Split (1)

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"Say his name!" she demands.
"No," I reply calmly. I am not afraid of it, but I also will not call him to our safe house.
"Say his name!" Esmerelda demands again. "Are you not his lackeys?"
"Fuck no!" We three shout in unison, finally achieving something as a group.
"Trust comes hard in Barovia," Esmerelda shrugs, lowering her rapier. She is wearing, I notice for the first time, a bandolier of stakes.
Gorm pulls out his silver short sword to show Esmerelda. "We also hunt creatures of the night," he says.
She sheaths her blade and I back away.
Esmerelda looks at us appraisingly and asks, "Are you students of Rudolph van Richten?"
"No," I say, recalling what little I know about the outlaw, "but neither are we his enemies."
"Then why do you use his tower?" Esmerelda wants to know.
"This is Khazan's tower," Gorm points out.
"I found van Richten's things here not one week ago," Esmerelda replies, like a warning.
Gorm shrugs, not rising to the bait. "Then many people have stayed in this tower," he replies calmly, holding Esmerelda's gaze until she finally breaks eye contact.
"Foolish man, thinking he can do it on his own," she mutters to herself. "I've worked and traveled with him for years. I was his protege," she tells us.
"Thinks he can do what alone?" I ask.
"Take on the Devil," Esmerelda says darkly.
Gorm and Roes cook ramen.
The night passes like I haven't even slept. I am exhausted.
I dream that I am looking through a house when I am suddenly stabbed through with a silver spike. An old man says, from somewhere behind me, "Well, that didn't take long!" and I look down at my shadowy hands before I wake up in a sweat.
"Who is this van Richten anyway?" Gorm asks Esmerelda over breakfast.
Esmerelda scoffs. "He's only hunted monsters his whole life. He lost his son to them."
Erasmus's father?! We three share looks indicating we are all on the same page, there. We need to speak with Rudolph van Richten.
When we ask her, though, Esmerelda has no idea where he could be. So we do what we've historically done in this situation: we make a deal with Esmerelda. In this case, in exchange for help getting to Vallaki, we will look for van Richten.
With that settled, we all load into Esmerelda's wagon. She shouts something in a language none of us understands, and two horses appear, tethered to the wagon and ready to go.
It's a much shorter trip, riding in a wagon. Nicer, too, as nothing bothers us along the way.
Esmerelda stops her wagon in sight of the walls. "I'll wait here," she tells us, and we don't blame her a bit. The Vistani are not welcome in Vallaki.
The guards, Erick and Yentov, greet us in the usual manner (a dozen probing questions about where we've been and with whom) before letting us through into Vallaki. We clearly lie, but they never notice.
We start at the former Baron's mansion, where we left Ireena and Victor last. We don't expect to find them there, and are therefore not disappointed when they aren't. We leave fairly quickly, after checking the attic, because I swear a guard looked at us twice.
Next, we proceed to the inn, where we find that Ireena has kept up our room while we were gone and looked after Victor. Gorm, still pissed about the booby-trapped door and our unexpected detour, grabs Victor by the collar and hauls him up, to give him a piece of his mind. He puts him down again quickly, though, when he...
Once free, Victor casts a spell on Gorm and, with a word, orders him to soil himself as well.
Roes throws something at Victor, breaking his spell concentration. "None of that, now!" they say with prim reproach.
I calmly pull out my lute and pluck a few strings. "You know," I say thoughtfully, "I knew someone who kept picking on Gorm. Gorm shoved that bloody spear of his through the poor asshole's side, and we burnt his ashes."
Victor turns pale and backs off. Roes cannot contain their laughter.
Gorm walks off, to change his clothes. Roes takes a nap and, when they wake, we are ready for whatever comes next.
There is a clamor outside the inn. When we go to investigate, we find a crowd of people at the gate.
"What's going on?" Gorm asks a random kid.
"We want to see the carriage!" the child replies, all excitement.
We look outside and see Strahd's black carriage, driven by one of those animalistic monstrosities like we saw in the Abbey at Krezk.
