Ellinel listens to to the varied outbursts concerning the undead with satisfaction while masking his smile in his jug of mead.

The appearance of Thorkel he leaps into action putting as many people as possible between him and the man who was by all accounts dead.  In a swift action he draws his blade and takes stock of the newcomer.


(edited after confirmation that we are not in combat.)

[Private to GM: Ellinel suspects this is just a relative but he is not willing to take any chances where vampyrs might be concerned.  I hope I am not taking to many liberties is stating that he has his jug of mead already let me know what the acceptable level of control for such a small piece of scenery.  Note the following addendum if the Innkeepers daughter is in my way I will attempt to grab and pull her back with me ending with a spin and setting her behind me.]
This message was last edited by the player at 00:54, Thu 20 Nov 2008.

The hairs stand up on Kormak's neck at the appearance of the old man's long dead comrade.  Shaking off his mounting terror, he readies his two-handed sword and moves to the knight's side.  "By Gorn!  What devilry was that?" 

As pandemounium erupted around him Arkemos calmly took another sip of his mead, considering the open doorway over the cup's rim. "Friend of yours, old man? Doesn't he know he's supposed to be dead?" the warlock remarked sardonically to the storyteller. Waiting for an answer Arkemos tore off another hunk of bread, dunked it in his stew and shoveled it into his mouth. It appeared nothing much could faze the dark warrior.

Brakkus glowers at the apparition from behind his bushy beard, but keeps his own council. After a lifetime of living rough, encountering walking trees, three-headed dogs, boggits, pixies and strange lights in the sky, a simple spirit doesn't faze him.

Ignoring all comments and questions, the story-teller rushes outside, almost forgetting to grab is heavy fur cloak. He doesn't care however to grab his sword, leaving it leaning against the wall in its scabbard. The innkeeper's daughter, with yet another jug of mead ni her hand, stares blankly at the doorway, frozen in place for a moment. She only starts moving again when she feels the jug almost escaping her hands, reacting just in time to save the precious honey wine.
"That... that was no man... that was a ghost! I could see... through him! Oh gods protect us...."

 "A shade?" echoes Sir Campbell, moving towards the door as he draws his sword - not to wave it around willy-nilly (though his slightly drunken state does make it a bit perrilous to stand too close to him) but rather to reverse it and grip it by the first handspan or so of the blade to present it as a cross - which is all part and parcel of the symbology and mysticism of knighthood, if you believe that sort of claptrap.

 "No doubt his unquiet spirit is cursed to roam until some fell peril is taken into account and dispersed. Where was the unfortunate soul buried?" the knight asks loudly, substituting instantaneous leaps of narrative for the more usual process of structured thought that, frankly he's not equipped for - and then, realising that the only man who might have known is darting outside, moving to follow with all speed.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:03, Thu 20 Nov 2008.

Kormak moves cautiously towards the doorway, sword held tightly in both hands.  He visage is dark and brooding. "What manner of Spirit was that?  And look!  The storyteller left without his blade!"Kormak looks around at the others, "I will go after the storyteller. He may be able to help us solve this mystery."Kormak moves through the tavern doorway and out into the street, searching for a sign of the old man.


_{Edit for spelling}
This message was last edited by the player at 18:11, Thu 20 Nov 2008.

Meanwhile Brakkus wanders towards the wall where the stranger left his sword and examines the weapon carefully, though he doesn't risk touching it. [Private to GM: using see enchantment]

Tossing a handful of pennies onto the desk Arkemos gestured towards the innkeeper. "That was for the meal." Slowly, deliberately the warlock stood up, picked up his massive greatsword and began to follow the barbarian and knight out the door. "Come Beren, your sorcery and my black invocations may be needed. It appears this village has gotten itself into far more trouble than it can handle."

Letting a few coins on the table to pay for his meal and the ale, Beren ties his scabbard to his belt and follows Arkemos, nodding.

Noting that the room rapidly appears to be emptying of all the well armed confident (and by the sounds of it magically able) men, Ellinel sheaths his sword, withdraws his crossbow from his pack and readies it, then makes ready to fall in behind the building exodus from the Inn.

While Brakkus takes a closer look at the sword that was so absently left behind, the innkeeper is quick to close the door behind those who rush outside. His daughter still muttering prayers to various benevolent norse gods, he eyes the hermit suspiciously, but seems to keep a watchful eye on the door as well, as if expecting it to burst open again to reveal some sort of demon.

Those heading outside can see the storyteller on higher ground, on the other side of the road. The shadowy Thorkel, if it is truly his shade, is next to him and seems unthreatening.

As the adventurers approach, weapons drawn or not, the ghostly man turns to face them slowly and speaks with an otherwordly voice.

"Brave men from other lands... You search for gold and treasure... You seek adventure... You wish to fight evil... Each of you has their reasons... My purpose is vengeance... My wish is justice... My enemy is Sigfried... The heir of Fjonya... Tomorrow, the storm will cease... And you will bring a storm of death to the usurper... Do not fail as we once did... And you will find your wishes realized..."

As he speaks those last words, the ghost slowly disappears from sight, as if a sudden gust of wind turned him into more snowflakes to add to this last storm before spring. The grizzled warrior stares blankly where the dead man once stood.
This message was last edited by the GM at 04:37, Fri 21 Nov 2008.

 Well, that was a waste of a good few pints of perfectly pleasant mead, the ice-chill of prophecy and geas scouring the happy fug of inebriation from Adonis' mind with the harsh brush of sobriety and the stinging bleach of foreknowledge...

 Well, it seems like a night for overstretched metaphors.

