At still midnight

Characters

Tim Kaufman – Halfling 3 – A merchant who lost his wagon in an accident.

Ralf Lionsword – Fighter 2 –  a tall, dark and handsome warrior, overboiling with muscles. 

Clyde the Ascetic – Cleric 2 – a waif of a man, an ascetic purist.

Basira Cleric 1 – A dark agent of chaos, initiate to the Demon Lord Woobalu. 

Exeo – Magic-user 1 – An average looking guy, self professed summoner of flame. 

Five secret agents of the crown – retainer fighter 1.

Camille Toutain – retainer fighter 1

Pierre-Marie Moitessier – retainer fighter 1 

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Much partying was had throughout the town of Tours-en-savoy, for the survivors of Xyntillan had many sacks of coin to spend. There was frolicking, and carousing, and much ado about nothing. The honey-mead flavour of victory had cleansed their palates, sweet, however brief.

The time had come for our troupe of adventurers to once again sally-out to the walls of that ancient source of evil. Armed with a quest from the crown to discover evidence of the Malévol’s tax avoidance, and a personal vendetta of revenge, they marched onward, anticipating victory. But a great shadow crawled across the mountain pass, creeping across them like a veil, for whilst they marched on in ignorance, something lay in wait for them.

The party approached the grand entrance and plunky young Tim Kaufman once again took the lead. He walked up to the great double doors and pushed them inward. Without a pile of corpses at the door he felt confident he was safe. Once again the two gargoyles animated in their way, booming out with laughter. Kaufman turned to his friends and said, “come on lets fill our pockets.” He gave a cheeky wink, but to his friends horror a severed hand fell from the archway above as he walked inward. 

“Tim look out!” 

But it was too late. Another rotting hand dropped onto him, and another, and then, within seconds, a flood of rotting appendages swam down like a torrent engulfing the tweed coated halfling. He barely managed a scream as the swarm of rotting hands grasped around his throat and snuffed out his life. 

“Charge!” Ralf Lionsword boomed, and the party took ground, hacking and slashing the hands apart. A finger salad, tossed severely. After a few moments the party had dispatched the hands. They caught their breath and Clyde said a prayer for Tim Kaufman, unfortunately his companion Sindri was not there to see him off to the netherworld. 

The party made sure to collect Mr. Kaufmans gear, all would be useful in the castle, and especially his bank note; which was written for a large sum of cash stored with the town jeweller. Lo! Onward then. 

The party moved through the high vaulted vestibule to the East, into the Butler’s chambers. Clyde opened the door, and inside he saw a figure reclining in a winged chair, it’s legs crossed and backlit before the smouldering fireplace. 

“Hello? Who might you be?” There was no answer. The party moved in and carefully surrounded the figure. Basira the chaotic dashed forward, grasped the chair and looked down. Sat before him was a pale faced corpse, its mouth open in a silent scream, its curled fingers grasping around its own throat. 

“A message for us?” Clyde postulated. 

Upon the Butler’s writing desk were two piles of paper, arranged in an odd manner and overturned. Clyde approached the piles whilst scratching his chin. The party had stolen many papers from here, last time they’d found a list with their own names on and directions to destroy them. Clyde reached down and flipped the papers over. Snap. The cold iron teeth of a bear trap closed around his wrist. He let out a howl, but before the party could come to his aid, the clunk of gears and chains came from below the table. The trap was attached to a contraption that began pulling Clyde into it. The party quickly tried opening the trap, but it was Ralf who pulled the chain with all his might and shut down the contraption. Soiled with blood, the notes read; got you, got you, got you, over and over. 

“Do we want to go down into the basement?”

“I feel like we haven’t explored any of the rooms to the east.” 

“Now that we’ve cleared out the cellar we have a good change to go deeper.”

As the party discussed their plans the southern door to the cellar opened. A tall figure emerged, with wild red hair. He carried a battle-axe on one shoulder and in his other hand dragged a huge sack which jingled. The party had a brief discussion with this man, unsure whether to capture his loot, which was clearly gold coins. The man said that he was a family member of the castle, but only through marriage. The party asked him where the vampires dwelled and he pointed to the eastern door. They finally decided to let him go unhindered, and agreed with each other to not go east into the castle but down their usual way, into the cellar. 

Down they went. The wine vats were as they left them over a week ago. Through the vaulted doors into the cask room they walked. Then they walked north into the chamber where they fought the faceless horrors. But they didn’t approach in ranks as they had last time, Ralf Lionsword took the lead instead. As they crossed the threshold they came face to face with a man blackened with rot. He wore a suit of green and a feathered cap, but his chest was sundered open into a gaping wound. Around him were a dozen or so hounds. 

“You thought you could kill my kin, steal my wine, desecrate our temples, and also live. No. You shall not live. I will take away the fire that burns in you.” And with that, he whistled and his hounds lurched forward to attack. 

The party formed ranks as best they could, the foaming maws of the dogs came crunching against their shields. Then, a soldier in the rear rank let out a scream. Clyde wheeled and saw stood in the archway behind them a crooked figure wrapped in linen. A terrible mummy bejewelled with a crown and collar glittering with gems. The dreadful thing chuckled, and raised a sceptre of gold and ruby, and like the savage winds of the desert let out a howl. Eldritch light coiled around Clyde, Pierre and Arnauld and each man let out a terrible scream. Overcome with magical fear the men raced to the north in blind panic, through a stone portal and into utter darkness. 

“Retreat!” Lionsword roared. 

“Too bloody right!” The wizard Exeo quipped. 

Several of the tax agents were pinned down by the teeth of the hounds, but the party made their retreat north, down a damp clammy corridor deeper into the castles dungeon. Exeo, in a cunning plan, poured out two containers of oil and dashed his lantern against it, creating a wall of flame behind them that would buy some time. 

By this time Clyde and the two retainers were dashing through darkness, utterly lost and panicked. Their faces were assaulted by a thick mist, then, groping the walls, they turned into a tight chamber, and heard cackling voices in the dark. They ran back the other way, moving as quick as their feet would allow, and fell face first into a pool of water that tasted like metal. They screamed in the dark. 

Back in the light of the party torch our heroes had retreated into a large lake grotto. Bats dangled from the low natural cave ceiling, and the entire room was filled with a fine mist. A lake was before them and on the waters edge a bell stood, and next to that a sign reading “3 coins for passage.” The howl of the hounds was behind them, the fire must have died down. In a panic Basira rang the bell. The chime made all the bats take flight across the lake, and then, in the heart of the mist, a pale green light appeared. 

The hounds were baying behind them. In the water a small skiff approached. The sickly light of its lantern revealed its pilot; a black robed figure carrying a crooked scythe. The hounds howls were closer now. 

The skiff beached itself. The dark figure turned to the heroes, a pure white skeleton was wrapped in the cloak. 

“Three coins for passage to the world of the dead.” It said.

“What are we going to do?” 

“Lets bolt.” 

“You called me here, one of you must take voyage.” The deathly figure retorted. 

The hounds were coming down the passage now, the scrambling of their feet audible on the cold stone floor. 

“Okay!” Basira cried and leapt into the boat. The skeletal hand snatched his three coins. Ralf and a taxman joined him. Exeo did not, and with his torch ran north into the narrow tunnels. The skiff pushed off, as though driven by some unseen force, and as it did the hounds came barrelling onto the lakeside dirt. They leapt and howled after their quarry, but they were too late.

Ralf and Basira looked at each other as the boat traversed the mists, and noticed that their breath, which had been pluming from their mouths, was no longer visible. They looked to the hull of the boat and saw their own corpses tangled amongst the bow seats. They were dead. Ghosts. 

Exeo dashed as fast as his legs would take him, and as he passed a cruciform passage, he saw Clyde on the left lifting himself and two of his retainers out of a pool of bubbling liquid. 

The two reconvened, and noticed that the pool was being fed by a font in the form of an owl. Below it, a plaque read “The Oracle of Saint Blakemore: The waters of future prophecy.” Exeo drank from the waters and felt that he would soon receive a vision. Perhaps next Friday. But that was of little consequence now, they were being hunted by hounds. 

Clyde and Exeo and their two badly shaken men desperately tried to escape, one door led them into a submerged chamber with seven sarcophagus, above that a huge dragons head capstone looked down. The fearful Clyde refused to go in. And so the four of them ran north, into another chamber and another door. Their torches burning down, their fear choking their breath, the howling of hounds echoing down the corridor. 

What will become of them?

——————

Judges note. 

After the parties excellent progress they had finally earned enough ‘infraction points’ to receive a reaction from the family. This is a system in the Xyntillan book of adjudicating reactions from the castles dwellers to PC trouble making. I rolled two encounters, quite nasty ones, and placed them in area which the party have been using most frequently. The players very nearly decided on avoiding the cellar and the ambush, but didn’t go for it in the end. C’est la vie. This session could easily turn out to be a TPK, we had to end the session as we were running over time. We will see what happens to Clyde and Exeo in their play by post.  

