Hammer Time

Party: 

Mirella the Witch – MU1 – A curious seeker of knowledge, with a niggling worry about getting burned at the stake. 

Elaran – E1 – This keen eyed straight shooter is out for glory. 

Dwennon – C1 – an insecure follower of St. Georgius, out to test himself and slay his own personal dragons. 

Aloysius – C1 – this veteran of the pulpit is going to show St. Cuthbert he’s not too old to crush skulls. 

Grit – D1 – this nonplussed warrior will shoulder barge his way to fame yet. 

Fernando “Ghostlight” – roll the dice, take a chance, this gambling man is going all in. 

Denis – LF – a footman full of zeal, and willingness to live. 

For two days our intrepid adventurers marched the broken alpine road. Finally reaching the haunted keep they had heard so much about; Castle Xyntillan. A source of terror upon the local populace, the place certainly matched the billing; tall gothic balustrades, gargoyles menacing from crumbling ramparts, rot and lichen hanging from decadent towers. The time was now, whatever treasure it contained would soon be theirs. 

But first, lunch! The party had to share out their rations, for some members of this crew were so poor they could barely afford to feed themselves. Soon, they dreamed, soon, those now empty pockets would be filled with riches. 

The party took rest on the outskirts of the castle to discuss their plan of attack. The sun was lowering over the snow topped mountains, reflecting upon a crystal lake. 

“We can’t walk straight up to the front door!” And so it was agreed they would use the crumbling gatehouse at the west to gain ingress into this deadly place. 

Gingerly, ever so gingerly, the party ventured, soon reaching a large bridge over a moat. Down in the inky water they noticed a white and bloated corpse floating face down in the waters. 

“Little we can do for him now.” 

And so they moved towards the gatehouse, taking note of the bootprints in the mud, there was much movement here. The gatehouse itself was almost fully collapsed on the interior, the southern tower had fallen in on itself. Beyond the rusted portcullis  they spied a lush garden. This garden, so vibrant and well kept, stood in stark contrast to the outer walls. 

“Better keep out of sight.” 

The party shuffled into the norther tower of the gatehouse, through an archway and up a flight of steep stone stairs. Grit the dwarf kept his chin low and his weapon out in front, sure that nothing would get the jump on him. They slunk through the defences of the castle until they reached another tower, only this ones internal structure had fully collapsed, standing open to the air. Tidily arranged around the interior of this roofless tower were gardening tools, sacks of manure and a nursery of young roses. In the east was a great set of double doors, which after a little inspection were found to be swollen shut. Grit slammed the doors with his bulk, hoping to make passage, but nary a splinter fell from the door. 

“Well, better head back.” 

And so they did, back down the passage they went. Perhaps the garden was good for exploration after all. As they arrived at the staircase, Grit who had been so vigilant on their approach, had relaxed enough that he failed to notice the shadows darting across the floor before him. As the party passed through the archway two needle points were placed agains the stout dwarfs neck. Several men dressed in ruddy leather and green tights hoped out from behind the rubble. A trap! 

“Well, well, well, what have we here lads.” A lithe figure sashayed out from beyond the tower. He twirled his fine moustache and tipped his green hat. 

“The Fox, at your pleasure, and it would be my pleasure to relieve you of your coin.” These smarmy bandits had gotten the better of our heroes and now seven arrow heads were pointed directly at them. 

After a little banter back and forth they discovered this cutthroat was a family member of the castles owners, the Malévols, although disinherited. Once the Fox learned of the party’s poverty he cut them a little deal; whatever they stole from his ancestral home, he would get half. The bargain was struck, the Fox and his merry men made their way out, and the party wiped fat beads of sweat from their brows. 

“Onward to the garden!”

The adventurers took some time to fill their bags with the precious loot of the vegetable patch, one wary eye on the swaying scarecrow there. 

“Carrots, taters, pumpkins, we won’t go hungry now team!”

But hark, during their digging the party noticed some strange sounds coming from the stable. 

