Lilluth's Visions of Strahd

## The Dreams

### Tatyana’s Illness

You are in a stone-walled room, the cold that seeps from the floor barely kept at bay by the crackling fire that burns in a large hearth.

A young woman lies on silken sheets in a four-poster bed.  Damp curls of dark hair cling to her wan face, but there is still a shine in her large green eyes.

At a table near her bed sits a tall man, a silver goblet of wine in his hand.  He is broad of shoulder and well-dressed, with dark eyes and dark hair swept back in a widow’s peak above a handsome face just beginning to be touched by age.  Neither the woman nor the man seem to notice your presence.

There is a sound of crunching metal and wine sloshes across the table.  The man stands up abruptly, tossing aside the now-crumpled silver goblet.

“These doctors are all fools, Tatyana,” he says, crossing the room to kneel by her bedside.  “I have sent to the Mayakara. They will have some spell that can heal you; I am sure of it.” He smiles in a way that seems intended to reassure, but there is a coldness to his eyes that a smile cannot melt.

The woman lifts her hand with an effort, placing it on his.  “Do not worry,” she says. “I will be with Sergei soon.” She smiles back at the man, weakly, but with deep and genuine warmth.

The man looks at her as if she has just struck him across the face. "You speak as if you were already dead," he says. "Tatyana, you have so many years left to live, so many good years. Think how much more good you can bring to the world."

With an effort, she shakes her head. "We are each given a measure of time, some shorter than others, but when it has run, that is it. We cannot change the will of the gods."

As the image fades into thick gray mist, the last thing you see is the man's face, dark, and brooding, and… determined.

### War Banner

You see an armored man sitting astride a dark stallion, riding at the head of an army.  They pause at the crest of a hill and he tips back the visor of his helm. You see that it is the same man as in your previous vision, with a few years of age lifted away, his face a little less lined, but no less solemn.

A banner above his head snaps loudly in the wind and you look up.  The blood-red banner snaps and twists, and then, caught by a gust, unfurls out straight, and you see the sigil it bears, an increasingly familiar symbol.  The silver rings, the painted caravan, the wolves’ teeth, and now this banner, a scarlet gash across the clear blue sky.

### Tatyana’s Death

Her face is clearly Tatyana’s, but the dark curls are now sticky with blood, the eyes blank and staring, the mouth half-open showing teeth red with the blood that paints her lips and is splattered across the unnaturally pale skin of her neck and chest.  The rocks beneath her head have clearly broken her neck, and her fine silk gown is twisted around limbs bent at grotesque angles. A pool of blood slowly grows beneath her, trickling down crags in the rocks.

A drop of water lands on her cheek, and then another.  They cut trails in the blood on her face as they roll down her cheeks like tears, and as small spots of water appear on her hands, her skirts, her bosom.  As the skies open up, blood blossoms into patterns like feathers in the collecting pools of rainwater. The torrent plasters her hair to her face, framing it in darkness as her lifeless green eyes stare blankly upwards.

### First Meeting

It is him again, the solemn, dark-eyed man, looking perhaps a few years younger than the first time you saw him.  He sits now atop a tall black destrier, wearing plate armor with chipped scarlet enamel and gold filigree, the matching helm held under one arm.  He rides at the head of a column of men, marching in formation down the streets of a well-kept town. Women and children, ribbons and crowns of flowers woven into their hair, line the streets, the children watching with wide-eyed awe, the women pressing flowers into the hands of passing soldiers or tossing petals to the streets, a carpet for their marching feet.

A woman steps forward her dark hair caught up in a delicate net of gold threads, an embroidered handkerchief of white lace held to her chest.  She reaches out as the man on horseback passes, offering the handkerchief to him. He turns his head to look at her, and his horse stops, wickering softly as he pulls its reins.  Behind the man, the column awkwardly stops, the men casting each other quizzical looks.

With one hand, the man reaches down from his horse to take the cloth.  His fingers brush the woman’s, and for a moment their eyes meet, brown staring down into green.

“What is your name?” he asks.

She smiles.  “Tatyana, my lord.”

“Strahd.  Call me Strahd.”  The man tucks the bit of white lace into his sleeve.  “Pray to the Morning Lord for me, Tatyana.” He urges his stallion forward with his knees, but turns to look back at her one more time as he continues down the street.

