Chapitre Un: Trouvez un Homme Bon
In a mountain city called Fanyu, Xiao Jinghua woke up from the strangest experience of her life.
Dawn was just breaking above the mountains. In the valley below, it was still dark and misty. Fanyu was a city built into the side of one of these rocky peaks, each street on a noticeably higher or lower level from its neighbor, sometimes with sheer cliffs in between. Some houses were stacked vertically at a very slight diagonal. Everything was carved from the brown rock of the mountain’s face or built of study pine timber from the forests lower on the slope. The people traversing these precarious streets were dressed in a colorful array of dyed wool to keep them warm at these high altitudes. Their wagons were pulled by shaggy, sure-footed goats the size of horses. Puffy white clouds scudded so close overhead it seemed you could reach up and touch them.
All of this was visible from the window of Jinghua’s inn room. She had left the shutters open last night to let in the bone-chilling cold of the mountain night. It was as close as she could come here to the icy waters of her monastery’s Reflection Pool, where she and the other novices had meditated every morning. The chilly dawn found her still where she had folded up her legs in the center of her bedroll on the floor and gone to sleep sitting upright.
Or, she thought she had. The waking up was strange. It felt less like waking up and more like coming out of a long meditation. Her body was loose and comfortable despite the dew soaking the blanket beneath her, hands dangling limply in her lap. There was no mist, no strange house or ghosts, only an empty inn room with no bed which she had rented last night.
When Jinghua craned to look down at herself, however, she found a familiar pattern of snowflake-like scars across her shoulder.
“Puzzling.” She prodded the marks. There was no sensation. They felt like old, completely healed scar tissue. There would have been nothing strange about them if she hadn’t acquired them during a dream she’d had while meditating. She breathed deeply, calling her ki to the surface of her spirit. It answered the call readily, strong and vibrant. Far stronger than it had been before the dream. It seemed as if somehow, during the events of that dream, she had broken through her bottleneck.
The combined evidence of ki and scars seemed to suggest that the events of her dream had actually occurred. Jinghua wasn’t sure how that was possible. She quite obviously had not moved. She had never shown any evidence of magical talents like prophetic or true dreaming. None of the elders of her monastery had cultivated such a talent, either. Jinghua was a student of martial arts, of body and sword cultivation.
If the physical events had occurred… Did that mean the people from the dream were also real? They had been a strange, colorful bunch. Not the kind of people Jinghua thought she might dream up for no reason. They had all mentioned waking up in that house after being consumed by mist in or around the town of Daggerford.
Jinghua had never heard of Daggerford before.
Was it possible to have a true dream of people you’d never met and places you’d never heard of? Jinghua supposed so. It wouldn’t be much of a prophetic dream if it was about the same people you saw every day in the place that you lived.
Or maybe Jinghua had been having prophetic dreams every single night that she had imagined dropping her sword during training in front of all the other novices.
Regardless, it was all very strange. The others, if they were indeed real, had arrived in that dream-space in a completely different way than Jinghua had. There had been no mist here, and Jinghua had not been traveling. Nor had she been anywhere near Daggerford. It stood to reason that whatever event had pulled the others in had not affected Jinghua herself. She had ended up in that place as a random passerby, like a lone hiker coming across a stranded party in the mountains. Therefore, she had to contend with two questions. Not only “Why had she dreamed of this group?” but “What had pulled this group together for me to dream about?”.
The second, she could not yet fathom. The first, she would meditate on.
Ignoring her stiff limbs, Jinghua settled once more into her cross-legged posture, back straight, hands in her lap. Her eyes closed and she cast her mind inward.
In the eye of her imagination, Jinghua was a leveret again, first learning how to meditate. Back then, she hadn’t been able to sit in this posture for even a few minutes, let alone all night long. She had sat in the long rows of disciples on the temple’s stone floor, alternately slumping and straightening back up. Her eyes popped open often despite her best efforts, peering at the motionless forms around her, then at the Abbot at the head of the hall. He sat as if carved of stone, ears folded neatly down his back, not even a whisker astir on his grizzled face. It hardly looked as if he breathed.
In her memory, a gong signaled the end of meditation time. The monks around her inhaled as one, breathing life into the statues of their bodies. A few of the novices startled awake with snorts. At the head of the hall, the Abbot’s eyes slid open as easily as if he’d been aware the whole time.
“I have walked among the villagers of Heyi,” he announced, before the memory of his voice faded.
Jinghua let the memory slip away without struggle. If it was leaving, she had gotten all she needed from it. She just needed to figure out what her mind was telling her.
The Abbot was ancient, the eldest and most wise member of their monastery. It had never seemed odd when he would begin lectures with some previous experience of his. “Once, I saw such-and-such” or “Among these it is as that” were extremely normal ways to begin a conversation with him, even when they seemed to have nothing to do with the previous subject. They usually worked their way back around to some relevant nugget of wisdom in the end.
