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? 

Party: 

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

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

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

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

Grit – D1 – a grubby warrior, impatient, but open to trying new things. 

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

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

Game date: 27th March 1501

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What will they do next?