Killing Clergy

Characters

Tim Kaufman – Halfling 2 – A merchant who lost his wagon in an accident.

Sindri – Elf 1 – a cloaked and broody lord. 

Ralf Lionsword – Fighter 1 –  a tall, dark and handsome warrior, overboiling with muscles. 

Clyde the Ascetic – Cleric 1 – a waif of a man, an ascetic purist.

Tipuu – Magic-user 1 – scrawny, long haired surfer in robes. 

Smerdya – Halfling 1 – Becloaked in russet, his small black eyes peer out. 

Eight secret agents of the crown – retainer fighter 1. 

---

Many events had taken place during the parties downtime. It had been revealed that their retainer Antoin Longin was in fact an agent for the crown. He is a tax collector, and he’d been using the party to gain ingress into Castle Xyntillan in search of the Malévols revenue books. He was adamant that the Malévol’s were hoarding their tax payment to the crown and he has a special mission to gain evidence of such. He caught the party whilst they were enjoying the fruit of their labours, drinking, merrymaking, and spending coin. He marched into the tavern back room with eight armed men, each a secret soldier of the crown, and declared that they too owed money in taxes, a significant amount. The party could help him attain the ledger he requires from the castle, or he would arrest them for tax avoidance. The party agree, and the eight men were given orders to aid the party. Longin had a vague idea that the ledgers would probably be held somewhere secure and safe, possibly in the dungeons of the castle. He knew no more. The party would be rewarded if they succeeded. 

Also during downtime plucky Tim Kaufman searched out a lawyer, he was looking for some advice on how he might recognise the ledger. He inadvertently bumped into one of the Malévols when he went to the law offices of RH Wirtz Esquire, Sergent-at-law. The Malévol there intimidated him, and told him he would soon need a lawyer himself, and that all of his indiscretions were being recorded. After a little research Tim discovered the name of this mocking figure, Vincent Godefroy-Malévol, ruthless lawyer and famed belletrist. On hearing that the lawyer was a famed writer and critic he sought out some of his books at local book shop the Ink well. He shelled out 200gp for a copy of The Lay of the Were-Wolf. Much reading was done. 

Exhausted and intimidated Tim went on a bender, and found himself in a duel after a misunderstanding with a merchant, a duel that the galling won. 

The party made way out to the Castle with their retinue of chainmail adorned warriors, fairly excited that they could do some serious damage with such bulky numbers. 

After two days they reached the castle and headed into the grand entrance. No corpses were pilled outside this time. They entered the large front door. As they rushed over to the butlers quarters, where they planned to descend into the basement, the ghostly butler emerged from behind a pillar. He told them that they had made quite an impression on the dwellers of the castle, never had he seen Médard Malévol the Mighty so happy, but the masters of the castle had been made aware of their trespasses and would not be happy. He said he would go and fetch the welcoming party, and drifted through a wall. 

Panicked the party rushed into the butlers quarters, it had been tidied up since their last visit, but they found papers in the butters handwriting, a list of their names and physical descriptions, also when Tipuu held the note up to the fire, he saw indentations of some other script. The indentations were a list of orders, dictated most probably, to find and kill the party. 

They went into the basement with haste. 

Down in the wine cellar Sindri went knocked on the northern door. The strange voice of Ambrosias came echoing back. The cleric had been most deranged since his face had been accidentally melted off by green slime.  

“What do you lot want?” He wasn’t the least bit intimidated by their numbers. 

“Here’s some wine.” Clyde handed some over, and the deranged priest chugged it down. Tipuu, who had never been to the castle before, poured some oil into his waterskin and offered it up to Ambrosias. The priest began to drink but spat it out. 

“What is this? You like tricks do you?” 

“No, no, its a special brew that my mum made.” Tipuu returned. 

“I have a drink that you would like.” The priest spat, and grabbed the mage by his beard. Tipuu didn’t resist but looked to his friends for help. They stood and watched, knowing how dangerous the priest could be. 

He dragged Tippu by the beard over to a large cask of wine, with his huge fist he punched out the head of the cask and revealed a fragrant wine with floating dead rats. 

“Llllooks delicious.” Tipuu, said, looking to his friends who stood dumbfounded. 

“Yes, yes it is, in you go.” Said the priest, who hauled the mage up and began shoving him into the barrel. Wine overflowed across the floor, chunks of rat flowing by. Once Tipuu was inside the cask, the priest shoved him down, replaced the head and began nailing the cask closed. 

“We need to do something!” The party, except for the elf and two halflings, all ran into the room and surrounded the priest. Blades crashed against the impenetrable bulk of Ambrosius, and his return blows equally bounced off of Clyde’s armour. Eventually, the giant cleric was slain, Tipuu free’d and the party striped his body, finding a magic potion, rosary and magic armour. 

Next they decided to go north, into the chamber of ‘eldritch horrors’ they had witnessed before. 

“Men, form ranks!” And the soldiers of the crown rushed into the arched chamber and readied their spears. The shambling faceless horrors came rushing into the line, but fell swiftly, and soon the hulking abominations were fleeing. The party quickly slayed a few of them as they lurched through a southern door, eventually they decided to not pursue. 

Inside the chamber were roots with white polyp like fruits dangling down, they had strange tubular appendages like sea cucumbers. In the West there was a large marble statue of a comely beauty suggestively holding her shawl open to reveal a buxom bust. Behind this was a door. 

“Lets make out way North!” So that’s what the party did, they went through a wide corridor, and found several sets of door. Very bravely they had their retainers peer inside, something that would be reported on return to town, and they found a chamber of holding cells, and a chamber littered with bones. The party decided to enter neither. Up ahead the chamber transitioned into a natural cave on one side, and there was a clammy, close feeling to the sticky air. 

The party went into another chamber heading East, and heard the rattling of chains coming from the North-East. To the east however was a large set of double doors, a gargoyle of a fiendish woman as the keystone. Inside the double doors they heard much shuffling and eerie singing. 

Sindri decided to knock on the door, for reasons unclear, and beyond the door a litany of howling screams came echoing out. With hardly any time to react the doors swung open revealing a hoard of vampiric Nuns, their faces white and rotting, with large black teeth and swiping claws. One of the retainers was quickly slain, but the party struck back killing several of the unholy nuns. Clyde the pious held aloft his cross and brought down divine intervention, several of the creature fled shrieking into the dark. The battle intensified, and the creatures slashed and screamed with voices as black as their habits. The party struck hard killing many of them, using the reach of their retainers’ spears to their advantage. Eventually the nuns fled back into shadow. 

Triumphant the party searched the room, it was a large octagonal chamber with a huge pillar at its centre. Dusty footprints circled the pillar. In the north there was a confessional window sealed with metal mesh. Tim Kaufman broke the mesh back and saw a chamber with some treasures. Bishops vestments, bottles of booze, and a large brass bishops crook. He swiped these, except the crook which animated when he tried to grab it. 

“I’ll try and grab it.” Tipuu said bravely. He went to the small hole, reached in, and as he grabbed the brass pole it animated and smashed down on his skull killing him instantly. 

“Dio, why.” 

 When Clyde grabbed the item it didn’t animate and rested sweetly in his palms. 

The party withdrew, back through the wine cellar, and decided on taking several casks of wine with them. 

As they struggled up the stairs with the casks, they heard weeping. There was a ghoulishly white woman in a stained wedding dress stood in the corner crying. Luckily she didn’t seem too bothered by the party. Out they went, and it took them four days to get back to town rolling these huge casks. 

What will they do next?

---

Judges note 

The party mostly levelled up this session, luckily one of the casks they stole was full of health potion. This was sold for a huge amount of coin. Next session will see quite a few level two characters. 

The Motherload

Characters 

Tim Kaufman – Halfling 1 – A merchant who lost his wagon in an accident.

Sindri – Elf 1 – a cloaked and broody lord. 

Ralf Lionsword – Fighter 1 –  a tall, dark and handsome warrior, overboiling with muscles. 

Clyde the Ascetic – Cleric 1 – a waif of a man, an ascetic purist. 

Antoin Longin – Fighter 1 retainer – a pompous and snarling man, with crumbling makeup on his face, a periwig and dark ledger at his hip. 

Julian – footman – a peg leg and eye patch were all this retired seaman claimed from the brine. 

---

“We must go and find the chapel and consecrate it back to Law, the ghost of Médard Malévol demands it!”

“Quite, I hope the reward is most egregious.” 

So the party walked the summer slopes of the mountain, bluebells wafting their fragrance in welcome. The summer in full swing now,  the party made excellent time over the two days of travelling, camping once over night and arriving in the Castles periphery by the afternoon of the next day. 

