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My friends,
Know that it is I who have brought you to this land, my home, and know that I alone can release you from it. I bid you dine at my castle so that we can meeł in civilised surroundings. Your passage here will be a safe one. I await your arrival.
Your host,
Strahd von Zarovich
They had found the letter a mere mile from Krezk in a small wooden crate in the center of the road. Inside the crate were three bottles of The Wizard of Wines’ Red Dragon Crush. The letter sat on top of the bottles. Dr. Lazarus would have thought the parcel was for someone else—perhaps having fallen off of a passing caravan—had it not been for the three names written on the front in an elegant scrawl:
To Han, Rahmsye, and Dr. Lazarus.
The letter bore the unmistakable seal of Count Strahd von Zarovich, lord of Barovia, in red wax.
They had already twice made the acquaintance of Von Zarovich: once during the burial of the burgomaster of Barovia Village and once following the Festival of the Blazing Sun.
At just over six feet tall, The Devil, as villagers colloquially called him, was an intimidating specimen of a man—if he could be considered a man at all.
It had been at the Festival of the Blazing Sun when they witnessed just how much of a monster he was. As his bloodthirsty minions ransacked the town, he had captured Father Lucian and drank his blood for attempting to shelter Ireena. It was a shame; Father Lucian had been a good man. A kind hearted man. Yet it was that kindness that had gotten him murdered in the end.
Yes, the lord of Barovia was no doubt a monster, but he intrigued Lazarus’ morbid curiosity. Never before had he seen a walking corpse, much less a walking corpse that could grant immortality to others by draining their blood. In his homeland, such creatures were only myths told by village crones. During his 15 years as a medic on the most ravaged and bloody battlefields, never once had he seen the dead rise. In Barovia, however, the dead rising was a very real fear and not just superstition meant to scare children.
Lazarus couldn't help but wonder what such implications could mean for the advancement of medicine. Healing magics were fairly commonplace, but to revive someone was virtually unheard of. Gods, if he could revive soldiers that had fallen on the battlefield, bring back a loved one that had long suffered from illness, revive the stillborn… The possibilities were endless!
That was why he had agreed to accompany his party to Castle Ravenloft to speak with the count under the promise of safe passage. If he played his cards right, perhaps he could pick Strahd’s brain or, even better, have a look at the library he had heard so much about. If anyone were to have information on how to raise the dead, it was him.
He just hoped that he was not getting in over his head in the pursuit of knowledge.
——--
There is a black carriage with two black horses waiting for them at the base of the hill. There is no driver, yet the horses immediately take off upon them entering the carriage as if they have made the journey a thousand times before. Up and up the step path they climb until they can see Barovia Village beneath them in the distance. The night is almost upon them, and it casts almost an ethereal fog upon the valley below.
The mood in the cabin is terse. Rahmsye does her best to lighten the mood with conversation, but he can tell from the way her fingers dig into her cloak until her knuckles are white that she is anxious. Lazarus places a hand on her shoulder in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture.
He should be more anxious as well, he knows—frightened, even—yet he finds that he is more looking forward to the evening than anything. He is curious to see what Strahd is like under the guise of civility. The creature had a certain undeniable charm and intelligence to him; he was no doubt a good, or at least interesting, conversationalist. And if everything went right, he would have his hands on a bounty of knowledge. He just hopes that the count is true to his word in promising them safety.
The drawbridge is down and the carriage quickly approaches the entrance of Castle Ravenloft. The horses come to a stop just outside of the main gate. With an unsure glance at one another, they step through the door (or, rather, the door flies open for them as if on its own accord). The sound of melancholic organ music drifts through the high-ceilinged halls.
They are greeted by an elf—one of Strahd's servants, if Lazarus had to guess—and are escorted to the dining hall before the elf slams the large double doors behind him. It's rather off-putting, if he says so himself.
The organ music swells. Seated at a grand organ on the opposite wall is a man with his back turned to them. His fingers grace over the keys with almost an ethereal grace. Lazarus can tell from the black cloak and long dark hair that the one playing the organ is none other than Count Strahd von Zarovich himself. The song comes to a close, and he swivels around on the bench to face them, a pleasant smile on his deathly pale face.
“Welcome, friends. I am glad to see that you all could make it despite the rather short notice.”