But what if these were not stories of his youth at all? What if by “I have walked among the villagers” he meant right that very day? Jinghua, after all, had opened her eyes after meditation and could have declared to anyone that she had walked among strangers in a land of death. Maybe this was a technique of her people which Jinghua had accidentally stumbled across, walking in meditation. That may explain why practicing it had allowed her to break through her bottleneck.
There was only one way to be sure. Still in her meditative posture, Jinghua now cast her mind outwards. Rather than the abandoned house in the mist, she tried to imagine her brief companions. Holding their faces in her mind, she sank into her center.
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Oskar rose with the dawn. The feeling of coming awake on a bed rather than in a bedroll confused his sleeping mind for just a moment. It felt like he was waking once again in that cramped, decaying town house haunted by the Deniau family. The scent in his nose was fresh, metallic blood, however, not mold or dust. The vital scent of viscera pulled him into the present moment. Not in the Deniau death house, but in a Daggerford inn.
After coming back to awareness on that road, he had proceeded into town and paid for a room. There, he had butchered the carnivorous deer he had hunted on a groundsheet laid across the floor. The inedible parts, the hooves and bowels, he threw from the window. The good meat, he wrapped to sell or eat later. It was these wrapped steaks which he smelled as he roused that morning. A few dried streaks of blood decorated his hands. The floor and walls were worse. It had not been as neat a job as his usual.
Almost as soon as he was up, memory speared into his head. A curling signature, a red wax seal. S.V. Strahd de Varius. At long last, a lead on his enemy.
An accented voice. “Maybe you oughta come find me in the daytime. Swing by my caravan and we can ‘ave a chat about that old devil any time you like.”
Oskar left the gore-soaked inn room, cloaked against the morning chill. He stalked the streets, restless, not entirely sure what he was looking for. Whatever that had been, vision or portal, he had to believe it had really happened. It was the only news he’d heard of Strahd in so many years. He just wasn’t sure how to follow up on this lead. There was no trail to follow, no tracks to examine. All he knew was that Illyan Imbert had said he’d been near Daggerford as well when the mists had brought him to Oskar. How was he to find a single person in a mid-sized city such as this? He’d have been more comfortable trying to find them in the middle of a wild forest.
Before long, he stumbled across the river which bisected the city of Daggerford. It was from this river crossing that the city had originally sprung up, taking in their trade from the coast and from the south and ferrying it to the northern banks and eventually to the major metropolis of Waterdeep. In many ways, Daggerford had the feeling of a seaport despite being miles away from the coast. The riverbank was a web of docks and jetties, alive even at this early hour with hundreds of sailors loading and unloading cargo. A huge, three-masted sea ship made its stately way upriver, towed by two tugboats leashed to its prow, each containing a concentrating mage. Gulls who had followed the ships from the sea swooped and hovered around every available perch.
Oskar aimed for a space in between jetties, marching down the bank towards the water. He knelt to wash his hands in the slow flow of it, scrubbing away the traces of deer blood which remained.
As he knelt, he heard the nearby sound of a sailor catcalling. There was a burst of laughter, and a few more whistles. Puzzled, Oskar lifted his head in search of the commotion. There was a small knot in the flow of sailors passing by on the dock just next to Oskar. From where he was kneeling, his head was about on a level with their knees. They were not staring in the tabaxi’s direction, however. Whatever had arrested their attention enough to cause a few to loiter and more to slow as they passed was on the other side of the dock, in the water. He peered between their legs until a gap in bodies revealed the source of their distraction.
Oskar saw an unclothed woman from the back. She had removed her dress and seemed to be bathing in the river, pouring handfuls of the brisk water over her pale shoulders and her nape, revealed by the shortness of her moon-white hair. On the bank, a staff thrust into the ground dangled a blue dress like a drooping banner. Oskar knew who this was even before he rose and stepped onto the dock to call her.
“Sveta?”
She turned, unselfconscious. Her face softened in as much of a smile as she ever displayed. “Oskar! Is surprise to see you here!”
“You as well. I wondered if any of it had really happened.” He settled down to sit on the dock. A well-placed glare at the sailors next to him sent most of them scurrying away, chattering excitedly as they went. Sveta finished her bath with no apparent signs of hurrying and exited the water to tug her dress back on.
“I wondered, also. Last thing I remember is being knocked out by shitmonster. Then, waking back up on vacation in Daggerford. Is the same for you?”
“More or less. I saw it get the rest of you one by one until only I was left. I led the monster into the catacombs and shot it to death from a distance. I never lost consciousness, but then I woke up on the road. It was… strange.”
“Have you seen others? Valentina, Illyan, Jinghua?”
“Not yet.”
“Do you think they are alright?”