“No more camping for us, lets go straight through the front door.”

The party marched over the bridge and around the south walls of the castle to arrive at the grand entrance. Only this time there they found a surprise between the two massive gargoyles; a pile of three corpses. Tim Kaufman the plucky launched a stone at them, which smacked a corpse in the face, with no reaction. 

“Stone cold dead.”

The party grew a little closer and recognised the rotting bodies. There was the charred corpse of sweet William the brave, who had died in the lake tower two weeks ago, and face down next to him was a rotting corpse in clerical vestments, presumably Arthur’s body. In front of both was a pair of legs, probably belonging to the thief Gwen, who had been bitten in half by a sea monster. 

“They are dead, its probably a message for us to keep away.”

“I’m not sure about this.”

“I’m keeping well back.” 

Brave Tim the plucky decided to go forward and open the gate whilst his friends hid behind a corner. As he opened the doors the familiar laughing boomed from the gargoyle on his left, and the one on his right animated, turned and snapped its fingers. Only there was a slight difference to the animation this time, the finger emitted a sickly purple light that span out into the corpses on the floor. The bodies began to quiver and moan and William’s charred corpse sat up and lunged at the halfling. 

“Retreat!”

And TIm ran as fast as his tiny legs could carry him back to his comrades as the zombies lurched up, including the pair of legs which frequently fell on its buttocks. Arrows rained into the shambling creatures.  Julian and Ralf Lionsword dashed forward to meet them, blades flashing like lightning. The legs of Gwen delivered a swift kick to the sea-dogs gonads. 

“Haha, I may have only one leg, but I lost my balls to a sea-turtle bite thirty years ago, better luck next time!” 

Clyde the asthetic raised his cross and called down the forces of Law, but his prayers were not met by the grace of heaven. Not yet anyway. But after a few moments the reanimated carcasses of their comrades were dispatched. Antoine grabbed a hold of them and threw them down the slopes towards the moat. 

“Second time lucky.” The party entered the grand entrance doors, and the gargoyles animated again, and then the party could hear the degenerate moans from the corpses down near the moat. Feeling confident that the zombies wouldn’t be able to climb up the slope, the party entered the large entrance hall. The directions they’d received from the templar ghost had pointed to the south west, where they were to reconsecrate a chapel. 

The party entered a large room, in the west there was a doorway and a staircase leading up. Inside the room were two tables, one held surgical tools and blood splattered rags, the other had a soiled boiling pot and tallow candles upon it. Evidently some fiend had been rendering the fat of men to produce perfumed candles; lilac and juniper, delightful. The party swiped all this booty. 

A lantern was lit and Sindri crawled on his belly through the door. He found a T-junction and looked around. He smelt old hay and something foul. He crawled back. The party decided to try the stairs. Sindri checked the walls for a secret door whilst plucky Mr. Kaufman journeyed upstairs on his own. The others stood guard at the doors. 

Upstairs Tim found another door with a crack in it. He heard the scrambling of rats, and smelt something sweet with an undertone of rot. Peering through the crack he saw a dark corridor, and in the shadow a pale face staring back. He ran back to the party, described what he’d seen, and they returned up the stairs together. Clyde and Ralf took the lead. They opened the door and saw a bust in the shadow, looking into the face of a templar, Médard Malévol himself, Clyde felt nearly overwhelmed with a sense of righteous zeal, but steadied himself. He heard the voice in his head of the ancient templar. “Why are you not completing my quest?” 

“We are my lord, we are looking for the chapel.”

“Then go below.”

The party followed the instructions. And went back down the stair, and west through the door into the dank corridor, then about forty feet south they found an arched door, the cross above this door had been defaced. Claude hung a holy symbol there, the first move in his attempt to reconsecrate the area. 

The party walked in and found a large, fine chapel, but it was covered in dust and cobwebs, the rows of pews were dilapidated, the altar had been cracked. The high cross had been sundered and inverted, it now hung upside down from a chain on the wall. Despicable. 

As the party moved towards the altar, they heard chanting from the priests hole to the East of the altar, and many robed individuals marched out before the altar. Their evil forked tongues chanted in a language that only Sindri could understand, the tongue of Chaos. 

They ceased their chant and beaconed to the transgressors. 

“Come, childe, come kneel before the sundered shrine to Law, come and take oaths to the dark ones and hear their sultry whispers. May the worm turn and crush all.” 

The party stood in panic and looked at each other. Sindri walked to the line of wretched monks. Up close he saw that their faces were rotting, skulls exposed, white jellied eyes peered down at him with malice. A clawed hand fell on his shoulder and forced him to one knee before the upturned cross. 

“What offering shall be made to the dark ones childe, loose your lips and spill the secret of your hate, what shall be consumed?”

“The lives of my friends.” The elf whispered to the rotting figure, and its blackened mouth spread into what might be considered a smile. 

As these robbed figures were consecrating the elf, the rest of the party burst into action, taking the moment of distraction to their advantage. Ralf, Anotin and Julian charged into the robed figures that coddled the elf with their cold, razor sharp fingers. Clyde raised his symbol and called down divine intervention. Tim, the ever quick, dashed atop the pews and with pumping legs leapt over the hooded heads of the monks and dashed atop the altar. He grabbed the high cross and tried to pull it from the chain. 

Blades flew and sung. Antoin took a razor sharp claw to the chest, Ralf struck true with his blade. The halfling managed to turn over the cross and held it high overhead. Clyde felt the divine light descend, and his holy symbol reflected the light from the window with a cutting brilliance, bouncing between the high cross and his own. Two of the creatures fled shrieking in pain. The rest  of the foul cretins were engaged in combat with the fighters, and within a few moments were dispatched. 

Guard positions were taken up, Clyde cleaned up what he could, poured holy water over the altar and said a full mass. The cracked altar reknit itself back together, and the high cross refused with its station. The windows glowed brightly and Clyde knew that forces of good had been powerfully evoked. Then, full of zeal, he and Sindri went into the priests hole east of the altar, to hunt down the fleeing monks. 

During that time Tim Kaufman looked at the altar, set into the stone was a fine cross shaped ammonite fossil, very beautiful. He touched it, and was assaulted with visions of a primordial battle between the lord of Law, the true God, and hoards of demons. This sent his mind into a gross state of paranoia and insanity, but he felt divinely inspired and his vigour grew. He would be ever changed by these visions. 

In the next room the party found a decadent boudoir. Silk pillows, raunchy texts, a tapestry of dryads and nymphs engaging in coitus, there was also a foul painting of a sausage fingered dark lord. Behind this painting were many fine health potions. And behind the tapestry they found a secret chamber with casks of fine wine. They rolled up the tapestry and rolled out the barrels. Treasure is treasure. 

In the north they found another room where the creatures hid. They dispatched them quickly, and found another silver cross hanging upside down, Tim touched this, attempting to turn it upright, but it turned instantly black. The cross crumbled into a soot like dust, and he was lanced with terrible pain as black veins crawled up his arm towards his heart. He collapsed and was aided by Clyde back to the chapel. Clyde was overcome with a sense of holiness, and heard in his head the voice of the ancient Templar, “receive your reward at my bust.”

The party rolled their treasure to the front door, making a quick stop off upstairs, where the bust had vanished, and in its place a large templars shield. A kite shield with a white cross on a black field. This was swept up in the goodly hands of Clyde; DUES VULT! 

The barrels were rolled, tapestries were carried, bottles were pilfered, and over a long four day trek back to Tours en Savoy the party had returned with their biggest pile of loot yet. 

---

Judges note 

This session marks the halfway point of the campaign, amazingly there were no PC deaths this time, and after taking such a large haul back to town we had the first level up of the campaign. Tim Kaufman is now level two, congratulations. The party now have a couple of magic items in their possession and an ally within the castle. I’m excited to see what they do next, well done gang!  

Four Corpses on Mauve Velvet

Characters 

Arthur – Cleric 1 – A weak armed bible basher. 

Donna – Cleric 1 – A strong faced woman of the cloth. 

Gwen – Thief 1 – A lithe assassin in the making. 

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

Baptiste – Light footman – working for Gwen. 

Later 

Tim Kaufman – Halfling 1 – A merchant who lost his wagon in an accident. 

Sindri – Elf 1 – a cloaked and broody lord. 

---

“We have to find another entrance into that place, the cleric in the basement hates my guts, and the ghostly butler is mad we took his papers, the grand entrance is suicide!” 

“Let’s use that gondola we found in the satyr pavilion.”

“What about the giant dinosaur looking monster in the lake?”

“This bell we found should take care of it.” 

So it was decided. The party marched up the valley, and what a lovely march it was too, the summer being finally upon them. A gentle breeze up the mountain pushed them along. The daylight had increased, and that meant after two days of marching they arrived earlier than usual, and sunset would be a long way off. 

