Chapter 23 | Oaths

Ashley Warren
Jul 23, 2017 · 12 min read

The paladin stole away into the thicket of trees, glancing over his shoulder to ensure he wasn’t followed. While the rest of the party slept and healed, he needed a moment alone.

A storm raged in Liam’s mind as he emerged into a clearing.

He unsheathed his sword, and placed it out in front of him, the point of it sinking into the damp soil. Liam knelt behind the sword, and closed his eyes. Dark and painful images appeared unbidden to him, swirling chaotically and abstractly in his head. He willed his mind to quiet, and a clear vision appeared in his mind’s eye.

He envisioned a path in an unknown forest, thrice splintered. Three very different paths lay before him.

The path on the right was awash in brilliant light, so bright it was nearly blinding. This path was cleared and lovingly cared for, vivid flora in full bloom on either side.

The middle path was wilder, illuminated by a warm, golden glow. Vines reached across the path, strung from tree to tree, shading the trodden leaves below.

The left path was not unlike the real clearing around him. Shrouded in fog, this path was muted and unsaturated, with spindly trees lining the length of it, casting shadows across the ground. Through the mist, Liam saw a hazy circle of light, like a sun behind clouds, and he could feel its rays reaching for him. The light existed there, and Liam wanted to brush the mist away like one pulls away a cloth draped over a lantern. Could he bring the light to its full glory?

In his mind, he moved toward the left path. He stepped onto it, and a memory flashed before his eyes: Iliyana, her gleaming armor covered in the blood of those she had slain. He saw the paladins’ slashed torsos, their vacant, open eyes, and her cold, stoic expression. The memory of her halting him in his tracks felt so visceral that he jerked to a halt on the path.

A second later, the vision dissipated, and he tentatively took another step. Another memory emerged as his foot met the ground. In this one he saw Akra, her eyes alight with the joy of battle, and he watched, impressed, as she brought her sword down upon a bandit. When the man crumpled at her feet, she looked at Liam and gave him a wide, dazzling smile — and the shell around his heart cracked, the tiniest of fissures now embedded in the once-hardened exterior.

The two memories fought for space in his heart — the desolation at the loss of loyalty and faith, and the pleasant surprise at finding it again.

He walked faster down the path, toward the light, and the memories appeared, rapid-fire now, cycling from beautiful to painful to comforting to sinister:

He felt Akra’s limp hand in his as he brought her back to consciousness, still captive in the tentacles of the mound, her bones snapping in its grip…

He heard Iliyana’s voice correcting the position of his feet during an early morning fencing match, her hands gentle but firm on his shoulders…

He saw the bones of two forgotten children on the floor of an attic, and the barbarian’s tears as he cried over the bodies of dead wolves…

Every memory revealed the full spectrum of who his friends and foes were: sometimes good and sometimes not, but all deserving of protection, and it was his duty to track down every source of darkness and banish it, in Lathander’s name.

If it was the last thing he did, he’d pull away the shroud smothering Barovia, and he’d bring Iliyana to justice. Wherever existed a shadowy corner, he would be there to illuminate it, with the power of the sun in his hands.

He called to his god, and gripped his sword tighter, infusing it with a pledge he muttered under his breath:

I will sacrifice my own righteousness to mete out justice upon those who do evil. There will be no mercy for the wicked; they will be exterminated by any means necessary. I must help those harmed by evil, and if my foes are allowed to wreak havoc, it is because I failed to stop them. I take the oath of vengeance.

The pledge made his blood run hot in his veins, and the thundering heartbeat in his ears quieted his thoughts. He opened his eyes to the unchanged forest around him.


Amira stared into the fire without blinking. The flames softened into abstract shapes in her vision, and the warmth didn’t quite reach her skin, and she took comfort in the cold.

She felt irrevocably changed from the experience in the house — stronger, more alert, more attuned to the darkness.

She settled against the tree trunk, and reached out to Norn, the patron whose power she had been gifted.

I have suffered for you, she thought, absent-mindedly fingering her amethyst. Am I worthy of your patronage?

Distantly, she heard a rustling sound above her in the tree. She resisted a distant memory of Simon, tossing pinecones down at her from a tall tree branch, his little face alight with mischief. Like always, seeing Simon’s face in her mind felt like a brace around her heart, but to her surprise, the memory brought with it the slightest hint of comfort, too.

Did being closer to Norn mean she was closer to Simon? Or was the sting of grief finally ebbing now that she had… friends?

