That first winter in Barovia was the first time Lyndis had ever seen snow. With a small group of friends, she made her way up to the tower in the north, wondering if it would look like the Mages’ Towers back in Krynn. She had seen the one in Palanthas after the curse befell it, so dark, foreboding, a single black mark on the sterling reputation of Palanthas. It was a magnet to any eyes that deigned to scan the horizon; their gaze would always drift to the tower, wondering what horrors perpetuated by the malevolent wizards lay inside. The city chose simply to ignore it, as a family would ignore an eccentric aunt. The tower in the north looked nothing like it. It was tall, but exuded a sense of safety, a haven for the magical community far removed from the jurisdiction of Vallaki. The mages fashioned it to their desires, putting in a lavish bath room, to the delight of many visiting Outlanders. She bathed with her friend Tarinyar, truly the closest being to her, possibly ever. The nearness of her friend and the fact that as a priestess Lynn had bathed only among other women reduced any feelings of shyness to a minimum. Tarina was a confidant, almost as stalwart in character and reliable as Paladine himself. Lynn had never trusted anyone this much. Religion was her only solace, prayer the only way the young priestess found a sense of truth. She believed as long as her courage and faith held, Paladine would not fail her. Regrettably, mortals are weak.
Covered in blessings and protective spells, Lyndis jumped down into the first room of the Baratak crypts. Tarinyar made a slightly less graceful landing right behind her, also covered in spells and protections. To the both of them this was practice, nothing more. Lynn came here often alone, to put the minions of Chemosh, amiably termed by the locals as “imortji” or by the Outlanders as “undead,” to their rest, and to disprove their own illusion of immortality. Lynn eyed the coffins, the only light in the room the flame from her mace. The daylight above just faded, the sun sank down below distant mountains, not wishing to witness the misfortune. The worst always happens when the sun turns a blind eye towards the world, whether one event is caused by the other or causes the other is debatable. The coffin lids slid open. Lynn had not expected to be the one attacked, but nevertheless, with Tarinyar at her side, found herself surrounded, fighting wildly for her friend’s and her own survival. There was no escape, the only way up was through vines. Slowly the stoneskin chipped away, and through the combat and shrieks of the hungry vampiresses, Lynn did not know whether her friend was even still alive. The door at the back of the chamber opened, and a black armored figure stepped through. The armor of the vampire merged with the encroaching darkness of her own vision and blurred to become indistinct from its surroundings as Lynn’s body fell towards the floor of the crypt.
Her peace was broken by the pain of drawing breath through bruised ribs, the pain especially acute due to the sharp first intake, as the soul returned to it’s mortal coil. A boot rested on her chest, and as Lynn directed her gaze upwards towards the face, she realized she was no safer now than earlier. The vampire sneered, seeing himself in total control, the absolute master of his dominion and the hunter rewarded with prey in his trap. Lynn’s hand clamped around the vampire’s leg as her lips breathed out a nearly silent prayer to Paladine. The vampire hopped back and removed he boot from her chest at the pain as her healing prayer seared his flesh. Lynn scrambled to her feet, fighting the sense of vertigo urging her to fall back down. It was Lynn’s turn to grin, if only to hide her fear and feeling of total insecurity. She knew she wasn’t in control, she could only pretend to be and make the monster before her regret raising her. But where was Tarinyar? Did she make it out alive, or was she somewhere deeper in the crypt, simply another meal for the undead? The vampire waited until the damage to his leg healed, prepared to continue the hunt. It seems the prey still kicked in the trap. Not giving him a second chance, Lynn turned and ran for the door. Barely past the frame, a concussion struck her from behind, sending her sprawling with hardly a left breath in her body a few feet further down the hall. It felt as if a hammer struck her everywhere at once, spots dancing in her vision.
Slowly, the metal boots of the vampire clanked up beside her. He reached down and easily flipped her onto her back to face him, her long raid hair spilling out behind her to form a red halo about her head.
“You’re a quick one, wench…but you -are- so beautiful” The vampire sneered, reaching down towards her armor. Lynn understood nothing of what was going on, but as his hand began to unbuckle her armor, a sense of horror flooded through her. She fought feebly, but her body could take little more. The vampire easily held her down with one hand as his other discarded any of her accoutrements, leaving only the symbol of Paladine about her neck, an anathema to his skin. His fangs pierced first her neck, then other parts of her body, working their way down. The young priestess of Paladine, barely eighteen, lay naked on the cold crypt floor, permeated with the scent of death, rot, decay, and fear. There, the monster took the purity of body which she so prized and protected, valued and saved for someone special down the line. Lynn hardly had the energy to scream; instead she closed her eyes to block out the pain inflicted on body and soul. Where was Paladine now? Why didn’t he save her, help her send this abomination to ashes long overdue? Tears coursed down her cheeks as she lost what no one could ever regain, a gift intended for another but stolen by a monster.
Hours later, she awoke in agony, the sensations still fresh in her mind and loins. The only light was cast by a pair of sinister flickering torches, throwing shadows to taunt her upon the walls. Her skin was pale, barely containing the blood she needed just to live. Many bites from which dried rivulets of blood hung, covered her bare form. One bite in particular would scar, she knew. Her armor lay unceremoniously to the side, the image of Paladine upon the breastplate gazing back at her, as if her god faulted her for the misfortune. Weakly, she stood in the silence, her thin breathing and weak tempo of the heart the only sounds, the only life, in the halls of death. Shoveling anything of hers that remained behind into a bag, she stumbled out, almost hoping to take a wrong step and plunge into a darkness not graced by memory or past faults. As fate would have it, her feet and the instinct of survival led her to familiar ground, and to the newly unveiled dawn breaking above.