DreamLyrics™ Play-by-Post Forums Hall of Fame - Latest Top 10 completed games HHE: The Haunted Helm HHE3: The Invite

<Weston>

He had =known= of 'the games', but had never seen ... nor understood ... the attraction of people killing each other for 'fun'. He wasn't sure how this helped them either.

GM

Captain Achelus was one of the three Axesians in the room, but he was terrible with gladiator names. He was more of a racing man, and was a skilled horseman himself.

Thinking of horses, he was just about to broach the topic of mounts and pack animals when he noticed what everyone else had already noticed. The great hall was silent.

The songs birds had stopped singing, the black bears had stopped playing, and they all watched the table with dark, nervous eyes.

A rattle from the mystery treasure, coins and gems shifting. It was the helm sat atop the pile, moving. It rattled again, then was still.

Suddenly a thick cloud billowed from the helm, almost fluid-like, flashes of unnatural green light from within. There were cries of alarm. Weapons likely came to hand, people stepping back from the table. Achelus had his sword half-drawn, the Sergeant hefted his cudgel and even the farmer gripped his crook defensively in both hands, his lips trembling. How did you react?

The light in the great hall seemed dimmer some how, like a cloud passing in front of the sun. Balefire flared in the eyes of the helm and it rose from the table, the cloud taking on a pale humanoid form, like a robed figure adorned with a battered horned helm, an alabaster apparition.

You were reminded of your encounter with the Squall of the Dead earlier that morning.

A tremulous voice issued from the wraith, sounding as though it were two speakers, one deep and anguished, one sibilant, screeching and gleeful.

"Thou speakest the name of Gorulon the Gladiator, the Gorehound, Truncator, the Bloody Handed. The Greedy, the Selfish, Malcontent. Gorulon the Twice Cursed. Gorulon the Dead!

"Know thee that this helm was by him possessed in life and possess it he doth still.

"He who sacrificed life, he who sacrificed family, to seek a fortune that was not his to take.

"He who was cursed by his wife and who died on a cursed peak. This helm is his, and unto this treasure he lay claim.

"Return - Return it to its resting place by the next New Moon, or Gorulon and the damned that died with him will come and take it!

"Thou... hast... been... warned!"

Then the cloud seemed to flow in reverse, cascading back into the helm and it clattered to the tabletop. The sun seemed to come out, and the animals resumed their behaviour as though nothing had happened. And everyone else was left standing. No wraith, just the helm sitting on a pile of treasure.

So the Sergeant's grandfather was none other than Gorulon Gorehound. And New Moon was in three nights time.

Seyja


Relaxing from her fighting stance and returning her greataxe to an upright position, the haft end on the floor, Seyja grunted and almost growled, "Don't think much of himself, did he?"

Grammar and agreement of tenses apparently did not matter to her overmuch.

<Weston>

His sword was out as he listened to the schizophrenic monologue. He relaxed a bit when the apparition faded.

"Well I guess we know the cause of the problems", he said looking about the room for confirmation.

Tindarien

He meets Weston's gaze and responds quietly, lowering his hands which presumably had been ready to cast.

"So you think this curse, this smoke, killed the knight and polluted the waters? It is a theory certainly but then did the knight on his own speak out the gladiator's name? Maybe, maybe not. And did the curse strike him down? Then why not us now? I think there is yet more to this tale.. and those that lay claim to this hoard will have to decide if it is to be returned or not."

<Weston>

"Someone more familiar things like curses would probably know more. But it seems like the removal of the treasure triggered the problems and so returning it might stop the problems", he finished with a shrug.

Zoltan

"You realize", he begins softly. "If it is our intent to kill and put to final rest this, and other, Wraiths. We could just sit in the inn and drink and make merry for 3 days. They just promised to come to us."

He pauses, finally glancing at the Captain.

"As Tindarien just said. It is not our treasure to do with what we will. If your desire is to get rid of it and return it to the Elbow, and that act will bring me to where I can destroy undead, I can do that as well. It seems to be your choice."

Heilbutt

With his knuckles still white and gripping his fighting spear, the tawny-haired half-orc grumbled.

"I hate undead. Or any foe that does not bleed when I hit it."

Captain Achelus

"You Wake Islanders really are a bloodthirsty lot!" He said, still shaken by the manifestation.

Heilbutt

"I did not say I liked fighting or hitting anyone. Just that I like them to bleed when I do."