She returned to her meditation, heartened by the memory bringing comfort instead of sorrow. For so long she had been afraid to press further into her own mind, to let herself think without the threat of crippling sadness.

She spoke to Norn again, emitting a thought to her patron. I know now that the power you have gifted me has purpose beyond my own desires.

A speck of movement pulled her out of her meditation. She looked up to find a raven, peering down at her with a peculiar look.

Her heart swelled, and she moved slowly to her feet.

The raven flew to another branch, and Amira halted; she knew herself well enough to know that if it flew away, the disappointment would overpower any semblance of happiness she was beginning to feel.

The raven maintained eye contact, and looked at her, expectantly. Without knowing if it could understand her, she tried communicating with it wordlessly.

Will you come to me?

The raven tilted its head.

She took a step forward, and another one, and another, until she stood near the low branch, and still the raven looked at her with curiosity. Emboldened, Amira held up her forearm, and a shout of joy nearly tumbled out of her mouth when the bird flew over and landed lightly on her sleeve.

Aloud, she whispered to it: “I have been waiting for you.”

Amira brought the bird close to her face, and ran a finger down its head. It made a low noise of pleasure.

Can I call you Chernok? she asked. In her native Damaran, chernok meant black bird. And Amira knew that her new companion wouldn’t always be in its bird form, but it seemed to fit him nonetheless, and the bird nuzzled her finger in confirmation.

Chernok held out a feathered wing, and she admired the beauty of his feathers, their shimmering, midnight coloring. The wing began to change shape, still a wing but now a crimson wing made of stretched, translucent skin, like the wing of a bat. Chernok’s raven head briefly transitioned into a wider head from which two large pointed ears protruded.

She grinned at Chernok, who was clearly showing off for his new keeper. Amira wanted to squeal in delight, as if he were a puppy or a kitten. The creature gave a tiny, wicked grin in response and shifted once again into a large black raven.

The imp named Chernok looked at her with glowing purple eyes, and Amira felt the pressure of tears behind her own.


Ruh Ruh took a swig from his horn and made a low, guttural noise. The forest brought out his primal side, and the howl of distant wolves made his hair stand on end.

He had the wild urge to clamber to his feet, and howl in response. He felt gruffer now, and figured the ale he had just imbibed was partially to blame. But the presence of wolves nearby plucked and scratched at the wolf inside of him. Most days, Ruh Ruh felt more animalistic than dwarvish.

Amira returned to the fire, a large raven now perched on her shoulder. She said nothing about it, but her face was the happiest Ruh Ruh had ever seen it, and she gave Ruh Ruh an enthusiastic scratch under his beard. As he leaned into her touch, Ruh Ruh sniffed the bird. It turned its beady eyes toward him, and cocked its head, giving him an almost haughty look.

Another wild urge welled in his chest, the desire to launch himself at the bird and tear it apart with his teeth. But the humanoid part of him abstained; the bird had done nothing to him, other than look at him oddly, and was undeserving of an attack, even if the urge did appeal to Ruh Ruh’s baser instincts.

The howling wolves evoked thoughts of home. Ruh Ruh knew Barovia was a dark land by its treatment of people and animals. The ranger beside him was proof enough that wolf hunters existed in Faerun, but in Ruh Ruh’s experience, Phaedrus was more the exception than the norm. Most rangers and outlanders understood the role of wolves in the larger ecosystem, and Ruh Ruh was drawn toward wolfish traits: loyalty, ferocity, family.

If he had nothing else in this forsaken country, he would cling to his own wolfishness. It was the very core of his nature.

He would protect his pack at all costs.


Akra inspected her sword, and ran a finger along its edge. It nicked her forefinger, leaving a tiny slice across her fingerprint.

She thought of the mound’s tentacle clamped around her mouth, suffocating her until the world faded to black around her. She thought of a skeletal hand reaching for her, its gaunt fingers finding her shoulder, and the whisper of death in her ears. The dragonborn shivered.

Never again, she thought, bitterly. Never again will I be vulnerable to the darkness.

The monsters of Barovia weren’t vanquished by steel alone. What good were swords and shields against spectres and shadows? She would need to be more if she were to survive in this wicked land. It was not enough to just be strong. Akra possessed strength aplenty.

She thought of Amira’s outstretched palm, the purple blast emanating from the center of her hand, reducing the ghoulish figure of Elizabeth Durst to mere ashes. From where did the warlock find her power? Was it just a matter of summoning it from within?

