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Each year, as the anniversary of Sergei’s death drew near, the idiosyncrasies of Strahd’s human life crept back in, gradually day by day, and he found himself concerned for the fate of Sergei’s soul should it never receive the proper burial rites. Each year, though the urgency weighed on him heavier by the hour, the day came and passed and still he did nothing. Guilt lingered the following days, but before long his senses returned to him, and that passed. Trapped like all the others within Barovia, Sergei’s soul would never join the Morninglord. Or, if Sergei was fortunate enough to have escaped before the mists enshrouded and imprisoned the valley… Well, ceremonies hardly mattered then, did they? All the same, without fail, Strahd approached the day with the intention to finally perform the Rite of Rest. For his own peace of mind, if nothing else.
Strahd approached Sergei’s tomb hours before nightfall on the eve of Sergei’s death day. His mistake every year up until now had been lack of rehearsal. He couldn’t leave something so important up to chance. What if he forgot the words, the motions? Though it struck him as silly at first, he was glad for the extra time to prepare. Strahd stood before Sergei’s tomb, cracked holy symbol in hand as afternoon stretched into evening, mind completely blank.
The last time he’d witnessed the ritual performed had been centuries ago. Who’s grave had it been over? Had it been Sergei performing the ceremony? Strahd could see no other face. But even as, in Strahd’s mind, Sergei stood in his decorative white and gold robes bathed in candlelight, even as his voice clearly pronounced the words, a nauseating dizziness overcame Strahd, and he found it impossible to grasp those details before they quickly scattered and drifted like mist.
Strahd shook his head and stood up straight, squared his shoulders and took a deep, steadying breath. He would do this. He didn’t take four centuries working up the courage only to fail at the task itself.
Except the dizziness, the fogginess only got worse with each successive attempt. Strahd cursed and threw the holy symbol against the crypts’ floor. Once cracked and now shattered, it lay in half a dozen or so pieces on the dark stone. Strahd ran a hand through his hair as he considered what to do.
Was this rite still performed in Barovia? He hadn’t witnessed it since Sergei was still alive, but that didn’t mean much when Strahd largely avoided contact with the Morninglord’s faith. He could always go down to the Village, threaten whichever priest it was that ran the church in recent years, order them to help with the rite, assuming the fool knew it at all. But how humiliating to bring the peasant here, to Sergei’s tomb of all places. Strahd would of course kill them immediately after, but in the meantime…
There was, he knew, one other who would likely be able to help. Asking would be less an exercise in humiliation and more one in frustration, but…
Before Strahd could change his mind, rationalize his way out of it and miss Sergei’s day once again, he turned and hurried to the brazier room nearby. He snatched up the indigo stone from the brim and tossed it into the fire, barely waiting for the color to change before reaching out.
The castle fell away, immediately replaced with the bell-tower at the abbey. Over the years the small space had grown cluttered and cramped with old furniture, dusty tomes, and rusting medical equipment--the Abbot having long ago turned it into his workshop (and judging by the unmade cot and empty wine bottles littering one corner, a residence for at least one member of the Abbot’s flock…) Thankfully, the Abbot was here now, saving Strahd the trouble of having to go look for him. At the far end of the room, the angel stood hunched over a vaguely humanoid figure laid out on an old gurney. Strahd wrinkled his nose at the heavy scents of iron and bile that permeated the room. The figure the Abbot worked on bore no resemblance to Vasilka—at least none that Strahd could immediately see—and he wondered idly what the angel was up to. The Abbot froze and turned to look over his shoulder. Upon seeing Strahd, he smiled.
“Lord Von Zarovich,” he said softly. “I wasn’t expecting you today.”
“I know I ought to avoid showing up unannounced,” Strahd said. “I apologize.”
The Abbot turned fully to face him, shook his head, then leaned back slightly against the gurney in a manner that struck Strahd as inappropriately nonchalant. His robes bore numerous rusty stains, and half-congealed blood caked his hands. Strahd’s own hand twitched as he resisted the urge to cast prestidigitation.
“No need to apologize. Is something the matter?”
“How familiar are you with outdated and regional customs from the Morninglord’s faith? If I described one to you, would you know it well enough to perform it?”
The Abbot narrowed his eyes. “How outdated, exactly?”
“Let’s say from half a millennium ago.”
“Don’t insult me.” Not knowing how to interpret the Abbot’s answer, Strahd searched his face for hints but found his expression unreadable. The Abbot continued, “Of course I would be able to.”