D

His reactions were a blur when the helm started to move. Black blades bristling from his hands like appendages.

Once the spectre had ceased it's comments the blades went the way they had come, vanishing.

D listened and waited for a moment before speaking for the first time since they had entered the Great Hall. "Unruly dead can present a problem such as we have seen here. But it would be my guess," he nodded his agreement to the other who had suggested it. "That we can remove the problem by seeking the source. Personally I would like to learn more of what is going on here for my own reasons. I suspect I will be of assistance in destroying the thing." Then in a soft voice he finished with "I have some knowledge of such a revenant."

GM

The Captain sheathed his sword, listening intently to the party. He liked what he saw of them, and what he heard made a lot of sense too.

There didn't seem to be a dullard amongst them and they'd reacted with far more avidity then he had when the wraith manifested. In short, Achelus felt this party was exactly what Rosencliff needed. He could see why the Order of Averness had chosen Weston and Zoltan to work together. They differed and were not a natural fit. In Achelus's experience, that was a boon in an investigation, as it prevented the investigators from jumping the same conclusion and then running rampant with it.

The half-elf Nestaron was an enigma to the Captain, but the Seneschal's ill manners had made the holy man more wary. Not to mention his followers. Two barbarians, a half-orc from the grim, storm-swept Wake Islands, and another, Seyja, looking like a mountain nomad both of whom seemed to be spoiling for a fight. The high elf, Tindarien, was astute and spoke without overt deference to Nestaron. If the Priestess hadn't sent these four, maybe they weren't bound by religious vows either. Whoever sent them, Captain Achelus believed that their intentions were good. Scoundrels would try a little harder to please.

He was less sure about Jex the Jester and the dark elf. Doubtless the bard was here to curry favour and gain patronage. Achelus knew the dark elf's type from his time as a constable, the type who'd walked the lower path for so long they looked out of place anywhere else.

Achelus took a moment to make sure the Sergeant and the shepherd, Irt, were sound. They weren't. They were badly frightened, which the Captain could understand, but he knew they'd master their fear if everyone else in the room could. Most common men were simple herd animals really.

When all was said, Captain Achelus sucked in his breath. Knowing his decision was awaited, he spoke up, "The truth is, I'm afraid none of this is my decision..."

Suddenly another voice, soft, yielding yet some how domineering, like the desert sands, "No!".

Eyes turned to the stone staircase leading up to a balustraded balcony. A woman stood there, gorgeous, dark, sultry. Her hair was worn immodestly loose, in long black tresses, that flowed down to a plunging neckline in a plain diaphanous gown. There were restrained two succulent breasts, two handers, that could captivate any red-blooded man. All on a womanly figure that barely crested five feet; small but exceedingly well formed.

This curvaceousness was also evident her broad cheekbones and soft pillowed lips. She would not be described as beautiful by any poet. They'd use other less savoury terms and best, or worst of all, she absolutely knew it.

She was in her late-forties and there was both experience and wiles in her sultry gaze.

"It is my decision." Said Lady Morgen.

Now you understood what the Captain had meant when he said the poor old baron hadn't stood a chance. He'd probably keeled over clutching his chest the first time he'd watched her take a bath.

The Seneschal emerged from the doorway behind her nervously.

"H-Her Ladyship, the Baronessa of Rosencliff!" He introduced formally.

As you sized her up, she did likewise to you with those deep, dark eyes. What did she see?

[Now's your chance to describe your character in words and introduce them formally.]

D

Those watching the dark elf carefully would note a visible change come over him. From the sneaky, no see em tenebrous elf to something entirely different. His back straightens, his arms hang down at his sides and his posture completely alters. His dark pale features take on a pleasant cast rather than the more sinister scowl that had been on them earlier. Though he says nothing immediately, it is clear that he understands how this particular little game should be played. In point of fact, it seems as if he is more comfortable with this visage than the one he had uncomfortably worn before.

This was the person he had been sent to meet. Now he knew why. She was someone much more dangerous than just a undying revenant. Though to his mind that was useful too. It was entirely possible he might learn something about who he really was, or who he had been, anyway.

When recognized even if with the slightest of eye contact, the dark elf offers a perfect and very formal bow of greeting. He did not, however, speak until spoken to. The lady was in charge and he was willing to offer her the respect that she commanded.

