Barovia - Session 4
Beneath the Death House
Beginning Credits play over: Transylvania 1887
INT. DEATH HOUSE – DUNGEON STAIRS – NIGHT
Background music shifts: Dark Ambient PlaylistChants
The descent seems endless, spiraling deeper, dragging them down through the layers of dust, stone, and buried years. Thorn’s ghostly form clings to Greegan, just as he would have clutched Rose’s skirts in life, his presence small, trembling, but resolute.
Fleetwood keeps his grip tight on his sword, eyes sharp, watching for movement in the darkness. Felonious mutters something under his breath, fingers twitching at his side, his usual ease long abandoned for quiet calculation. Silverleaf steps cautiously, bow drawn but lowered, her pulse steady, reading the shifting air.
Down. Further still.
The wooden spiral staircase from the attic finally ends, opening into a narrow tunnel, stretching southward before splitting east and west. Then—the sound. An eerie, incessant chant, echoing throughout the passage, reverberating off the walls, twisting through the air like something alive.
INT. DEATH HOUSE – DUNGEON CRYPTS – NIGHT
The air is heavy, pressing in closer, thicker than before. The party steps into the chamber, their footsteps echoing against the damp stone. Two crypts stand before them—
The first—unlabeled, empty, forgotten.
The second—marked unmistakably.
WALTER DURST
The air shifts, thick with something unnatural—something rotting, something breathing, something lingering. Then—they see inside. Swollen, bloody cysts cover the walls, bulging like tumors, their surfaces slick and pulsing.
Every few beats, one ruptures, bursting open, spilling streams of pus, collecting on the crypt’s floor in thick pools.
And with every rupture—A sound. A quiet whimper. An infant’s cry, soft, fragile, aching, curling into the air for just a breath— Then—silenced. Not abruptly, not violently—gently, eerily, hushed beneath the sound of distant humming. A soft melody, threading through the chamber, weaving into the horror, pressing into the silence.
Fleetwood inhales sharply, tension winding through his body.
Felonious mutters something low, indecipherable, his mind turning over the implications.
Silverleaf steps back slightly, gaze flicking between the ruptured cysts, listening.
Clarion clutches the amber shard, feeling its warmth pulse sharply, warning.
Greegan tightens his grip on his dagger, rolling his shoulders again, steadying himself.
The chant continues, endless, pressing closer.
Silverleaf steps forward, her gaze locked onto the grotesque cysts pulsing along the walls, each one bursting, oozing, and silencing a distant whimper. Then—she speaks, soft, almost afraid to ask.
SILVERLEAF (low, hesitant, carrying quiet sorrow) "Walter… what did they do to you?"
The chant does not falter—incessant, rhythmic, curling through the chamber like breath. And in the silence between the words—something shifts. The cysts pulse harder, as if reacting, as if listening.
Something wet stirs beneath the pooled filth on the floor, unseen but present. The crying does not come again.
Only the humming remains.
INT. DEATH HOUSE – WELL CHAMBER – NIGHT
The party descends, the wooden stairs groaning beneath their weight, pressing further into the depths. A sudden splash echoes through the chamber, sharp, distinct—something moved. The ceiling stretches higher, rising above the cramped tunnel, supported by thick wooden posts and rotting beams, their surfaces gnawed through by unseen insects, riddled with deep holes that whisper of long-fed hunger.
And at the center of the room—A lonely well, its presence solid, silent, waiting.
Surrounded on three sides, small alcove-like chambers carved into the walls, each one shrouded in shadow.
The floor bears traces of old movement, footprints layered upon footprints, leading into the alcoves, circling the well, twisting toward the staircase beyond, and— Returning upstairs the way they came. And then—the rope.
An old hempen rope, secured to a rusted pulley, descends past the mouth of the well, swaying gently in the stagnant air. As if just abandoned.
The chant does not falter—it presses onward, curling through the chamber, wrapping itself into the silence.
INT. DEATH HOUSE – CULTIST QUARTERS – DIMLY LIT
The air is thick, stale with the scent of decay, pressing into the damp stone walls.
Fleetwood steps forward, gaze scanning the neglected beds, the mold creeping along the straw mattresses, the remnants of lives long forgotten. Felonious furrows his brow, fingers twitching slightly, sensing the lingering traces of magic—not active, but old, settled, watching. Silverleaf kneels beside one of the wooden chests, running her hand along the surface, feeling the damp rot in the grain. Greegan, flipping his dagger once, his eyes flicking toward the rusty iron padlocks securing each chest. He grins—sharp, confident, knowing.
GREEGAN: "Who wants to see what cultists hoarded in their final days?"
Felonious tilts his head, expression unreadable.
FELONIOUS: "There is knowledge here. But also warning."
Most of the chests contain small valuables, gems, papers with strange diagrams. Greegan kneels beside the final footlocker, fingers running along its aged surface, the latch giving way easily. Then—he pulls it free.
A book. Bound in leather that doesn't look quite right—unnatural, human-like, aged but preserved with unsettling care.
