DreamLyrics™ Play-by-Post Forums Hall of Fame - Latest Top 10 completed games HHE: The Haunted Helm HHE1: Prologue

A gibbous moon shone down through the warm summer's night.

The lathered flanks of the white horse heaved.

The stars above drifted in a sea of midnight blue with still ripples of violet.

The horse's hooves chopped at the dry, cracked earth earth as it galloped.

On one side of the trail was the forest, dark and blurred, to the other side was a sheer drop; the cliff face down to the calm, glinting sea.

Snorting, chomping at the bit, the white horse ran wild, saddled but riderless.

White fury through tranquil moonlight.

Beyond the woods were terraced fields, like unruly steps of fine but hardy crops, growing atop the cliffs. At the timberline flickered magical lights, where the fairy folk played under the eaves, dancing in moonbeams.

Beyond the terraces, further down, was a small town, built in a steep ravine, long-faced stone buildings vying for space on the crowded sides. From the top of the ravine, dominated by a crenelated tower, to the bottom, where a crude seawall enclosed a pebbled beach.

Fishing boats were drawn up for the night, masts lying alongside sweeps, nets and pots empty and piled up.

Perhaps it was the fishermen whose revelry in town competed with the mermaid song from the shore.

There were a few lights in town, both torches and lanterns, here and there, some in the street, some from behind windows. The town wasn't yet asleep.

One of the vaster islands of the Overworld drifted across the face of moon, high in the sky, casting the town into shadow, as if a cloud hewn from rock.

A cry went up from town gates that were rarely closed but always watched.

"A rider comes!"

A handful of guards rushed from the stone parapet and down into the street.

There was the neigh of a horse, as its hooves clattered onto the cobbled street and the men from the gatehouse closed in on it.

They wore brigandines in the town's colours. Some carried lanterns, some carried partisans.

Out came the moon again, and the white horse reared and kicked.

"No rider, seated, unseated or otherwise!?" Babbled one of the men-at-arms, trying to grab the horse's reins.

Its saddle was a light riding saddle, quilted with red cloth, over a brocaded blanket. The trim was in gold finery and it had the look of nobility. Bulging packs were lashed behind the cantle.

Another of the guards stood back uncertainly, "I know this horse! Tis Sir Edward the Red's palfrey. He came by here not a week ago, a knight errant so he was, from across the Bay.

"Said he was heading inland to the Titan's Elbow---"

"Then he was a damned fool! A curse has hung over that peak since the days of yore."

"Well his steed's no fool! Careful careful now..."

"Get in there! Grab its reins!"

"Careful!!"

Two of the guards lunged at the animal, grasping for any hand hold on its tack, but the white horse was bred for battle, dropping its head and shoulder-barging one of the men-at-arms. The man went skidding across the cobblestones, the studs on his armour striking up sparks.

The other guard's fingers hooked one of the packs and it came loose, and suddenly the street was showered with coins of gold and silver, gems and other treasures.

With the men-at-arms standing there flabbergasted, the palfrey bolted into the shadows further into town, the sound of its hooves echoing through the deserted streets.

The eldest of the company walked over to the scattered riches, his hand over his mouth. He bent and picked up a helm of dented steel, spotted with rust, an empty socket for a jewel and missing one of its ornamental horns.

"This helm was my grandfathers." Mutters the grey-bearded guard, before looking to the west, looking in the direction of a peak, some two day's ride away, the one called the Titan's Elbow.

From the west came a roar, carried on the still night. Birds were riled from their roost, the fairy folk fled into the darkness under the trees.

No-one in town knew what it was, or what the knight had done.

For D

It was a warm night in Shadow Port, when D slipped in through the window of his room on the third storey of Forfar's.

Forfar's, more commonly known as the Inn of the Last Call, was the first decent inn uphill of the docks. Its beds were clean and free of lice and the rats in its cellar weren't so monstrous that they needed hard-up heroes to battle them. It did a rip-roaring trade.

Having been out on business, D immediately noticed the waft of rotting fruit that had blossomed in his warm, upstairs room. Looking to his fruit bowl, only restocked by the innkeeper Forfar that morning, he saw the mass of grey-green fur and brown slime where his apples and pears had been.

And he knew that it meant only one thing...

