A Drinking Problem 

Characters

Mirella the Witch – Magic user 1 – A curious seeker of knowledge, with a niggling worry about getting burned at the stake. 

William – Fighter 1  – A confident middle-aged warrior, scruffy and brave.

Pickles – Halfling 1  – this loud mouthed drinker enjoys paying humans to carry him ‘Yoda-style.’ 

Ellish – Fighter 1 – A peasant girl who made a drunken bet that she could survive the horrors of Xyntillan. 

Blavier the Bear – Fighter 1 Retainer – Imposing knight on barded warhorse. 

Theo, Ramon & ol’ feller – two dirty orphan porters and a pack mule. 

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Our heroes set off up the trail, as has become their custom, chewing down rations and telling tall tales. On their second days march they discovered the suit of armour of the Black Knight they had slain over a week prior. It was sat in a slumped position on the side of the road, not where it had been felled. The void inside the black harness was choked with vines, which came spewing out of the face guard, neck, elbows and anywhere else there was a gap. 

“Lets skirt around it.” 

They went into the tree line keeping at least twenty feet back at all times. A crow descended onto the helm, cawed at them ominously and began circling overhead. 

“I’m going to check it out.” Pickles exclaimed. Having not experienced the terror of the black knight for himself, he was keen to see if there was any loot to be found. From the scree strewn brambles he grew close, tossing a few stones towards the figure. No movement. Nothing. So off Pickles went, closing in on the slumped suit of armour so full of greenery, and searched. 

No pouches, no bags, no treasure. But deep in the vine clotted helm, he saw something. An impossibly small face, ancient and withered, it’s eyes closed in what might have been pain, or perhaps pleasure. The eyes, if they were eyes, languidly batted open. Within those portals there were no pupils, no life, only a green vapour, infinite and vast.  

Watching from the brush, the party saw Pickles scream, leap to his feet and begin charging down the mountain pass in flight. The party called after him, to no avail. 

“Let us set off to the castle.” And that was what they did. Only after a few hours did they think to send someone after the plucky halfling. Night was soon approaching. William asked Théo to ride the mule down the pass and retrieve him. This he did. The party camped on the road, a little while later the orphan rode back, his face puckered and mired by a huge black eye. He’d tried to wrestle the halfling to the ground and had received a smack to the face for his effort. 

Later in the night Pickles finally returned to camp, apologising profusely to Théo. He had been overcome with fear, and in his temporary madness had believed the young man to be the dark knight on its dreadful steed. 

At first light the party set off into the grounds of the castle proper, arriving by around ten o’clock in the morning. They quickly agreed to attempt to enter the grand entrance. A huge set of double doors straddled by two huge gargoyles. 

On approach they were met with a line of twelve skeletons slowly marching around the periphery of the keep. Without being seen the party dashed into the shrub. All except Blavier the Bear, he wouldn’t leave his beloved charger behind. So instead Blavier rode towards the skeletons, attracting their attention and then riding off over the bridge away from the castle. The skeletons took the bait and chased him. 

Now with a clear view to the grand entrance, the party marched on. 

Paranoid of the two gargoyles, which stood around eight foot tall, the party hammered some pitons into the steep slope that ran down to the moat and tied a rope to them. A quick escape route, just incase. Then William and Pickles approached the doors. The fighter swung them inwards, a booming laugh came from the mouth of the western Gargoyle. The one in the east animated, turned to face the two men, and snapped it fingers. As soon as this was done the statues returned to their original positions, becoming still. 

“What the hell was that?”

“Dunno, but lets get in there before those skeletons return.” In-fact they could see Blavier doing a good job of keeping the skeletons occupied out on the bridge. 

Inside the doorway, there was a cavernous entrance vestibule lined with columns and doors, but laying in a state of complete ruin. A strange hollow voice was crying inside. The party had gathered a rumour long ago of a wine cellar with expensive casks. This was apparently on the right and down some stairs. 

“Lets get the wine.”

As they entered a translucent figure strode from beyond the columns. It was a shade of green, then grey, solid one moment, transparent the next. Its face was a skull, then a putrified face, then a noble face with roman features. It wore a butlers suit, when it had legs. 