Rather than camping in the vicinity of the castle, which had been growing more and more dangerous, the party headed straight for the pavilion. The rope they attached last time was hanging loose in the river. Resourceful thief Gwen hooked it and reattached it. They were over the deep waters in no time. 

William began to sing to the statue as had been done before, the rest of the party keeping watch nervously. The statue animated, piped its song and then its plinth clacked open revealing a black lacquered gondola adorned with a female figurehead, fangs protruding from her mouth. 

The party donned the captured robes and masks, then dragged the boat to the shore below the looming castle, boarded, and shoved off.

“This is much faster than walking!” And so it was, especially with the burly William and Baptiste as oarsmen. 

The party noticed on the eastern walls of Xyntillan, high atop jagged cliffs, two large towers. Between these towers, around eighty foot off the waters face, was a gargoyle railed balcony. No windows appeared on this side of the castle – ominous. 

“Towards that lake tower!” 

They rowed towards a massive lake tower connected to the castle via an arched bridge. They circled this and took a quick look at the southern side of the castle, the part that faced the lake. They saw a garden above a water rampart. Interesting, but they were more interested in the lake tower. 

Running down from the lake towers bridge and into the water was a huge chain. This looked very interesting. The party examined it, and at the chains end, down in the waters, was a box or crate was attached. The party attached the boat to the pillar of the bridge after some faffing around with arrows, then, one by one, they climbed the chain onto the bridge.

Atop the bridge the chain was attached to some sort of winch, perhaps an old repurposed catapult. The lake tower had a huge bronze door decorated with three equal armed cross. 

Before they had a chance to play with the winch a roar echoed from the lake, and a thrashing in the water revealed a long reptilian neck snaking up and squinting at them. 

“Thar she blows! Nessie is upon us!” 

The creature began swimming towards the bridge, spittle flying from its cerated mouth, its devilish black eyes full of hunger. 

The party charged through the door into the lake tower, all except Gwen who hid next to the winch and began ringing the hand bell. The creature began to slow to identify where the ringing was coming from. 

The tower door flew inward and the party saw a high vaulted temple, four wide columns led to a high altar of black stone. Atop this was a bronze statue of a goat headed man, his naked torso had the breasts of a woman, his legs were crossed. It’s right hand pointed up in benediction, but the left was downward, holding a crescent moon shaped weapon. The walls of this temple were painted with frescoes of goat riding templars jousting and engaging in unspeakable evils. 

A ghost up in the rafters called out to them “Dark ones, see what you have done to the temple of the templars.” His anger was plain. He floated towards them. 

Outside, Gwen still rang the bell, but nessie swam under the bridge, then, in a moment of horror its head reared up behind the thief. 

“Clever girl” was all the would be assassin could say before the large maw chomped her in half. 

Inside the temple Donna threw off her cultists disguise, “We are not evil sire, we come in the name of law.” The others joined her in this. Soon the ancient templar calmed and began to weep at the state of his families evil legacy. 

“We did not go on crusade to fall to same evils that we sought to destroy!” 

He gave the party a quest, to find a chapel in the South of the castle, on the ground floor, and to reconsecrate it. The party happily accepted. Arthur was told that a special cape lay in a room to the north. 

“Now, lets take a closer look at that weapon in the statues hand.” 

William approached it with a cloak in hand. He moved close and grasped the strange crescent shaped discus. But as he did, the green eyes of the statue glimmered, and its nose shot out a clump of green slime. William screamed out, but was not quick enough to avoid the goo. It squirted onto his chest and began dissolving his armour. 

“Help help!” The brave warrior cried. He began to run to the door, maybe jumping into the water would help, but he was stopped by the ghostly templar who told him fire was the cure, then he vanished. 

Donna pulled out her lantern oil and dowsed her writhing friend, then lit it up. Unfortunately William was consumed by the sizzling ooze, and then by the flames. RIP. 

The party took a quick breather, taking in all this chaos. 

Arthur explored to the north, finding a cloak room, and inside a very fine templar cloak that was double sided. He put this on. The others found another room and swiped some very big ecclesiastical candle sticks. 

Two adventurers burst through the door just then, Halfling Tim Kaufman and Sindri the elf. They’d just escaped some zombies. The party made their acquaintance and soon accepted them into their ranks. It was time to go up to the second level. 

Up the stone stairs the party was met with a long corridor lined with statues of the saints. They moved cautiously, and in the face of Saint Cyprian they saw two fine rubies set as eyes. Mr. Kaufman delicately popped these out, he’ll surely make for a fine burglar. 

As they proceeded down the corridor, they heard the tapping of footsteps behind them. Sindri and Baptiste twirled around, and were toe to toe with a masked killer. Dressed in black this swarthy madman plunged his dagger into Baptiste’s breast, killing him instantly. Sindri fell back, and the two clerics Donna and Arthur charged the dark assassin. But alas, they were no match, and with a shimmering swipe and a razor sharp slash the two clerics were dead. They’d managed to wound the attacker however, who then moved towards Mr. Kaufman and Sindri, wiping clean the dagger with his black gloved hand. Crash, slash, the fight was over in a matter of seconds, Sindri had taken the huge ecclesiastical candle stick and caved the killers head in. 

“Time to leave I think.” 

In a mad rush that’s what the two survivors did, down into the temple, and out onto the bridge, they quickly climbed down the chain, boarded the boat they’d been told about and rowed off. 

Just then, a roar cam from the bastion of the castle. A huge hairy creature with horns like a demon peered down at them with contempt, its long cape flowing like a river of mauve along the parapets. Go, go, go, they rowed as quickly as their arms allowed. 

“Intruders!” The creature roared, and like a lion it raced along the embrasures of the castle and leapt down onto the bridge with a crash. The party just caught glimpse of the beastly thing, standing nearly eight foot tall, a hideous yellow eyed face above a full cravat. It ripped up a gargoyle as though it were a loaf of bread, and dashed this into the lake. 

“Phew!” The two survivors rowed down the river, and made it back to town in record time. 

What will they do next? 

Turn the other cheek

Characters

Arthur – Cleric 1 – A weak armed bible basher. 

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

Clyde the ascetic – Cleric 1 – a waif of a man, an ascetic purist. 

Gwen – Thief 1 – Mirella’s sister, a lithe assassin in the making. 

Alcine – Light footman 

Terri – Light footman 

Donna – Cleric 1 – A strong faced woman of the cloth. 

---

After a very busy week of downtime, including Gwen’s invasion of the wizard Zaa’s town house, and his assassination, the party advanced out to Castle Xyntillan in search of treasure. 

They decided to make camp in an alternate stretch of woodland on this journey. Their reasoning was that they’ve not changed their approach to the castle for many weeks. Zaa’s men had surveyed them, and possibly their enemies in Xyntillan might have discovered their plans as well. 

During the night’s second watch, at around one in the morning, Gwen and Alcine witnessed a gaggle of figures march towards the castle. The lithe thief moved closer for a better look. A tall, broody, dark-haired elf led a party of armoured men. She had heard of this group, a rival adventuring party that called themselves the league of silver. Gwen slunk back to the camp site. 

Hours later, during Pickles watch, he saw the party come back out of the castle carrying a heavy chest. Lucky buggers. 

“They seemed to do well, and at night too!”

At dawn the party travelled towards the castle, crossing the moat and going up to the windows that they had broken into many moons ago. 

A grappling hook was loosed. Crash, one of the windows went in. The rope was pulled tight, finding purchase. All was quiet as the party waited for a volunteer to climb up. 

“Not me.”

“I don’t want to go.” 

“We’ll make Terri go.” Came the brave suggestion from Gwen. 

“I certainly won’t.” The broad shouldered soldier said, “What if something lops me head off?” 

The party put a few coins together and bribed the simpleton to climb up, for he desperately needed money to woo a local maiden named Hildegarde Bonner. 

The man quickly scaled the rope, and climbed into the window, but soon there came a scream and a flapping of arms, and after a few seconds Terri rushed back down the rope. 

“A great big knight was stood right next to the window, he tried to lop me head off, what did I tell you! I nearly met me maker there!” 

After pondering whether to try another window, the party decided on going back down into the castles wine cellar. Down in the dark they had found a hollow barrel containing a ladder down into an unknown chamber. They marched onward, and the rope was swiftly pulled up by an unseen hand. 

They opened the large double doors of the grand entrance, and as before the gargoyles animated, laughing and clicking its finger. The party quickly went into the head butlers room, they searched around a little, and paid Terri to feel through an old musty butler uniform; he found a fine sovereign ring. 

Before going down into the wine cellar, the party decided to try and find a way into the secret door in the fireplace they’d discovered earlier. Up in the chimney there was the dried husk of a gentleman, his face stretched in a silent scream. They shot at this with an arrow, and it crumbled into charcoal. 

