Party: 

Garen – D1 – this weary boned old adventurer is out for one last score. 

Leifr – D1 – a dwarven youngling, trying out the adventurers life, unsure if its for him. 

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 – a grubby warrior, impatient, but open to trying new things. 

Fripon – T1 – this middle aged thief has a tall tale or two, and a swollen drinkers nose to boot. 

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

Game date: 27th March 1501

It had been seven days since their last excursion to that dreaded keep they call Xyntillan. And a busy week at that. They had seen rival adventuring parties come and go. Dwennon the unsure priest had rounded up a posse to arrest the youthful and naive Claude Malévol, after discovering a bounty on his head. He’d marched Claude to the magistrate in the dead of night, despite much protest, and as reward claimed a chest of silver ingots. Though Dwennon now had riches, he had the uneasy feeling that this act had displeased God in some way. Cleric Aloysuis and his new comrade Leifr had tracked down a poor victim of vampirism, dug up the wretch and put her finally to rest. Requiescat in pace. 

And so after two days hiking up the mountain pass into the Valley of Three Rainbows, they were met again with that broody basin, cradled by snowcapped mountains, wreathed by crystal waters, a seat of ancient evil, Castle Xyntillan. 

“We must get our weapons back, where is that bloody Fox?” They argued amongst themselves, for during their last escapade their gear has been taken ransom by a the lithe bandit who called himself the Fox. 

After marching through the wooded path towards the moat bridge, a figure sauntered out from the tree line. Too large to be the Fox, a wild man with large bushy hair and the wide eyes one might expect to peer from the windows of a sanatorium. 

“Hail!” Called the giant man. Grit the dwarf waved back enthusiastically. The man approached with a swagger. 

“They call me Big Billy the Badger,” a moniker justified by the mans bushy black hair, which had a stripe of white through the centre, “the Fox sent me.” The party groaned. After a curt discussion the Badger took some of their gold into his sack, ‘collateral’ he called it, and told them where to find their weapons. 

“Remember, anything you bring out of that there castle is shared with us, right down the middle.” How the party fumed at that.

They marched onward to the moat bridge, a large stone structure with gargoyles aplenty. Under the bridge they gathered up their gear and started to plan their next move with rising umbrage. The sun was setting, and they didn’t want to go inside the castle, not if their inkling about vampires was correct. So they went to a wooded area next to the lake to make camp and wait for dawn. 

A huge murmuration of winged creatures burst from the top terrace of the central donjon at sunset. They divvied up a series of watches, careful not to make the faintest noise, and camped overnight. They saw many things. Out in the water a serpentine shadow rose up from the water, cresting in silence and slithering back down to the inky deep. In the dead of night, a charging black carriage erupted from the western gatehouse, drawn by six night-black steeds it charged across the land without so much as a sound. The party mused that there was much movement in this place, and this stoked the fires of their paranoia. 

At dawn they arose and marched betwixt the gatehouse towers, ever on guard, led by Grit and Garen, the two burly dwarves. Up ahead, beyond the lush courtyard gardens, the doorway to the central keep opened abruptly and out came a shambling hunchback figure pushing a wheelbarrow. The figure hadn’t noticed the party so they dashed into the crumbling northern tower of the gatehouse. They watched the figure through the embrasures. A husk of a man, wrapped in dark cowl, shambling forward, his wheelbarrow filled with desiccated corpses. 

He approached the gatehouse, so they set about surprising him from the shadows. They lay in wait. But Elaran, the brave elf, who happened to be standing by the northern door, was caught off guard. A slimy hand reached out and tapped his shoulder. He spun around, and was assaulted by a putrescence he had never before encountered. A rotting figure stood before him, wrapped in seaweed and lichen. The haggard face grimaced, displaying a sore mouth of rot, it reached into its rags and pulled out a handful of bonbons. 

“What are you doing you naughty little boy. Eh? Well, don’t just stand there … take a sweetie.” 

The party wheeled around, tensely watching what was going on. Elaran took a bonbon. But dare not eat it.

“Ungrateful little snot. Eat the sweet like a good boy.” 

Sweat dripped from the elf’s mane. Brave Grit stepped forward and caught the creatures attention, grabbing a bonbon he quickly popped it into his mouth. It was slimy and tasted of rot. He managed not to gag, and swallowed. 