Tindarien

He looks up as the single word rings out. That word comes from one used to wielding power. He is not entirely sure what to make of her but for the moment at least, she deserves his respect.

"Tindarien, Baronessa."

Meeting her gaze he introduces himself, his manner suggesting more experience and wisdom than looked to be in his young frame. Not intimidated but showing a polite respect.

He stands straight, his bearing almost having a quality of its own. His clothes and armour are simple but of quality. He has a small crossbow strung across his back, a short sword at his hip. Grey green eyes appraise below a flock of silver white hair which despite its length does nothing to hide his elven ears. Slim and graceful, almost ethereal, he has all the marks of a high elf.

<Weston>

He was not the most imposing of figures, standing at 5 and 3/4 feet and about 175 pounds with short, probably self cut, brown hair. But when he moved forward to introduce himself, his strength and grace were evident. His features were not quite gaunt, but seemed indicated a 'hard' early life. His equipment supported that 'hard life' image. The longsword at his waist was not fancy and looked well used, but also well cared for. Similarly, the longbow across his back had seen it's share of battles. His chainmail had clearly been 'pieced' together from more than one set rather than purchased whole. But like his other equipment, it was well maintained. However, while he looked the part of someone able to take care of himself, he did not look to be the 'brute'. There was intelligence behind his green eyes and something else ... an unexpected intensity of purpose.

It was clear that he wasn't all that familiar with 'formalities', so he was prepared to let someone else suggest what was 'proper'. Tindarien gave him a pretty simple example to follow.

"Weston, your Ladyship", he said in a jovial tone accompanied by an engaging smile and a bow that was 'unpolished'. Clearly someone that had not spent any time in the world of the entitled.

Zoltan

He glances towards the stairs as the Lady Baroness makes her entrance. He stands easily in his armour. Weapons and shield strapped across his body. Hooded cloak pulled tight across his features.

Still it is easy to see he is staring. And not in awe or shock. Not even in respectful attention. Rather if any word could be used to describe his gaze, it would be appreciation. The appreciation of a male for a beautiful female. The whiteness of his teeth as his mouth splits in a smile shows from under the hood.

He nods casually. "Baronessa. A pleasure. Zoltan Molnar."

He stands roughly 6 feet tall. A muscular, lanky frame that moves easily. His skin, when he removes his cloak, is a golden bronze colour and his iris' are red and take on a sharp glow when he is angry. Two small horns protrude from his head, although they are often hidden by his hair, worn long, and almost always by his cloak's hood.

Seyja


She was not particularly impressed with the noblewoman, but when she glanced around at the others, it was obvious that - to varying degrees - they all were affected by her presence.

Seyja frowned, not sure how she should present herself.

"Seyja Banic, Lady," she said with a curt nod.

The barbarian warrior had medium ashen blonde hair, haggled off unevenly at almost shoulder length. She wore stained but well maintained leather armor and carried an impressive looking battleaxe. Comely without approaching an inordinate level of pulchritude, Seyja was muscular and agile looking. Even when standing relaxed, she somehow gave the impression that she was a coiled spring, ready to launch herself in any direction at the slightest impulse.

Heilbutt

At only five feet in height, the noblewoman didn't even reach his meaty shoulder.

His freckled face didn't flush as it had when meeting Seyja, and he seemed (much like Seyja) to be unaffected by Lady Morgen's presence. It wasn't that the half-orc was immune to a woman's charms. Far from it; at nineteen years of age, he found them irresistible.

But on the Wake Islands, men had a slightly different concept of attractiveness. Nothing more attractive than a woman who looked like she could beat you to a pulp! There was no fairer sex on those unforgiving islands.

Heilbutt stood behind Nestaron, but his eyes kept drifting towards the helm, in case it came to unlife again.

The half-orc was tall, six and a half feet tall and built like an ox. He had a fair complexion though, freckled, with fine, tawny hair and hazel eyes. With his heavy brow, sloped forehead, flat nose and strong jaw, there was no mistaking his orcish nature. And with his many ear-rings and armful of Behemoth tattoos, there was little mistaking his barbarian nature either.

He carried a short spear with a jagged, scalloped edge and wore a simple, knee-length woolen tunic with a drawstring neck. There was little else of note about him.

[Ghosted for Khamsin]

Jex

"Ah, twould seem you know me already, Your Ladyship, yet for me it is the first inducible pleasure.

"Jexric the Jester, at your service."