The Cleric Clyde probed the eagle cornices of the mantlepiece, and ‘lo and behold, the uniform square brickwork of the fireplace clicked and swung inward. Though who would go enter the smoky chamber? 

“Lets pay Terri to go in.” Such bravery. And with a few coins Terri went on into the gap. He reported back that he’d found the carcases of unknown beasts hanging on meat hooks. The party, disturbed by this finding, encouraged him deeper into the chamber. In he went, never to return. 

“Lets stick this chair in the doorway so it doesn’t close, maybe he will come back.” He didn’t. 

The party went down into the cellar. In a moment of madness a party member knocked on the arched door which led into the wine cellar.  

“Come iiiiin.” A sickly sweet voice called back from beyond the door. Pickles recognised the voice as that of Ambrosias the monk, whom he had met once before. Whoops, their cover was blown.  

The party went in and greeted the monk. 

“Is that Pickles, ah, my little lord, I’m so glad to see you’ve returned.” The portly friar was sat atop a cask, and turned dramatically. In the flickering lamplight the party saw his face, angry and swollen, one half of it melted almost to the bone. 

“Have you come to finish the job my little lord?” The bitter monk mocked. “Have you come to take the rest of my face!” Pickles realised immediately what must have happened. Last time he was down here, the party had got the monk so drunk he’d passed out, moments later they had inadvertently released an ooze creature from one of the casks. That ooze must have eaten the monks face! 

He peered at the party with his one good eye. “Come close my lad, won’t you come and make a toast with me? To health?” Pickles approached him, the party’s protestations echoing out behind him. 

“That’s right lad, all can be made right.” The monk took ahold of him, like a dog with a rag doll, and pushed his curly haired head down to the casks tap, the very cask containing the slime! “An eye for an eye! Now, let us turn the other cheek!” 

The party rushed to their small friends aid as the monk began to turn the tap. Arthur and Clyde launched onto the portly giant, pulling him down to the ground as Gwen loosed an arrow into his bulky gut. Within a few moments the half faced giant tossed them aside and had the halfling in his grasps once again, and pushed him down below the dreaded tap! 

Clyde took off his rucksack and stuffed it over Pickles face, hoping this would shield his face from the ooze about to be released. Arthur swung his mace into the dark friar, colliding with what must have been plate armour under his robes. 

Pickles, in desperation, grabbed his dagger and stabbed up into Ambrosias’ groin, blood splashing onto his wrist. The monk grimaced and cried out, grabbed his mace from his belt and without a moments hesitation smote the halfling with a few solid blows. Little was left of Pickles body, naught but a smear. 

“Now then my friends, with that nasty matter out of the way, lets introduce ourselves, I don’t believe I’ve met any of you?” The deranged holy man asked. 

Very tempestuously the party began speaking with the man, and very gingerly took up his offer of a toast. After some time the mad man became fatigued and departed for his abode. The party quickly filled their wineskins with some of the delicious brews he’d allowed them to taste. 

After a little ransacking, a new voice called out. A cleric named Donna had advanced down into the dungeon and introduced herself to the party. Onwards to glory! 

They opened the false cask and one by one climbed down. The chamber below had the faint smell of pine needles and mulch. A long set of stained stairs led deep, deep into the earth. The flagstone soon gave way to a natural cave system lined with many ancient and crude gargoyles depicting satyrs. The smell of forest became very overwhelming, and after descending the steep incline for what seemed like an age, the party came into a mossy natural cave. 

Empty wine bottles lay strewn about, chicken bones and other waste material as well. Then, a strange horned head poked out from the caves mouth. A gangly satyr introduced himself. He wore a small brown robe, and his hirsute face framed cunning, hungry eyes. He introduced himself as the keeper of the grotto, for his name would not be pronounceable to humans. The party talked at length with the strange being, offering him up almost all of their wineskins which he furiously downed with insatiable thirst.

Once he was placated with wine, the devilish creature told them that he was enemies with a fiendish cult in the woods. Woods? The outside of the cave itself was most strange, a vast woodland below a pink hued sky, lit by a single purple star. The creature then started sniffing the party, convinced that he could smell the evil of the cultists on one of them; Gwen. Arthur convinced the satyr that her smell was only from exposure to the evils upstairs. 

That was when the parties new friend wanted to blow his pipes and pipe a ditty, but worried by the consequences this might bring Arthur opted to sing him one of his lovely hymns instead. Soon the creature was off to sleep. 

With the beast snoring Gwen took it upon herself to try and steal its strange pipe, which one moment looked like a steel flute, then like a wooden set of pan pipes. As she touched it a ravaging cold wracked her body and she fell to the ground in pain. 

As the flute fell to the ground it became a piece of wood and began rapidly growing roots. The party scooped this up into a bag and fled back up the stairs into the cellar, where they refilled their skins and made off with their treasures. 

Later on the flute had grown to a small sickly olive tree with eight red fruits. In town they had these identified, and were told they might have health benefits. 

What will they do next? 

A Book Deal

Characters

Mirella the witch – MU 1 – 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. 

Ferdinand Scheller – Fighter 1 – another Halberdier, equally tall, and equally well built. 

Karl – Archer – An Ostlander and comrade of Ferdinand. 

Ugine – Heavy footman – follower of Mirella. 

Baistaine – Light footman – follower of William. 

Arthur – Cleric 1 – a weak armed bible beater. 

---

The party marched out to Xyntillan keen to return to it’s basement and the wine casks they found there. 

Arriving in the early evening, they decided to make their camp in the outskirts of the castle, in the woodland.  William took the first watch. Ferdinand and his buddy Karl the second. But when it came to Pickles the halflings turn he saw some torchlight approaching the camp. 

He quickly woke his friends, who made their way north, deeper into the woods. Pickles remained behind, using his smallness to his advantage, hiding in a bush. Four armed men and a dwarf were led into the camp by turban a wearing mage magus. They were speaking in a language Pickles couldn’t understand, but the hiding Mirella nearby recognised the mage as Vusorin Zaa, someone who had been looking to steal her spell book. 

Brave William took his steed Sunshine to the west out of the wood, a cunning plan was forming. 

Zaa’s men scoured the camp, looking for footprints or evidence. Then, from the South came a clambering racket and shouts of “Quickly, lets get away!” 

It was William, and he was trying to lead the evil party away. Zaa took the bait, he and his men marched south with their weapons drawn. William led them on a merry chase, quickly outrunning them through the dark and into another woodland. Whilst charging his steed through the woods he saw in the distance a wide open fire and men figures around it. Possibly bandits, he considered. 

Whilst this was happening the rest of the party moved east out of the wood and tried to circle around, hoping to flank Zaa and his troupe. But after thirty minutes of movement, they couldn’t not find him. 

William, darted into another piece of woodland, hoping to make it back to his friends without encountering any nastiness. He happened upon Zaa’s men hiding, but with a quick lash of Sunshines reigns was away. 

After this midnight runaround the castle the party made another camp and waited for dawn. 

The rosey sun emerged and they marched to the Grand entrance. They recognised the two gargoyle statues, and anticipated the animation of them when they opened the doors. The gargoyle on the right laughed mockingly, the left statue animated and clicked its fingers. 

They opened the doors, praying not to find the ghostly butler they happened upon last time. It seemed that they were in luck, so they moved to the eastern door, where last time they found the cellar door. 

Ferdinand bravely opened the door. But was surprised when a cackling laugh in the room erupted, and a green vaporous hand came through the door itself and tried to grab him. 

“Flee!” 

As the party marched backward defensively to the door, a melee erupted. The ghost butler raved madly about his precious papers, a list of enemies, that had been stolen. Indeed, the party had destroyed these inadvertently on their last expedition. 

Arrows were loosed, holy water was thrown, but alas, not a single blow struck true. As Ferdinand was touched by the ghost and drained of all youth, his withered husk fell to the stone floor with a puff of dust. Karl was next to feel the cold touch of death, then the retainer Ugine. Lo’ death, thou art tyrannous. The rest of the group ran as fast as their legs could take them. 

“Well that wasn’t a very profitable.” 

As they took a quick breather a merry cleric named Arthur arrived, on the look out for high adventure. 

“Good thing you’ve arrived, our numbers were recently thinned.” 

With no thief in the party, and no grappling hook, the party desperately wanted to get up to the second floor window, where long ago they collected tapestries. They tried to fashion a grappling hook from a rope and crowbar. They tossed this up, failing miserably, it even bounced from the stone and tumbled onto their heads. One toss struck the glass, but found no purchase on the window frame. 

“Lets go over to that gazebo.” They were referring to a large outbuilding they’d only seen from afar. They moved towards it. But, who would come marching out of the trees, only that dreadful wizard Zaa and his goons. 

“Shall we fight?” 

“We should run.”

“They outnumber us, a fight would be death.”