“There’s a good lad, now off you go like good little children.” The creature cackled and slumped wetly off towards the north. Grits eyes dilated, he felt a little off. Within a few moments he was sure he could see a trapdoor in the floor, though the others were certain there wasn’t one. 

As the party poked around with the supposed trap door, the hunchback figure began pulling his wheelbarrow over the rubble of the ruin, and started entering the tower. Garen attempted to grab him from behind, but was hip tossed to the earth. The figure spun to meet his assailants, and pulled out a dagger, his deformed face full of fright. The party crowded the doorway and began trying to hit him. Elaran managed to club his head but he was so nimble and lean he darted past every other blow, eventually hopping over a few boulders and onto the gatehouse wall itself. He rapidly began climbing it, using nothing but the gaps in the masonry for grip, and within a few moments was out of sight. 

Shook, the party moved under the northern ramparts and took a little rest. They reached the gardening shed they had discovered on their last expedition. They dug around the cupboards and shelves, finding little but tools and manure. The double doors still proved an obstacle, finally, with many bangs and attacks with a crowbar, was it cracked open. 

Those who stood guard at the southern arch heard movement down the dark corridor. A pale lady wearing a flowing white gown was slowly drifting towards them. She had a sinister smile and eyes full of want. 

“Who attempts to enter the rose garden of the master?” Her voice echoed unnaturally. 

“My lady, we only wish to look upon flowers as lovely as you.” Garen tried to flatter her, but her cruel grin only widened. 

“Come, sir dwarf, come and dance with me, forever.” She held out her arms and floated forward. 

The panicked party began clearing the wreckage of the door to the rose garden, their only path of escape. Cleric Aloysius dashed a stone at the creature from his sling. Despite hitting its mark true, it passed through the creature. Flee! The party laid down some oil and set the door frame ablaze, yet the creature passed through this unfazed. It floated upon young Denis, Dwennon’s trusty footman, and touched his face. Poor Denis began to rapidly age and deteriorate, falling to the ground as a crippled old man, eyes turned back in terror. 

The party rushed onto the rose garden, which was set atop a parapet overlooking the courtyard. A rope was thrown down, and hands soon slid along it, feet went over the rail and hopped out. Garen remained at the doorway trying to keep the creature at bay, his fast footwork kept him alive as the laughing banshee tried to grab ahold of him. 

“Dance with me Sir Dwarf, come, do not be shy.”

Garen hopped over the parapet wall after his comrades, but slipped and landed on his rump. Aloysius helped him up, but then, overhead the ghostly creature descended, touching Grit about the throat and draining his life force. Somehow he survived this attack, but felt weaker, perished. He spat in its face and this affront wildly changed the lady’s demeanour. Her hair tore through the air like a whip. The smile had given way to a wretched maw. 

The next few moments were a maelstrom of flight, the party charged back through the gatehouse, the two dwarves Grit and Garen bravely taking the rearguard and holding back the wailing thing. They were struck once or twice, feeling lanced by icy death, but they lived. Then they were out into the desolate pasture surrounding the castle, the calls of the she-ghost behind them. 

After a good hour of running they decided to hop into the woods for a rest. But lady luck was not on their side, for who came gallivanting through the brush? None other than the Fox. 

“Weapons on the ground.” He barked. “Give it all up.” 

The party were having none of it. The Fox and five of his men readied their arrows. The party took cover, darting between trees trying to close the distance. Arrows were exchanged, a few bandits slain. Elaran the brave was first into the foray, striking the Fox in his breast with his spear. But the bandits descended upon him, cutting him asunder, the Fox thrust his sword directly through the elf’s heart. The party launched arrows, felling a few more bandits, but a return shot hit the priest Dwennon clean in the chest, sending him back to the embrace of God. 

Aloysius and Garen charged the wall of bandits, striking out and sundering a few, but Aloysius took a clean cleave and dropped to the ground. This was when Grit, the surly, loosed a powerful shot from the tree line and pierced the hide of the Fox as he laughed a cruel rebuke. The Fox was dead. The moral of his men crumbled, and the thief Fripon dashed up behind the soul survivor and put steel against his throat. 

The bandit told everything he knew. That the bandits numbered twenty. The Badger would likely become their leader now. 

Without much time, the party cleared out the what goods they could find: a few coins and a nice gold pocket watch. They burned the bodies of the enemy and their fallen, so as to reduce the likelihood of undead reinforcement in the future. 

And so it was that Grit, Garen, Lefir and Fripon marched back to town. 

What will they do next?