‘Twas the Night Before Strahdmas
Here there be Spoilers!! Contains Spoilers from Curse of Strahd.
In mid 2020, as Open Heart Games was just starting to come into being, I began running a favorite campaign [that I had run several times before] in order to gain experience and playtest games online–D&D 5E: Curse of Strahd. About halfway through 2021, as the campaign began to wrap up, the players came up with a nefarious plan to turn one of their favorite NPCs into the dark Barovian version of Santa Claus. They used as many things as they could find from the campaign, including: a bag of holding, an arbalest stolen from the top of a castle, a hollowed out skull from Baba Yaga. Oh, and one of the characters inexplicably turned into a tree. . .you know. . . the normal stuff that happens over the course of a campaign. Before the final climactic battle I unleashed this poem, written by my wife and I, upon my unwitting players. Their response was nothing short of cackling glee. So in the spirit of the holidays, I wanted to share this story with you. Merry Strahdmas, everyone!!
‘Twas the Night Before Strahdmas
'Twas the night before Strahdmas, when all through the stead
Not a creature was stirring, not even the dead.
The Barovians’ limp, threadbare stockings were hung without care.
In hopes that St. Blinsky might soon be there;
The children were tucked under their covers in fear;
Worried the Dark Lord Strahd may be near;
And Snowball the 3rd with his hood pulled up high and Talon Bluestaris with a scar ‘cross his eye,
And High Elf Hester Dan Cruts with his pointy-tipped ears and Durek the Dwarf with his meads and his beers,
All waited with baited breath for the famed Barovian to appear.
When out in the dark there arose quite a sound,
So they gathered their gear to see what could be found.
Away to the Wachterhaus window they flew like a flash,
Stumbled over the felines and threw up the sash.
The full moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave the eyes of the werewolves a sickly green glow,
When what to the eyes of our party did appear,
But nine mountain goats pulling a hollowed out skull
With a mighty ballista attached to its hull.
With a tiny trained monkey and a moth-eaten cap ‘pon his brow
They knew in a moment ‘twas St. Blinsky at the prow.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now, Dread! now, Revulsion! now Loathing and Terror!
On, Nightmare! on, Panic! on, Anguish and Horror!”
And there at the head of the group, proud, white, and frilly,
The most notorious of the herd, known only as Billy.
To the top of Strahd’s castle! On through the fog and the mist!
The party stood staring, the cats were all pissed.
So up to the housetop the mountain goats flew
With a bag of holding full of toys, and St. Blinsky and Piccolo too—
And then, what a bleating was heard on the roof
The goats were all stamping each cloven hoof.
As the party drew back their heads, pushing felines aside,
St. Blinsky, down the chimney, did slide.
He was dressed all in werewolf pelts, from his head to his toe,
All of them dyed black so the soot would not show;
A magic bag of holding he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a Vistana just opening his pack.
His eyes—they were sunk in the fat of his face.
His beard neatly trimmed, not a hair out of place.
Piccolo the monkey perched on his shoulder,
The man’s mighty waist was as wide as a boulder.
He was chubby and plump, much like a dwarven fellow,
And his laugh was more like a kind-hearted bellow.
The party knew in an instant they had nothing to fear,
For finally, at last St. Blinksy was here.
He spoke not a word, but got busy working with care,
Placing presents and toys under Bastian who was serving as the Strahdmas Tree there.
He filled all the sad stockings; then turned with a wink.
And soon up the chimney, was gone in a blink;
He sprang to his skull, and armed the ballista.
And presents rained down across the Barovian vista.
All heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight—
“Happy Strahdmas to all, now get on with the fight!”
