In Vallaki, justice is never blind. It is theater, staged with gallows and blood to frighten a weary people into obedience. Barovia wastes nothing, not even prisoners. Only a day after Radley the Eldritch Knight and Traxidor the Cleric were captured by Wachter’s men, the town square filled with hammers and wood. Gallows rose before the eyes of Vallaki’s beaten citizens. Here there are no cells and no juries — only spectacle, execution, and fear. At the Blue Water Inn, Daermon the Arcane Trickster told his new ally Urihorn Tenpenny of the party’s plight. Daermon had stumbled into Barovia through the mists, while Urihorn, a halfling Beastmaster from Falkovnia, entered with purpose. He came hunting Strahd. Where Daermon was trapped, Urihorn was deliberate — a mist-walker with vengeance on his mind. Urihorn sought counsel from Rictavio, secretly the vampire hunter Van Richten. But the master hunter admitted ignorance of Vallaki’s civics; his war is only against Strahd. It was Danika Martikov, innkeeper and wereraven, who spoke plainly: there would be no prison, only a mock trial and a noon execution. Urihorn defied curfew that night, climbing the palisade to summon his black panther. The beast bounded from the treeline, jaws carrying a human arm scavenged from some forgotten kill. Urihorn coaxed it free and guided the cat back into hiding. Even loyalty comes bloodied in Barovia. By morning, criers declared the charges: murder, mayhem, defiance of authority. The crowd assembled, silent and sullen. Daermon hid amid rubble from the Festival of the Blazing Sun. Urihorn perched on a rooftop, panther crouched. The prisoners were dragged forward, Radley blinded by an iron mask, Traxidor dulled by sedatives. Guards prodded them onto the stage. Wardens in black robes stood ready, amulets glowing. Lady Wachter thundered her speech, painting the outsiders as brigands worse than Vargas Vallakovich himself. The Reeve stepped forward with charges. He never finished. Arrows flew. Daermon’s struck true, Urihorn’s burst into a Hail of Thorns , ripping through guards. The Reeve toppled dead. Revenge at last for Sören Ironwood’s fall. Chaos followed. Wardens conjured Spiritual Weapons , ghostly blades flashing. Necrotic bolts seared air. Wachter raised Sanctuary , wrapping herself in magic that turned attacks away. And then allies swooped down: Urwin and Danika Martikov revealed themselves as wereravens, striking guards while spears stabbed into their bodies. Radley fought blindly, headbutting a guard so hard his nose broke. The mask rang like a gong, but Radley fought on. Traxidor swayed, barely conscious. Daermon darted with blades, Urihorn fired arrow after arrow. His panther snarled below, leaping into fray. But Wachter’s healing magic revived her men, and the tide turned. One warden faltered, then rose again at her touch. Radley fell. Daermon soon followed. For a moment, it seemed the execution would succeed despite the chaos. Then the Martikovs acted. Bleeding, feathers falling, they lifted the unconscious adventurers onto their shoulders, forced through spears, and hurled them into a wagon. Urwin cracked the reins, horse screaming, cart rattling out of the square. Urihorn leapt down from the roof, panther racing beside him, and followed the flight. Only Traxidor was left behind, sedated and bound, at the mercy of Lady Wachter. The wagon fled to a cellar in an abandoned house. Dannika hid the survivors beneath crates, explained that wereravens heal quickly, and urged Urihorn to keep still. Wachter’s search parties would soon comb the streets. Then she shifted into raven form and vanished into the gray sky, leaving the heroes battered, half-rescued, half-defeated. The Reeve was dead. Radley and Daermon survived. Urihorn proved his worth. But Traxidor remained in enemy hands. This is Barovia’s rhythm: victories poisoned, rescues incomplete, survival always at a cost.