“I’ll go. It is my spell book they want.” Brave Mirella said, and off she marched over to the evil party. After a bit of banter back and forth, she decided to hand over her spell book into the groping fingers of Vusorin Zaa. 

“We’ll get him back some day.” Mirella’s friends comforted her. 

William swam his horse across the wide river, toeing a rope and fixing this to a tree. The rest of the party swam along this line and they had crossed the river towards the strange stone gazebo. 

As they walked towards it, they witness a long necked creature rise up from the bleak waters of the lake. It swam towards them, its needle toothed maw slavering with hunger. The party fled inland, towards the structure and into safety. 

The structure was a six columned open aired gazebo, each pillar was carved into a shape. A saracen, a templar, a monk, a belly dancer, a djinn and a satyr. In the centre of the pavilion there was a bronze statue of a piping goat headed satyr, women swooning at its feet, oxidised green with age. It stood on a large plinth. The party toyed with the structure for some time before deciding to sing to it, this caused the statue to animate and pipe a strange musing. The plinth popped open and inside was a large gilded gondola and a chest. In the container were six emerald robes, simple goat shaped masks, and a clerical hand bell. 

“Take it all and lets get out of here.”

And so they did. What will they do next. 

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. 

---

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? 

A pale horse

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

William – F1 – A roaming nomad warrior, scruffy and brave.

Kromor – D1 – no ordinary Dwarf, he was raised by humans, eager to learn their ways.

Cythraul the Elf – E1 – has recently given up the scholarly life to test their skill with steel. 

Vito Beer – HF – a serious fellow, his gear meticulously maintained. 

Theo, Ramon & ol’ feller – NH PM – two dirty orphans and a pack mule. 

Timothé – NH – this porter is from a well bred merchant family. 

Serge – NH – a local tanner, looking to make some money on side due to a new, much younger wife. 

Balvier the Bear – F1 – imposing knight upon a barded warhorse.

---

The party marched up the mountain pass to Xyntillan once again. Once in the vicinity of the castle they decided to get to the nearby woodland and camp until dawn. However, as they moved along the pass, they saw a dark figure upon the bridge. A cowled figure bent forward, mounted on a dark charger. The figure was absolutely still. As they grew near, the figure stutteringly animated and began to sit upward, lifting its huge lance. 

The party fled away into the woods. Night soon fell, and they resigned themselves to waiting and watching if this broody figure would leave. During the third watch of the night the figure did indeed ride back into the castle. 

At dawn the party left little Theo and Ramon in the woodland with their sturdy mule and made way to the gatehouse. 

They assumed that they could gain ingress as easily as before, but as they moved through the gate, three skeleton sentries jumped out and attacked. The party dealt with them quickly enough, cutting them down without injury. They noticed something different inside the northern tower, the archway they usually passed through had been modified. A brick corridor has been added to its face, capped with what looked like a new door. The party decided against trying it and began to move through the courtyard. 

As they passed through they heard a cackle from atop the rose garden parapet. Stood there was a misty grey figure. A translucent crone. She laughed maliciously and green streams of mist came off of her. She began to float towards the party. Timothé the porter and Vito Beer the heavy footman lost their bottle at the sight of this wretched crone – they fled. 

Mirella decided to try speaking to the ghost. It asked for six hundred gold pieces for a specially brewed poison. The party didn’t have that on them. 

“Well, how about a palm reading for two hundred and fifty pieces?” 

Nope. Well, the crone didn’t look too happy about this and floated across the courtyard and into the stable barracks. The party began to pass through the courtyard, making use of a few overgrown thickets for cover. 

Eight skeleton sentries emerged from the barracks, the crones voice calling after them with directions to skin the interlopers. The party hid in a hedge – for a very long time – and eventually the sentries moved away on the hunt.

The party peered inside of a few embrasures of the castle proper, seeing nothing but strange drifting streamers. 

Our heroes gingerly approached the interior gatehouse doors. They swung into an arched gate lined with murder holes and embrasures. They passed a through a southern door inside the gateway. This led into a network of narrow turning corridors. Kromor the dwarf took the lead, carefully trying each door in turn, and peeking inside before making a decision to go in. One door was full of steam and a wretched stench. One opened up into a long corridor to the east. Another into another network of corridors. In an alcove there was a large stone statue of a zombie, its hands thrown out as if asking a question, its face slack and vacant. William placed a gold coin in its hand to no effect. 

To the south came the loud the banging of steins and the loud drinking songs of countless voices. This came from a large open hall, where a faint light cast eerie shadows along the walls. The party didn’t want to go there, so they opted for the network of tight corridors. 

Eventually they came to a vaulted room filled with rotting military standards, a bed, a desk and a large trunk. They looked through this, finding some interesting military stratagem written on old vellum, a halberd, two great swords, and inside the trunk an ornate set of plate mail of great antiquity. There were also two unidentified flasks of liquid.

The party quickly grabbed this and dashed back to the entrance. 

“Shall we risk another door?”

“We’ve been so lucky with them so far.”

“It would be a shame to not try the corridor next to the entrance.”

“Lets take a look!” 

Kromor led his friends down the corridor as quietly as they could. At the door he peeped inside. He saw nothing, but he heard the heavy footfall of many men. A plethora of hushed voiced speaking in a strange ragged dialect. The only one who understood the talking was Mirella the Witch, being of chaotic alignment. 

“But lord, the ceremony calls for the blood of twelve virgins.”

“Yes sire, the full moon comes with haste. The darklings will need their feeding.”

Then a commanding voice cut through the rest, causing the footfall to cease temporarily. 

“Children of the Dark, worry not, for the town of Tours-en-Savoy shall sate our requirements, as it always has done. Now go below, into the dark, and begin the psalter of shadow.” 

The footfall commenced towards the party. Kromor quickly closed the door and hammered several pitons under the door wedging it closed. 

They rushed as fast as they could back to the courtyard. The door behind them suddenly banging. 

“Go, go, go!” 

Once into the courtyard they saw four skeletal sentries at the main gatehouse. The party once again dashed into the hedges. 

“Lets distract them!” 

In turn the party tried to cast stones and arrows to the north of the sentries, hoping to distract  them away from the door. Alas, the skeletons caught sight of them popping up out of the bushes. 

Combat began! The party made quick work of them however and after a few loosed arrows and a couple of swings of the sword, the wretched undead were slain. 

They rushed back to camp, packed up and began making their way to town. 

After four hours on the road, making good way down the pass, William looked over his shoulder and saw a black figure come riding down the path towards them, a dread stallion huffing smoke, the black armour of the knight drinking in all light. 

The party grabbed their pole weapons. William, Cythraul and Kromor set their spears for the charge that was about to come. Balvier mounted his own steed thirty feet back, with the order to charge the dread knight once it was engaged. 

Down the pass the dread knight charged like flowing lava. The party loosed some arrows, but not one found purchase. 

Then, it was upon them. 

“Hold! Hold!” 

The dark figure came thundering like a bleak storm, its undead steed trailing black smoke. The lance lowered. The red eyes of the rider fixed on Cyrthraul. As the powerful bulk of the horse crashed into their line the lance of the dark rider struck true, killing the elf immediately. Kromor and William drove their spears into the mount. 

“Ye who destroyed the masters mirror must gain thy reward; death.” The dread knight said in a cold whispering voice. 

At that, Blavier the Bear came charging in with a ‘Dues Vult!’ His lance struck true, driving the rider from its saddle. As the armour fell to the ground the skeleton of the rider turned to dust, and in an instant the mount also disintegrated into dust, leaving only a paranormally cold set of black plate mail on the ground. The party decided to leave this alone, gathered up their fallen comrade and marched back to town. Happy knowing that they had defeated a dread champion of Castle Xyntillan. 

What will they do next? 

In a glass darkly

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. 

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

Gottlieb Scheller – F1 – A tall, well built, and bearded halberdier. 

Ferdinand Scheller – F1 – another Halberdier, equally tall, and equally well built. 

William – F1 – A roaming nomad warrior, scruffy and brave.

Kromor – D1 – no ordinary Dwarf, he was raised by humans, eager to learn their ways.

Bud + Lou – NHd – Mirella’s two hounds, kept on a tight leash. 

Ol’ feller – William’s sturdy pack mule. 

Théo + Ramon – NH – two dirty orphans, paid by William to care for ol’ feller. 

The weeks downtime in the town of Tour-en-Savoy had been long and eventful. Whilst a few of our heroes had taken bed rest to heal their wounds, the thief Fripon had kept himself very busy. He had been gambling at the Tap, a seedy bar outside the town walls. There, he’d almost lost one hundred gold pieces in a game of cards with a dashing rogue names Romeo. Just when all was lost, the thief decided to grab his gold and run. A posse were soon out looking for him. Fripon’s companions saw little of him the rest of the week, but heard him coming and going at the late hours of night. 

