been shouted into the silence of the taproom.
This man fed his Vistana apprentice to that tiger.
Valentina, however, continued to smile sympathetically. Her eyes saw no guilt on Romaric’s face, only familial worry. He looked… paternal. It made her want to coo. “That’s tough. It sounds like you were very close. She wasn’t just an apprentice to you, was she?”
Romaric smiled softly. “More like a daughtair. I’ve known ‘er since she was feefteen. Ten years ago, now.”
“You’re not that much older than her, then!”
“Ah, ma belle, I am soree to say I am a beet oldair zan I appear! I zeenk eet ees ze freckles; zey take off ze years.”
Valentina’s smile grew slightly strained at that. “Um. Oh. How much older?”
“Not so much zat I cannot appreciate a beauty like yourself.”
She giggled and blushed. “If you say so. Anyway, so, you collect stories, you said. Any good ones about this area?”
“Eh, bien, let me zeenk…” Romaric cast his gaze upwards. “Around ‘ere, zere is ze Clan Fontenot to ze south. Zere ees a storee zere about ‘ow ze dusk elves ‘oo live alongside zem came to fall from grace. To ze north ees Lake Varius and ze Savaliche Woods, were ze woolves roam and zey say werewoolves as well.”
The mention of werewolves reminded Valentina of their fortune telling, so many days ago. She kept note of the mention of their location, in case their supposedly-fated ally and her secret hatred for Strahd could be found there. She also thought about the items which Madam Eva had directed their attention to. They no longer trusted Madame Eva, but could they still trust her predictions about the usefulness and locations of these weapons? At the very least, independent confirmation wouldn’t hurt.
“Have you heard of a person called the Mad Dog? Or a sword of sunlight?”
Romaric sat up suddenly. “Ze Sunsword? Yes, I know of eet! Eet was a legendary blade wielded first by Strahd’s fazair, zen by ‘is younger brother Serge de Varius. Zey say eets ‘eelt was forged of plateenum and eets blade was a creestal as strong as steel. Ze creestal of ze blade caught ze sun wizin, so zat ze foes of darkness eet was wielded against felt ze radiance of ze Morninglord. When Serge was keelled, ze devil Strahd ordaired ze weezard Khazan to deestroy eet, but nobody knows eef zis was accomplished. Some say ze Sunsword remains wizin ze valley to zis day.”
“It was his brother’s, but he wanted it destroyed? Why?”
“I can only assume zat a vampeer would greatly fear a blade made of sunlight.” Romaric’s smile became wry. “As for ze Mad Dog, eet ees ze nickname for one of ze generals ‘oo fought beneath Strahd during ‘ees conquest of ze valley centuries ago.”
“Where would he be buried?”
“Presumably, een Castle Ravenloft.” His exaggerated accent rendered the word “ravenloft” almost unrecognizable. RAH-ven-luff.
“Hmm… Have you heard of an artifact that might be called the holy symbol of hope, then?”
It was the husky voice of the bartender which answered her. “The ‘Oly Symbol of Ravenkind. Supposedly, it was gifted to a Barovian paladin by an angel in the body of a giant raven, to guide and protect the good-’earted faithful of Barovy after the devil Strahd took power. It vanished after the death of this paladin at ‘is ‘ands. It is now sought by an organization of traitors to Lord Strahd’s rule known as Les Gardiens de la Plume. And discussing it or seeking it is most definitely treason.”
“My apologies again, madame. Per’aps eet ees for ze best I tell no more tales today, eh? I must go make sure my animals are fed. You are staying een town for today, ma belle?”
“That’s the plan,” Valentina decided on the spot.
“Zen you may find me on ze second storee of zis eenn, een room numbair three.” With a wink, the man was gone, sliding away from the table. Valentina smiled dreamily at him all the way out the door, until she came awake to the extremely ugly look being aimed in her direction by the bartender. Sheepishly, she rejoined her friends.
“Get any good info?” Oskar demanded.
“Theeeee Mad Dog guy with the history is in Ravenloft, the Sunsword sounds super powerful but nobody knows where it is, and there are werewolves to the north. Also the holy symbol has something to do with ravens and everyone gets very mad if you talk about it.”
“We ‘eard that part.” Illyan flipped open their notebook. “Evangeline said the ‘istory that might ‘elp us was in the Mad Dog’s crypt, the Sunsword near a woman ‘anging over a fire, and the you-know-what in a ‘bed of stone flanked by gargoyles’. Wherever that is. Sounds like another tomb, though. Maybe they’re all in Ravenloft.”
“That’s where I’d keep all the weapons that could destroy me,” Oskar grunted.
“...I wonder if I could channel the power of the moon through the Sunsword…” Aeon muttered.
“I don’t know about that one, ami.”
“I follow. He’s the only swordsman in our group,” Oskar backed him up.
Jinghua lifted a hand. “I can use a sword as well. My unreliable ability to be here may be a hindrance, however.”
“No sense assigning loot before we’ve even found the thing,” Illyan shrugged.
The bartender spoke up. “I am not going to ask you to stop a third time. I am just going to ask you to leave. So, please. Leave.”
Hastily, they stood up to obey. The ravens were waiting to swoop and begin pecking the moment they stepped outside.