“I don’t know. You are, aren’t you?”
“Da, am alright. Still have the scars, though.” The woman indicated the silvery moon above the neckline of her dress. Then, she rolled her shoulders luxuriantly. “Part of powers have unsealed as well.”
“However we got there, I think everything that happened was real,” Oskar concluded. “The others must be somewhere in Daggerford, just like us. We should look for them.” Especially Illyan.
Sveta agreed. Together, the two made their way back into the town proper, away from the docks. They’d hardly been walking for a full minute before coming across a tavern called The Lazy Magpie, within easy reach of the docks for sailors coming in and out. The sun was only just rising over the eastern forest, but it was already bustling with activity.
Oskar pointed. “I’ll ask around.”
Sveta nodded. “Will do a sweep, then meet you.”
They parted ways.
Elsewhere in the city, Valentina stepped out into the morning sunshine. Her golden hair and glittering bodice glowed like a lighthouse beacon. Behind her, the door of the inn swung shut. She set off down the street at a casual pace, beaming at the sights all around and the blue sky above. She didn’t seem to have a destination in mind, wandering at random between streets. Where a shop looked interesting, she peered through the window. Where a house had a window box with flowers, she paused to sniff. Where a stray cat crossed her path, she knelt to coo at it.
Eventually, in this meandering way, the girl found herself in the temple district. Along a broad street shaded by ornamental trees, a few temples dedicated to the major local gods rested. This part of the city was more hushed than the mercantile streets. The temples themselves were simple, but richly decorated. Murals and carvings decorated their facades. Many boasted gardens with well-tended flowers.
Valentina arrowed directly for one of the largest of these temples. Built of clean, white stone, it was surrounded by a curtain of yellow sunflowers and partially covered by the creeping vines of morning glories, which dotted the greenery like fallen flakes of blue sky. Within the open doorway was a foyer with no ceiling which let the morning sun pour in like a spotlight over the altar. The altar itself was heaped with offerings of flowers, candles, incense, and even glittering bits of gold. Behind it rose a carved statue of Lythander, the Morninglord. A young novice swept some fallen leaves from the foyer floor while a more senior cleric snuffed the candles on the altar and around the perimeter of the room. It seemed as if she had just missed the morning service. There was a small crowd of civilians milling around the foyer and the garden area out front, chatting easily with one another about the day ahead.
Valentina slipped in among them, letting the gossip of the day wash over her. The morning haul had contained more tuna than usual, it was probably all that would be available at market. Autumn allergies were rampant; everyone’s child had hay fever. A caravan of travelers had parked their wagons by the river and set up camp like they meant to stay. Someone had seen a cargo ship unloading the most gorgeous glazed porcelain they had ever seen, bound for Waterdeep.
When she reached the altar, she clasped her hands and bowed her grinning head.
“Thank you for bringing me back, O Lord! Please, never do that kind of thing again!” She hesitated, thought it over. “Unless it’s to bring me to somebody rich and single. Okay, thank you!”
Her unconventional prayer drew a strange look from the senior cleric, a woman dressed in a white toga-style dress. Valentina met her gaze without shyness. “Good morning! I was wondering, do you know anything about a local house full of ghosts and ghouls?”
The senior cleric frowned. “If a local house were to be haunted, I would know. Our temple would be the first they called to exorcize it.”
“But you’ve never had to do that?”
“Not in many years.”
“Do you know anything about a familiar named Deniau? Or a man named Strahd?”
The senior cleric shook her head. “Neither is familiar. This is a large city. I could hardly know every family, except the regulars at our congregation.”
“He’d be very rich,” Valentina persisted.
“If that is the case, perhaps you should be looking in Waterdeep. The very wealthy rarely stay here, when they could move there.”
Disappointed, Valentina bid her farewell to the cleric. She wandered back onto Temple Street, then vaguely towards the river. She couldn’t explain her nagging feeling of irresolution. It felt like she’d experienced something last night that should have led to more, not just… stopped. She felt strangely alone and adrift, even though she had been traveling on her own with no destination for nigh on a year now. Despite her flippant words in the temple, she had to wonder if that vision had been some kind of message from the Morninglord. If so, he hadn’t given her very clear instructions. She had no idea where to go from here to find her fate.
Luckily, her fate spotted her from across the street and called out in a thick, Northern accent.
“Valentina!”
Valentina whirled, skirt flying. Her face split into a wide smile. “Sveta!”
The two met in the middle of the street, narrowly avoiding a passing cart full of cabbages. They clasped hands in greeting and looked on another over, noting familiar features in the full light of day.
“It really happened, huh?” Valentina half-asked.
“Da,” Sveta confirmed. “I met Oskar as well. He is waiting for us at tavern. You have seen others?”
“Not except you. Nobody at the temple has heard of the Deniaus or Strahd, either.”