For some reason he couldn't put his finger on -- perhaps sincere graititude -- he felt his usual theatrical bow was inadequate. Instead, he placed his arm across his chest and gave a liegeman's bow.

He owed the woman that. After all, she had given him a fine gift; the pendant that he still wore.

The bard also wore a jaunty green felt cap with a feather, that he felt set off the more dour tone of his brown leather tunic with its embattled trim. Many entertainers felt the need for brighter, more gaudy apparrel to stand out in a crowd, but Jex took care of that with an eye-catching mantle of curly, fiery red hair.

He travelled 'luted and fluted', as he liked to call it, ready to play at the drop of a hat. The long swept-hilted rapier that hung from his belt was really more of a fashion accessory in modern day Glitterhaegan.

Nestaron

"Nestaron Behlthandien, some times called Cilmion."

He did not bow, but inclined his head in acknowledgement of her station and position of power here. Deeply tanned, pale blue of eye, his gaze slightly more intense and fixed than was the norm. His hair and beard were long, cinnamon brown, and just this side of unkempt, and he wore a simple hooded robe. A few cloth and leather pouches hung from his belt and the small pack on his back, and his staff was both support and weapon.

GM

Lady Morgen lifted her chin and stepped lightly down the stairs. Her gown was made from a pale rose-coloured fabric with flared sleeves, that contrasted with her dusky skin and enhanced her sensual appearance, tactile, as though wanting to be touched.

Her jewellery was subtle, a lariat around her neck and a tiara, rings on her fingers, none of it exactly matching, none of it at odds either. Together with the décor in the great hall, the pets, the illuminations, it created a sense of a woman aware of fashion but driven by her own tastes, which were humbly epicurean, though surprisingly not opulent.

The Seneschal followed behind her, much taller than she was yet somehow dwarfed by her presence. (No offence intended to dwarves.) The bear cubs yammered in delight and scrambled over to the Lady as she approached.

Morgen flashed a white smile when she saw Jexric the Jester.

"Ah, we are flattered that you would take up our invite so soon, good señor! Our spirits are in need of lifting in these troubled times."

She offered her hand and signet ring to the bard to kiss, which would be lady-like if not for him being a commoner. It was still gracious, either way, and she extended the gesture to Weston and Zoltan too.

"The speed of your arrival is greatly appreciated, both. The Captain did not exaggerate the Order's devotion to its cause. You shall, of course, have our every assistance." She said to them, nodding deliberately to her Seneschal, who wrung his hands awkwardly.

Approaching Nestaron and his companions, she instead bowed her head respectfully in reply.

"Your Reverence. I knew that word of our plight would reach the High Druid. The woods around here popular with the Faerie Folk and word travels fast by their lips."

Up close, Nestaron and Tindarien might have wondered if Lady Morgen didn't have some elven blood herself. Her small stature and youthful appearance at forty-eight years old were remarkable. She casually scrutinised them both, then Seyja and Heilbutt. She smiled gently at the barbarian woman.

"You are all welcome here. I hope the Captain and the people have already made that plain." Lady Morgen said bluntly and was about to return to the head of the table when she noticed the darkly-clad dark elf.

Again she offered her hand, but less surely this time. As soon as her skin touched Pale Dusk's, they both felt an uncomfortable darkening of their vision, suddenly faint. They stepped back from each other instinctively, and saw their shadows on the wall behind still holding hands. Their shadows lagged behind them for several disturbing seconds until they finally, reluctantly caught up with their casters.

Lady Morgen lips twitched but she said nothing to Pale Dusk, and promptly turned with a swish of her dress, striding over to the treasure. Her retainers hadn't observed the 'incident', standing too near the haunted helm to spare much attention to pleasantries. But when the Baronessa placed a finger on the helm, the Captain and Sergeant startled forward as though to protect her from harm. The haunted helm did not react, however, whilst Her Ladyship had also regained her composure.

"Let us consider what we've learnt." She said, "The Sergeant's grandsire was none other than Gorulon Gorehound, famed gladiator, mercenary, and adventurer.

"For reasons lost to us, he and his men perished on Titon's Elbow, over half a century ago, and there his infamous helm laid until one day, a few weeks past, Sir Edward the Red, knight errant, finds it and packs it on his horse together with the same treasure, presumably, Gorulon was seeking.

