The Meeting
The tower of high sorcery stood tall, its gray granite walls stretched in a stark contrast to the sandy colored daub buildings that surrounded it. The double doors, sturdy oak and wrought iron, sat in an archway, ornate designs woven by the iron as it danced across the door bolstering its strength. The interior of the tower was much more spacious and open than the exterior would suggest, clearly the effect of magic, though only the enchanter that created the space would ever know specifics on how this was achieved.
The inside of the chamber hall was open, airy, a gentle breeze blew from unseen windows and clean light expelled any shadows or darkness that could have crept in. It was in this room that Mattvie stood, where he had stood so many times before, awaiting the council to instruct him on what he was to do next. Mattvie was a Tormentor, and because of this career path he took his orders from the council. He was free to roam Greyloch to do as he pleased, with what was considered a nearly unlimited amount of resources, provided he performed his duties and completed the missions given to him by the council.
He stood waiting, a dark ebony table stretched before him, 11 matching chairs around it, all of the furniture smooth and polished. A candelabra sat at the center of the table, its gold surface equally polished. Mattvie knew it was decorative, there was no need for candles in this room, for it had been enchanted to glow softly with a sort of omnipresence that was both comforting and foreboding. He knew the power of this room, as well as those that held their secret meetings inside of it. He knew the independence the council had, and he knew the dark secrets they kept and operated inside of. He knew because he operated in them as well, an instrument for the council to exact their necessities.
He heard the sound of a door opening, the noise echoed into the great chamber. Mattvie turned to the door to see a tall pale woman enter the room. She was the picture of elegance and beauty, her lithe body seemed to float through the room toward him. She wore a kirtle that was deep and red with black lacing that decorated the edges in whisps. A darker garnet colored cloak hung from her shoulders, and matched her full lips. A white lace choker covered her neck, and her auburn hair was pulled up and back with a tiara resting neatly on top of it.
“Lady Anya,” Mattvie said, bending to a single knee and looking at the floor. Of all of the council members, he liked her the least. He didn’t hate her, but he did not enjoy being in her company, nor did he like the marks she gave him. They weren’t exceptionally easy, nor difficult, but they always came with a certain level of discomfort.
“Mattvie, please, we have passed such formalities at this point, haven’t we?” Her voice was light, but loud. Had she been a man Mattvie would have found her a bit gregarious, but he found that word to be a bit harsh and masculine for such a frail looking woman. Her voice betrayed the lithe elegance of her body, but he knew what was hiding beneath that fragile looking exterior.
“My Lady,” he responded. She had oftentimes spoken of moving passed formalities, but he always refrained. Best to not get too close to her kind.
“Ugh,” she sighed, her eyes rolling slightly in mock frustration, “So boring. Listen, Mattie, I’ve… We. We’ve got a little quandary. There’s a little bird that’s holed up in Kleinstadt, you know this village?” Her face was smiling, her teeth were ivory, and as she smiled he could see her two fangs pushing far beyond the rest of her teeth. The only indicator that she was Viampir.
He hated being called Mattie. She was the only being that did, and he loathed it, though he dared not correct her. Not yet anyway. He found her to be condescending, as if being a human somehow made him lesser.
“Yes, Mum,” he responded, his face a stone sculpture hiding all feelings and emotions as he spoke.
“Oh good. That saves some time. I…” She stopped herself again and corrected, “We. We need you to get there post haste. She’s unsanctioned, been caught practicing, been on the run. Refuses the council’s attempts at bringing her into the fold. See to it she gets the Council’s Blessing? There’s a good boy.” She patted his shoulder as she finished her sentence, and started to turn away, then she looked back at him, a sinister smile on her full red lips,”Oh, and Mattie, there’s no need to bring this up to the other members.” After that she walked out, floating gracefully to the door.
Kleinstadt would be a long journey, and if Mattvie was to keep this mission a secret he would not permit himself the use of the Williwaw. Traveling through it was restricted, and while he was permitted its use, he would still have to answer to the council on where he went and why. The Williwaw was a dangerous tool, and the council made sure they knew everything about its use.
Mattvie exhaled hard and left for his quarters. If he was to travel to Lebenstrank there were many things he would need.