Greegan’s smirk fades, fingers tightening against the binding as he flips it open, scanning the contents. A ledger.
The camera lingers on the ledger itself - Belonging to someone called Drasha. Names, descriptions—each entry detailed, precise, cold. Each victim cataloged, their final moments reduced to sharp phrases: (Over the scene, it is read in Drasha's voice)
"Struggled profusely."
"No sedative given."
And—every entry ends the same.
"Fed to Walter."
GREEGAN: "Walter's hungry, for a baby."
FELONIOUS: (remembering Walter's crib) "I don't think it's a baby… anymore."
INT. DEATH HOUSE – BANQUET ROOM – NIGHT
The air is stagnant, thick with rot, pressing in like a second skin.
Before them—a plain wooden table, long benches flanking either side, its presence too ordinary in a place like this. But the dirt floor tells the real story. Moldy humanoid bones, scattered, discarded—the remains of vile banquets, of rituals that twisted the idea of nourishment into something monstrous. The chant continues, relentless, curling through the room, pressing into the quiet.
Then Greegan steps too close to a shadowy alcove - he only has time to inhale.
Then—it strikes. A monstrous, worm-like abomination, its flesh slick with rot, its tentacles—a writhing mass of flayed human organs—lunging, grasping, reaching. Its beak—a jagged thing—snaps open, dripping with bile, splitting the air with a guttural, wet shriek.
Greegan stumbles back, dagger raised, reflex sharp but breathless.
Fleetwood moves first, sword swinging, cutting—cleaving—but the creature does not bleed. It only shudders.
Felonious mutters a sharp incantation, fire sparking, embers curling against the dark, pressing back the thing’s unnatural movements.
Silverleaf looses an arrow, the shot fast, precise, but the creature twists—
The battle rages, violent, chaotic, the creature thrashing, shrieking, striking out with wild, unnatural aggression. Fleetwood takes a blow to the shoulder, gritting his teeth, steadying himself. Felonious mutters under his breath, magic lashing outward, searing against the abomination. Silverleaf fires rapidly, arrows splitting flesh, embedding deep into writhing muscle. Clarion steps in quick, her mace slapping against the creature's vile flesh.
Greegan dodges, rolling backward, rejoining the others in their defense, blade sharp, movements precise.
Then—it falls.
The creature lets out one final distorted, gurgling squeal, its twitching form shuddering, convulsing, before collapsing in a heap of wet, unnatural flesh. The room settles, the silence pressing in, the chant persisting but quieter now—watching, waiting. Fleetwood pressing a hand to his wound, ignoring the pain. Felonious tilts his head, running a hand over his own injuries, assessing his own damage. Silverleaf winces slightly, but keeps her grip firm on her bow. Clarion wipes blood from her cheek, steadying herself. Greegan huffs, flipping his dagger once, breathing hard, then steps forward.
And sees it. The flayed body, lying twisted, broken, grotesque—but unmistakably once human, mutilated and then stitched into something new, different, horrid.
GREEGAN: "Oh, hell."
Then—a sound.
A scrabbling, unnatural, scraping sound. From the east. The party moves forward, cautious but committed, pressing into the corridor beyond—Straight into an ambush. Ghouls—several, their forms twisting, crawling, gnashing, their hunger palpable, their movement erratic but coordinated.
They chant:
“Beautiful. We’re so beautiful.”
“We are perfect. We are immortal.”
“Help us live forever.”
Fleetwood raises his blade, stepping into the fray. Felonious mutters something sharp, magic crackling between his fingers. Silverleaf fires, arrows splitting flesh, piercing decayed bodies. Clarion steps forward, striking true, her mace crushing bones and breaking gaping jaws. Greegan moves, fast, ducking, weaving, cutting—but it isn’t enough.
The battle is pitched, desperate, brutal.
Several of the party fall still, bodies rigid, paralyzed beneath unnatural touch. Fleetwood grits his teeth, struggling against the creeping stiffness that locks his limbs. Felonious curses under his breath, vision swimming for just a breath before forcing himself free.
Silverleaf staggers, unaffected by the paralysis, then fights on, breath coming sharp. Clarion kneels beside Fleetwood, pressing a hand against him, calling upon something deeper—something stronger. He’s able to move again but the Ghouls press closer. Greegan laughs—short, sharp—cutting through the horror with sheer defiance. They fight through it. They win.
But not unscathed.
Fleetwood staggers, pressing a hand to his side, struggling back to his feet. Felonious straightens, retrieving his staff, shaking off the remnants of battle. Silverleaf nods once, exhaling, pulse slowly steadying. Clarion closes her eyes briefly, breathing deep, releasing the tension that had threatened to freeze her entirely. Greegan grins, tired, rolling his shoulders, flipping his dagger once more, victorious—but aware they are not done.
The chant continues, curling through the dungeon, pressing closer, waiting.
The clock ticks, slow, deliberate.
And midnight approaches.
INT. DEATH HOUSE – DARKLORD'S SHRINE – NIGHT
Background music swtiches to: Strahd von Zarovich | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h TTRPG Dark Cello Theme | Loop
Moldy skeletons hang from rusty shackles, their mouths frozen in silent screams, their forms reduced to brittle remains, but their presence lingers—haunting, accusatory.