### The Hidden Pool

You see a cloud of mist, thick and white, but then your field of vision widens and you see the pool of clear blue water beneath the mists, and the crystalline waters pouring down a smooth gray rock face, and you see that the mists are just the foot of a waterfall, sparkling with the light of the afternoon sun.  A soft breeze rustles through the leaves of the pale-barked trees and the branches whisper softly against each other, *shh-shh-shh*.  The same breeze stirs the surface of the waters, blowing a small leaf across the pool like a tiny coracle.

Ripples explode across the water’s surface in a large set of concentric circles, then two more sets of rings, expanding outwards, as a flat, smooth stone skips across the pool.  You look upwards towards the stone’s source, and are surprised to see an unexpected face, that of Vasili von Holz. He looks perhaps a few years younger, but the messy dark hair; the shy, hesitant smile; the slightly self-conscious way of holding his tall, long-limbed body--he is unmistakably Vasili.

Vasili deftly flecks his wrist and another rock goes skimming across the water, this time creating four rings of expanding ripples before sinking below the surface.  Vasili lets out a short, excited laugh. “Four, Strahd!” he cries out. “See if you can beat that!”

And you see him now, standing in the dappled shade of a willow tree, the dark-haired, solemn-faced man who seems to be the common thread in all of your visions.  Strahd von Zarovich. Two fine jackets of scarlet wool are draped over a low-hanging branch, and Strahd stands in dark trousers and a loose white shirt.  He holds a sword in one hand and is moving slowly through a series of postures and maneuvers, every motion precise and exacting. You see a second sword, too, propped against the base of the tree.

With a sigh, Strahd places his own sword by the other, then walks up to stand beside Vasili.  “You said that you wished to practice together,” he says admonishingly. Vasili grins broadly and brandishes a smooth riverbed stone.  With a mixture of exasperation and amusement on his face, Strahd takes the stone. “You always get your way, don’t you, brother?”

“I try.”  Vasili laughs, as Strahd turns the stone over in his hand.  With a wry smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, Strahd pulls his arm back and then snaps his wrist out, sending the stone skimming across the pool.  He doesn’t wait to watch it, but turns back to the three.

“You’ve had your way; now back to the swords, Sergei,” he says, as you watch the stone skip across the pool one, two, three, four, five, six times before it sinks into the pool, into the rising, swirling mists.

### First Kill

The sounds of battle roar from outside the window of a small tower room.  The room’s only furnishings--a narrow bed, a washstand, a small chest--have been piled against the door, and against the far wall of the bare chamber, a woman huddles on the floor, holding two boys to her.  The youngest, a babe in his mother’s arms, is crying, and the woman tries to comfort him. Her long black hair falls in a curtain around his face as she whispers to him, hush, hush, all will be well, hush Sergei, I am here, all will be well.

The other boy is maybe ten or eleven years old, dressed in a tiny jerkin and a crimson doublet bearing on it the now-familiar sigil of the von Zarovich family.  Dark hair hangs to his shoulders, framing a pale face and dark eyes, wide with fear. With one arm, he clings to his mother, while the other hand hesitantly rests on the hilt of a shortsword belted at his waist.

Something slams against the door.  The washstand clatters to the floor.  Sergei wails. The other boy steps forward, pulling away from his mother.  She reaches out an arm after him. “Wait,” she says, but her focus is still on Sergei, rocking him, murmuring to him, “All will be well.”

Again, something slams into the door.  You see the wood splinter around the hinges.  The boy draws his sword, gripping it with both hands, breathing slowly.

“You can’t hide in there, Ravenovia!” a voice calls from the other side of the door, and then, a heartbeat later, another bang on the door, and a loud crack as wood splinters, hinges tearing free.  Wood scrapes on stone as the bed is pushed inwards, the door being forced open. A thick arm reaches around the door, and a man begins to step through.

The boy leaps forward, his sword singing through the air.  There is a heavy grunt and the man, halfway through the door, stops, looks down, bewilderment on his face as he looks at the sword hilt-deep in his ribs.

The boy releases the sword, takes a half-step back, hands shaking.  He looks at the sword, and the man looks at the sword, and then they look at each other, their eyes meeting.  Anger flashes across the boy’s face, replacing fear, and he steps back forward and seizes the sword, pulling it free in a scarlet arc.  Wiping blood from his face with the back of his hand, the boy, grim-faced, watches the life fade from the man’s eyes. He wipes the sword’s blade on the dead man’s trousers, then steps back to stand in front of his mother and brother and drops fluidly into a defensive stance, small chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths.

