Commander of the Fourth Battalion of the Order of the Silver Dragon. A thin, gaunt revenant with bloodless white skin, long white hair swept back and a moustache waxed to two perfect points, his eyes burning a dull, steady red. He wears battered silver plate and a tabard of amber dragon scales hanging in ragged tongues below his belt. He fights with order: short, economical parries, his footwork exact.
The party found him on the road to Vallaki, duelling Dmitry, a knight of the Order of Contentment. “Well met, chaps! I find myself in a spot of bother. Care to offer assistance?” When Retnuh knocked Dmitry to the ground, Festibule beheaded him in a single clean arc, flicked the blood from his sword and declared, “All is well indeed.” Then he saluted and introduced himself: “Commander Festibule, of the Fourth Battalion of the Order of the Silver Dragon. Ernest Festibule, if you’ll forgive the formality of the forename.”
He answered the party’s questions freely:
- Is he alive? “In a manner of speaking.”
- Is he allied with Strahd? “Our sole mission is to see the end of the dark lord’s tyranny.”
- How many of them are there? “A few dozen, give or take. More when I find my missing battalion.”
- Why did Dmitry want him dead? They had had many bouts, and Festibule had “committed crimes against merriment, or some such.”
He spoke of the Amber Temple, high on the cliffs, with obvious distaste. He also mentioned Argynvostholt, the Order’s old home, where his lord still keeps watch, and the standing stones at Yester Hill. He found Retnuh’s honesty about his accord with Strahd disarming.
Seeing the state of Stanford, he gave the party a caparison in the Order’s colours, amber and silver, embroidered with a dragon’s coil. He had no need of it: his own horse was taken by a roc. He declined to travel with them, since “the wards against the undead prevent my entry”, and left them with a warning about his lord, Vladimir Horngaard: “He brooks no ally of Strahd. None.” His eyes met Retnuh’s.