Han snorts somewhere beside Lazarus. Rahmsye elbows him. “We appreciate your kind invitation to dinner,” responds Rahmsye, ever the people-please.
Han snorts again, earning him another elbow to the ribs.
Strahd stands up from the bench and gestures his arms out before him. “Please, have a seat. I am sure you must be famished from your journey here.”
Following his extended arms, Lazarus notices that the table before them is already beautifully laden with a variety of foods: roasted pheasant, fruits, breads, cheeses. The quality of the spread speaks to the wealth of the count, Lazarus thinks. He's been in Barovia for almost three weeks and never once does he think he's seen a single fruit.
Han is quick to take a seat and grab for the wine decanter. No surprise there. Rahmsye takes a seat beside him and politely declines the decanter thrust at her by Han.
Upon noticing him still standing, Strahd raises an eyebrow at him, waiting before taking his own seat. If there was ever an opportunity for him to broach the subject, this was it.
“If I may be so bold, Count von Zarovich, I was actually hoping to peruse your library. I've heard that it is quite the spectacle to behold.”
Strahd blinks, looking quite dumbfounded by his words. “You were invited to dine with the single most powerful man in Barovia and yet you would rather look at my books.” His eyebrows furrow.
Lazarus’ heart skips a beat. “My apologies. I mean no offense. I've been researching a specific topic as of late and my searches have not been fruitful. If any library in Barovia were to have information regarding it it would be yours.”
“And what topic is it you are researching? I may be able to point you in the right direction.”
“The undead.” As the words leave his mouth, Lazarus is suddenly aware of just how ridiculous his request may sound given who he is speaking to. Gods, he could be such a fool sometimes! It was too late to turn back, however. “I've, ah, been interested in the topic in regard to the advancement of medical research. If we can control whatever necrotic energies are at work, we may be able to use this research for those in need of resuscitation or to restore movement in paralyzed limbs, for example. The possibilities are endless.” Upon noticing that every pair of eyes in the room is on him, he feels a sudden flush creep up his neck. He clears his throat. “But I, um, I digress. Yes. I would like to peruse your library. Please.”
Nobody speaks for several moments. The room is silent save for the tinkling of glass as Han goes to down the rest of his wine. He slams the glass back onto the table as if it were a stine of ale and for a moment Lazarus worries about the integrity of the glass; it wasn't like they had a lot of money to replace a count’s glassware should their clumsy ranger make a habit of breaking things! “Please ignore him. You know how weird these academic types can be. No, I’m sure the good doctor here would be thrilled to stay with his party while we are on a vampire’s home turf.” Han shoots him a menacing wide-eyed look as if saying don't screw this up for us.
His advice is wise, Lazarus knows, but how often would he be given an opportunity like this? How often would they be invited to the castle on peaceful terms? Strahd is undead; certainly he would have tomes regarding his own nature and the creation of his minions!
The corners of Strahd's mouth slowly twitch into a smirk. “It is a noble pursuit to try and help the commoners, but people are often afraid of that which they do not understand. I doubt that any patient would dare come within 50 feet of you if they knew your methods had somehow involved the undead.”
“It is my duty to do what I can for the benefit of others.”
“Mm. How benevolent of you. Be careful that it does not become your downfall, Doctor.” Strahd’s eyes are on him again, trying to read into his intentions, perhaps. “I have some medical textbooks on the leftmost shelf on the south wall. I have a bestiary manuscript penned by a certain Van Richten on the shelf to the right of those. Perhaps you will find what you are looking for amongst those.”
Lazarus’ face lights up and a grin spreads across his face. He hadn't expected to get the count’s permission so easily! He had prepared at least two more arguments as to why he should be allowed in his library just in case but he was glad that he did not have to resort to them!
Strahd's voice sounds amused as he speaks. “My study is up the flight of stairs you saw on your way here. It is the second door on the left. However, do not wander on your way there. There will be consequences if you betray my trust.”
“Of course, Count von Zarovich. I thank you for allowing me the privilege.” Both Han and Rahmsye stare him down. He can feel their gaze on the back of his neck as he makes a beeline for the entrance hall before either of them can try and deter him.
The castle is much more intimidating without his party at his back. The sun has since gone down and Lazarus is grateful for his ability to see in the dark. He feels as if countless eyes follow him as he navigates the castle per Strahd’s instruction. As he ascends the stairs, he can hear Han’s drunken laughter emanating from the dining room. He stops at the second door to the left and finds it unlocked.