### Baba Lysaga

From the mists of your meditation, the walls of a room within Castle Ravenloft again appear; a new room that you have not seen before.  A woman, a wild-looking crone, stands in the tower room, humming a soft and eerie lullaby to the child that she cradles in her arms.

The woman's mouth turns up at the corners as she looks down at the swaddled infant, but there is something predatory in her amber eyes.  The child fusses softly, and she puts one long, bony finger to its lips. "Shhh, shhh, shhh."  She begins humming again, then speaks in a sing-song voice.

"A leader of men," she says, "a leader of worlds.  Sitting astride a dark horse. Blood on your blade, blood on your lips, blood on your hands.  A great man, a strong man. But you will not forget your Baba Lysaga, no? That silly bint may have grown you in her belly, but you will remember who really gave you life."

She lays the babe down in an ornately worked cradle, humming once more.  Putting a finger into her mouth, she bites down hard, and brings out a finger welling with dark blood.  Reaching down into the cradle, she places her finger into the child's mouth. The babe sucks her finger as if it were a teat, and the corners of her mouth creep further upward, showing blackened teeth.

"Lysaga."  A man strides into the room, and you think that you recognize him at first, but no, this is neither Strahd nor Sergei, although he bears a resemblance to both.  Dark-haired and handsome, with broad shoulders and a close-trimmed beard, he holds himself with an air of easy authority, a man who is used to being heeded and obeyed.

"Yes, milord Barov?"  Lysaga speaks in a voice now sweet and mild as she turns from the cradle, and when she looks up at the man, her face has changed, now a young woman, dark-haired and full-lipped with large doe eyes.  She glances past Barov, and, seeing no one behind him, she smiles and looks up at him through long lashes and hooded, sultry eyes. "Barov, my love?"

She steps forward towards the man as he bends to kiss her upturned lips, but as the woman turns away from the cradle, she casts one last look back at the dark-eyed infant lain therein.

### Chapel Prayer

The soft, flickering glow of torches in wrought-iron sconces illuminates the dark stone walls of a small chapel.  Between the sconces, stained glass windows are midnight-dark, and at the front of the chapel, a silk-draped altar is flanked by two small alcoves.  The alcove on the left holds a stone statue of a man in armor, his noble features solemn and severe. A candle burns on the ledge at the statue’s feet, and before the alcove kneels a young man in familiar crimson-enameled armor.  You notice that the armor’s designs are echoed by the statue, and as you look, you recognize the stone face, as well, from another vision. Barov von Zarovich--and the young man kneeling before him is Strahd, a very young Strahd, barely out of boyhood.  There are dark circles under Strahd’s eyes, and he is muttering a prayer under his breath, over and over.

From the far end of the chapel, a shadowed doorway, comes a soft voice.  “My lord.”

The young man looks up, startled out of his prayers, and nods. “Tell the men I will be there shortly, Rahadin.”  Standing, he bends to place one hand on the statue’s pedestal. “I will make you proud, father,” he whispers.

He turns and straightens, and, as he does, the scene melts around him, and you see Strahd now rising to stand in the same chapel, but sunlight filters through the stained glass windows, illuminating the room with colored rays.  Strahd has changed now, too; older, his broad shoulders better filling out his crimson armor. He stands easier in his armor as well, moving with the easy grace of a master swordsman.

Strahd turns to face the woman who has entered the chapel behind him: Ravenovia, her dark hair now streaked with gray, her beauty matured into a stately handsomeness.

“We should be about our preparations,” she says.  “I have had word that Sergei will arrive in the morning.”

Strahd shakes his head.  “I still say that you shame him, Mother.  He returns in disgrace and you make a feastday of it.”

“There is no disgrace,” she responds sharply.  “He decided that he no longer wishes to become a priest.  That he would prefer to return home, to be with his family.”

“Would that we all could do only what we wished to do,” Strahd says wryly.

Ravenovia approaches, cautiously lays a hand on her son’s arm.  Strahd stiffens, almost imperceptibly, but does not pull away. “Sergei said that he wishes to train with you,” she says, “at the sword.  The priests taught him a little, but he has heard so much about you. He wants to learn from his brother.”

Strahd’s mouth twitches into a smile.  “Little Sergei,” he says, fondly. “I suppose that it will be good to have him home.”