 Holding up the crucifix-hilt of his sword, the knight presses his lips against the metal in veneration and then reverses his hold, taking the weapon by the grip once more and brandishing it in salute, declaring (and this is something that people may take issue with) "As you have returned from death itself to bear witness, so shall we risk Hell's gate itself to see justice be done, though the skies fall!"

 Yup, someone's read too many romances.

 Or at least looked at the pictures.

Brakkus picks up the stranger's blade and moves swiftly outside to catch him up and return it. He arrives in time to catch most of the apparition's speech, and when it is finished moves to respectfully hand the sword back to the old warrior.

Kormak flinched instinctively as the apparition dissolved before his eyes.  "The thing disappears like mist!  By Gorn!  What manner of shade was that?  Who is Sigfried?  Who is Fjonya?  Old man, what is this talk of vengeance?"

"A she-vampire that the old man and his ghostly friend slew some time ago - though the latter was very much alive when they faced her..."

Pensively, he added: "It seems that this Thorkel fellow wishes to pursue justice and good even beyond the grave, unless it is yet another trap... Because in the tale that our friend recounted, the witch trapped them by making them believe she wanted to ally with them against a greater evil."

Arkemos istened impassively to the sorry old specter, his lips pressed together ina grim line. "So, evil has reared its demonic head in this sleepy village. Well, it appears it picked the wrong village to mess with. Together, all of us shoulkd prove a most formiddable foe to any who dare threaten innocents. Ofcourse, I am confident there will be suitable cash reward, but that cxan be dealt with later. For now, who is this Sigfried?" The Warlock rasped, glancing at the storyteller inquisitively.

Having composed himself again and wearing a sheepish grin Ellinel chimes in "Yes and what was this about your friend dieing due to lacking proper armaments while you were able to slay the undead with your sword"

Eying the old storyteller the whole time and looking to see if he is carrying a blade.

The warrior slowly comes back to his senses as BRakkus hands him his sword. After giving the hermit his thanks, he looks at each of you adventuring fellows in turn, trying to gather his wits and answer the questions that were asked.

"Fjonya... is the vampire I killed. With this very sword."
As he speaks, he draws out the simple blade from its scabbard and by the way it reflects what little light there is, you can see it is made of pure silver.

"Siegfried... That bastard Siegfried would be that jarl that came out of nowhere, without a doubt. I know of no other Siegfried around here. And It would makes some sense that he arrives soon after his mistress' demise... Yes.. It would explain why I suffer this curse... 'As long as my lineage endures' she said 'you will be old and weak while we will be eternally young and strong'. Those were the words she cursed me with. Yet I had enough strenght left to behead her."

Looking at his sword, the man sighs heavily, sheathing it again and slowly heading for the inn, shivering in the cold night. For a moment, you thought his will to fight had come back, judging from the look in his eyes as he looked at his reflection in the silvery sword, but that feeling is soon gone.

"If you truly wish to fight that creature, be it undead or living, I say you should go meet the old witch, Olga the Wise. She lives in a hut in the forest, about a day's walk to the northwest. She helped me in the past... For now, we all should sleep. So cold..."
This message was last edited by the GM at 15:29, Sun 23 Nov 2008.

Arkemos considered the man, listening to his grim tale. "I see. So this count is a hell-spawn, a foul creature of darkness that has decided to prey upon this village and its environs." The warlcok clenched his gloved fist, and smashed it into the palm of his other hand, before turning to look at the others. "This cannot go unanswered. I have long sworn to fight the encroaching darkness that threatens the world of man, even as w go about our own petty squabbles, unaware that foul things in the shadows prey upon us. And while I may fight them usng black arts, my motives are...pure. The best way to fight fire is with fire, as they say."

"Let us go and visit this wise woman..." Beren said, as a shiver ran down his spine and his eyes turned away from the ghost. "We must know what it is we are facing."

Brakkus speaks up. "I will join you on this quest, if you'll have me. Evil such as this should bot go unchallenged, and I think you will find my skills useful on the road. But for now I think we should retire to the inn, it's no night to be wandering in the woods in the dark"

"We'll make way at first light," Beren said, heading for the inn.

 "Indeed, no true knight could bear the thought of such a creature existing whilst there is yet the strength in arm and heart to bear a blade against it!" declares Sir Adonis, quite caught up in the moment, before the glint of silver shining in the night catches his eye and once more causes two random brain cells to bounce off one another somewhere in the frighteningly empty confines of his skull.

 Facing the hermit he offers a salute with his own sword and then reverses the length of gleaming steel so that it lies across one arm, hilt-first towards the prematurely aged man, "And with that said good sir, though your arm lacks the strength to bear a blade against the spawn of the night-hag, I would be honoured if you would allow me to bear it upon your behalf, that it might strike the blows you wish to lay upon the foe in your name."

The cursed adventurer makes his way to the inn, ignoring further comments and keeping his thoughts to himself. He does give Adonis a glance however, perhaps pondering the man's word, but says no more.

You all head back to the inn and prepare for to get a good rest, knowing the next few day should be pretty interresting. At least for risk-taking adventurers like you all. The innkeeper is quick to close the door again behind you as you get in, looking like he would rather you all have remained outside but either fear of your weapons or greed for your florins keeps his mouth shut and his behavior polite, if not exactly friendly.

You all wake up in the morning and take a meager breakfast, graciousness of the storyteller, before you get ready to head out for the forest and the wise woman's hut. It seems like th 'old' man will accompany you there, at least to show you the way, and perhaps to speak to the woman as well for himself.
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:00, Sun 23 Nov 2008.