“I have found same. Come, we look on way back.”
Neither saw anything on the way back to The Lazy Magpie. They entered the tavern and looked around. The distinctive, large silhouette of Oskar sat at a corner table with a smallbeer in front of him. At his shoulder sat Jinghua, who was curiously observing the room around her. The ladies piled on the other side of the table. Oskar greeted Valentina with a nod.
“Good to see you again.”
“You too. I guess this is almost everybody!”
“More than half,” Oskar allowed, slowly. He seemed mildly confused.
“Did you wake up in the street, too, afterwards? Like none of it had ever happened?”
Oskar nodded. “I was the last awake. I saw the monster attack Illyan and you before I killed it. It was like I blinked and I was back. What was it like for you?” He took a deep draft of beer.
“Last thing I saw was water room,” Sveta said. “Then woke in hotel. No time in between.”
“I saw Illyan go, then I was knocked out, too, and then I was just standing in front of the bar again.” Valentina frowned. “I thought I was about to die.”
“It was the same for me,” Jinghua put in.
Oskar started, choking. He coughed, pounding a fist against his chest. “Where did…?!”
“She was here the whole time?” Valentina half-asked.
“She was not!”
“I lost consciousness in the water, too, and then I was waking up in Fanyu,” Jinghua continued, without pause. “It seems as if the events of the night were some form of astral projection. Our spirits traveled, but our bodies remained where they were. I imagine, if we had died, it would have been permanent.”
“You and Sveta were still breathing,” Valentina confirmed. “Oskar was awake. I…”
“It hit you as it went past,” Oskar rasped. “It didn’t look fatal. I led it away from your bodies on purpose.”
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
“What about Illyan?”
“He… fell into the water. Nobody was able to pull him out.”
“We left him there…” Valentina tapped her fingers rapidly on the table. “What if that’s why we can’t find him? What if he drowned and his spirit just… never returned to his body?”
“On that subject,” Oskar said, “you said you were in Fanyu? I’ve never even heard of that place.”
“It’s far away, I think,” Jinghua answered. “I am astral projecting right now. My body is asleep there.”
“Is that alright?”
“I will have to go back eventually. For now, it is fine, I believe. The more important question is why were our spirits drawn to that place? Why us, and why there?”
“I know why mine was,” Oskar growled. “I am being led to Strahd.” He finished his beer decisively. “I have to find Illyan. He had information on Strahd.”
“It might be hard, if he can be as far away as Fanyu… Wherever that is…” Valentina pursed her lips. “And I don’t see why I would have started astral projecting out of nowhere.”
“I have idea,” Sveta allowed. “For now, we focus on finding Illyan.”
She found herself speaking to the back of Valentina’s head as the girl craned around in her seat to look at the person who had just thrown open the tavern doors. He strode across the room, each step a-jingle, and threw himself into a seat at the bar. Valentina watched him pass with starry eyes.
The man at the bar was dressed in layers of brightly-dyed cloth, almost motley. Each article was embroidered along the hems with geometric designs in a contrasting color. A plain scimitar hung at his waist. His throat, wrists, fingers, and ears all flashed with jewelry. His face was composed around the long, narrow line of his nose, set with heavy brows and framed by dark curls. The smile flashing through his goatee seemed as ornamental as the jewels at his throat.
Valentina slipped out of her seat and onto the stool next to him. She smiled. “You look interesting.”
The man cocked an eyebrow and looked her up and down. A smile played around his lips. “You ain’t so bad yourself, cher.”
“Valentina Delarossa.”
“Ah, Arceneaux of Clan Mercier.” He said it ar-sen-OH. The accent and clothing both struck Valentina as extremely familiar.
“What brings you to town, Arceneaux?”
“I’m looking for someone, me. ‘Eard they were in town. You met a guy around, name of Imbert?”
Eem-bear. That sounded very familiar indeed. Which was strange, since Valentina was new to town. Maybe it was someone she’d met at the bar last night, before the weird haunted house visitation.
“Mmmm, I don’t think so,” she decided, in the end. If she said yes, he’d just ask her who or where, which she couldn’t answer anyway. No was true enough.
Arceneaux smiled as if he and Valentina were in together on some secret joke. He purred, “Trop mal. Guess I just ‘ave to talk to you instead.”
“Just talk?” Valentina leaned in.
He signaled the bartender. Before long, both of them had an ale in front of them. Valentina only sipped hers, though Arceneaux took a big swig which left a fleck of foam in his beard. He sat back with a jangle of jewelry and a sigh of satisfaction.
“Talk is, sadly, all I ‘ave time for, today. I need to find my man.”
“Isn’t that a mood,” Valentina sighed. “Where do you plan to look?”
“With luck, I’ll spot the caravan ‘e travels in first.”