Two days before their departure to Xyntillan there was a large scene at the Inn of the Black Comedian. A man came bursting in with a terrible story. Dreadful bugs had descended on him and his party in the outskirts of Castle Xyntillan. These bugs had made his allies terribly sick, within a day they were all dead. Strangely the man himself was untouched by the bugs, he put this down to his medicinal bag of barn-weed. Fripon made sure that he quickly jaunted off to the local apothecary to secure these materials. He returned soon after with small canvas pouches supposedly filled with barn-weed. Fripon’s allies took them, with no reason to distrust the thief, and also made sure to follow the apothecaries supposed instructions; to sleep with the pouch under their pillow. 

And so the party set off on the two day march up the mountain road to Xyntillan. To seek treasure and glory. They all slept with the barn-weed under their pillow. Alas, some of the party did not sleep well. Gottlieb had a terrible and surreal dream. He had been walking a basalt cliff face. Beyond the cliffs’s edge was neither sea nor sky, but an empty void in which the moon hung massive and luminous. Whilst there he had met Jaumon Malévol, the sly warrior they had met last time at the castle, and who they had made a deal to help find treasure. 

The second night Grit had a very similar dream. Once they reached the castles periphery, they camped as they have done the last few visits. Surely with their barn-weed pouches they would be safe from bugs. They slept with them under their pillow. Gottlieb again was visited by the dark Jaumon in the dreamlands, being threatened that if they did not summon him as per their agreement, he would haunt them all in their dreams forever. 

The party decided to follow the instructions of the Dreamwirght. The note they had received from him told them to intone his name thrice, and to breathe deeply the roses of the courtyard. 

At dawn the party snuck through the central gatehouse, went into the collapsed northern tower, and crept through the gardeners room they had found before. Onto the vaulted parapet rose garden they went. 

Mirella, ever the wise, took her hounds up to the roses, whose beds were littered with corpses, and got Lou the hound to sniff the roses. Almost immediately the hound fell asleep. A trap! The party quickly moved to the east of the parapet, looking to gain ingress into the castle through another door. Alas, it was stuck. Kromor pulled out his crowbar, “I’ll clear a path!” 

Then, with a moan, the body parts strewn throughout the mud began to writhe. An arm lashed out at the sleeping dog, wounding it, but also waking it up. 

“Get that door open!” 

With a few good lever points the door was cracked open. Kromor smiled in victory, turned around to only see that three of his party had fallen asleep. The heavy fragrance of the rose garden was poison! William, Gottlieb and Fripon were all snoozing like babes amongst the lush flowers and writhing body parts. 

“Drag them in, now!” And so they did. The party took a few moments to catch their breath. They were in a dank chamber with three doors. 

Then, with a puff of black smoke, Gottlieb the halberdier suddenly transformed during his slumber. Laying in his place, fully awake, was Jaumon the Dreamwright. Jaumon stood up, wiping off his silk hose and jerkin. 

“Well then ladies and gentlemen, shall I lead you to this treasure?”

The party were utterly shook. Where was their friend and brother?

“Gone forever I’m afraid, lost on the high seas of the Dreamlands. Now, do as I say or I shall do the same to you.” 

Utterly intimidated, unsure whether this Dreamrwright could indeed send them permanently to the land of nod, they decided to follow his instruction. They woke up Fripon and William. 

“We are moving into a very dangerous part of the Keep, the abode of the master. Even I am not permitted here. Not without permission at least. Keep your wits about you and we shall soon be rich.” 

The plan was to steal a bejewelled necklace from a magic mirror. Jaumon led them North, through a long corridor, a desolate room, and then to a large ornate door. The door’s frame was decorated with cherubs with skull heads, all foiled in gold. The party went in, creeping. Unlike the rest of the keep, which was a mainly stonework walls and flagstone floor, this part had plush red carpets, walls of white columns and fine wallpaper, and the high vaulted ceilings had frescos of angels acting with malice or in obscenity. 

They went up a grand staircase. Jaumon told them to move quickly, they could not stay still long, and to avoid the sining at all costs. They did indeed hear singing coming from the East, where they saw a huge double door that was glowing with runes.

Kromor followed instruction and opened a door at the north. Inside he saw nearly two dozen undead figures leering. “Sod that!” 

“Get inside! Get away from the singing!” Jaumon insisted. So in they went nervously, expecting a great battle. But to their surprise the figures appeared partially melted and totally still. The stench of paraffin lingered in the room. All of the undead figures were wax works. Phew. 

The next room was lined with bottles with a fighting dummy in the centre of the room. A bottle flew off the wall into the dummy. 

“A poltergeist!” Mirella cried. The party rushed through. 

In the next corridor they saw a path leading to the south. A great doorway lined with skulls. Scythes, blades, and a handle with a large hole at it’s centre. A sign above the door read ‘The masterpiece of death.’ 

“Would you like to give it a try?” Jaumon asked. 

“Get lost!” 

So the party were led east, around a few winding turns until . . . 

“We have arrived. The masters collection of magic mirrors. Go in quickly, and snatch the necklace from one of them.” 

They went in and Grit looked into one of them. He saw himself and his party reflected, only they were all headless. He felt compelled to flee, but managed to steady himself. The two hounds however, Bud and Lou, began shrieking and howling and fled in terror. Mirella held on tight to their leads and was dragged down the corridor. Ferdinand and Kromor came to her aid. They managed to hold the dogs at bay, but couldn’t calm them down. They tried food, and a firm finger wag, but alas the dogs had to be released, and so they tore off into the depths of the castle never to be seen again. 

Inside the mirror room, with Jaumon yelling hurrying encouragement beyond the door, the party began exploring. 

Fripon found a large revolving door. It was segmented with just enough space for one person to pass through at a time, each side of the door had a large ornate mirror. Into the carrousel Fripon went. On the other side he found another hallway lined with plush red carpets. An exit?

William approached a mirror. Within he saw a fine ballroom filled with dancing spectres. He began to hear music. Soon he felt as though he were beyond the pane of glass inside the room. A fair maiden wearing a white gown floated towards him, offering a chalice filled with deep red wine. William tried to turn away and leave. The maidens comely smile twisted into a hateful grin. All the dancers froze, turned and leered at William with malice. With a great amount of will our hero pulled himself from the scene and back into the mirror room, and without a seconds contemplation struck the mirror with his weapon. It shattered and erupted with blood. 

Grit began searching behind and around the frames of the mirrors, daring not look inside of them again. Soon enough he found a small alcove with a sliding door. He took the mirror off the wall and slid it open. Inside was a fine banned chest with a brass lock depicting two satyrs. Finally a score. 

At the same time Kromor found the mirror with the necklace on the other side. Jaumon became enraptured, and encouraged them to grab it. The party however began harassing the Dreamwright. 

“What if we just throw him into the mirror instead?” They laughed. 

“Fripon, do your masters bidding and grab the necklace!” Jaumon cried. 

Fripon, who had just emerged from the rotating door lunged at the mirror, pushing his hands beyond the glass to grab the emerald encrusted necklace, but then looked up to find himself trapped on the other side of the mirror. Down by his feet were several skeletal husks. 

“Damn it Fripon, you useless cur! Another one lost to the mirror realm.” 

The party began to encircle the Dreamwright, combat seemed imminent. They began to grab their weapons, but the dark lord had the initiative and fled at full pace into the castle. 

“This is not the last you’ve heard of Jaumon the Dreamwright!” 

The party decided to flee through the rotating door, into what they believed was the same hallway they had passed earlier. One by one they rushed through, until the surly Dwarf Grit tried his luck. 

Inside the carousel, Grit’s reflection stepped out of the mirror and grabbed a hold of him. The struggle between the dwarf and his evil clone pushed the door backwards, back into the mirror room where the two dwarves began scrambling and fighting. Grit had also been carrying the mirror with a trapped Fripon inside who watched from the frame in horror, unfortunately this was dropped to the ground where it shattered. Inside the mirror realm Fripon watched in horror as the world around him cracked, splintered and then collapsed around him like a crumpling sheet of paper. A painful way to die. 

At this moment, those on the other side of the rotating door realised that this was not the hallway they had visited before. 

“Grab the chest, retreat!” 

And so they all fled, back the way they came. In the waxwork room Ferdinand was almost accosted by two waxworks that suddenly animated, but his quick footwork kept him alive. 

Out and down they ran; down the stairway; out through the golden door; all the way to the parapet and the courtyard; with a long run they made it all the way back to the woods, where Théo and Ramon camped with the mule. 

“Why are there two Grits?” The orphans asked with worried faces. 

“What are we going to do about this?” The party pondered. 