There is a fire roaring in the hearth, much to Lazarus’ surprise. It was as if Strahd was asking for the castle to burn down!
The library is one of the biggest that he has ever seen. He feels giddy as his fingers trail over the spines of countless books. They are all well-preserved. The library appears to be the one room in the castle that is regularly cleaned and maintained. Unlike the rest of the castle, there is not a speck of dust or spiderweb to be found. It is obvious that the lord of Barovia values his literature.
A set of thick books on a shelf away from the others grabs his attention. Looking at their spines, he finds that most of them are not labeled. Some are not written in a language he can understand. Others merely have names printed on them—their authors, if he had to guess. He has seen enough spellbooks in his time to recognize them, however, and it is obvious that these books were well loved.
Users of the arcane typically copied the spells that they studied into one tome of reference. They were their most prized possessions. How had Strahd come across so many? Surely there were not this many wizards in all of Barovia, much less those that had willingly given up their spellbooks! His eyes land on the spine of one particular book.
On the Study of the Dead
That sounds just like what he is looking for! He reaches to pull it from the shelf.
“I see you are interested in my tomes on necromancy.”
Lazarus jumps at the voice coming from behind him.
“If you were curious about how I am capable of creating and raising the undead, you could have asked me directly. I'm always willing to converse with those with an open mind regarding these matters.”
He recognizes the distinct baritone voice as belonging to the lord of Castle Ravenloft. Hadn't he just been at dinner with the others? Had he sensed that he was looking at forbidden tomes? “Pardon me, Count von Zarovich. I did not realize that these books were off limits—“
“You're more than welcome to read them.”
Lazarus pulls the book fully out from the shelf. The book is bound in a beautifully preserved red leather. He can almost feel the energy surging through it.
Strahd continues, “I doubt you would be able to make out the arcane script in the first place. It took me several years to master the art of necromancy and I have a certain proclivity towards The Art. Tell me, why does a man of medicine such as yourself have an interest in what many would call dark arts?”
“The arcane is not necessarily good or evil. It's how its user wields it that determines its worth. Even though fire can raze, we can also benefit from its warmth.” Lazarus turns to address Strahd. The vampire is leaning against the edge of a bookcase parallel to him a mere six feet away. His arms are crossed, yet he tilts his head with curiosity as Lazarus speaks. “Undeath is the means to finding the ultimate cure. If we can master bringing those back from death with minimal consequences, eradicate the fear of disease for the betterment of humankind, then—”
“ Humankind. Yet you're no human. Why waste your breath on a race that fears you? That fears that which it cannot understand?”
“...For the betterment of society, then.” Lazarus pretends to pay him no mind and cracks open the tome. It smells as old as it looks. The words within, written with sprawling penmanship, have been well preserved despite the age of the book. His eyes scan several of the pages, yet he cannot make out any of the words. Even the alphabet is foreign to him… Damn. He needs more time to study it, yet he doubts that Count von Zarovich would let him borrow such a precious treasure.
With a slight shake of his head, Lazarus tries to remember what it was they had been talking about. Ah yes, basic decency. Or something akin to it. “My mother raised me to be compassionate towards all, to treat others with the same kindness that I hope to receive in turn. While there are the bad apples, I have seen much good as well.”
“And what about your father? What did he raise you to believe? He was an incubus, was he not?”
Lazarus stiffens at that. The question is enough to create a sense of unease in him. How had he known that? As far as he could remember, he had only told his friends, and only once during a particularly bawdy night around the campfire… He inhales sharply. Best to not let on that it is a prickly subject for him. “Yes. I do not know what game you are playing at, but I am not ashamed of my ancestry. That is not who I am.”
Strahd chuckles almost mockingly at that. It makes the hairs at the back of Lazarus’ neck rise. “What makes you think that I am playing a game? Unlike the others, I do not look down upon such circumstances. I have interacted with devils before. I've even tried my hand at summoning a few throughout my time...”
Lazarus can feel Strahd's full weight behind him now brushing against his back. His hand, now on his shoulder, trails down his side before settling on his hips.
“Yet I have never had the pleasure of meeting an incubus before.”