“There was a ceremony we performed on the graves of our dead, to encourage the Morninglord to watch over their souls, to keep them. It was called the Rite of Rest. Are you familiar?”
“There are many such customs by that name. You’ll have to be more specific.”
Strahd endeavored to explain what the ceremony entailed. As he tried to recall the order of things and some of the words recited, that foggy vertigo from before returned and threatened to stop the flow of his instructions altogether. As such, he had to resort to telling the Abbot minutiae surrounding the ceremony rather than describing the ceremony itself. The Abbot probed at the precise details. What regions had it been performed in that Strahd was aware of? How often, and how strictly must a schedule be adhered to? How long would one need to be dead before the ceremony was necessary? After a little over half an hour of explanation, the angel’s face lit up, and he stepped forward.
“I think I’ve figured out which one you’re referring to. Here, I will write down some instructions. You shouldn’t have much difficulty carrying it out. This one is a bit long but not especially elaborate.”
“Instructions?”
“Of course,” the Abbot said as he stepped past Strahd and gathered a few sheets of paper, a quill, and an ink pot from where they’d nested amongst the room’s junk. “I don’t expect you to be able to remember everything.”
“I’d thought the implication clear, but I was hoping you would perform the rite.”
The Abbot went back to the gurney with the mystery cadaver on it and cleared a small space near its head where he spread the paper out, smearing the top sheet with a thick streak of blood, and sat on a dusty crate as he prepared to write. Strahd could take it no longer and cast prestidigitation. The Abbot blinked a few times, staring at his suddenly clean hands, before returning to his self-appointed task as he replied to Strahd.
“I understand that, but unfortunately I’m…a little occupied at the moment. Ordinarily I would be glad to help, but I’m afraid preparing these instructions is the best I can do.”
“We just spent the better part of an hour trying to determine which ritual I intend to perform in the first place. Wouldn’t it be quicker and simpler for you to return to the castle with me and perform it yourself?”
“Hardly. I don’t think you’ve even accounted for the distance. It would take hours to fly there.”
“With the carriage—”
“Please, let me finish writing this.”
The Abbot hadn’t stopped writing, nor did he seem particularly affected by having to carry on a conversation in tandem. Strahd had witnessed on more than one occasion the angel’s effectiveness at multitasking, particularly when reading or writing, leaving Strahd with the distinct impression that the Abbot’s request masked a polite demand for Strahd to be silent. Needless to say, it was not well received.
“The rite needs to be performed tomorrow at dawn, and it needs to be done perfectly. Even assuming there are no errors in your instructions, do you really think it’s guaranteed that I’ll interpret them exactly as you intend? Least of all with so little time to prepare?”
The Abbot stopped and frowned. He lifted the quill and pointed it at Strahd. “You are the one who came to me. If you knew more time was needed, you ought to have come sooner. Especially if you require my assistance in the rite itself.”
“But I didn’t know. It’s—” Strahd struggled to start the next sentence, an admission of weakness. Even if he was entirely transparent with the angel, would it matter? Yet, what choice did he have when they stood at a complete stalemate? “It’s…not something I’d intended to ask for help with. The matter is personal, private.” The words were broken glass in his throat, cutting into him as he forced them out. The Abbot slowly lowered the quill and listened attentively. Strahd looked away at the floor, focused on the small details in the worn wooden planks at his feet. “I am trying to perform the Rite of Rest on Sergei’s tomb. The anniversary of his death—of everything—is tomorrow.”
Strahd couldn’t bear to look up from the ground back at the Abbot, couldn’t bear to see whatever his expression showed. If it was still annoyance, if he was still clearly unwilling, Strahd would feel a fool for daring to reveal any sign of weakness to someone he ought to still handle with caution. If his expression had softened, if he looked as if he’d changed his mind, Strahd would feel a fool twice over. He would not tolerate being pitied.
At length, the angel let out something between a sigh and a huff. “Alright.”
Strahd frowned and raised his brow as he looked back at the Abbot. The angel set the quill down on top of the half-filled paper and rose to his feet.
“I’ll help you. We should leave right away.”