They couldn’t tell the two apart. As they started probing and questioning, one of the grits leapt at the other. They wrestled and grappled across the wooded camp, one throwing the other onto the ground, mounting him and began trying to hammer his head in. Mirella tried splashing both with holy water, to no avail. Then Mirella tried pulling out the hair of each, but both seemed real, they were identical in every way. How would they know which was which? There was not enough time to figure it all out, as one of the Grits hammered the others head into a bloody pulp. Once the Grit was dead, the surviving one blinked out of existence. 

“Well at least we have the chest.”

Inside they found a pile of gold and two fancy gloves embroidered with scythe shapes on the back. They lugged all this, and their dear friends corpse back to town. 

What will they do next? 

To sleep, perchance to dream

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

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. 

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

Bosco – MU 1 – an obese and unhealthy middle aged mage, who hopes acting as porter can help him shed some weight. 

Gottlieb Scheller – F1 – A tall, well built, and bearded halberdier.

Rahir Casq – T1 – This nimble fingered thief might pretend to be clumsy, but ’tis only a ruse. 

Bud + Lou – NHd – Two hounds, kept on a tight leash. 

Later – 

William – F1 – A roaming nomad warrior, scruffy and brave. 

Our adventurers made good headway into the basin of Castle Xyntillan. The sun was low along the mountain ridge, so once again they decided to make camp overnight. They searched out a quiet scrub of woodland close to the waters edge, a place where they could keep watch over the comings and going of that evil place without attracting attention. No campfires then, committed to taking only treasure, and leaving only footprints. They divided up the nighttime watches between them and settled in. They witnessed little movement down below except for a single circumambulation of spearmen around the outer moat. Skeleton sentries? If only there were more light to see them by. 

There saw another murmuration of large winged creatures around the Donjon, but except for this the place was eerie quiet. 

Pink morning light rose like a saviour, glistening across the crystal waters and setting the treasure hunters eyes into a squint. 

Leifr had spent some time drinking at the Tap the week before, a seedy little taproom outside the city walls of Tour-en-Savoy, and he had collected some tales there about a legendary thief named Sim the Quick. Sim was said to be a master thief, and famous ballad singer, and a few summers ago had stolen a great bounty from Xyntillan by climbing the wall and into one of the windows. As he recounted this to his allies, they hatched a cunning plan to try this strategy themselves. 

“We’ve had enough of the dangers of the courtyard. Let us climb up and make way through yonder window pane.”  The south portion of the castle was dominated by a huge three levelled gothic barbican, and high above there were several stained glass windows. The first of which at least forty high. A fall from such a height was sure death, but in their experience the courtyard was also deadly. 

Rahir Casq and Fripon were up to the challenge. What an odd pair too. One all gangly and crooked, the other short and stump fingered. They hardly looked as though they could make the climb. They were confident however. 

So the party marched towards the castle, and as they did the witch Marella pipped up, clutching the leads of her two new hounds. She had bought them from a leper in town. They wouldn’t be able to climb any wall. 

“We’ll deal with that when we get there!” 

So off they marched, reaching the barbican’s root in no time. No-one was about, the coast was clear. Up the walls the two thieves climbed, with nothing but the gaps in the masonry for handholds. Several slips, and plenty of sweat, and they had climbed up to the first two of the stained glass windows. One depicted a large rose with blooded thorns. The other, a knight skewering a dervish upon his lance. There were some lights inside, several candles maybe, the light was obstructed in several places. Pillars perhaps? The wind was rushing below them, the frigid mountain air cutting across their backs. Their allies waited below, covering their brows from the morning sun. 

Rahir took hold of the lintel stone, a rough gargoyle face, and with his free hand tried to push some of the stained panes inwards. But he pushed too hard and shot through the entire window. Glass sprayed in every direction loudly. Pieces of cut glass and lead fell inwards and downwards. A single shard struck the dwarf Leifr in the forehead down below, a blow that might have easily taken his eye.  

Fripon clambered in after his friend, who sat up and dusted shards of glass from his gambeson. They’d found themselves in a grand library. A huge marble fireplace was ahead of them, and in the ceiling was a large octagonal balcony. The library was two tiered, and stacked with many shelves of books. 

The thieves quickly secured a rope and were about to throw this down when a swarthy figure dressed in silk hose, jerkin, and fancy plumed hat entered through the spiral staircase next to the fireplace. 

“My, my, my, look what the cat dragged in.” He rubbed his devilish goatee. The man fingered a fine rapier at his waist. The thieves threw down the rope and began talking to the man. He seemed quite impressed with their ‘nimble fingered exploits.’ Climbing all the way up to the library was no small feat. He made them an offer. He told them that he knew of some fabulous treasure locations in the castle. Knew the castle like the back of his hand in fact, he was a family member.

“Jaumon Malévol, the Dreamwiright. Charmed.” 

During their discussion, several of the party began piling in through the small window. This seemed to tickle the dreamwright. He finally took the offer of one third of the treasure he could lead them to. He told the party he would leave a note in the north tower of the ruined gatehouse, with further instructions. And with that, he went his own way. 

Mirella the witch finally entered the room. Her two dogs had been tied to the bottom of the rope, all the way at the bottom. An alarm system, incase something tried to climb up. 

The party searched the library for anything of worth. The library was mostly full of light reading; romance novels, travelogues, poetry. Yuck. Rather than go up to the second tier of the library they decided on moving east, through a very large hallway and into a grand feasting hall. The place was a font of military regalia; decorative shields, a full harness of plate armour stood pridefully on guard, and many banners and tapestries lined the walls. The contents of the feasting table however were not so fine. It held bones, animal and human, along with greasy plates of eyes, jelly and offal. Disgusting. But those tapestries would fetch a fine penny. So the party began pulling them down from the walls. 

All except Rahir who moved to the eastern hallway, ever on watch for enemies. Beyond the archway was a staircase, a door, and on the right he saw a large noble bust of a templar. The bronze plate below it read Médard Malévol the Mighty. Looking in his eye he felt some sort of strange power come over him. 

As the party were tugging down banners they heard a cry from the hallway. “Deus Vult! God wills it!” So loud was this that they began wrapping up the banners as quickly as they could, sure this would alert anyone nearby. And they were right to worry, for the northern doors burst in and several figures began shambling into the room. 

Rahir seemed possessed by some sort of force, he dashed headlong into the shambling figures whirling his blade. “Die infidel!” 

The rest of the party rushed as fast as they could towards the library, Mirella and Bosco carrying the huge folded tapestries. 

These figures came pouring into the feasting hall. Dressed in cravats and butler garb, their flesh hung loose and grey about them, except for their heads, which were totally nonexistent. One of these headless butlers grabbed the raging Rahir around the throat and within a few seconds squeezed the life out of him. His chokes of “for the Blessed ones,” soon silenced. 

The two dwarves, Grit and Leifr, took up a rear guard position, supported by the human warrior Gottlieb’s halberd. 

They backed up through the hallway and into the library as the shambling horrors swarmed on them. Leifr was grabbed about the neck, but he managed to cut down the undead thing, it’s black icy blood splattering his face. Grit and Gottlieb cleaved another. The rest of the band reached the library and began crowding the window. Fripon loosed a few arrows, blindly. Then Leifr was grabbed by the head, the rotting manservant dug its blackened thumbs into his eyes with crushing strength, the dwarves shrill death screams sent Grit and Gottlieb fleeing at full pace. 

Reaching the window, Mirella stood upon the ledge, and outside the window used her arcane power words to summon a strange floating disc. She grabbed a hold of the rope and slid down, burning her hands and legs in the process. Fripon leapt onto the disc with the tapestries as it began rapidly descending after the witch. Gottleib leapt out also, hoping to join the thief, but he landed heavily and sent the disc spinning in a corkscrew. He couldn’t hold on and fell crashing into the wall of the castle and down to the floor, landing heavily, and brutally, but somehow still alive. The rest of the party descended the rope quickly. But as soon as they landed, those loathsome creatures began tugging up the rope, with the two dogs still attached! Gottleib, struggled to his feet and with a rending blow from his halberd cut the rope, saving the dogs from a nasty lynching. 

A stranger then approached, a strapping young nomad named William. 

“I’ve come here seeking treasure and saw you ascending the rope.” The gang happily accepted him into their ranks, but before they got fully acquainted, there was one minor issue. 

“Flee!” 

The party charged into the thickets that surrounded the castle and lay waiting for around thirty heart pumping minutes. No-one approached. Dare they make another run for it? 

“The Dreamwright’s note!” Of course, any information on treasure was far to valuable to leave behind. So the party snuck towards the gatehouse. Fripon the nimble declared he would scout into the tower and find the note. He was both quick and silent, he could do the job. The party agreed. He slipped inside and for around ten minutes the party held their breath next to the gatehouse bridge.  Finally the thief came out smiling and waving a flap of paper. It bore directions on how to summon the Dreamwright the next time they came to the castle. 

And so, tapestries and note in hand, they marched for four days back to Tours-en-Savoy. What will they do next?