The black cat stood up from D's bed and smiled--- Oh, it had green eyes, like those of most other black alley cats, but when it smiled it was like the lips drawing back on an ape. Its large, snaggled teeth were stained red from its last and apparently recent meal, in a mouth disturbingly human-like. It was a demon cat. D called it the Griefer, though as far as he could tell, that smile was entirely genuine. It seemed to like him well enough, but always spelled trouble for someone when it appeared.

Griefer licked his teeth and said, "There he is, the man his self, the ducker, the diver, the ne'er-do-well, the climber through of third-storey windows when there's a perfectly good door. Honestly, I wonder why you bother renting a room."

But as he always did, Griefer came bearing information, usually from Shadow Port but tonight from further afield.

Lady Morgen of Rosencliff had tired of the Emperor's seeming disinterest, and finally broken the Black Salties herself.

The Black Salties were a gang of lizardman pirates who had been plundering the coast for two years, carefully selecting their prey as if guided by some higher purpose.

Morgen had enlisted cannibal lizardmen from the Demon Coast to hunt the Black Salties down, and from what people were saying, there wasn't much left of the pirates afterwards except for chewed bones. Of course, with no decent food for leagues around, the cannibal lizardmen had happily been returned to the east.

Smiler thought D would want to hear this story, especially since they both knew the Salties were minions of the Black. And this Lady Morgen? Intriguing!! A woman who had come from nowhere, married into the nobility, whose doddering husband had popped his clogs soon after. A woman who was now making a name for herself at court, and who wasn't afraid to fight monsters with monsters.

An antagonist of the Black, a powerful ally? There was no doubt about it, D had to meet this Lady Morgen. Griefer suspected that might be the case, and left something for D on the bed. A small, smoked glass vial of what looked like crushed ice. Fire resistance, apparently.

"You might need it, sunshine." Said the demon cat, before leaping up onto the window, flicking his tail and disappearing into the night.

So be it, the first ship to Rosencliff then.

[[Add 1 of Potion of Fire Resistance]]

For Jexric

Jexric stood on the bridge over one of Glitterhaegen's many canals, leaning against the ornate stone balustrade and watching gondolas punt passed below. He gnawed at a steaming skewer. Bat on a stick, a speciality in this quarter of the city and well known for its ability to induce an ailment called the 'the flaps', 'the squeaks', or perhaps most accurately 'the bat s***s'.

But beggars couldn't be choosers, and Jexric was ravenous after a summer's eve performing in the cosmopolitan squares and arcades. It was in one such arcade, outside of the Golden Apple (a tavern as renowned for fencing artefacts as it was for pulled pork batches with apple sauce), that Jexric had regaled the crowd with A Round for the Prince of Shadows, a personal favourite that he'd added to extensively over the years.

As always there were too many students from the Flaemish School of Magic, stuffing their faces and uninterested in donating to a bard. But the some of the local, the regulars, the staff, they were buoyed. A waitress brought him a tankard of pale ale, and he was much obliged.

Jexric probably wished he had some now, to wash down the crispy bat.

Instead, a halfling drew up alongside him and offered him a hard mint. Jexric knew the man's name by reputation, though they weren't acquainted. Mr Longrim. He was neither long or grim, dressed in a very dapper black doublet with satin panels, gold and silver embroidery and a white ruff. A rich assortment of rings made his fingers clink. Yet for all that he wore a large, double-edged dagger with a fencing grip at his belt.

Once both men were wrapping their tongues around a hard mint, Mr Longrim said (in a remarkably deep voice for a halfling).

"It seems you have an admirer, sir. The Lady Morgen of Rosencliff offers you this... a token of her esteem for your repertoire."

A lustrous velvet bag with a drawstring, and inside was an equally lustrous pendant made from an orange pearl, iridescent with purple and teal.

"She regrets not being able to meet you in person. But should you happen to be in Rosencliff over the summer, she would be honoured if you'd perform as her guest."

The halfling gave Jexric a nod, turned to leave, but had one more thing to say.

"A word of advice, sir. Morgen never mixes business and pleasure. Indeed, with her it's always just business."

It took Jexric a while to realise the gift was a Symbol of Gathered Power. To call it a 'token' was actually a pretty good joke. He could feel its pull, its impulsiveness.

And that's perhaps why the bard was on the first ship to Rosencliff.

[[Add 1 of Symbol of Gathered Power.
Benefit: Recharge with full heal-up: During a short rest, you can regain an expended daily Adventurer-level spell.
Quirk: One-track mind.]]