They took the carriage back. It hadn’t occurred to Strahd right away that this was the first time he’d allowed the Abbot to ride in it. He likely wouldn’t have realized were it not for the fact that the Abbot spent the short trip staring at the curtained windows—at the barely visible, tiny sliver of warped space-time beyond—with his hands folded neatly in his lap. Strahd watched him. A device like the carriage couldn’t be an entirely new concept to the angel, but Strahd relished the rare opportunity to show him something several millennia across multiple planes hadn’t. The ride was too short, and in no time at all they arrived at Castle Ravenloft and the task at hand.
Back at the entrance of Sergei’s tomb, the Abbot went about setting up and lighting the dozens of candles he’d brought with him, seeming very particular about the placement of each one. Strahd had made the right decision not to do the rite on his own. While his memory of the ceremony included candles, he hadn’t prescribed any particular importance to them. Truthfully, he’d assumed them incidental and hadn’t intended to put any out at all.
When he was done, the Abbot faced Sergei’s tomb with a somber expression and took the pendant he wore around his neck in hand, gripping it so tight that the metallic scent of blood soon tinged the air. He relaxed his hand before beginning the ceremony’s lengthy recital.
“Morninglord, bringer of dawn and new life, I call upon you to witness the end of a cycle for one of your faithful. In your everlasting mercy and grace, I plead, take upon you the soul of the deceased. Take him in his purest essence into your loving arms to be embraced forevermore.”
As he spoke, the dizzy feeling from before returned tenfold. Strahd almost sat down lest he fall, but to do so struck him as highly disrespectful. This was, in some way, for Sergei, even if Strahd knew Sergei couldn’t actually benefit from it. Scenes past and present overlapped as he found himself in two worlds at once. Gradually, the present moment dissipated completely, giving way to the disorienting maelstrom of the past, to a small moment of calm within that storm.
More than any other part of the castle, it pained Strahd that his mother would never set eyes on Ravenloft’s chapel. The enormous stained glass windows washed the lofty hall in purples, reds, golds, and blues, even catching the dust motes and through them painting the air. Every sound echoed and boomed, and voices seemed to arrive from every direction. So much incense had been burned in the chapel’s short life that its scent had already seeped into every stone. It was as holy a place as had ever existed.
“Take him in pure essence with your loving arms to be embraced forever and more.”
Strahd stood beside Alek, the pair watching Sergei rehearse the rite he would be expected to perform the next morning at dawn. Strahd scrutinized his younger brother’s execution of the ceremony, a festering irritation in his chest at the young man’s nervous energy, at every small error he made in the proceedings, at the fact that he still smiled despite it all.
“From the beginning,” Strahd ordered, voice eclipsing and drowning Sergei’s out. The younger prince startled and looked back over his shoulder at his older brother. Strahd could feel Alek’s questioning gaze on him as well.
“‘Take him in his purest essence into your loving arms to be embraced forevermore.’ Head of the church is your role to play, Sergei. Why do I know the words better than you?”
Sergei looked stunned a moment before he broke out in an easy grin and waved Strahd’s comment away. “You’re always so serious. You’re going to kill me with fright—or more likely yourself with stress.”
Alek chuckled and Strahd shot him a glare which only served to encourage him. Strahd shook his head.
“In any case Sergei, you need to take this seriously. This being your birthright doesn’t excuse you from having to make an effort.”
“I am trying.”
“You didn’t even cut your palm on the symbol at the start. How is that trying?”
“This is practice. I don’t want to stain my robes…”
Sergei’s easy grin had fallen, and Strahd warred with himself whether to back down or press harder. He couldn’t help but think that Sergei was only a boy, but that was hardly true. Strahd had taken up his own duty at a third of Sergei’s current age. Just because Sergei acted like a boy, that didn’t make him one.
“This being practice is not an excuse to perform poorly. If you practice swinging a sword the wrong way a hundred times, what do you think will happen in battle? You’d be killed in an instant. You’re building muscle memory, not—”
Alek’s hand on his shoulder silenced him, and Sergei took the opportunity to retaliate, raising his voice and throwing his hands out to the sides.
“But this isn’t battle. No one is going to kill me if I make a mistake. I’m just performing a simple post burial ceremony—nothing more. And why do you think I’ve been practicing all day anyway? I’ve spent hours trying to get this right.”
“Hours ingraining the wrong—”
“Strahd,” Alek said beside him, gripping his shoulder tighter. Strahd looked at him, surprised to see his face twisted with concern. “Perhaps we leave Prince Sergei to his practice and take a walk.”