A caravan? Valentina blinked. “Oh, some people were saying a caravan just set up by the river outside town.”
“Ah ouais? Cher, you are my lucky charm!” He snatched up her hand from the bar and pressed her knuckles to his smirk. “Maybe we can meet back ‘ere later tonight and get lucky again.”
Valentina took back her hand and twirled a piece of her hair around one finger. “Maybe. I’m awfully busy looking for someone, myself.”
“Per’aps your someone is Vistana, too.” Another swig finished off the ale.
“What’s a vistana?”
“A culture more than a race. Vistani are traveling folk. Each clan moves all around in wagons and ‘orses. Well, most do. Clan Mercier stays put. Most are ‘uman, some ain’t. You see someone dressed like me, that’s a Vistana for sure.” With a sigh, Arceneaux pushed himself away from the bar. “It ‘as been a pleasure, cher, but I do ‘ave to be running. I ‘ope to see you later tonight. Thank you again for the tip.” He swung himself to his feet, sketched a courtly bow in Valentina’s direction, then strode out of the tavern into the light of the street.
Valentina relocated herself and her drink back to Oskar’s table. She was clearly torn between a pout that her fun had been cut short and badly-hidden glee that it had gone well. She sipped her ale with a bubbly smile.
Sveta gave her a repressive look. “Valentina, no. He is bad man.”
“So? Did you see all the jewelry he was wearing?” She did an excited little shimmy in her seat.
“Listen to Grandma. This man… he is no good. Bad morals, bad husband. You are young. You need to find good man. Good man who has money, will take care of you.”
“He bought me a drink!” Valentina beamed.
Sveta patted her shoulder, still shaking her head.
“No, no. Grandma will help you. Find you good man, Valentina.”
“Did he say anything about Illyan?” Oskar growled, finally losing patience with their byplay.
Valentina blinked. “What? Why would he?”
“He was dressed the same way.”
“Oh…” Now that she thought about it, that was right. Illyan had worn a similar bright motley of clothes and a similar profusion of ornamentation. That was where she’d heard the accent before, too. Arceneaux, despite being a much larger man, spoke more quickly and lightly than the fire genasi had. “He said he was here to deliver a message to someone named Imbert, who he thought was at a caravan by the river.”
Oskar fought the urge to cradle his head in his hands. “Illyan’s surname is Imbert. And he lives in a caravan.”
“Oh. So…”
“We should follow?” Sveta asked.
In tacit confirmation, Jinghua and Oskar stood up and hastily exited the tavern. Valentina and Sveta scrambled to follow. All four poured out onto the street and blinked against the sudden light. They were just able to see a horse with a familiar figure atop it turning the corner of the street. The group hastened to follow.
In this haphazard way, the four companions pursued Arceneaux through the streets of Daggerford. They piled around every corner, dodging pedestrians and carriages. He stayed many yards ahead of them, his chestnut horse moving at a leisurely trot. Even when they fell behind, it was easy enough to spot his distinctive figure at a distance.
The Vistani led them through the city in a northeast direction, towards the river and also towards the forests outside of the city. It wasn’t long before they had left the walled inner keep of Daggerford and begun to travel through the outlying districts. The group ended up moving along a little-trafficked road overlooking the river, passing between meadows and gardens in between the sparse houses. Here, the river only had the occasional boat or jetty marring its natural course. Bees buzzed between late flowers, and goats stuck their heads over fence slats to watch the group go by. It almost seemed as if Arceneaux would lead them right into the forest itself.
Before they reached that point, the land opened up into a sweeping meadow that led right down to the river. On this land, a mobile city had set down its roots. Caravan-wagons, roofed in canvas or wood, traced loose circles across the space with cookfires set up in their centers. Their wheels were blocked in place with wooden stops. Tents had been set up in between, made of colorful, embroidered silk. Hobbled horses were set loose to graze or drink from the river with their bridles tied to their forelegs. Some loose enclosures had been erected to fence in clouds of clucking chickens and goats. Everywhere, the camp was abuzz with moving, laughing, working Vistani. The majority that could be seen appeared human, with a couple scattered dark-skinned elves, tieflings, or genasi among them. All wore the same kinds of dyed silk motley and profusion of jewelry which Arceneaux sported.
By the river, a small group of Vistani had set up with washtubs and clotheslines. Others wandered between wagons, visiting and trading and chattering. Many were making repairs to their wagons. One corner had even set up a small, portable forge and was working on pulling red-hot iron into the shape of horseshoes. The sound of their hammer rang across the space. Someone was noodling around on a reed flute. By this time, the morning meal hours had passed, and many of the fires were simply smoking tinder. The sun was almost directly overhead, pouring down warmth and light which surrounded and infused the vivacious travelers.