For Zoltan

The lamp-lighters were out in the streets, a horse-drawn carriage thundered by over the paving.

Axis was the Capital of the Dragon Empire. It didn't sleep, it never even rested. Even as the last vestiges of sunset drew below the western mountains and night fell, the rhythm and pitch changed but the wheels kept turning.

Zoltan waited for the road to clear and crossed, under the timber portico and in through the doorway of the building beyond.

The Shoppe on Spar Street. It was the only one, and more like a warehouse inside and busy too. Burly labourers, mostly men and dwarves shifted wares and stacked shelves, and up on the mezzanine sat the gnomish clerks and scribes. The Shoppe was a wholesaler, trading in hard goods and paying in coin.

The hall was dusty, lit by hanging, barn-style iron chandeliers. The yellowy light they shed told Zoltan the flames were magic, illusions that were heatless and ever-burning. Coloured lights danced between crates, barrels and bales; fairy folk hunting rats. A large stone statue of a mace-wielding knight stood guard at the far end of the ground floor.

Zoltan took the creaking stairs up to the mezzanine and then through a door into the Shoppe's chambers.

Soon enough, Zoltan was stepping through another door into a long room with tapestried walls. A secretary sat at one end behind a bureau, and at the other end was an open fireplace and massive oak desk.

The secretary, a young woman with lustrous blonde hair, gave Zoltan an appraising look and said, "He's expecting you."

Zoltan walked the length of the room. The fire here was also magical and illuminated the man sitting at the desk, the Grandmaster of the Order of Averness. The back of his chair was carved with the laurel wreath, mace and sun, the Order's crest.

He was very tall and had the slightly stooped shoulders of tall men. But although old, beyond sixty, he looked hale and strong, with greying brown hair and craggy, distinguished features.

"The Order has another job for you, Zoltan." He said, pushing a bag of coins across the desk.

The Grandmaster went on to explain that the famed knight errant, Edwardias Pendry, aka Sir Edward the Red was rumoured to be missing, last seen in the fishing port of Rosencliff, on a quest to a nearby peak that local legend said was cursed. 'Red Ed' was an adventurer, knighted by the King of Meniscus; he was a fortune and glory hunter, but a brave and skilled warrior nonetheless.

The Order of Averness had fought against demons, dragons and the lords of the undead since the fall of the last age. They were monster slayers who chose the most intelligent and dangerous of foes, and as such they would achieve little by riding around as liveried knights. The Grandmaster wanted Zoltan to investigate Sir Edward the Red's disappearance, discover what (if any) monstrous creature was involved. To this end he would be partnered with another man. Someone trustworthy to watch his back.

The Grandmaster gave his secretary a disapproving look, then the same for the paladin.

"And Zoltan, do at least try not to offend the local magnate."

Zoltan had a ship to catch.

[[Add 25 gold.]]

For Weston

The gaoler opened the door slowly, cautiously, edging into his own gaol. His vision was impeded by the murky lamplight and the livid black eye, swollen shut on his face.

Behind him came the Grandmaster with far more confidence. He wore a fine jerkin and breeched hose, with a white, lace-cuffed shirt underneath, unfastened down to his chest. His cape was clasped by a brooch adorned with a crest; a laurel wreath, a mace and a sun. Apart from the sword on his belt, the Grandmaster was dressed like a man enjoying a ride around his estate, not visiting a goal.

"Release him." The Grandmaster said to the gaoler, pointing to a man sitting alone on the straw behind iron bars.

The gaoler mumbled, touching his black eye, but the Grandmaster gave him a quick look and the gaoler gulped, suddenly worried about his other eye.

With his ring of keys jangling, the gaoler unlocked the door and stepped back.

The Grandmaster shook his head in annoyance and tossed the gaoler a silver coin that spun and glinted in the ruddy light.

"Begone." Said the Grandmaster, and the gaoler ran.

The older man waited a moment, hearing the ironbound door close behind him, then walked over to the prisoner.

"Up you get, Weston. The Lord Mayor shan't be pressing charges, but it's a poor thing if that's best he can do for ridding his city of two more caitiffs!"

He placed a large burlap sack respectfully at Weston's feet.

"To this city you may be but a commoner, a rebel-rouser perhaps, but to me you are a man who won't stand idly by whilst evil is done.

"And to me, that puts you on the same standing as any knight."

