The memory surges with vivid clarity, sharper than the tools you use in your craft. The basement walls, damp to the touch, the chains bolted to the wall that eerie green glow as the ghosts in durst manor chant one must die, one must die!

A grotesque, writhing mound of flesh and teeth, the air reeking of rot and sulfur, thick enough to choke on. Cratosh rushes in, his azure scales shimmering like tempered steel in the light, a stark contrast to the abomination before him. His longsword gleamed, raised high, a beacon of resolve in the darkness. And then the creature moves, with a speed that defies its bulk - a sickening slap of tendrils meeting flesh.

You are approaching his body, to see if he’s really dead.

You are burying him in stone, and paying your respects.

You are making promises to the dead.

I will bring you home, you said. To lay you to rest.

“Did you know then?” Thedda asks, a whisper in your ear. Her body is a disfigured mess of melted flesh. Angry red welts, charred black scars, and pale, shiny tissue stretched taut like melted wax. “Did you know then, that you’re the only one who would make it out alive?”

You are kneeling in a castle. Your fists are covered in blood.

Evil dies, and this is triumph.

You are approaching bodies, to see if they’re really dead.

You are standing in a castle where everyone died.

The Emblem of Cratosh of House Myastan will one day rest in the catacombs of his noble house. Dilbraxus’s bones will rot beneath the earth in the Abbey of Krezk. But what will you do when Itkovian falls? When Tonnin dies and Erendil is slain?

“You should make a few more promises.” Thedda taunts. “Tell them, when Strahd slaughters you, when you choke on your own blood, when you’re cleaved in half, that I will bury your bones and I’ll carry a piece of you with me, and I will bring you home. Tell them what you already know; that they’re never leaving this place alive. Not like you.”

The vision ends, the smell of smoke and flesh lingers, and you hear her mocking laughter in the wind.