Arceneaux, ahead, paused at the fringes of the camp to speak to a man carrying a yoke of water-buckets. The man pointed deeper into the camp, giving directions of some kind. Arceneaux thanked him and followed. The group hurried to catch up.
They converged on a particular wagon circle near the center of camp. Arceneaux had descended his horse and begun chatting with the young ladies seated by the fire, who seemed to be spinning wool.
“...named Imbert?” the man was saying.
“You’re looking for Séraphine,” one of the ladies replied. Then, directed at a nearby wagon, she shouted, “Marie Séraphine! Someone’s ‘ere for your kin!”
The wagon in question was an odd duck, compared to its fellows. It was mainly composed of dark, polished wood with copper caps on the parts which saw most wear. Affixed to the side of it was some kind of aquarium with sides too caked in muck and algae for the occupants to be seen. Leading from this was a series of glass tubes and funnels which seemed designed to catch the rain. The back of the wagon was set with sparkling, stained-glass windows, both leaves thrown open for a set of folding stairs to rest in the grass. From these stairs emerged a woman.
She was extremely short, built along lines more stocky than willowy. Her skin was brown as a nut, contrasting with the reds and whites of her layered clothing and the gold and rubies flashing in each ear. Her head was bald as an egg, though her eyelashes were thick and long. She smiled as she descended, wiping her hands on a white linen sewn with poppies tucked into her sash. The lines which creased her eyes and the corners of her mouth made her age clear.
Her irises were deep ruby among citrine-yellow sclera which glowed like candle flame. Unmistakably, they were those of a fire genasi.
“Good morning to you,” she greeted as she approached, in a slow, syrupy accent. “What can Clan Rambeaut do you for?”
Arceneaux offered a bow. “Good mornin’. My name is Arceneaux of Clan Mercier. I was sent from Barovy with a message for the kin of Vicomte Killian Imbert.”
Marie Séraphine took this in, casting a glance at the assembled group hovering nearby. Sveta stepped forward, clearing her throat.
“We, also, were looking for Illyan. You know him, yes?”
The woman’s grin spread across her whole face. “Why, yes, I’m his own Maman. Marie Séraphine, you can call me. Friends of ‘is?”
“In a sense,” Oskar hedged.
Immediately, they were surrounded by a clucking genasi woman, herding them towards seats around the fire. “Well, sit down, sit down! ‘Ave you all eaten this morning? I got a couple apples I was saving for lunch. Eh la, pass ‘em along. My, but you are a good-lookin’ collection of folks! ‘Ow is it you know my Illyan?”
Arceneaux, swept up among the group, sat between Valentina and Jinghua, looking greatly entertained. One of the apples made its way to him and he bit in with relish. Oskar awkwardly accepted another, holding it cradled in his hands as he sank down by the unlit fire. Somehow, cups of water with crushed mint leaves ended up in everybody’s hands.
“We met… last night,” the tabaxi eventually said. “Have you seen Illyan at all this morning?”
Blithely, Marie Séraphine replied, “Missed ‘im at breakfast, me, but I’m sure they’re around somewhere.”
The four of them exchanged sidelong looks. None were willing to be the first to speak.
“Are you… sure?” Valentina asked.
“Bien sûr, I’m sure! My chil’ was born on the run, always working on a project or sticking ‘is nose in somewhere. You know, ‘e did all the work on our wagon, there. Such a clever little bird! ‘E’ll make ‘is way home soon-soon, don’t you worry none.”
“What if… he does not?” Sveta asked.
That warm smile faltered. “What do you mean?”
Valentina hissed, kicking the woman in the ankle. “Nothing! We’re sure he’s fine! Why don’t we go ahead and find him for you, so we can all talk?”
A faint frown now creasing her forehead, Marie Séraphine nodded. “Alright, then. Illyan! Illyan, viens!” She cupped her hands to her mouth and proceeded to call through the camp. A few other Vistana raised their voices in echo.
“Illyan! Maman t’appelle!”
The four hastily deposited their mint water on the ground and scattered through the camp. Everywhere they went, there were flocks of Vistani like jewel-feathered parrots, calling back and forth.
“Illyan! Maman’s callin’! Illyan!”
Oskar, remembering Illyan’s offhand comment, checked the trail leading into the edges of the trees where latrines had been set up. It was, thankfully, deserted at the moment. He didn’t see any signs of a body collapsed in the latrine pit, or in the bushes along the path. Unfortunately, the path was so covered in footprints that there was no way to pick out a single set. He returned to the wagon empty-handed. The others converged with the same results.
Marie Séraphine’s whole face was now creased with concern. Beneath her scalp, points of dull red began to glow through the skin. It looked as if embers were trapped within her skull, heating and burning. A few wisps of smoke rose from her scalp, curling around her ears like gray locks.
“Illyan, this ain’t funny, now,” she called again. “Illyan, viens!”