Kleinstadt
The village of Kleinstadt sat at the edge of Lebenstrank, almost outside of the reach of Count Strahd, but just within the grasp of his local Barony. The citizens still lived in fear of the horrible creatures that bumped in the night, but also had to fear the stray Trotwyrm, or any of the other denizens that lurked too far from the Craobh. The lives of those in Kleinstadt balanced on a knife’s edge, though its inhabitants were too maladjusted from the constant strain of living in such a dismal and empty world.
The sky was perpetually gray, as if afflicted by the same depression that had taken hold of the inhabitants. There were no clouds, it was as if the sun simply despised shining on the land inhabited by the Viampir, but the peasants had to endure the same unfortunate fate that had cursed the Lords and Ladies of their lands. Craggy formations jutted from the landscape around the village like crooked teeth being propped up in the rotted ailing mouth of an old crone. The occasional bush or tree dared take root in the lifeless soil and was punished for its audacity. Gnarled branches grew in sharp angles and few leaves could make their home on them, making the trees look jagged and brutal.
Mattvie had started his journey days ago, making stops at skits that were set up along the edge of the forest. His favorite was set on the edge of the forest, likely made by the forestkin. A copse of trees grew tightly, forming a circular room. Heavy vines hung down to form a door on one side, and moving through was like parting the thickest of hair. Inside, flecks of sunlight frolicked through the leaves that swayed gently in the twilight air. A hammock of intertwined vines hung on one side, a wool blanket rolled up on one end. Opposite the hammock was a small pantry with seeds and nuts, as well as dried fruits, all stored within jars that rested on shelves that naturally occurred in the trunks of the trees. Another jar sat to one side filled with honey wine as gold as the sun. Its sweet taste provided nourishment and respite from the long journey, and Mattvie was appreciative to have it.
He now approached the village, and he made sure to approach during the day. He had heard stories of travelers getting trapped inside of villages during the night hours, and the few that survived told of horrors beyond imagination. He walked through the streets, as he did the residents of Kleinstadt eyed him suspiciously. They didn’t get many visitors, and when they did it was usually for nefarious reasons. Now that he was here he knew what he had to do, and where he needed to go. The investigation he conducted during the travels had pointed him towards a man named Gunther. Mattvie needed to find Gunther, as finding this man would help him find the illicit sorceress.
Mattvie moved through the small town, either unaware or uncaring that every pair of eyes he passed blanketed him with suspicion and fear. He navigated through the dirt paths between thatched houses and huts, all with iron bars over windows and doors reinforced similarly. He knew the reason, it was the same reason he made sure to arrive during the daylight. Once the sun sets in Lebenstrank, you never know what will find you.
He arrived at his destination, a large stone building similarly reinforced, a sign in front was hammered into the ground, it simply read “Food and Drink”. He opened the thick heavy door and stepped over the threshold.
The inside of the inn looked as plain and drab as the outside. Wooden beams reinforced stone walls, tables and chairs were scattered about the open common room. The place was devoid of people, except a lone man. He was slowly plodding through the room wiping tables and fixing chairs, and his face betrayed the level of resentment and contempt he held for the tedium of such things. Noticing the door, and the dingy gray light entering in from outside, the man looked up from his chores to see the stranger entering his inn.
“My doors don’t officially open for at least an hour, friend.” The man spoke, his voice was thick with the Lebenstrank accent. The words were thick and guttural, his vowel sounds short and sharp.
“Glad you speak the common tongue, I never gained the knack for Lebenstrank. I’m not here for food, though the smell from the kitchen is delicious!” Mattvie responded, a smile on his lips. He removed his gloves as he spoke.
Now that Mattvies eyes had adjusted to the change in lighting he could properly see the interlocutor across the room from him. A middle-aged man with a strong build, though age had caused some of his bulk to turn to fat. The man wore plain tan trousers with a cream colored tunic, a pair of boots on his feet that were old but well kept. The man was generally clean, his face covered in a three day beard, and his head was equally stubbly.
“We don’t get many travelers, but I made a point to learn in my youth.” The man responded, eying Mattvie suspiciously as Mattvie removed his gloves. The man pronounced his W’s as V’s, and the accent was extremely thick.
“What exactly is it you are here for then?” The man’s eyes shifted about the inn nervously as he asked this follow-up question.
