The screen fades in on mist. The remains of Argynvostholt rise like a broken cathedral above a grey valley. Then, faintly, the sound of boots, breathing, and whispered plans. This is Session 22 — a full visual chronicle of the night our party defied the ghosts, webs, and curses of Barovia’s most haunted ruin.

The video podcast version of Fire in the Webs captures the energy of play in a way that only a tabletop camera can. The dice roll in frame. The players’ faces shift between tension, humor, and awe. You see every movement of the miniatures on the map, every quick exchange that turns a near-death moment into triumph.

The story begins with a decision: to re-enter Argynvostholt, the fallen seat of the Silver Dragon’s order. Within minutes, everything unravels. Radley Fullthorn, the human Eldritch Knight, pauses to gauge the room. From above, the ceiling trembles—and from the darkness, nine spiders the size of horses descend. The table explodes with action. Dice scatter. Spells ignite. Radley casts Thunderwave, the camera catching his player’s hands lifting as the blast shakes miniatures across the board. When the knight falls to poison, the scene slows. Traxidor, half-elf cleric, murmurs the words to Spare the Dying as his player leans forward over the table, eyes fixed. The room holds its breath until the roll succeeds.

From there, the session ascends into exploration and unease. Through dim corridors, spectral soldiers emerge—phantoms of the fallen order. The lighting in the studio turns blue-white as Channel Divinity erupts across the map. Ghosts flee. The camera pans over character sheets: empty spell slots, dwindling health bars, notes scrawled in haste.

But Barovia is never finished. Outside, under a sky that never brightens, a wagon departs and leaves behind a coffin. The engraving on its lid: Radley Fullthorn. Laughter cuts the tension. He lies down inside it, “just to see,” then climbs out and orders it burned. The table breaks into uneasy smiles. It’s macabre humor born from exhaustion and survival—the real language of adventurers who have stared too long into the dark.

Morning brings the final battle: animated scarecrows advancing through mist. Their eyes glow. Fire answers. The table’s energy shifts from fear to exhilaration as the party wins, spent but unbroken.

Visually, this episode bridges two worlds: the haunted imagination of Barovia and the tangible magic of players at the table. You can see how Dungeons & Dragons becomes more than a game—it’s performance, collaboration, and living story.

Fire in the Webs – Session 22 is part theater, part documentary, and part survival tale. Watch it to understand how dice and friendship can build worlds—and how courage can still burn, even in Barovia’s endless night.

Step into Barovia’s haunted silence in The Mists of Argynvostholt, an audio journey through one of the most intense chapters of our Curse of Strahd campaign. This is Session 22 — an evening of peril, faith, and endurance that tested every spell slot, every saving throw, and every nerve at the table.

Our adventurers—Urihorn Tenpenny, a halfling ranger with a loyal beast companion; Radley Fullthorn, a human Eldritch Knight balancing sword and spell; Traxidor, a cleric of light carrying the last fire of the Morninglord; and Daermon Cobain, an elf arcane trickster who fights with precision and wit—return to the fallen fortress of Argynvostholt, once home to the Order of the Silver Dragon.

They come seeking redemption for a past defeat. Instead, they find the manor alive with malice. When Radley hesitates in the ballroom ruins, the ceiling comes alive: nine giant spiders descend on threads as thick as ropes. The sound of Thunderwave crashes through the hall, stones crack, and poison drips into the silence. The cleric’s voice rises over the chaos—“Spare the Dying!”—and breath returns to the fallen knight’s lungs.

You’ll hear the rhythm of the table as it happens: dice hitting wood, pages turning, whispered tactics, the exhale when a roll lands just high enough to survive. The fight spills through rooms where portraits still watch and cobwebs hold centuries of regret. Upstairs, spectral soldiers emerge through the walls, remnants of knights who once swore to serve the light. Divine radiance flares, the dead scatter, and the group presses deeper into the heart of Barovia’s grief.

Then—outside, silence. A coffin waits, freshly carved, Radley’s name etched across the lid. He opens it. Empty. Without a word, he lies down inside, stares at the sky, and climbs out again. Later that night, they burn it for warmth.

At dawn, the mist parts just long enough to reveal the glowing eyes of animated scarecrows, shambling through fog. Fire bolts and sacred flames turn darkness to light, if only for a moment.

Every sound in this session matters: the flicker of fire, the scrape of steel, the faint breath between rolls. This is Dungeons & Dragons not as spectacle, but as shared memory—friends, imagination, and danger made real through voice.

The Mists of Argynvostholt invites you to listen close. Feel the dice, the story, the fear, the laughter. Barovia is calling.

Imagine watching a pot of water with frogs in it. The city adds a little heat — higher taxes, new regulations, moral lectures — and waits to see what happens. At first, nothing. The frogs get used to it. Then one day the temperature crosses a line, and they jump. That’s how modern economies lose their wealth. Not with protests, not with revolutions — but with relocation.

In the past, money was trapped. Rockefeller couldn’t just move Standard Oil to Singapore. The state had leverage. That’s why we could run top tax rates near 90 percent in the 1950s — and still fund highways, NASA, and free public universities. But we deregulated, digitized, and globalized, and suddenly money turned into vapor. Now it flows wherever the vibe is better.

Today, every governor plays host instead of sheriff. They beg for headquarters, sports teams, rich residents. Remember Amazon HQ2? That wasn’t a competition — it was a collective confession. Cities have to woo wealth because they can’t hold it anymore. Modern taxation isn’t punishment; it’s marketing.

And it’s not just billionaires. It’s every dual-income family earning mid-six figures — the real tax base. They can move to Florida, Texas, or just twenty minutes north to Westchester. If you make them feel like villains, they’ll leave quietly, and when they do, you’ll lose the revenue that funds the compassion.

I want cities to care for people — I believe in that deeply. But compassion without arithmetic is just performance art. If we want social programs that last, we have to keep the contributors from leaving. Make prosperity feel safe, not shameful.

The stadiums, the Olympic bids, the waterfront makeovers — they’re not just vanity. They’re bait. The trick is pretending it’s about culture while it’s really about capital.

That’s the truth nobody likes to say out loud: in 2025, the rich don’t live in cities; cities live under them.

It’s not the 19th century anymore. The world of heavy money and civic loyalty is gone. What’s left is the great escape — quiet, legal, and constant — and the only cities that will survive are the ones smart enough to keep the frogs comfortable.