"Hey," Roes says suddenly, pointing down at the ground, "Sidonie's shadow is back!" And it is, if fainter than it should be.
And, ignoring the ominous carriage outside of Vallaki's walls, we proceed to the market. Gorm is eyeing an expensive set of glassblower's tools, which he doesn't purchase. Roes finds tobacco, but it's too expensive, like everything else in Barovia, and the merchant mistakes them for a child again, so I have to make the...
Next we stop by Rictavio's caravan wagon. Gorm checks for traps and picks the lock on the door, which makes Roes go more than a little territorial.
I stand outside and keep watch as Gorm and Roes search Rictavio's wagon. They don't find much of interest in there, besides a shit-ton of monster fighting equipment. Enough to make us wonder if Rictavio is van Richten.
We go outside Vallaki to talk to Esmerelda again, but she quickly shuts down that idea. Van Richten is human, and pale, and wears glasses. He's also not from Barovia, and he doesn't smile much. So definitely not Rictavio, then.
We tell Esmerelda about our dinner invitation, and the carriage, and she doesn't even look surprised.
"I thought you weren't his allies," she says, her voice flat and suspicious.
"We're not," I assure her. "I think he wants to fuck with us before he kills us, like a cat with a mouse. Besides," I say lightly, as though I am unafraid, "how else will I learn his weaknesses?"
Esmerelda's eyebrows shoot up.
Victor is not happy we are sending him to Khazan's tower with Esmerelda and Ireena and, in true seventeen year old boy fashion, he rather takes it out us and acts like an asshole until I put him in his place with a few well-chosen words.
Ireena isn't happy either, but she, at least, understands that we are trying to protect her. Her trust and belief in us makes actual tears swell in my eyes.
Finally, we head to the carriage and introduce ourselves to the terrifying driver. He looks frightened when we ask, but makes an agreement to stop at the Vistani camp to buy pipeweed for smoking. We're running low, and I know I definitely don't want to run out tonight, though the Vistani charge an obscene amount for an...
The cart is moving
– faster than horses should be able to travel, bringing us ever closer to our dinner or our doom. At this rate, we will be at Castle Ravenloft just after dark. There, we will dine with Strahd von Zarovich, unarmed, but for our wits.
Why is there a perverse part of me that is... excited? Why am I like this?

Never, in his hundred-and-forty years of life, would Elendar have ever imagined standing against a Baenre - especially not while flanked by a vampire, a Sharran, and a wizard of not-insignificant renown.
A goblin’s camp in a desecrated ruin of his goddess’ temple is the last place he would have expected to find a drow noble, and yet here Minthara Baenre stands. There is no mistaking the brand on her neck, the arrogant assurance of her bearing, the way the trio of goblins clustered around her avoid her gaze. There is ev...
. Has the prisoner been brought to heel?"
The memory of the man on the rack’s whimpering sobs echoes in Elendar’s mind. He grits his teeth. "He’s...spoken."
"Unless he’s said anything more useful than his squealing thus far, leave me. Do not waste my time with empty platitudes."
"If it’s the Grove you seek, you have no need of him." It takes everything he has not to let his hand slip to the handle of the morningstar slung across his back. "I’ve intelligence of my own."
Her eyes, as crimson as his own, glitter like drawn knives. The tadpole stirs in his mind, sensing the presence of the one behind her own regard. She speaks brusquely. "Do not waste my time. My hunt must come to its end, in Her name. Speak,
The word makes him feel smaller, huddled on a cold floor, back raw from his
whip, throat dry from swallowing his screams. He has not been
since he learned the name of his goddess.
In the eyes of a Baenre, he is nothing more than he was ninety years ago, when last he stood before his
and received orders he could never question. Minthara’s tone leaves no room to doubt that she expects that same blind subservience. The Weaver’s name may be replaced with the Absolute’s in her prayers, but she is a
through and through.
She may not have changed, but he is
"I do not answer to that word," he says, praying his words aren’t shaking as much as his hands. It takes everything he has to hold that gaze without crumpling to his knees. "Not if you wish to know what I know."