Strahd faltered as that festering irritation began to warp into poison anger. He set his jaw, voice a low growl. “I’m only trying to help him.”
“I know that,” Alek said, though his eyes betrayed him. “But he should do this on his own, perhaps.”
“I…”
“You don’t need to stay for the whole thing. It’s okay if you want to leave.”
Two voices overlapped as Alek spoke these last words. Two voices that Strahd had never wanted to associate with each other. Two he had intentionally kept very far apart.
Strahd startled and looked up at the angel bent over him, face only about a foot from his own. Strahd was on the floor. He didn’t remember sitting down…
“What…?”
The Abbot cleared his throat and reached out a hand before repeating himself.
“I said, you don’t need to stay for the whole thing. It’s okay if you want to leave.”
A shudder went through Strahd’s entire body, followed by a chill that went far beyond undeath. He stared at the Abbot’s hand before swatting it away and rising to his feet. He rearranged his clothes, askew from his time on the cold grimy floor, and spoke in a tone so even and calm it surprised even himself.
“You’re dismissed. I’ll handle the rest of the rite from here.”
For the second time that day, Strahd didn’t have it in him to look the Abbot in the face and instead fixated on the empty space between himself and Sergei’s tomb, on the flickering orange candlelight. The numerous bats overhead rustled against each other, and that loud-quiet of large empty spaces reverberated through the crypts, almost deafening in its silence.
“I’m nearly finished. After dragging me all the way here there’s no sense in—”
“I said,” Strahd said forcefully, turning his warning gaze finally to the Abbot, “you are dismissed.”
The Abbot’s face set in, at this point, a very familiar expression of indignation. “You drag me from my work, convince me to do this for you, and now you’re sending me away just before I’ve finished? I don’t understand what happened. You were fine, then you suddenly stumble to the floor, and now this?”
Strahd laughed deep in this throat. “Your work, right. Why don’t you return to whatever abomination it is you’re making next. I’m sure it’s much more important than this anyway.”
The Abbot threw his hands up, the palm of one cut and bloodied, and went back to the mouth of Sergei’s tomb. “We don’t have time for this.” He took his holy symbol once again in hand and resumed whatever part of the recitation he’d arrived at before.
“I told you to leave.” Strahd’s voice grew deep and toneless with a warning growl, but the Abbot paid him no mind.
Well…Strahd would make him.
With a small gesture and a brief word muttered under his breath, Strahd created a bubble of silence around the Abbot, cutting off the flow of words in an instant. The Abbot blinked and looked around, confused a moment as he raised a hand to brush lightly against his throat, lips still moving but slowly falling still. As he turned to look at Strahd, confusion quickly gave way to his earlier indignation.
In Strahd’s mind, the Abbot asked, “What are you doing?”
“When your lord orders you to do something, you would do well to obey,” Strahd replied through the link that remained.
The Abbot marched out of the spell’s sphere of influence up to Strahd and jabbed a finger at his chest.
“I’m trying to help you, at your request. If you—”
“It would be a shame to have to resort to force,” Strahd pushed the Abbot’s hand away and shrugged. “I have the means to send you back to the abbey close at hand. Even dragging a disobedient nuisance like you such a short distance won’t be that much of a—”
In a burst of searing light, the Abbot changed form. Strahd recoiled as the top layer of skin on his hands and face burnt away. He took a step back just as the Abbot struck him square in the chest with his mace, forcing him back another few feet.
Strahd rose to his full height as his flesh reknit and his ribs cracked back into place. He glared hard at the Abbot, who in turn mantled his wings. Their breadth made the cavernous chamber suddenly cramped, and the light coming off him threw the crypts in sharp shadows. He raised his mace and pointed it at Strahd, much the same way he’d pointed the quill mere hours prior.
“You brought me here for a purpose, and I intend to fulfill it.” In this form, the angel’s voice had become many, echoing from all throughout the crypt.
They clashed, meeting each other blow for blow. While The Abbot didn’t hit as hard as Strahd, the radiant damage made each strike linger. Strahd’s wounds multiplied without giving him a chance to recover.
Strahd grabbed hold of the Abbot’s waist, grimacing through the scalding pain in his palms, and slammed him against the nearest crypt. The stone cracked, small chunks of dark rock tumbling to the floor, and the Abbot crumpled at the crypt’s base. Before long, he was on his feet again, and Strahd drew back to give himself as much time as possible to recover.