It welcomed them to the Castle and lamented the terrible state of the entrance hall. It asked whether they were here for the feast. The party said that they were. 

“Please tell me your names so I might add you to the guest book.” The party began telling the ghostly butler their real names, all except Pickles, who cunningly use the moniker Count Raoul Balderdash. Once the butler received the information that he was in the presence of nobility his demeanour became very welcoming, if slightly insane. He offered to take their cloaks, which they gave over. He slid off through the wall after telling them to go up the grand staircase. 

The party quickly charged east instead, finding a large sitting room. There was a huge gothic grandfather clock inlaid with gold and ivory. A great piece, but the clock moved backwards. Very strange. The party decided they would come back for this as it had to be worth a lot. 

There was a writing desk full of mad ramblings, the illiterate Ellish riffled through them, pocketing some of them without being able to read them. Mirella found the stairs to the cellar through a southern doorway. Inside a cabinet they found a chest. And up inside the fireplace there was a charred corpse staring down at them with a blank expression. 

They went down into the cellar. 

They were met with huge vats and pressing equipment. They heard drunken singing coming from the next chamber. Opening the door they heard a voice call out. 

“Naughty little buggers, come down to steal a tipple have you?” A portly friar emerged carrying a lantern. He seemed quite intoxicated. After a brief discussion they discovered he kept the cellars for the family of the castle, his name was Ambrosius Baptiste Malévol. He proudly showed them his cellar filled with huge casks. 

The party planned to get the monk so drunk he would pass out, and with a little convincing they joined him in a couple of toasts and managed to succeed. The fat friar slumped down to the ground with a mewling snore. 

“Lets find a good vintage and make off with it.” 

The party taste tested a few casks, deciding on two in particular to steal. Ellish didn’t taste the wine, but filled up her wine skin from one of the casks. It undulated strangely and quivered. She thought that perhaps it must be a very good vintage. 

“Lets find some wine bottles and decant the wine, it would be easier to transport over these large casks.”

As the party moved north to look for receptacles, Ellish let out a harrowing scream. Her wineskin had sizzled open and from within a greasy green ooze had leapt onto her leg. It immediately began to dissolve her flesh. She pulled off her trousers, but it was too late, the ooze had began to eat into her. The pain was excruciating. In a panic the party tried to cut  the slime, splashed it with wine and holy water. Nothing worked. 

“Give me that torch!” 

The slime reacted to the flame, but it also burnt Ellish. Pickles ran into the northern chamber, looking for something to help, but was met with a grotesque scene. Strange limpet like roots dangled from the ceiling, and below them were degenerate faceless horrors sleeping or basking in their own filth. Pickles fled. 

“Give me that weapon, get it off of me!” Ellish screamed, grabbing her weapon and plowing it into the slime and also directly into her own leg. Within a few moments she had bled out and died. The slime sizzled and melted its way inside of her. 

“Grab the wine, lets get out.” 

William lugged two fancy barrels onto Mirella’s summoned floating disc. Mirella decided to also drag Ellish’s corpse onto the disc, wanting to give her a good burial. Ambrosius was looted, they found a nice bottle of champagne. 

Then they were out the door towards the stairs. But that was not the end of their horror, for Ellish’s corpse began to vibrate, then began to transmute and sizzle, within seconds it dissolved into a huge pool of green slime. The slime lunged at Mirella, but she managed to avoid the strike by a few inches. The witch began to flee, but of course her floating disc carrying the slime followed closely behind her. It struck again, and by a hairs length she avoided the slime. The rest of the party ran, and with the wave of her hand Mirella banished the disc and made away. As the disc disappeared, the slime and casks fell to the ground, one of them cracking open and loosing its delicious contents. 

“The clock!” The party made way back up to the sitting room, and turning the the writing desk upside down used it as an improvised slay, placing the clock onto it. They pushed this out to the main doors where Blavier was waiting with his steed. They lashed with table to the horses saddle and pushed it back to their camp. 

They careful made their way back to town with the mules and horse helping drag the table-slay and got paid a handsome sum for the grandfather clock. They also learned that they were lucky not too have opened it, for it was a magically cursed artefact. 

What will they do next?