Then—the alcove. A painted wooden statue, looming, carved into the likeness of a gaunt, pale-faced man wrapped in a voluminous black cloak. His left hand rests on the head of a wolf, and his gaze—painted but piercing, holds a cruel glint, surveying all beneath him. Fleetwood steps closer, watching the eerie artistry.
Felonious mutters under his breath, calculating. Silverleaf narrows her eyes, reading the statue’s expression, its deliberate design. Clarion tightens her grip, feeling something shift in the air.
And Greegan— His gaze locks onto the object in the statue’s right hand— A smoky-gray crystal orb, resting in clawed fingers, waiting, commanding attention.
Then—the shadows. Five ashen marks, burned into the walls, their outlines lingering as remnants of something long ended but never truly gone. Soot stretches across the floor, reaching toward the statue, as if seeking, as if caught in the last movement before destruction.
Thorn hides behind Greegan’s legs, his small, ghostly form trembling, clinging to the rogue as if he is shelter in the storm. Then—Rose speaks. Her voice weaves through Greegan, layered beneath his own, quiet but certain.
ROSE (through GREEGAN): "That’s Mr. Strahd. He’s a bad man."
CLARION: "A bad man. And yet… they worshipped him."
The ashen shadows remain, burned into the walls, frozen at the moment of destruction.
ROSE (through GREEGAN): "Mama thought he could make her live forever."
GREEGAN: "Well. That didn’t go as planned, did it?"
The chant presses on, louder now, insistent, unwavering.
Greegan takes another step, fingers reaching for the smoky-gray crystal orb resting in the statue’s cruel grasp.
Then—the whispers come. Soft, insistent, curling through the chamber like breath.
WHISPERS
"His gaze burns upon us."
"The Darklord’s eyes are always watching."
But Greegan does not hesitate. His fingers close around the orb, pulling it free. Then—the shadows move.
Background music shifts again: Nocturnal Onslaught | Unofficial Curse of Strahd Soundtrack | 1h Battle Music | Loop
The burned remnants on the walls twist, shifting, unraveling from their places of eternal silence.
And—they speak.
ASHEN SHADOWS
"Begone from this place!"
"Look not upon us."
"Return the Darklord’s offering!"
Fleetwood raises his blade, stepping forward.
Felonious murmurs something sharp, magical energy flickering between his fingers.
Silverleaf draws, notching an arrow, gaze locked on the shifting figures.
Clarion steps closer, voice steady, carrying quiet reverence.
Greegan flips the orb between his hands, smirking slightly—
But behind the grin, there is understanding.
The battle is vicious, the phantom shadows thrashing, shrieking, lashing out with spectral fury. Fleetwood cuts through one with measured force, his enchanted blade slicing through the intangible mass. Felonious raises his hands, weaving arcane power, preparing something more potent—more final. Silverleaf fires rapidly, arrows splitting through shadow, but they do not fall easily. Clarion **steps forward, her divine protection flaring—**until it is spent, drained, leaving only her own will to shield her. Greegan fights hard, dodging, weaving, cutting—but even he takes hits, blood spilling, wounds deepening.
Then—Felonious strikes. A potent explosion of searing light erupts from his outstretched hands, washing over the battlefield, burning away the wretched, lingering souls, reducing them to nothing—no screams, no final words, only absence. The room settles, the silence pressing in, heavier now, more exhausted than eerie.
Greegan snorts softly, wiping blood from his cheek, flipping the crystal orb that started this fight, smirking despite the pain.
GREEGAN: "Not my best day—but not my worst either."
INT. DEATH HOUSE – CULT LEADER'S QUARTERS – NIGHT
The air here is thick, cloying, soaked in the remnants of something vile, something hidden away but never truly forgotten. Fleetwood steps forward cautiously, scanning the chamber, absorbing the grotesque reality of its existence. Felonious tilts his head, fingers twitching as he flicks through the items within, each one worse than the last. Silverleaf exhales sharply, adjusting her grip on her bow, reading the unsettling energy that lingers.
The wardrobe offers little but disgust, its contents rank with decay, objects soaked in ritual, in madness, in cruelty. Then—movement. A twisting, shifting presence, flesh torn from its original form, crawling forward—
Gustav Durst's flayed skin, animated, refusing to be left in silence.
Fleetwood raises his blade, stepping forward, cutting through the horror. Felonious whispers something under his breath, magic crackling between his fingers. Silverleaf fires, arrows splitting through corrupted flesh, reducing it to remnants of what it once was. Clarion steps in, striking sure, but her mace does little to the boneless horror.
Greegan moves quickly, dagger flashing—one cut, another, and then— It falls, crumbling, returning to the quiet, its fury silenced.
Fleetwood: “Let’s finish this.”
He looks down the earthen carved hallway, toward where the chant comes from. And upstairs, the clock ticks closer to midnight.
Fade to Black
End credits roll over: House of Doom