“I’m ‘ere, I’m ‘ere!”
Stepping out from around a nearby wagon was Illyan. They wore just the same clothes as they had last night, the same overloaded belt full of gadgets and boxes. They looked whole and hale except for a fine spray of blood across one cheek. The fire genasi offered a confused smile.
In an instant, Marie Séraphine was at his side, the coals on her head extinguished like they’d never been. The linen was whipped off of her belt and used to scrub vigorously at Illyan’s cheek. Standing side by side, it was clear enough that even the diminutive genasi stood a few inches taller than his mother, though she was broader. They went limp as she hauled them into place with the others around the firepit, clucking like a worried hen the entire time.
“There you are! Illyan, I was lookin’! These friends of yours showed up and talked a mess about you goin’ missing! Now you sit down and tell Maman where you been!”
Illyan collapsed as if to slip beneath her fussing hands. “Maman, I was gettin’ lunch!” He lifted his hands in demonstration. Each one held the unplucked corpse of a slaughtered chicken. Clearly, it was this which had produced the blood freshly wiped off of their face.
She stepped back, hands on hips. “Well, now.”
The other four sank back into their previous seats, Illyan absorbed back into their number. Valentina reclaimed her mint water and gulped it down, all tension bled out of her frame. The others scrutinized the genasi closely, as if searching for any signs of terrible spiritual injury. He looked just the same as ever. Slightly awkward, but in the normal way of a young adult being fussed over by their parent in front of peers. There weren’t even any scars to show for the experience. The only blow Illyan had taken had been final.
“Good to see you are alright,” Sveta said.
“I ‘ave to admit,” Illyan said slowly, “until this exact second, I kinda thought last night ‘ad been a dream. Or, ‘oped.”
“It was an astral projection, we think,” Jinghua explained.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” Oskar asked.
Illyan shrugged. “Dying.”
The others digested this for a second.
“Excuse me?” Marie Séraphine asked.
“Rien, Maman.”
“Excuse me,” Arceneaux broke in. “As fun as this ‘as been, I do still ‘ave a message to deliver, me.”
Marie Séraphine held out a distracted hand. Arceneaux fished around in the low V of his shirt and eventually came up with a sealed envelope. The seal was a circle of red wax, which at first made Oskar’s heart leap. But the initials pressed into it were K.I. The Vistana handed it over with a careless flip of his wrist.
Illyan intercepted the letter and slit it open before his mother could accept it. The letter within was written in a thin, spidery calligraphy done in blue ink.
Hail to my beloved youngest, and to their companions of great renown,
I, a lowly servant of Barovy, send honor to thee. We plead for thine so desperately needed assistance. The love of my life, Irénée Imbert, has been afflicted by an evil so deadly that even the good people of our village cannot protect her. She languishes from her wound, and I would have her saved from this menace.
There is much wealth in this community. I offer all that might be had to thee and thy fellows if thou shalt but answer my desperate plea.
Come quickly, for her time is at hand! All that I have shall be thine!
Killian Imbert
Vicomte
“It says the love of my life?” Valentina demanded, horrified.
“Illyan, this Irénée girl. She is… sister of yours?”
“Ouais, that’s my older sister. Well, ‘alf-sister.”
“Daughter of man who is writing letter?”
“Ouais. We both are.”
Sveta took Illyan’s shoulder gently but firmly, and gazed at him with compassion burning in her expressionless face. “Illyan. If father has ever acted inappropriate with sister or with you, you tell Grandma, da? Is safe here. Do not fear.”
Illyan shook her off. “Folle! ‘E ‘asn’t! I don’t know why ‘e wrote that!”
“Maybe he meant it platonically,” Oskar tried.
“Does anyone call someone the love of their life platonically?” Valentina wondered.
At this moment, Jinghua noticed that Arceneaux was attempting to fade to the back of the group where his horse was grazing. She stepped in to block his exit, Oskar quickly catching on and blocking the other side.
“Who gave you this letter?” Oskar demanded.
“It’s signed from the Vicomte,” he shrugged.
“Is that who you work for?”
“I ain’t ever seen you around,” Illyan put in.
Arceneaux smirked. “In Barovy, don’t we all work for Lord Strahd?”
Illyan turned a piercing, two-toned look at him. Despite the danger in his gaze, the smile below was carelessly friendly. They folded their arms and cocked a hip. The light in their sclera grew brighter, until the glow was visible even in the daylight. Making eye contact, the genasi said, “Why don’t you stay awhile and chat with us, Monsieur? I’d sure like to ‘ear more about you and the work you do.”
There was a strange weight in the words. For just a moment, Arceneaux smiled back, maintaining eye contact. Then, he blinked, straightened, and barked out a laugh. “Bon essai, little brother! But I really must be going. Spent long enough on this job.” He aimed a wink at Valentina. “Sorry, cher, maybe next time.”
