A Vampire Waits in Your Room (Steamy Curse of Strahd) - Part 1

Transcript

You do know it is customary to knock before entering, don't you? Your room. When the owner let me in, he told me it was empty.

I suppose it was until a moment ago. A mistake. Do you see anyone else staying at this tavern? No.

That would be a petty mistake. Perhaps instead he gave you this room, knowing I was already here. As I told him to.

Why indeed. What do I want? That's easy.

To be entertained. Please, wipe that look off your face. Yes, we might be in a bedroom, but nothing you could do here would surmount my desire.

No. No. For now, my curiosity is of your mind instead.

I know you have your own questions. I see them brewing more by the minute. But if you would humor me, might I ask a few first? Good girl.

It won't take long. You are new here, no? Yes, I suppose it is obvious.

But not for why you might think. You see the armor you wear, your clothing, body, voice. Of course, you feel painfully an outsider.

But I see different reasons painted all over you. Your smile, your laugh, seldom as they have come on your short visit. The way you walk, and above all, the fire in your eyes.

Tell me, who here holds themself the same? No? Some few, if any.

You have seen it, I know you have. The morale of Barovia, its broken peoples. They cower behind locked doors when the thought of a stranger enters their mind.

They answer you in silence more often than not. And when words come tumbling out of their mouths like a worm brought up by the rain, they stare at your feet the way maggots pray for the soil to dry and allow them to return. They whisper to themselves, and when you ask them what's wrong, the answer always comes back to the same damned excuse.

The fiend, they call him. The wicked, the cruel, bastard, liar, tempter, demon. They live their mundane lives day after day.

The same toils, the same ailments, lack progression. And day after day, they use the same excuse for it. The Devil Strahd.

I told you I was here to be entertained, didn't I? This is what I mean. You are not some broken animal, not yet at least.

I want to see you fight. I want to see your fire burn. Stand up above the rest.

Accomplish something, anything, or prove me wrong and submit to the dreary darkness of this county. Oh, please, don't pretend to be so naive. You know exactly who I am.

I saw it on your face the moment your eyes locked to mine. I am Count Strahd Vunzarovich, Lord of Barovia. This same blight, devil.

I don't care I didn't ask your name. I know who you are. And please, don't lie to me either.

You were about to, though. I know it. Wish as you might.

You are not a knight. Not even a soldier, are you? Not anymore, at least.

Once, yes, I know, I know. But it has been some time since you have served the crown, has it not? A warrior, a fighter you may be, but joining a mercenary band for coin, it's not the same.

It is good to have dreams, though. Hold on to them. For your sake and for mine.

It sets you apart from the other cattle here. Of course I know who you are. What you are, dear mercenary.

I was the one who brought you here. Ah. Of course, my mistake.

Of course, of course. You came by your own will, yes, yes. A letter of help, a plea for a good, just soul delivered to a mismatching band of vagabonds.

And delivered by the Vistani servants of Barovia. A letter written by the dear Burgomaster, who, of course, welcomed you with open arms and a wide smile, did he not? You do not reply.

Is it because, instead, you found his children grieving without his direction? His village distraught with bedlam. Still you stay silent.

Is it then, instead, because you were filled with doubt on the road? When you looked in your companions' eyes and questioned their intentions? When you thought of home, of a simpler life, void of luxury but filled with certainty? You turned around.

Perhaps I should say, you tried. Did you not? Did you not? But how far did you get? How long did you wander those misty woods, tracking yourself backwards, only to end up at the same damned gate into my county?

Do you even know? Did these friends of yours even care? Did they follow you when you tried again? Perhaps it would have helped if they had, no? You fought off the wolves with ease, of course.

Your blade is an extension of your mind, your shield, your will. I would expect nothing less. But now your shield is cracked.

Your blade dulling. You are no ranger to know one tree from another. You are no sorcerer to call upon an inner magic to guide you.

Perhaps when you emerged from the mist, as painful as it might have been to see the same Barovia you tried to leave, a part of you sighed with relief. At least you had lived. At least you had a chance to sharpen your sword again, no? You ask me that again, have I not already answered? I simply want to be entertained.

But perhaps you ask because you see something deeper in me. The same as I do you. You tell your companions you joined them and come here to Barovia because the people need help.

Because they need a hero. Because it is the right thing to do, to answer this cry of a dying wolf. Is that so true? Are you the hero to save them? Or perhaps, just as I am looking for something more than meager entertainment, you are not looking to act the hero you claim you are, but for a recognition of that dream.

Or some title that falls smoother off lips than mercenary. You were, after all, about to introduce yourself as a knight, were you not? Is that why you come? Because it is what a knight would have done.

You are a fucking blade for hire, are you not? Are you still so truly enchanted by these childish dreams? No, no I think not.

But perhaps, perhaps you know what a difference a small word like that can make. Once you were called soldier, something more proud than the occupation you hesitate to utter now. You seek to take that back.

And more. That girl is good. Ambitions are good.

Power is good. You hold your tongue again, unsure. I see your eyes, searching for words, but a simple no has yet to come.

Do you look for an excuse? A sentence to utter in attempt to deny me? It is too late now.

Only such a veteran as yourself should know when opportunities for action are, and what leaving those spaces empty does. Even if it is with words and wit, not steel and soldiers. But then, precious mercenary, if you hide your true intentions from your companions, do not interrupt me.

I will respond to courtesy and kind, but also to a lack of it. As I said, if you do this, do you trust their own words? The small rogue who speaks of treasure under my castle, yet is sharpening his blade every night by the fire.

The cleric, sworn to worship their god in silent prayer, offended when you simply inquire which one they see in their stars. That third one, the one who claims they made a deal for their magic powers so they could do good, yet must leave every fortnight to speak with their patron in private. How do you so eagerly turn a blind eye against the darkness around you, and preach that it sits only on the pillars of Ravenloft?

Are you really so alone, crawling through these depths of desperation, actively choosing to ignore the dangers you embrace, just for this false sense of belonging? But perhaps I pushed too far. But also, perhaps then it is good I came tonight and properly introduced myself.

I can tell when I am no longer wanted, though, so I shall make my leave. What do I mean? That it is good we met, or exactly what I have said, dear mercenary? Because you feel alone, is it not good to make more introductions when you know so few people? Evil, am I? More than the others you have already surrounded yourself with.

I think, out of all your companions, if you will still grace them with that word, you ought to best know that evil is simply perspective. Because I am. ..