After surviving the werewolf ambush on the Old Svalich Road, the adventurers reached Kresk, the last settlement before the mists swallow the valley. The guards at the gate opened only when they saw the Martikovs’ wagon of wine. But their allies’ patience was thin; the severed head of Henrik, the coffin maker, and the party’s haggling over wine had soured trust. One barrel was given to Burgomaster Dmitri Krezkov. He warmed slightly, explaining Kresk survived by not provoking Strahd. He offered one path to shelter: the Abbey of Saint Markovia. His warning was clear—when its bells toll, screams echo across the village.

The party climbed the 800-foot switchback to the abbey. Mists choked the valley below, frost lined the stone. Scarecrows posed as false guards along the walls. Inside, they met Otto and Zygfrek, mongrelfolk sentries—patchworks of man and beast—who bickered until Sören demanded to see the Abbot. Reluctantly, they led the party into the courtyard, where locked pens held howling mongrelfolk, the twisted remnants of the Belview family.

A chained bat-winged woman hissed as Sören approached. From the well, another creature—spider-eyed, frog-handed, crow-footed—lunged at Daermon. The rogue’s rapier struck true; Traxidor’s radiance finished it. The courtyard erupted in cries of “Murder!”

Inside, they found the Abbot—handsome, serene, with the bearing of someone more than mortal. Beside him sat Vasilka, a pale, scarred woman in a red dress, mute and unnaturally perfect. The Abbot welcomed them, but his sadness deepened when told of the slain mongrel. He explained: the mongrelfolk were the Belviews, lepers he healed but could not cure of madness. They begged for animal traits, and he gave them their desires. Now they breed, fight, and rot in cages.

He revealed his greater purpose: Vasilka. Crafted from corpses, refined by his hand, she is to be Strahd’s bride.

“To redeem a soul as black as Strahd’s, he must first know love.”

The Abbot asked them to find her a wedding dress. When questioned why he would aid Strahd, he answered with rapture: Strahd must be redeemed, not destroyed.

Sören sensed the truth with Divine Sense—the Abbot is Celestial. When pressed, the Abbot unleashed his true form: wings of radiant fire, eyes without pupils, sword and lance of blazing light.

“Behold an angel of the Morning Lord. See me and know despair.”

The party collapsed under the weight of his divine presence. The light faded, but the judgment in his gaze remained.

The Abbot’s servant, Clovin—a two-headed mongrelfolk with a crab claw—led them to their quarters. There they met Ezmerelda d’Avenir, a Vistani monster hunter with a prosthetic leg. She packed to leave, unimpressed by their bravado.

“You’re reckless. Strahd will break you.”

She called the Abbot insane and departed into the cold night.

The bell tolled, and the mongrelfolk howled like a hundred beasts. At dinner, the Abbot dismissed his servants, served Red Dragon Crush wine, and cabbage stew. Sören refused to eat. The Abbot did not eat either—he patiently taught Vasilka to hold a spoon, coaxing her like a child.

Despite warnings, Sören, Radley, and Daermon explored the abbey’s upper floors. Traxidor stayed behind. They passed through rotted offices, into an infirmary with doors marked Surgery, Nursery, and Morgue. Shadows emerged—spectral undead that drained not blood but strength. Memories of the Death House returned as their vitality faded.

They fought, but the darkness pressed hard. At the last moment, Traxidor burst in, the Amulet of Ravenkind blazing. His Channel Divinity seared several shadows to nothingness; a Guiding Bolt destroyed the last. The party staggered back to their room, weak and shaken, collapsing into uneasy sleep.

The Abbot waits for a wedding dress. The mongrelfolk whisper “murder.” Ezmerelda hunts alone. And somewhere far above, Strahd smiles, patient as the grave.