“I’m looking for a man named Gunther,” Mattvie responded, slowly walking towards the man. Mattvie pulled out a chair, taking his time. The chair made a horrendous scraping noise as it was dragged across the floor, and the Tormentor maintained eye contact as he rounded the chair and sat down in it. Once he was seated he placed his gloves on the table in front of him and waved a hand to the chair across him.
The expression on the man’s face slowly changed from suspicion to fear as the realization of what was about to happen sank in. He nervously placed his towel down on the table he had been cleaning and stared back into Mattvie’s eyes. He was frozen in place, trapped in the predatory gaze of the tormentor before him. His heart felt uncomfortably large in his chest and he stumbled as he reached for the chair. He quietly pulled it out, taking care not to scrape the floor. Mattvie sat patiently, a smile on his lips and a twinkle in his eye while the man sat down, his face visibly wet with anxious sweat.
“I…” The man said, stopping briefly to clear his throat, “I am Gunther.”
Mattvie continued to stare at him with a warm smile. Gunther was no longer able to look into his eyes, and fixed his timorous gaze on the table instead.
“I see. Gunther. You must have some idea why I’m here, no?” Mattvie leaned back a little in his chair, crossing one leg over the other and clasping his knee with both hands. His smile faded a little, but he still looked warm and comforting.
Gunther nodded without looking up, his hands were wringing with nervous tension beneath the table.
“I know.” He replied. Gunther had heard of the Tormentors, though not by name. It was no secret that those that practiced magic unsanctioned would occasionally disappear quietly. On rare occasions those that were harboring them were found massacred by various means. No one in Greyloch knew who the tormentors were, but most had an inkling of their existence.
“I see. This expedites things a bit, doesn’t it. If you know, and you know why I’m here, it would be in your best interest to save even more time and simply hand her over.” Mattvie inhaled deeply and let out a sigh, “The weight of secrets lifted, a burden that is no longer yours.”
Gunther sat at his table staring holes into it. He was afraid to look up, or anywhere for that matter. They sat together, Gunther in an anxious sweat, Mattvie peaceful and calm. 30 seconds went by in silence… Then a minute… By the second minute Gunther was able to steady himself and pull his glance from the table. Mattvie calmly stared back at him, the same look of warm acceptance on his face, like a father doting on his only child.
“She… She is just a girl,” Gunther said, his eyes staring through the tormentor, rather than at him.
“And I… Am just a man with a job. Help me do my job and I can be on my way and out of your hair.”
Gunther knew better. There would be no living through this. Not for him, not for little Dava. No matter what he did, he knew that the man before him would not let anyone walk away. The existence of the tormentors was built on second-hand evidence and rumors, and that kind of existence wasn’t predicated on leaving survivors that may speak on their experiences later in life.
Mattvie watched as Gunther processed all of this. He stared at him as the look of anxious desperation changed slowly to silent resolve. The rest of the smile faded from Mattvie’s face, and the expression of warmth and kindness was replaced with one of callous indifference.
“Gunther, Gunther…” Mattvie rose from his chair slowly, keeping his eyes on the innkeeper, “This is not…” as he finished the word Gunther abruptly stood from his chair. It flew backward and crashed to the floor as it toppled over. His hands were formed into boulder-like fists, a determined rage had set into his face.
“You cannot kill her!” Gunther said firmly.
The smile came back to Mattvie, and his hands went up in a shrug, “This is how you feel?” he asked, almost apologetically.
Gunther stared back in silent rage, heavy breathing blasted through his nostrils and he felt the veins on his neck pulsing with anger.
“Very well,” Mattvie said, and with a supernatural swiftness a small crossbow was produced and fired. the bolt pierced into Gunther’s skull and his eyes rolled up in an attempt to see the wooden shaft that was barely protruding from his forehead. His fists relaxed and his body slumped forward, slamming into the table with a thud then rolling unceremoniously onto the floor. The last thud was followed by a muffled cry that originated from beneath the floorboards.
The tormentor wasted no time in barring the doors and searching for the entrance to the cellar. Upon opening it he saw a young girl of no older than ten or eleven years. She was huddled, crying, her face and limbs covered in dust and dirt and tears formed little streaks of cleanliness down her face.
Mattvie stood at the top of the stairs, staring down at her. He breathed in sharply, gave her a quizzical smile and shook his head slightly.