Chaya's Journal #6

Entry Date Unknown, Vallaki

I am still angry. Angry at Riordan. Angry at Strahd. Angry at myself. We keep going through the motions, hoping, praying that there will be answers at the end of this nightmare, but all we find is more deception. More death. More suffering. And now, I don't even know if I can trust the people by my side. It started with the banshee. Another spirit, angry and lost, lashing out because she was provoked. I knew—I knew—that she wasn’t meant to be our enemy. When she spoke, she only wanted peace, not more pain, not more violence. But that didn’t matter. The moment steel was drawn, it was over. Another restless soul destroyed, another reminder that mercy is a fleeting thing in this cursed land. I should have done more. I should have stopped it. But I didn’t. And I can still hear her voice, echoing in my mind. Then came Strahd’s invitation. Of course, it was a trap. Of course, it was just another layer in his web of control, but we had no choice. We went to Castle Ravenloft hoping for answers, to understand why we are trapped here, to see what power binds us to this land. Instead, we were greeted by an undead driver and guards whose armor pulsed with magic—just another sign that nothing in that place is real, nothing is as it seems. Strahd greeted us as though we were guests, playing the part of the gracious host. And then he spoke—talking of successors, of curses, of regret. Regret for Ireena, regret for the past. But I saw through it. He is not sorry. He is never sorry. Every word he speaks is just another thread in his tapestry of control, another move on the board. And yet, some among us debated his words, as though he were not the monster that holds this land in his grip. As though he could be reasoned with.

We were supposed to be careful. We were supposed to be seeking knowledge, not walking willingly into another one of Strahd’s twisted games. But Riordan couldn’t help himself, could he? He had to make this about his own vendetta, his own pride, and now I am left wondering—was this ever about finding answers, or were we just pieces in his personal war? Riordan revealed the truth—his father is Strahd. His father. I cannot even begin to untangle the depth of that revelation, the weight of it pressing on all of us. And then Riordan, ever reckless, admitted that he had goaded Strahd. He left a letter. A challenge. A taunt. He used us and then tried to lie to me about seeking information about my brother. I don’t know why that hurts so much. Perhaps because I trusted him. Because I thought we were in this together.  Now I sit here, alone, and I feel nothing but regret. Not just for striking him, but for everything. Strahd is not just some distant shadow anymore—he knows us. He has seen us, studied us, played with us, and now we are left waiting for his next move. And he will make one. Of that, I have no doubt. And what did we accomplish? Nothing. Ireena is still in danger. The land is still cursed. Strahd still sits on his throne, amused by our struggles. And we are left scrambling for scraps of knowledge, arguing among ourselves instead of preparing for what is to come. I cannot waste my time on petty squabbles, on egos, on pointless recklessness. We need to be smarter. We need to be stronger. If we keep fighting like this—if we keep playing into Strahd’s hands—then we will lose. Selûne, if you can hear me, I ask again: what is the path forward? Because I cannot see it through the fog of betrayal and anger that clouds my heart. I need guidance. I need clarity. Before it is too late