Escape from the House That Hates You

The final minutes inside Durst Manor were not quiet, clean, or merciful. Fireplaces exhaled thick smoke that rolled into the halls as if the house itself intended to choke the last breath from us. Doors had betrayed us the week before, so this time we didn’t hesitate—walls were the target.

“We chose the walls over the doors—and the house learned to hate us for it.”

And all the while, we carried Zarkoth’s coffin. Not just their body—the entire coffin—turning every smoke-filled room into a geometry puzzle of angles, leverage, and breath. Maple and Doc took the weight; Kiril and Raven heaved at the other side; Keylith cleared the way. Every route had to be re-evaluated. Every hostile creak felt sharper because the coffin made us slower—and the house knew it.

With a final shove, the wall burst wide and we staggered into the Barovian fog. Shutters slammed behind us like jaws closing. Smoke curled out of broken windows, exhaling the last of the manor’s hunger.

A Guest in the Mist

On the ruined porch: a neatly wrapped gift basket—two bottles of Red Dragon Crush, a loaf of seeded bread, a wheel of Barovian cheese, five potions of healing, and a deck of exquisitely painted, midnight-black cards.

Beyond the iron gate, a tall figure in a wide-brimmed hat lifted a hand in silent acknowledgement, stepped into a waiting carriage, and vanished into the fog.

“Strahd doesn’t always need words to make a point.”

Strahd’s Deck of Horrors

Kiril’s player had been whispering about the Deck of Many Things for weeks. This wasn’t that deck—but it was a cousin with sharper teeth. The moment he saw it, his grin said everything. No one knows what the cards can do yet. When they learn? They may want to return to Barovia to “thank” the one who gifted it.

Level 3 at Last

To keep the momentum, we saved the celebration for the outside world. Hit dice rolled, cheers shared, subclass choices queued up for next time. The party earned this.

Awakening Back in Faerûn

The long rest laid over us like a fog—and when it lifted, so did Barovia. We woke on the grassy outskirts of Faerûn, the air clean, the dew cold on Zarkoth’s coffin.

“The first sensation was the weight of the coffin. The second was time—too much of it.”

At Daggerford’s gate, our dinner invitation drew only confused looks. Months had passed. The Manor hadn’t just stolen our breath; it had stolen weeks of the world outside.

Morninglow Tower

We turned to Morninglow Tower for a place to lay our companion to rest. Luc Sunbright—pompous, theatrical, and efficiently bureaucratic—offered interment, ceremonial rites, and, for a heavy purse, an extended resurrection window. For 100 gp, Lathander’s grace would hold Zarkoth’s return open for a full year.

The mausoleum door boomed shut. The coffin that had weighed us down through smoke and shifting rooms now rested in quiet stone.

Whispers from Waterdeep

At the Lizards Gizzard, warmth, food, and the chance to breathe. While circling the room, Kiril felt a tap on his shoulder—Fenwick Tealeaf, an old friend with urgent news. Something strange is stirring in Waterdeep. An eye. Lost, found, or fought over—no one agrees. But Davil Starsong at the Yawning Portal is asking for capable hands.

Next Week: The Yawning Portal Calls

Barovia is behind us. Zarkoth rests. Waterdeep awaits—with promises, dangers, and a story already in motion.