"For some reason the horse -- a trained palfrey -- bolts, finding its way back to this very town, where it is caught and so Gorulon's helm returned 'home'."

Morgen looked around the table, ensuring everyone was in agreement, or at least following so far. Her finger traced the line of the one remaining horn as she spoke.

"But Gorulon is cursed, by his wife, by his own deeds, and perhaps by what killed him. His ghost wants the helm and treasure returned to their rightful resting place on the Titan's Elbow, threatening to forcibly retrieve them if its will is not carried out by the new moon.

"Meanwhile, ever since the helm resurfaced, the River Scintilla has been poisoned, Sir Edward the Red has disappeared and the Titan's Elbow sits yonder, as mysterious as ever."

The Baronessa picked up the gold coin that the Captain had shown Zoltan earlier. She held it up in a beam of afternoon sunlight, then placed it back with its cohorts.

"As you say, this treasure trove is far older than Gorulon...

"We could toss this all into the sea, but might Gorulon's ghost still come looking for it in Rosencliff? We could lay in ambush, yes, but what if twelve other wraiths come with it?

"And should we defeat them, would that save the river for the High Druid? Would it reveal the knight's fate for the Order of Averness?

"Something on Titan's Elbow ended Gorulon Gorehound and twelve of his sword-brothers. Something that may have ended 'Red Ed' also.

"The river runs through the Titan's Elbow and our troubles seem to flow from it."

Lady Morgen didn't seem pleased by her conclusions, similar as they were to your own. But there was a flash of raw determination in her eyes nonetheless. This was the noblewoman who shipped in cannibal lizardmen from the Demon Coast to deal with her pirate problem when Axis had failed. She was a woman of hidden resources, cunning and pragmatism.

"I decree that the haunted helm and its treasure shall be returned to the Titan's Elbow."

She cast her gaze on you, eye to eye, and nodded, saying:

"This quest is yours, if you will take it. The Town of Rosencliff and I will be in your debt."

D

The dark elf is surprised by the touch, and even more astonished by the interplay of their shadows. Had he known her before? Before all this? He didn't know, but certainly something was between them, even if it hadn't been before. What did it mean? Again confounded by more questions and a complete lack of answers. He just watched and listened. He cared little for treasure beyond what it took to allow him to search for answers and survive another day. It was an odd contrast with one who made his living the way he chose too now, yet there it was like so much of his life a dichotomy in action.

He nodded to the Lady, he would do as she asked, if for no other reason to see where the trail that damnable little cat demon had set him upon. So far he had no reason to distrust the messages it carried from its master, but one could never be too cautious. He looked around to see if the others would take up the mantle of the challenge.

<Weston>

He was a bit awkward as he tried to imitate the actions of the bard, who should know how these things were done.

He listened to the Lady's summation, which seemed close enough to what he thought that he did not feel any need to comment. He did nod his acceptance of her declaration of a 'quest' to replace the treasure and, hopefully, end the poisoning of the river.

Tindarien

"I accept the quest. Though initially the waters and their taint were my first concern, I also want to stay the hand of the undead."

He is glad that she has agreed to return the treasure. It could prove the easiest solution, though vanquishing the undead would be his preferred option.

Zoltan

His red eyes gleam with a fervent fire when she mentions a dozen or more wraiths could be on the mountain.

"Yes. Yes." He agrees easily. After all, he'd accepted this quest back in Axis. "Besides, that wraith could have been lying and we'd be wasting time here waiting for him."

[Ghosted for Khamsin]

Jex

He kissed the Lady's signet ring. Of course he kissed it. It showed good faith and respect for the woman's title and house, and obeyance of her rule.

The bard was feeling musical... He'd been devising a dark, dreadful ballad as soon as the wraith disappeared back into the haunted helm. While others were sheathing swords, Jex was structuring a song.

Oh he was feeling musical now!! All the talk of knights, treasure, and quests had him seguing from a doom-laden first verse into a rousing, heroic second.

Outwardly he smiled an uncomfortable smile, like someone desparately needing to relieve themselves. He restrained his bardic ejecta by way of tapping his toes manically.

"Just show me the way, Your Ladyship! I'm ready to go right now!!" He said boldly.

Seyja


Seyja chewed lightly at her lower lip and considered the situation.

She'd rather be doing something than doing nothing and would rather be doing something good than just doing something.

This seemed like the right thing to do.

Seyja nodded curtly.

"I will also help."