Though the angel couldn’t be more than half alive at this point, he was hardly winded and raised his weapon once again as he cautiously approached Strahd, who chuckled dark and low.
“I imagine this insolent behavior is why the Morninglord wanted to get rid of you in the first place.”
The Abbot stopped, and Strahd smiled cruelly.
“Oh, what? Do you really think he would have sent you here for any other reason? To a plane where you might be trapped forever, out of sight out of mind, occupied with such a menial task? Does a building abandoned for centuries mean that much to a god? Don’t be ridiculous.”
The Abbot lunged as he shrieked—the sound hardly human and not like any creature Strahd had ever heard. As Strahd braced himself, the Abbot transformed into a huge beast that, as best Strahd could tell, was a cross between an elk and a wolf—a mass of brown fur, sharp teeth, antlers, and burning eyes. He panicked a moment as the Abbot crashed the full weight of this monstrosity into him, sending them both into and through one, two, three crypts.
Strahd coughed and tried to worm his way out from beneath the creature’s bulk. Though his ears rang, Strahd was already healing. Not a hint of holiness in this form… Strahd mentally thanked the Morninglord before realizing the irony.
The Abbot reared up, and Strahd finally wrenched free, but he’d barely staggered to his feet before the Abbot bit down on his side, clamping tight with what felt like thousands of needle sharp teeth. Strahd cursed and tried to pry the Abbot’s jaws open, digging his claws into the muzzle, but the Abbot only growled and set his teeth more firmly.
Fine, have it your way.
Strahd turned into mist, freeing himself, and upon retaking solid form turned and cast blight. Necrotic energy washed over the Abbot, dulling his shaggy fur. The Abbot winced as the spell took effect, but quickly recovered, shaking as if ridding his pelt of water. A lash of the Abbot’s tail split a wide crack through yet another crypt, and Strahd had the sobering realization that they were destroying a decent amount of Ravenloft’s foundation. What would it take to rebuild this, even if they stopped now?
The Abbot rushed at Strahd again, more nimble while navigating debris than his size would suggest. Prepared this time, Strahd ducked to the side and out of his path, sending him barreling through another crypt and crashing against yet another. The angel was already scrambling to his feet, talon-like claws screeching against the stone as they sought purchase. Chunks of rock shook free and rained down from the ceiling as the Abbot came for Strahd once again.
“Alright! Alright. I’m sorry.”
He wasn’t, but as Strahd had hoped, the Abbot advanced no further. He waited and watched, tail brushing in wide, irritated arcs across the debris littered floor behind him, bright fire-filled eyes unblinking. Strahd groaned and ran a hand through his hair as he struggled to find anything else to say.
“I understand you’re trying to help me. You’re trying, but you always manage to make things worse. I don’t know why I even thought it was a good idea to ask you for help in the first place.” The Abbot’s tail lashed again in warning. “I know, I know. Even though you infuriate me with your complete inability to listen, I do agree. That you try.”
The Abbot hardly looked appeased, but Strahd couldn’t think what else to say. He had to give up and plan the easiest way to draw the Abbot to the brazier, to teleport him back to the abbey. He only had to touch the flame for it to work. Despite Strahd having abandoned the half-hearted attempt at an apology, more slipped past in a breathless rush. “And I’m sorry for saying the Morninglord only wanted to get rid of you. I just wanted you to leave.”
The Abbot shifted back to the human form he most often wore, expression stunned. Considering he’d seemed so unreceptive until that moment, Strahd couldn’t guess what had, in the end, earned him that look. It made Strahd certain he’d misstepped, shown his hand carelessly.
“What’s with that look?”
“What?”
Strahd gave a vague gesture.
“You’re being honest, at least with the last part. You’re actually apologizing to me.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
As the tension between them tempered, the air in the crypts warmed, just a fraction of a degree. The stone walls of Ravenloft creaked almost imperceptibly as the obscured morning sun crept over the horizon beyond. The rite didn’t need to be performed exactly at dawn—the moment too short, ritual too long, and mankind too imprecise—but it did have to be performed very near sunrise, and they were nearly out of time. Strahd surveyed the rubble: stone mixed with the bones of long dead corpses, the putrid gunk that coated the crypt floor pushed up in ridges and valleys, as if it had been mortar between bricks that someone had failed to smooth.
“Do you want to talk, then? You’ve calmed down?” the Abbot asked.
Strahd laughed, brief and dry. “Have I calmed down? You are the one who attacked me, or have you already forgotten?”