A shudder tears through Lazarus’ body. Gods, what is he doing? This is getting out of hand. “I'm afraid you'll have to keep searching, then. I am not an incubus. Even if I were, it is a common misconception that incubi and succubi are devils or even demons. Incubi merely service devils or demons and obey their master’s will of sowing their bloodline amongst the general population.”
As the tiefling closes the tome with finality and goes to place it back on the shelf, there is a pallid hand on his and he can sense a strong presence behind him. Strahd’s hand feels freezing upon his own. The chill coming from him reminds him of that of the corpses he had prepared for burial. It sends a chill through his body.
“Someone has done their research, I see.” Strahd growls in his ear. “You know, many in Barovia refer to me as The Devil...”
His train of thought trails off as Strahd runs his hand up and along his arm. Even through the thick fabric of his coat, he can still feel the chill of undeath as if it had settled into his very core. What is he getting at?
“You may not be an incubus, but I can’t help but wonder if you still fuck like one.” The lord of Barovia gives a sharp nip to the pointed tip of his right ear, causing him to yelp at the unexpected invasion of personal space.
It feels as if all of the blood in his body pools up into his face, and for once Lazarus is glad for his red complexion that masks his fierce blush. He stammers, looking for something, anything, to say in response. No words come, however, and his brain feels as if it is overheating. ”I-I beg your pardon?” Lazarus eventually stammers out.
Strahd murmurs into the back of his neck. “I would love to test this little theory with you, if you would have me...”
“Oh,” is all Lazarus can choke out. At least he is transparent with his intentions… He needs to think, but it’s hard to do so when he can feel the vampire’s erection pressing against the base of his tail.
This was definitely a terrible idea. Yet the salaciousness, the depravity of the whole situation appeals to something buried deep inside him. What kind of lover did the undead lord of Barovia make? Were his touches as merciless as his leadership, all blood and teeth and nails clawing down his back, dominating? Or was he more of a traditional lover, surprisingly tender despite his bloodthirsty nature?
“Say, hypothetically, I accept your offer. How can I be sure that you won’t drain my blood the moment you’re finished?”
Strahd almost sounds breathless as he speaks. “You are my invited guest. As host, it is my duty to ensure the safety of my guests while they are in my residence.” He nips at his ear again, and Lazarus has half a mind to turn around and punch him. “If I am reading you wrong, however, just say the word and I will let you get back to dinner with your friends.”
It's tempting, to be able to pretend as if none of this had ever happened. As if an undead creature hadn't tried to woo him while his friends were in the other room. If they were to find out, he would never be able to live this down. They would certainly exile him from the group. “Won't the others miss you at dinner?” He grits out.
“As far as they are aware, I never left. Illusion magic makes for a fun little party trick.”
A quick romp, then acting as if this had never happened. If his friends never found out… “Fine.”
“I'm going to need more than a fine, Doctor.”
“Yes.”
Strahd lets out a pleased hum. Like that, he pulls his hand away from his hips and turns him around until Lazarus is face-to-face with the lord of Barovia. There's a playful smirk on his face. Lazarus is at The Devil’s mercy as his lithe fingers make quick work of the buttons on his vest and undershirt until the red skin of his bare chest is exposed. If Strahd’s hands were cold on his hands, then they are absolutely freezing against his chest as eager fingers explore the sinewy muscle there.
Strahd helps him shrug out of his clothing, and the thought of what the absolute hell am I doing? crosses his mind again. Yet the way Strahd’s hands almost reverently touch his chest, rub at the muscle he finds there, is enough to make him melt in his hands.
He can feel Strahd's dark eyes on his body and looking over every square inch of him. It makes him a bit self-conscious, especially when he thinks about what may be going through the vampire's mind.
He's quick to shake the notion away and reaches to unclasp the ruby brooch at Strahd's throat and undo his cloak, only for him to bat his hands away.
“No need, darling. May I kiss you?” Upon seeing Lazarus nod his head, Strahd’s hands cup his face and he brings their lips together. Gentle and short at first, as he judges Lazarus’ reaction. Then, hungrier and longer, his tongue exploring Lazarus’s mouth as a shiver starts at the base of the tiefling’s spine. Strahd's mouth tastes deeply of sweet wine and it borders on addictive.
Feeling emboldened, Lazarus takes Strahd’s bottom lip between his teeth and nips, probably harder than he should have because Strahd reels away and licks at his lip, setting him with a look somewhere between mild annoyance and lust. Lazarus can’t help but smirk in response, looking up at him from beneath pale lashes.
