The Vampire of Sulescu Manor
by Reverend Dungeon MasterLocation: Sulescu, a coastal village on the eastern shores of Karameikos in Mystara.
You knew the old man was lying the moment he waved you off. "No vampires in Sulescu," he'd muttered, eyes like ancient stones hardened by years of rehearsed denial. But now, standing beneath the towering ruins of Sulescu Manor, you feel the weight of a truth far older than his words.
The fog rises thick from the cliffs below, curling around the skeletal remains of the manor like the grasp of something unwilling to let go. Shadows stretch unnaturally across the cracked cobblestones of the courtyard. The wind? Silent. Even the trees hold their breath. A faint sound of dripping water echoes from the well in the center of the yard, a rhythmic taunt reminding you that life here is but a fleeting whisper.
Inside, the air stinks of mildew, rotted wood, and something sweeter, decay masked by old perfume. You push the heavy door open, the groan of its hinges swallowed by the oppressive silence. Candle stubs sit on a table in the entry hall, their wax pooled like the remnants of desperate, hurried rituals. Above, a grand staircase spirals into the choking darkness of the upper floors.
Your heart pounds, but curiosity claws louder. You step forward.
As your boots scuff the wooden floor, a voice, velvet and venomous, whispers from the shadows. "You are bold to trespass here, mortal. Do you bring salvation, or are you another fleeting distraction?"
A figure steps into view at the edge of the candlelight, a man, or what once was. His pallid skin gleams in the faint light, and his eyes burn with a crimson intensity that promises death. His finely tailored coat and high collar drip with centuries of forgotten decadence. This is Lord Armand Sulescu, the long-lost scion of a cursed bloodline.
He smiles, revealing fangs that glint like daggers. "Let us dance, then."
Stats: Lord Armand Sulescu
Armor Class: -2
Hit Dice: 9+3 (47 HP)
THAC0: 11
Movement: 120’ (40’)
Attacks: 1 weapon or energy drain
Damage: 1d8+2 (sword) or 2 levels (energy drain)
Special Defenses: Immune to charm, hold, and sleep; regenerates 3 HP per round; requires magic or silver to hit.
Special Abilities: Can charm (save vs. Spells at -2), shapechange into bat or mist, summon 1d6 wolves or bats, spider climb.
Treasure Type: F (hidden in a secret compartment in his study).
Alignment: Chaotic.
The Battle
The vampire lunges, blade in hand, moving faster than humanly possible. You fight for your life. Armand taunts you with every blow. His charm attempts feel like icy tendrils reaching into your mind, and his strikes sap your vitality, leaving you weaker with each passing moment.
During combat, Armand uses the terrain of the manor to his advantage. He vanishes into mist, reappearing behind you with predatory grace, or calls forth a swarm of bats to cloud your vision. You realize too late that the ancient beams above groan with hidden weight; the vampire forces you into a deadly trap, collapsing a section of the ceiling.
If you push the vampire hard enough, he'll ditch the fight like a puff of greasy smoke, slipping away in that cursed mist form of his. But don’t celebrate yet, champ, he’s slinking off to his coffin, tucked deep in the bowels of this rotting hellhole. Your job? Find that damned box before sunrise and torch it, sanctify it, whatever keeps his undead corpse from coming back. Here’s the kicker: his lair’s stashed behind a fake wall in the wine cellar, and surprise! There’s a trap: a swinging scythe, sharp enough to split a hair and your skull. This isn’t a game; it’s a death sentence on a timer. Tick tock.
Treasure
After defeating Armand and sanctifying his coffin, you find the following:
Jeweled Sword (1,200 GP)
Ancient Tome of Necromantic Lore (500 GP, magical)
Silver Inkwell (250 GP)
Gold Signet Ring (300 GP)
Potion of Invisibility (1)
Total treasure value: 2,250 GP.
XP Value: 1,800 XP (Armand) + 2,250 XP (treasure) = 4,050 XP.
Dawn claws its way over the horizon as you slam the stake home, and the bloodsucker’s scream rips through the night like a cathedral bell shattered by a hammer. His body disintegrates into a pile of ash, the weight of centuries pressing into your lungs like a curse. The whole decrepit manor creaks, exhales, and falls silent, its secrets buried, but don’t kid yourself, not dead. Not yet. You stumble into the cold morning air, lungs burning, and tell yourself Sulescu will sleep easier tonight. But deep down, you know the shadows are still there, waiting for their next chance to crawl back out.