“What choice did you leave me with?”
“Many. But…” Strahd once again scanned the ruined crypts. The ceiling still held, though chunks had fallen. The bats squeaked angrily as they scattered in search of safer roosts. “Yes. I’d prefer we talked.”
The Abbot followed Strahd’s gaze. His face flushed as he took in the collateral. “I think that would be wise.”
“What I can’t understand is why you are so intent on finishing this when you didn’t want to come in the first place.”
The Abbot blinked and tilted his head. “I agreed to, so it’s only natural.”
“Is it?”
“You said it yourself. I’m trying to help you.”
“Attacking me would help how, exactly?… Never mind that. Why? Agreeing to something isn’t a sound enough reason for…all of this.” Strahd gestured to the aftermath of the Abbot’s attempt to help him.
“I wish I knew.” The Abbot crossed his arms over his chest and looked away, gaze fixed firmly on the floor as though unwilling to bear the state of the crypts any further witness. Strahd tried to puzzle through what he imagined the Abbot was also reasoning out. They had never truly been enemies, but one could hardly call them friends either. Whatever it was that connected them, and connected they were, it was unique.
The Abbot looked back at Strahd, arms still crossed over his chest and eyes narrowed. “What happened earlier? You looked ill, and then suddenly you wanted me gone.”
The memory of Sergei and Alek rose up from the deep again, threatening to breach the surface, and Strahd had to shove it back down. It fought him as if afraid to drown.
“If it’s too much—”
“I was caught up in the past. That’s all.”
The Abbot opened his mouth as if to pry further, but after a pause all he said was, “Okay.”
They stood rigid, watching each other. A few of the candles for the rite had gone out, and those that remained were short and sputtering. The air warmed further, and the bats overhead settled and calmed. Strahd found himself calming along with them, until the Abbot let his arms fall to his sides and stepped forward. Reluctant but willing to start the fight anew, Strahd tensed. However the Abbot’s posture had loosened, and his gait was unhurried. Divine forgiveness or something…
As the Abbot picked his way over the rubble, balling up his robes in his fists and raising them a bit so as not to trip, he said, “I meant what I said. You don’t have to stay. I’ll finish the ceremony on my own.” The way forward became clearer, and he let the robes fall. He returned to his unhurried relaxed pace, stopping right before Strahd and looking up at him with a stare that was as familiar as it was unnerving. “It’s no trouble at all, and I’m nearly done.”
Strahd shook his head. “I should stay.”
“You’d be leaving the task in excellent hands.”
Strahd wanted to argue that he didn’t trust the Abbot to finish it alone, but this wasn’t true. While there were many reasons to be wary of the angel, he generally kept his word. If the rite was going to be performed correctly, the Abbot was the most likely to achieve it, even if Strahd was loath to admit that to the angel’s face. It was, after all, why he’d gone to the abbey in the first place. The certainty lingered too that if Strahd stayed through the remainder he would only end up at the mercy of another memory, on the floor again with no recollection how he got there. The Abbot had declared the ceremony lengthy from the start, and if he brought Strahd back to himself again and again rather than let him plummet ever deeper into the recesses of his own mind, they would never finish in time.
He looked back at the angel, who watched him with earnest eagerness. Strahd didn’t understand why the Abbot had forgiven him for what he’d said so readily, but… It seemed in line with the nature of their peculiar dynamic.
“Don’t mess it up.”
The Abbot smiled. “Don’t insult me.” He leaned forward to kiss Strahd’s cheek. Strahd pulled a face and waved him away.
Strahd lingered as the Abbot returned to Sergei’s tomb and, as if nothing had happened, took up the rite again from where he’d left off. Strahd looked away to the floor and, at length, turned away to leave the crypts. As he passed soundlessly down the long hallway back to the brazier room, the Abbot fell silent. Strahd stopped, listening. Despite what he’d said, had the Abbot not intended to complete the rite now that he thought Strahd was gone? Perhaps he’d misjudged the angel’s eager expression, and sabotaging the rite was his way of getting back at him. Even as anger began to simmer in his chest, Strahd couldn’t bring himself to truly believe that. Mere minutes later, the Abbot began the recitation again, this time from the very beginning. Strahd found his head clearer this time as the words echoed and drifted to him. He continued down the hall, leaving the crypts behind as he ascended one of the castle’s innumerable spiral staircases to his study.