With a hand back on his face, Strahd tips Lazarus’ head to the side, exposing his neck, and the tiefling’s heart feels like it is going to hammer out of his chest. His eyes go wide. Before Lazarus can push him away the vampire is peppering his throat with kisses—revenge for biting his lip—while his free hand undoes the fastening to his trousers beneath his tunic. Lazarus follows suit and undoes his own belt with trembling hands.
Strahd pulls away and, extending a hand out, mutters what Lazarus identifies a brief incantation under his breath. A red velvet chair that had previously been pushed in beneath a table scrapes along the floor towards Strahd's hand on its own volition. He grips the chair, a small smirk on his face at noticing Lazarus’ own surprised reaction, and sits down.
“That's another… interesting party trick,” Lazarus says with a timid chuckle. Seeing the lord of Barovia with his thighs spread before him makes his heart flutter. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't nervous but also anticipating what the evening had in store for him.
“Indeed. It certainly has its practicality.” Strahd quirks a dark eyebrow at him, beckons him over with a nod of his head.
He pulls his cock out from the confines of his trousers— gods, he’s thick— and Lazarus needs to take a deep breath to calm his racing heart. He can do this. The tiefling removes his boots and trousers and he can feel those eyes trailing over his body again, appraising him like a piece of meat. He can do this.
Lazarus closes the gap between them and goes to straddle Strahd’s lap. He feels incredibly vulnerable like this. Exposed and at The Devil’s mercy should his desires become less than agreeable. However, a part of him finds the idea extremely erotic at the same time. With another deep breath, he positions himself over Strahd's erect length.
“So soon?” Strahd inquires. He rests his hands on his hips. “While I appreciate your enthusiasm, I'd hate to hurt you when we've only just started. I will have one of the servants fetch a bottle of—”
“No, it's fine,” Lazarus quickly answers upon getting the gist of what Strahd is getting at. “I, um,” he clears his throat. ”Perks of having incubus heritage.”
“Mm, I see.” A devious smile spreads across Strahd’s face. “Good. Then I do not have to hold back as much.” And then the tip of Strahd’s cock is inside him. It's an exquisite sort of pain, one that he is used to but never quite ready for, a feeling of fullness that leaves him craving more.
Strahd watches his face carefully, gauging his reaction with detached interest as he presses further inside him with little restraint, his brow furrowed. Strahd gives him little time to adjust before thrusting all the way inside him and Lazarus gasps when he bottoms out.
“You take me so well,” Strahd rumbles, a breathless quality to his voice.
“I, uh, try my best.” Lazarus pants as his body adjusts. The tips of his ears grow warmer at the lewd praise. His insides feel hot, more so than usual, at the feeling of being so full. His own purple eyes meet Strahd’s black for a brief moment and he can see the hunger in them. Strahd tilts his head slightly, an unspoken question, before Lazarus gives a nod of his head. His legs tucked beneath him, Lazarus begins to gently raise and lower himself onto Strahd’s cock.
It's a good position. From there, Lazarus can see the way the vampire's eyelids become half-lidded and his lips part whenever he takes him to the base. He can glance down and see his cock, wet with his slick, disappear inside him with each bounce and if there is a heaven gods he feels like he’s there every time Strahd brushes against the bundle of concentrated pleasure inside him. Strahd’s clawed fingers dig into the armrests of the chair hard enough to leave marks on the wood.
Hands hook under his thighs. Lazarus protests and throws his arms around the vampire's shoulders when he stands up, him in tow. He slams his back against a nearby bookcase hard enough to take his breath away before slipping back inside him.
His own hands reach overhead to scrabble at the lip of a shelf, dispersing his body weight between it and Strahd's arms. The lord of Barovia apparently interprets this as a sign to be rougher with him and Lazarus worries about the structural integrity of the bookcase; his thrusts are erratic, animalistic, even, and the tiefling can tell that Strahd is too preoccupied with chasing his own orgasm. The wooden bookcase digs into his back and shifts with each movement yet Lazarus cannot find the will to care when moans are being dragged past his lips at the feeling of, to put it crudely, being used.