This time, he pushed through the loose encirclement and mounted up. The group watched as he kicked his chestnut horse into springing motion, setting off at a gallop now back up the road. He didn’t return towards Daggerford, but sped instead towards the eastern forest.
“I ‘ave to go,” Marie Séraphine eventually said. “If Killian is in trouble, if Irénée is, I ‘ave to go back to them.”
Illyan jolted. “Of course, Maman. I’ll get the ‘orses ready.”
“Hold on, hold on,” Valentina interrupted. “Can I get some clarity here on the family situation? Illyan, you’re related to a Vicomte? But your parents aren’t… married?”
Illyan was already hurrying to retrieve and hitch up the horses to his family wagon. It was Marie Séraphine who answered, absently, while gathering the detritus of their meal. “Eh, non, we are not married. Killian and ‘is wife ‘ad Ismaël before I came along. Then there was Irénée, then my Illyan. By that time, ‘is wife ‘ad passed. Illyan’s stayed with me and the caravan their whole life, but every few months we drop in to visit.”
“And this visit, it is to…?” Sveta asked.
“Barovy. That’s the name of the valley and the town, both. It’s a secret place, only Vistani can go in and out.”
Oskar rumbled, “What does any of this have to do with Strahd? Why did that Vistana say everybody works for him?”
“‘E owns the valley,” Illyan answered, coming back in order to fold up the wagon’s stairs. “But don’t govern it for shit. There ain’t no law in that place; we gotta take care of our own.”
Marie Séraphine looked worried. The coals beneath her scalp were lighting up and steaming gently. “Softly, loulou. We’ll go ‘ave a look and see. Don’t talk too much nonsense. I’ll go talk to the other elders, now, you wait ‘ere.” She bustled off, leaving behind a trail of white wisps behind her.
In her wake, the others looked solemnly among themselves.
“Illyan,” Sveta began. “Do you want help with this? I am willing to go to Barovy with you and help how I can.”
“I am, too,” Valentina added. Then, giddy, “All that he has shall be mine! I mean, thine!”
“I will also help, if you want it,” Jinghua offered.
“I will go regardless,” Oskar said. “I have business.”
“I… would be grateful,” Illyan eventually answered. “It’s no small thing. The valley is ‘ard-’ard to leave, if you ain’t Vistani. Strahd… I don’t know much, but I know ‘e’s powerful and evil.”
Sveta internalized a sigh. Powerful and evil. Weren’t they always. She had come to Daggerford on a vacation of sorts. A vacation which involved traveling the world and doing whatever she wanted without worrying. Just a few years, she hoped, where she could brush off her duty and focus on enjoying life. Maybe remember what was so good about it in the first place. She had thought she might stop in Blanchétoile for a few years. They were famous for their outdoor cafes. There was a certain dish, a kind of paper-thin cake rolled up with fruit and cream inside, which she wanted to try. A crȇpe, it was called.
It had been a long time since she had seen her worse half. She hadn’t dared to think their last meeting would be their last, though. She knew as she had always known that their little game of give and take would last throughout the eons. The end of it would be the end of them both. There was no scenario where she could just walk away from the wreckage, wipe herself clean, and lay down to rest.
Still, a break every now and then gave her a little taste of what that might be like.
It wasn’t to be. It was clear enough that this Strahd fellow was her usual type of foe. Whether he and her worse half were one and the same remained to be seen. It was certainly possible, given the information she had at her disposal right now. Well, if she assumed he’d gotten a ghostwriter for that letter. No way her worse half could pull out that kind of calligraphy, nor that kind of vocabulary.
All that being said, it was clear what Sveta’s duty must be. With the practice of centuries, she let all her wishes and feelings slip away like dirty water vanishing down a drain. She had a purpose to fulfill. That was all that mattered. Not her vacation, not how tired she was, not even the crȇpes. The hollow that was left of her was a vessel which she would fill with moonlight, righteous and pure. Sveta would prevail.
“This is nothing at all. Anything I can do, I will do,” she promised. The others chimed in their agreement.
In the end, Marie Séraphine convinced the entire caravan to go with them. It turned out that she was one of the elders of the clan, and therefore an unofficial leader of the caravan. Her urgency held sway. Given the nature of the travel, it ended up taking several hours for the whole clan to pack up their belongings and make ready for the road. They did so with remarkable efficiency. This was, after all, their way of life. There was enough time for Sveta, Oskar, and Valentina to return to town and retrieve their belongings from their hotel rooms, a process which Oskar returned from in a dark mood. As the sun plodded through its afternoon slog, the train of wagons rumbled to life along the road. A rolling thunder of hoofbeats and wagon wheels split the sunny sky, a plume of dust rising like a flag. Together, they headed towards the forest’s edge.