Weston's arms, armour and equipment were in the sack, and had received a complete overhaul. His leather doublet had been sewn with plates and trimmed with chainmail, and there was further armour for his forearms and hands. His sword had been sharpened and the grip rebound with shark skin. Even his boots had been replaced with sturdy new 'crookeds', boots that were shaped to each foot.

And so was Weston's first meeting with the Grandmaster of the Order of Averness.

They both walked out into the balmy night as free men, talking of things they cared about.

The gaol belonged to the North-West Watch, their keep having one of the best views of the City of Axis outside of the inner curtain wall.

Axis at night was a city lit by streets of fire, oil lamps burning along the chaotic maze of thoroughfares and side lanes, allowing carriages to travel at full speed along the paved streets at all hours.

It was a noisy city, one that never slept, and the men could make out the Two Hills, one crowned with the Imperial Palace and the other with the Barracks of the Dragon Riders. The Bronze River flowed through from the west and looked like a mirror of the starry sky above.

The Grandmaster told Weston that he had need of a man like him.

Edwardias Pendry, aka Sir Edward the Red had been found, or at least his white palfrey had, in the fishing town of Rosencliff. The knight errant himself was more errant that usual, but his mount had been carrying bags of treasure from somewhere. The treasure had been seized and was not a concern, but the Order had received word that 'Red Ed' may have disturbed an ancient evil on a nearby peak.

That is where the Order of Averness came in. Thwarting ancient evil was their sole purpose, and they wanted to enlist Weston's help, if he was willing. He would travel to Rosencliff with a paladin named Zoltan, the kind of single-minded crusader who could do as much harm as good if left unchecked. Weston would be that check, and together they would investigate the rumours and find the answer to what had become of Sir Edward the Red?

So it was that Weston was soon bound by sea for Rosencliff.

[[MikeD receives a blank chit. At any time in the game, except in combat, you may cash this chit in for one of the following effects:
Succeed at a minor skill check
Receive a potion, scroll, rune or mundane magic item
Restore one recovery
Redistribute recoveries among the party with 1d4 losses
Most importantly, you have to describe how your relationship with the Great Gold Wyrm was behind this effect, perhaps through a flashback.]]

For Seyja

The orc leapt onto the man's back and sank its fangs into the base of his neck.

Another orc was engaging the dusky-skinned human from the front and took the opportunity to spear him in the stomach with a bloodthirsty roar.

Then both orcs were in turn stuck with arrows, one between the shoulders, the other in the face.

The archer, Mehzul, was shooting rapidly, using a flat bow and a thumb draw, as he fell back from the edges of the woods above and their orcish harrassers.

Farther downhill, Seyja dragged an old woman away from the fray. These people were not her people; they were gipsies, travellers who had befriended her, with whom she had shared many miles. Their caravan burned in the woods nearby, the smoke and fiery sparks curling above the treetops.

It was a summer night and it looked as though the fire was spreading to the grassy slope. Embers from the fire carried on the gusting wind from the nearby cliffs.

Seyja found cover behind a high tuft and tried to tend to the old woman, Lalleh. By the light of the stars, the barbarian could only see the glint of wet blood but feeling with her fingertips she perceived a deep wound, probably from an axe that had bitten into the old woman's chest.

"I never was much of a fortune-teller!" Lalleh wheezed.

Mehzul slew another orc with his bow and the others hesitated in the darkness under the trees, unwilling to step foot into the starlight where the gipsy might see them. Smoke hung low over the grass, where it blackened and crackled.

Then from the fire strode an ironclad figure, a suit of armour with a helmet for a head and carrying a massive, spiked mace. Humanoid, its head was literally an iron skull, crowned with spikes and without eyes or eye sockets. Hot black oil dripped, steaming from its nose holes and air seemed to hiss through its dagger-like teeth. It was forgeborn, but whatever demented dwarven wizard had created it, it now served the Orc Lord.

Its bearskin cloak smouldered at the hem and drew smoke behind it, as the Iron Skull bore down on Mehzul.

The archer's arrows glanced off of the forgeborn's armour, so he swapped to his scimitar, dropping the bow and charging. Sparks flew.

Meanwhile, Seyja was untethering the great axe from her back when Lalleh laid a hand on the barbarian's forearm.

"Now is not your time, Seyja. If you die here tonight, who will avenge us?"