“Such a good little tiefling, taking whatever I give you… Being fucked like the proper whore you were born to be…”
While he would have protested in any other situation, at that moment Strahd relentlessly pounds into an especially sensitive spot inside him and it almost makes him delirious at the toe-curling pleasure that jolts through his body. Any words that might have been on his tongue are replaced with another groan—all he feels he has been able to say recently with his little self-restraint.
“Tell me how good I make you feel, how much you want to finish with me inside you…”
“Sounds like you’re—nn, gods— trying to put words in my mouth.” While he did feel incredible, his demands sounded like Strahd stroking his own ego more than anything. No matter; if it helped him reach his own orgasm, then he would flatter the vampire all night long if need be. He swallows heavily and mentally steels himself; he never had been especially fond of bedroom talk.
“I, ah, love the feeling of you inside me. Want to finish so bad…”
“Beg for it.”
“Damn it— please make me finish!”
“Mm, I can arrange that…” His voice sounds uneven, trembling. His eyes are still locked with his own and his strong features are painted with a look of sheer bliss.
Lazarus’ shoulders are getting sore and he instead wraps his arms around Strahd’s neck, leaning back in his grasp. With the change in position, Strahd uses his grip under his thighs to raise and lower him onto his cock. Lazarus can feel his orgasm starting to build in his core.
”Touch yourself,” Strahd demands behind gritted teeth. He doesn’t miss how the lord of Barovia seemingly has to swallow down a groan of his own.
As instructed, Lazarus wraps a hand around his own cock and strokes himself with reckless abandon. He is painfully hard and gods he wants to come so badly...
“ ‘m close, don't you dare stop…”
Strahd lets out a breathy chuckle that sounds more like a gasp, obviously pleased with himself. “I adore hearing you so desperate.”
A few more thrusts and white-hot pleasure explodes from his core and he's finishing onto his own chest with a strangled cry. Strahd slams him back up against the bookcase, leans in close enough for Lazarus to smell the soap on his skin and hear him grunt before he's finishing inside him.
There's the sudden feeling of something sharp piercing his neck followed by a feeling of numbing cold spreading throughout his body, his clouded mind, while Strahd fucks him through his orgasm.
At that moment, he can't think straight. All seems right with the world. Strahd is still holding him close, is still inside him. This is intimate. This is comfortable and Lazarus feels that he could stay like this for the rest of his life, just Strahd rocking gently into his sore body while kissing his neck, the both of them blissed out in a post-orgasmic high.
The lord of Barovia pulls away and Lazarus finds himself whining at the sudden lack of skin-to-skin contact. Strahd pulls out and gently lets him down—his legs feel like unstable twigs and he swears he almost falls on his face when his feet hit the floor—and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand.
It comes away red.
Lazarus tries to focus in on Strahd's face, but everything still feels as if it is in a fog. He balances himself against the bookcase. It takes him several moments to be able to finally clear his mind. Strahd is tucking himself back into his pants.
There's a smear of red on the back of his hand.
Blood.
Immediately, Lazarus clamps a hand around his own neck, where he can still feel the slightest sting. His index finger trails over what feels like two wounds on his neck. It comes back smeared with blood.
Had he…? Oh, gods…
“You liar!” Lazarus spits. His tail swishes angrily at his feet. “What happened to your sworn duty to ensure the safety of your guests?”
There's a cock-sure and satisfied look on the lord of Barovia’s face as his gaze drifts back over him, his eyes cruel. “I am no liar, Doctor. I have kept my word; no long-term harm has befallen you. You may feel lightheaded, but in a few hours’ time you will feel perfectly fine.”
“Fine? You bit me and drank my blood, y-you monster!”
Strahd waves a dismissive hand at him. “Barely. After centuries, I have more self-restraint than you may be willing to give me credit for. Besides,” a wolfish grin spreads across his face. “It increases my own pleasure tenfold.”
Lazarus can’t believe the words coming out of the vampire’s mouth! His blood boils in his veins in barely-restrained anger. A part of him wants to lash out, to kill the vampire where he stands. Yet a part of him—the logical part, maybe—also knows the danger in trying to fight him alone. His mind feels like it is overheating as he scrambles to think of a response. He feels violated. Betrayed. What was he thinking in agreeing to this in the first place? He was a fool!
“Put your clothes back on and hurry back to dinner. Your friends and I will be waiting for you, little tiefling.” Strahd shoots him a teeth-baring grin—he can still see his own blood staining his elongated canines—before turning to leave the study with a laugh.