Bonus - Carl's Summary

I have long suspected that weddings are a mistake. This one simply confirmed the theory with empirical evidence.

It began, as these things do, with flowers, music, forced smiles, and the sort of optimism one only sees in people who have never met Count Strahd von Zarovich. It ended with the throne room of Castle Ravenloft becoming a slaughterhouse illuminated by holy sunlight, spectral ancestors, and burning vampires. In retrospect, the warning signs were subtle but present. For example: the castle.

Once the fighting started, the room ceased being a room and became a problem. Devils poured in with their glaives and those venomous, snake-ridden beards of theirs—apparently Hell decided facial hair should also be a weapon. Vampires crawled on the walls and rafters like spiders with self-esteem issues. Ghosts phased through stone. Wedding guests stampeded in every direction, often toward worse options. This was not an orderly evacuation.

Lady Ireena anchored the chaos. I have seen commanders hold lines before; she held reality. Her spirit guardians—dozens of her, drawn from lifetimes Strahd stole—circled her like a verdict that had finally been delivered. They tore devils apart, shredded vampire spawn, and eventually dismantled a saber-toothed monstrosity that someone, at some point, had decided should also be undead. That creature died thoroughly, respectfully, and without hope of appeal.

Wolfram drew Strahd like a church steeple draws lightning. When Wolfram bore the Sunsword, Strahd could not look away. Sunlight burned, devils fled, vampires smoked—and Strahd focused on him with something like obsession. Naturally, the Baroness Wachter stole the blade when Wolfram fell, plunging us briefly back into shadow. This did not last.

At some point—between clashing steel, screaming spirits, and Strahd’s ongoing attempts to dismantle Wolfram piece by piece—something unseen moved close enough to Wolfram to slip the Sunsword back into his pouch. Close enough to touch him. Close enough to do so without sound, without disturbance, and without asking permission. The sword returned to the fight like a quiet correction to reality. Wolfram did not question it. He rarely does. He simply drew it again and resumed being a problem for Strahd.

Oloch was a wall that learned how to swing a sword. Strahd grabbed him, dragged him, tried repeatedly to bite him, and failed due to the simple but effective strategy of wearing armor thick enough to discourage immortals. When fear washed through the room, Oloch stood there radiating terror of his own. Several enemies fled. I approved.

Laz complained while preparing mass destruction, which is the correct mindset. He froze devils solid, shattered vampires into statues, and very pointedly did not annihilate the Vistani when reminded not to. This restraint paid dividends later. It usually does, which annoys me.

Dacso was dragged away by vampires at least twice, clawed, bitten, surrounded, and yet somehow kept reappearing to shoot something important. I assume momentum carried him.

The Angel was efficient. Devils ceased to exist wherever his sword landed. He did not monologue. He did not hesitate. He flew when stairs would have slowed him down. I would hire him again.

The Wachters imploded spectacularly. The Baroness stole holy relics. Nicholai panicked. And Karl—against all expectations—did the right thing repeatedly. He blocked doors with his own body, grappled devils, dragged his mother back into the light, and at one point physically hauled Strahd backward by clinging to Oloch like a moral anchor. I did not have Karl Wachter pegged as the functional one. I will be adjusting my notes.

I died. Briefly.

The vampiric tiger bit me hard enough that Strahd assumed I was no longer relevant. I lay on the floor, bleeding, thinking about my sister-in-law Juliana—now apparently a vampire bride—and deciding that dying here would be inconvenient. When Strahd began casting a spell—confident, smug, already turning away—I counterspelled it from the floor. His surprise was absolute. He had already written me off. I raised one finger to clarify my opinion of him. It felt earned.

Later, I stood up, dispelled a fog cloud that was interfering with our sunlight, and set fire to the treasury doorway. Several vampires stopped existing. Others ran. Fire continues to solve problems.

Strahd fought like a cornered animal once the sunlight and spirit guardians closed in again. He tried to drag Oloch away. He tried to claw and bite through armor. He failed. Wolfram smote him with the sort of conviction usually reserved for sermons and executions. Strahd attempted to escape by dissolving into the floor.

He did not succeed.

The Chamberlain, of all people, fired an Arrow of Vampire Slaying into Strahd’s back. Strahd dissolved into a torrent of black mist, ash, smoke, and something that felt like rage denied closure. No body remained. This is important. I am writing it down so no one later claims this was tidy or complete.

The Chamberlain then gave the order, and the Vistani opened fire on what remained. Devils fled. Vampires burned. Ghosts unraveled. Alan sensibly left. The room fell quiet in the way places do after something very old stops screaming.

The throne room is wrecked. The wedding is over. Strahd is gone—but not finished. We all understand this now. Vampires of his stature do not simply die in public. They retreat. They reform. They wait.

Our next course of action is clear:
we find his coffin, and we finish the job.

Final conclusions:

• Sunlight is invaluable.

• Weddings are still a mistake.

• If you think Carl the Wizard is dead, confirm it twice.