Yet Seyja knew no harm would come to her. Of everyone on that benighted slope, she was perhaps the safest...

Mehzul had skill but was uncertain of the forgeborn's weaknesses. The forgeborn had no such disadvantage and lunged, stamping on the man's sandalled foot. Mehzul gasped, cursed and spat, and then the Iron Skull's mace smashed the gipsy's head from his shoulders, leaving only bloody tatters.

The ironclad snorted and inhaled deeply through its nose, treading over the man's corpse. It had no eye sockets but knew she was out there.

"I can smell you, Seyja. Give yourself to me, and will return you to a throne of carnage." It said tremulously.

Seyja gently closed Lalleh's eyes. The old woman had passed from the mortal coil.

The barbarian stood, great axe in hand, and for a moment stared at the blind forgeborn known only as the Iron Skull. His orc minions fell in behind him, with nets and lassos.

Some day she would have her revenge.

Then she turned and ran at full tilt down the hill. She saw the cliff-top and leapt from the edge without hesitation. Swallowed by the night, swallowed by the sea.

Beyond the waves, lanterns flickered at the bow of a ship bound for Rosencliff.

For Nestaron and Tindarien

After sunset, the sound of battle had dwindled and died like so many who had fought.

Some would call it a revolt, a petty rebellion against a petty king.

But not these people, who lay and sat around the starlit hillside in their droves, nursing their wounds and mourning their dead.

The open-cast mine was nearby in the darkness, its edge picked out by ensconced torches. But for the first time in a decade it was silent.

For the people of the Island of Meniscus, this had been their livelihood, digging the precious orium ores out of the earth, refining it and shipping it to the mainland.

But over the years streams and crops had become blighted, the meadows and woods stripped away, squalid camps growing around what remained of the villages, until the island couldn't survive without management by the Crown. Only the King's ministers could maintain the complicated trades that kept the islanders fed. Yet as the pit grew, the more of the island's riches were unearthed and the poorer and more wretched the miners became.

At first the people had suffered, but then the tremors started and the people knew that the nature was offended.

Nestaron walked amongst the people. It was touching really. After the blood was shed, he could see miners tending to dying King's Men and vice versa, like they were ashamed of what they done to each other. Villagers and miners had fought the King's Men to a standstill, yet weren't they all commoners and islanders? Wasn't this their home?

Something had broken that day, not just the invisible bonds that had enslaved the people, but the reign of the King.

The people quietly asked Nestaron to pray for them as he passed, respecting his vision and deeds. Raised voices drew the half-elf's attention up-slope. It was a warm, summer's eve with hardly a breeze. Sound carried.

Tindarien stood in animated discussion with a dwarf, and they nodded as Nestaron joined them.

The high elf looked refreshed from the battle, and his knapsack bulged with ore. The dwarf had only just arrived, Fuldroick was his name, a ranger and an odd sort. He always looked and smelled as if he lived in a peat bog.

"Tis reliable, I tell thee. It came straight from a fawn who heard it from a pixie. Nay, t'High Druid has felt a dying back on the Sword Point. She wants the both of thee on a ship!"

Fuldroick explained that Sir Edward the Red's mount had been found riderless in Rosencliff, seemingly returned from a nearby peak with bags of treasure slung across the saddle but no knight errant. Local legend said the peak was cursed, and since the knight's horse returned there had been an unease in the wilderness. Waterfowl and deer herds leaving, dead fish washing up on the banks of the river.

Fuldroick had to travel north at once (trouble at Boltstrike Pillar apparently), but he'd leave his apprentice in Nestaron's care. The half-orc was hunched over one of the nearby camp fires, spit-roasting a quail. He was a hulking lad of barely nineteen years, wispy fair hair covering his head, shoulders and arms, and perhaps six and a half feet tall. When asked what his apprentice was good for, Fuldroick shrugged and replied, "Carrying stuff."

Before the dwarven ranger departed, he handed Tindarien a vial, with a clap on the shoulder.

"Thought I'd forgotten, eh!? Here's potion I owe you. Mayhaps I'll see thee for t'Harvest Moon. Fare thee well."

Their work was done on the island, so Nestaron and Tindarien made arrangements for passage on a ship.

[[Nestaron gains a follower. You can name him, use a unique initial. He uses stats for a 1st level Orc Warrior and uses a jagged spear.
Tindarien adds 1 of Potion of Healing and Orium Ore]]