Peering through the embrasures of these out-buildings they spied a hammer working furiously at an anvil. Ting, ting, ting. It worked monotonously, but, amazingly enough, completely of its own accord.  Very Strange. 

Carefully the party approached the stable gates. Looking through the large doors they found the paddocks empty of horse, but the area was filled with a wretched odour, and in the rotting hay was a mass of squirming insects. Miranda the Witch, though knowledgable of many dark beings, found these crawlers far too vile and promptly vomited all over her sandals. 

Inside, the thunk of the anvil caught the attention of the party. Brave Father Aloysius puffed up his chest and strode into the forge. The hammer that had been working tirelessly suddenly stopped its attack on the anvil and instead flew into the clerics chest, doubling him over with tremendous force and launching him back through the door. Cleric Dwennon jumped to his brothers aid, holding aloft the cross of St Gregorius and called out, “back! Foul being of chaos, go back to shadow!” But instead of screams or an evil retort, the hammer merely began striking the anvil faster and faster until tapping out a triplet rhythm. 

“The forge room is a silly place.” 

And so the party put their attention onto the stables, discovering up in the rafters a saddlebag. After lashing it with rope, and nearly busting whatever was inside, Fernando the thief took claimed his reward; a fine bottle of wine, its label reading Ignis Vinum; 1421. A good vintage, surely, and worthy treasure. 

The room beyond the stable was full of mocking jeers. The party leered into it. A barracks contained seven skeletal sentries. They surrounded a corpse hanging by its foot from the ceiling. They took turns sticking it with spears. 

“Have at you!”

“Not smiling now are you, ya ugly mug!” 

Taking the opportunity for surprise our heroes dashed into the room. An arrow went through one of the skeletons empty eye sockets. Grit the dwarf cleaved one of them in twain. Both of the clerics lifted their symbols and called out for the True God’s presence to be felt. The wretched undead creatures shielded their faces and let out a shrill scream, fleeing into some cells at the back of the barracks, writhing over each other in attempts to flee the sign of the holy. 

“Get away, be gone.”

“It burns, ah, it burns.”

“Curse you priest, all chaos reign down on ‘ye!” 

The clerics stood firm, reading out the scriptures. Those foul creatures tried to claw their way through brickwork to get away, to no avail. Whilst the holy men held them at bay, the rest of the party searched through the room. They found two things of note. One, a wanted poster for one Claude Malévol offering three thousand gold pieces, dead or alive. The other, a banner standard  of great antiquity depicting a turks head upon a pike. Treasure is treasure. 

With bags stuffed, the party left the barrack room, and perhaps feeling a little overconfident decided to take a little rest in the stinking stable room. As soon as the clerics were out of the room however, the skeleton sentries ran out of the cells towards the north and began blowing on a rallying bugel. Within a few seconds a return call was blown from the east. No time for rest, time to hot foot it! Fly you fools! 

And fly they did, all they way out of the garden, through the crumbling gatehouse, and as fast as their legs could carry them, they made their way back to the moat. But unfortunately, they noticed a light below the bridge. 

“The bloody Fox!” 

After a fast discussion about how to take care of this sticky situation, skeletons at the rear, and ginger bastards at the front, the party decided to let the bandits spring their trap. As soon as their boots were on the bridge, the green hosiery of the merry men goose stepped a circle about them.  

“My, my, my, what have you brought for me?” Said the Fox. But he was unimpressed with a bounty note and a mouldy old banner. The fire wine was carefully concealed. The fox wanted cold hard cash, or something even better. There was a very quick discussion about what the party might offer him. Outnumbered, sweating, and worried about fast approaching skeletons, the party handed over coin, and all their weapons. A deal was stuck that the next time the party arrived in Xyntillan, the Fox would give them back their weapons, and they would fetch a couple of casks of fine wine from the cellar for his men. 

“Stocked with some of the best vintages known to man. The family has a fine pallet, you understand. The place is maintained by my cousin Ambrosius, but you’ll need to get past the family butler first.” 

And so the party charged out into the night. And over two long days returned to the idilic mountain town of Tours-en-Savoy, to sell their loot and count their coin.

What will they do next?