Max tossed and turned violently in his bed at the Gypsy camp. His dreams were troubled.
Max sees Jolias in front of him, fear stricken across his face. He feels the urge to grab his throat and crush it. This anger within him potent and violent. As the dream continues, Max fades to the background as he watches what he could only describe as a horrible beast of what was once a man run down his companion. Jolias is there under him now after a tackle at breakneck speeds. The monster’s claws begin to tear into him, ripping out chunks of flesh and making short work of the priest’s armor. The beast bites into his neck ripping his throat out in a violent squelch as the priest gurgles his last. A group of adventures now surround him, familiar yet not somehow. With a defiant roar the beast arcs with lightning, murderous intent in his reptilian eyes. A flash of lightning and a deafening thunderclap follow obscuring the scene in blinding light. Max starts awake in the gypsy camp, his heart beating erratically and his brow drenched in sweat. He notices a pain in his left hand, and as he looks he sees his hand clenched into a fist so tight that his fingernails draw trickles of crimson blood from his hand. He takes a deep breath as the cool night air blows through the area he made his bed.
“What the hell was that?” “Has Strahd found a way into my mind as I sleep?” “Why am I so angry right now?” “Am I losing control again?”
Max stares blankly as he is lost in thought. “I fear what I may be capable of.”