At his side, Gale sucks in a breath. "Are you certain it’s wise to--"
"Let me." Elendar dares a step forwards. There’s only the sprawl of the war-table between them now. She looms on the other side, the scant inches of height she has over him seeming to stretch into miles. Her armor is drowic make, once-familiar craftsmanship built for battle in a lightless land. It radiates shadow, blur...
Cold, red, haughty eyes.
She is but one of many who once followed the Weaver and now chant the Absolute’s name the way they’d once sung the praises of the Dark Seldarine. A tenday ago, Elendar himself was one of a mere handful of drow who had dared to abandon their mother-goddess. Now, this fortress alone is filled with more heretics than he k...
He has to know why.
"You test my patience." Minthara does not look away, fingers restless as they drum at the tabletop. "If you will not tell me--"
"Are you or are you not a True Soul?" The challenge is audacious, more than he’s ever allowed himself to be. "Look for yourself."
He scarcely has time to draw breath before she’s in his mind.
Her presence is shadow, and spiderweb, and
. She seeks through the crevices of his thoughts with graceless hands, hands that are used to taking and taking and never having to ask. She’s probing for what he knows of the Grove.
He slips through some crack in the barricade around her mind, searches for the moment the tadpole connecting them came to be there.
Moonrise Towers. Her first glimpse of the surface, beneath skies as black as the caverns of her homeland. A call, drawing her forth through lethal shadows, a woman’s voice compelling her every step.
A great expanse of nothing. A hole where thought should dwell. A transcendence, in a flash of clarity, as memory returns in a staggering rush.
Drow after drow taken, tadpoled, swelling the ranks at Moonrise. Legions of the Weaver’s children, flocking from the great cathedral of Menzoberranzan, their old faith left in ruins behind. A long march through the Underdark, their steps guided by the purest fervor they’d ever known, the others falling in behind her. T...
This is the destiny the Weaver had denied her.
This is how the Absolute stole drow from their mother-goddess, her own promise of destiny turned to a weapon pointed at her throat.
Elendar lurches back, reeling from the recesses of her mind. The bond between them sends lights jolting across his vision, until he’s dizzy and sick, clawing at the steely presence sliding into his mind. The Grove - he knew she’d seek his memory of it. His knowledge of her comes at a debt, unless he ensures she does no...
In that electrifying, horrific moment of understanding between them, he lets her find the glow of his moonfire faith.
He blinks, and he’s back to himself, her cold touch forced from his mind. Whatever relief he would’ve felt is short-lived in the face of the sudden wrath that creases her face.
"Do not hide things from me!" Her voice rises to a snarl. Sweat beads at her brow. One hand drops to the hilt of her weapon. "I saw the Grove in your mind - those tieflings, cowering behind stone, the druids tearing themselves apart for want of a leader, but
- you will tell me. The Absolute demands it of you.
demand it of you. You will aid in my hunt, or join my prey."
"I have a hunt of my own." His fingers curl around the hilt of his morningstar, the other hand falling to the holy symbol at his side. "And I’ve found my quarry."
Her face twists with familiar, icy wrath. In an instant, she’s vaulted across the war-table, mace in her hand and ablaze with faerie fire.
Elendar launches himself backwards, leaping out of her path. Steel rings as his party draws their own weapons - Shadowheart her mace, Astarion his rapier. The air crackles with embers as Gale readies a spell.
He regains his footing and hurls himself towards her with a cry.
He is done with cowering.
His blow lands glancing rather than true - a superficial wound, given her armor. Around them, the goblins attending her have leapt into action, war-cries in their chittering tongue filling the air. From the corner of his eye, he sees Shadowheart turn aside their blades on the flat of her shield. Astarion leaps to stand...
Gale’s firebolt leaves behind the stench of smoldering leather as it leaves Minthara’s pauldron trailing smoke. She barks a word of enchantment, mending herself as quickly as she was wounded.
Her next spell comes in a streak of blindingly white light that strikes Elendar over the heart.
His cry is half anger and half pain. It burns like a dozen strikes of the lash. He nearly reels off balance, swaying near the chasm splitting the room. For a split second, he wonders if it cuts all the way to the long darkness below.

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