Akra closed her eyes, and tried to envision a power like that coming from her own hands. She envisioned a long beam of light stretching the length of her body, and to her surprise, an orb of warmth appeared in her chest, and reached out smaller beams of heat into her limbs, like the legs of a spider.

She opened her eyes, and lifted her sword to eye level. It began to glow and vibrate in her hands. She let go, and it levitated before her. A surge of static prickled her palm, and she grinned as the newfound power took hold in her core, as if it had been there all along.


Phaedrus plucked the rabbit’s carcass from the tip of his arrow, and knelt to the ground. With a nimble flick of his hunting knife, he made a small tear in the rabbit’s fur, and yanked it from its body with a satisfying tear. The blood drained onto the dewy leaves.

Rabbit wasn’t his preferred wild meat, but almost any animal flesh was made palatable by the char of a campfire. He bit into the steaming, succulent leg, appreciating the fruits of his own labor, and let himself dream about a large turkey leg or a venison steak.

Hunting was his ritual, and he was dependent on it — for sustenance, for sanity. For the past several days he had been locked inside, hidden away from the light of the sun, feeble as it was in Barovia. The thought of dying at the hand of a monster, far underground or behind stone, away from trees or dirt or any natural light, was unthinkable. Could there be a worse fate?

He tossed the rabbit leg to the ground, stripped of its flesh, cleaned expertly by his own teeth. He kicked the dirt over it. Across the campfire, a large raven on Amira’s shoulder eyed the bones.

Phaedrus knew the pleasant company of an animal companion, and understood its purpose, but the notion felt burdensome. To care for another creature meant expending his own focus and energy and resources. It took enough just to watch his own back, and that was his priority now: to find a way back to Faerun, and the forests of his home.

Satiated, he cleaned the still-bloodied arrow with the edge of his cloak. His weapons were more than weapons; they were his tools for survival. With them he could find himself food and make a shelter. His arrows could pierce and puncture, aided by his keen eye. He held up the arrow and pointed it out into nothingness, picturing a writing, unnatural creature impaled upon the end of it. This is what would keep him alive, anywhere, and trusting in his tools had never failed him.

The arrowhead suddenly seemed sharper, pronged with tiny spikes. He shook his head and inspected it again, and the arrow was returned to its original state — roughly hewn from obsidian, carved by his own hands into a point. He didn’t know if the vision was a trick of the light, but the message was clear: his weapons, and his eyes, understood their targets.


Something was clearly happening to his comrades, but Hoben was sure only he noticed the palpable changes occurring around him.

All things considering, it seemed normal that only Hoben observed these strange occurrences. He saw Ruh Ruh’s hair lengthen two inches as he sat gruffly with his arms crossed over his chest. He watched Liam steal away into the forest, his hand on his sword hilt. Beside him, Akra stared in awe at a glowing sword rotating before her, and Amira cooed and fawned over a bird perched on her shoulder. Phaedrus held an arrow close to his face to inspect it, then glared skeptically at the obsidian tip.

Hoben was used to noticing things no one else noticed. This attention to detail is what made him an exceptional artist. His lyrics were infused with elaborate, clever metaphors, thanks to his keen observations and a taste for the aesthete.

There was much to write about their current adventure. Hoben felt inspired to weave a tale about their combat against shadows and ghouls, the fear that had gripped him as he served as a host for a spirit passenger. Who would believe songs about whirling blades in doorways? The danger they had so recently experienced felt distant, now, to the halfling. Instead, he felt the potent desire to climb upon a tavern tabletop, and stomp his feet as he blew into his shawm, regaling an enraptured audience with his experiences.

Changes took hold in him, too. The muscles of his throat strengthened, and he hummed a low note to feel their vibrations. He knew, innately, that the magic of his music had become more powerful, the impact of his words more potent. There was nothing visual to demonstrate this, however, and Hoben frowned to himself as his companions demonstrated interesting developments to their skills and personalities.

A rustle in the forest pulled him out of his own head, and Liam returned, a faint glow around him like an aura. The aura dissipated as the paladin returned, and Hoben thought Liam looked somewhat less grim, albeit more resolute.

Hoben placed hands on his lute, set on a blanket away from the flames’ reach. He conjured the sound of raucous applause — and from the corner of Hoben’s eye, he saw the paladin watching him, amused, as the halfling performed his newly spun tales to an invisible audience.

The Tavern Burners

Adventures of a D&D Party. Currently playing through Curse of Strahd.

Ashley Warren

Written by

The Tavern Burners

Adventures of a D&D Party. Currently playing through Curse of Strahd.

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