The Journal of Onet Bynalor

Curse of Strahd - Session 1

Scrawled into the back of an incomplete spell book, following several other pages scribed in a tidy, quick, tight lettering very unlike the elegantly precise hand that formed the forward section.

Mother,

I did something I did not mean to do, and now I don’t know where I am. I think I met it. Him, I believe. Your patron. I spoke to Him. And to something else. Or, more correctly, something argued with Him. I don’t know if I summoned them to me, or if they brought me to them. I’m sorry I cannot write more, but I feel it would be unwise to commit all that was said to the page. I will have to press myself to repeat the words every so often. Hopefully that will help me to remember them. Why now, after all this time, has something finally answered me, and why did it have to be Him? Did I bring myself to this place, or did He? As the now, I have no answers, only maddening questions. Questions made worse by the mutterings of this most irritating person.

Which brings me to the next strangeness. I’ve met several others that seem to be in a similar situation to mine. I am not sure if what I did somehow brought them here with me, or if they came to this place by some means of their own, or if He had some part in their plight as well. But they are not from this place, either. All of them seem as lost and aimless and without any notion to where or even when we are, as I. Nothing makes sense.

First, there is a Dwarf, Gimner Sheildsplitter. I’ve not known his like before, but he’s much like people say that they are: stubborn, bold, and stupid in his bravery – charging ahead into danger without a second’s forethought and touching things anyone with good sense would avoid. He was even dripping with some sort of acid that ate away his armor and weapons when I first saw him emerging from the mists. I wonder how one so reckless can live so long? But then, have I really any room to judge him rash against what I have done? I suppose not, and I cannot blame my youth anymore.

Then there is that desperately irritating man. He is a gruff sort, given to grumbling, with an aggressively assertive countenance. Caine Felmark. He is prone to dishing out orders that he expects everyone within ear’s shot to obey without question. It is often difficult not to laugh at his lisping grumbles, but I cannot deny he has a wit – when it shows, it can be enjoyable. And to his credit, he has a level of skill that I respect, and may come to rely on in the future. Where we not immediately given to dislike of each other, we might actually complement one another in ability.

He is also marred, and terribly. By something far worse than whatever the dwarf had faced, clearly. His face was torn apart, shredded across his cheek and mouth. It healed on its own, and quickly - even before he received any help from the rest of us - but not completely. His torn lip has left him with a lisp, and his face bares vivid scars where those torn holes had been. There is something to be said for the steal that must make up his soul, it seems to hinder him not at all.

A further note, here, that I desperately need to get my tools back. I’ve arrived without my Hunter’s pack, and while Volker’s religious prattle was always a nuisance, his methods worked, and I fear I may have to make use of them soon. Particularly having been brought to this place without even my bow. Makes the arrow strapped to my back damnably useless. Although, also amusingly confusing to Caine. He seemed unusually perturbed by the fact that I am dressed as a Cleric beneath my Ranger’s armor, with a quiver at my back, and yet missing a bow. I saw no reason to explain anything to him, and didn’t ask.

Next there is Kiara. An Aasimar, I think. You wrote of such things, but it’s the first I have seen one of their kind. Whoever would have thought I would actually speak Celestial rather than just read and write with it? Would that I had known you. Perhaps you’d have spoken it with me and I’d be more adept by now at making the proper sounds. She isn’t what I thought such a creature would be. I believe I insulted her attachment to the gods, but she took it in her stride. Curiously, she even called me a comrade. And unless I am greatly mistaken, I think she meant it in earnest. I’m not sure what to make of that notion. It’s too early to tell if her word is her bond, or if she says what she needs to in order to garner the security of numbers. Uncle Volker would have worshiped the ground she walks on, so I suspect you would have found her distasteful. I think she might be a cleric, as he was. I find her strangely calming.

Finally, there is Wallach. I think I like him most, but strangely I can say very little about him. I think he would remind me of you, if I had known you – one of Arcane knowledge of some sort, as you had been. I admit I don’t know any of this well enough to remark on his relationship to magic, neither Volker nor Allard where much help – as much as Allard truly did try. Wallach is not quite so foolish as the rest seem to be, not so rash or impulsive. He tends to watch and wait, the way father always thought before he did or said anything. Yet he seems stranger than the rest, as well. I know not the magic he works or if he is even really a man. It is disquieting, I don’t think I have ever seen him blink.

We each stumbled from a strange mist to find ourselves at a home, or what was once the manor estate of the Durst family - as we later discovered. In truth, it’s a house of death. They committed horrors here, some yet unclear and others all too obvious. They leave behind an abandoned house with fresh food in the kitchen, swarms of rats, a puppy called Lancelot, the ghost of a child’s nurse, a monster in a basement we cannot seem to find, and a supposed baby called Walter that I expect must be long dead – as I suspect the children that bayed us to help them are equally dead. I find an empathy with them, with those children that sought help for their long-dead family. How often have I wondered if it wouldn’t have been better to have all died together that night? Father would not have suffered so much had we died with you that night. I believe they did, Gustav Durst, his wife Elisabeth, and their children Rosavalda and Thornboldt. The baby, Walter, must be long dead, too. But then why did Rose and Thorn ask us to help their baby brother?

Undeath seems all too common in this place, rotting it from the inside out. Perhaps it’s a curse we find ourself trapped in taking some grisly part in. There is yet a ‘bloody feast’ we have to provide to make it out of this place alive, and I am afraid we won’t have much choice when it comes to it.

We are now cooling our heels in an office, reading books that make no sense and talk of people, places, and events that never happened. And yet, the authors do not portray their work as clever fictions, but as histories of this place. There was also a letter from a resoundingly disinterested and disgusted ‘Dread Lord’ Strahd von Zarovich. Given the context, and the title, he must be Lord of these lands, but he seemed to have a genuine loathing toward the Dursts and whatever foul rituals they were working in his name.

The Dwarf knew the name where none of the rest of us did. It was curious that he would not speak of it, but none of us pressed him. Perhaps at some later date, if we make it through the next four hours that marks our expected lifespan within these walls. There has to be a passage that leads downward somewhere in this house, and I don’t think we want to know what happens at midnight.

P.S. I was never very good at animal handling, but Lancelot seems to have taken a shine to me. The excellent little rat-killer seems loathed to leave my side. His comfort and company are welcomed.