I never got round to writing up the last episode, but will endeavour to do so at some point, but for now here is an example of just how unheroic and low grade my games tend to be these days, for whatever reason...
With this he pulled out a pistol and drunkenly swayed across the room. His eyes were bloodshot and weepy. After some more ranting he shot himself in the face but did not die quickly, or easily. Manfred, armed with one good handkerchief and at least an ounce of concern, checked the stricken playwright, only to have perhaps a quarter pint of blood coughed in his face as Udo pressed a small box wrapped in a crumpled handbill into the actor's hand. “Take this to my Father…” Udo croaked before shaking uncontrollably and fitting violently before one last choke, a rattle in his throat and he lay still, finally at peace. Or it would be so, had his face not contorted into a look of abject terror.
He had dirt ground under his fingernails, some were tattered and torn. The handbill was a tattered and water-stained invitation to view the debut of a ‘fresh and thrilling new play’ in Heideldorf the previous week. Inside the box was a key, ornate, the size of large thumb, and inscribed with cryptical arabesques.
Father Otto Dirkschneider, Dirk’s father, is a priest in Uttenhoffe and tends to the spiritual needs of the locality outside Brunnen, between the western reaches and the edges of the Teutoburgerwald. After some discussion, a couple more cognacs and a brief diversion to see Hans the Fence at the Golden Kugel (where Manfred undersold the wooden box for a paltry sum) the company deigned to rest the remainder of the night before departing for Uttenhoffe to discharge their vague acquaintance's dying wish.
The Story so Far
1. Poetry night at the Moon and
Pfennig
Manfred Krupp dodged his turn by standing on a chair and declaring poetry a third class art form, fit only for those who cannot create with light and colour. Surprisingly he won favour with his arrogance and posing, but then he does have a silver tongue. Hans the urchin stole some pennies and hid under the table. Nobody pressed him to perform. Glen Schmidt on the other hand rolled a load of old guff off his tongue, seemingly at will and gained the admiration of all for his sheer brass. Finally the ex-soldier Friedrich Grabler brought tears to the eyes of the room (although Manfred was probably faking) with his heartfelt war poem.
Manfred Krupp dodged his turn by standing on a chair and declaring poetry a third class art form, fit only for those who cannot create with light and colour. Surprisingly he won favour with his arrogance and posing, but then he does have a silver tongue. Hans the urchin stole some pennies and hid under the table. Nobody pressed him to perform. Glen Schmidt on the other hand rolled a load of old guff off his tongue, seemingly at will and gained the admiration of all for his sheer brass. Finally the ex-soldier Friedrich Grabler brought tears to the eyes of the room (although Manfred was probably faking) with his heartfelt war poem.
Unfortunately this was all too much for Udo Dirkschneider, a popular
local up and coming player whom had a bright future in theatre before the
Pogrom. He was somewhat in his cups all evening as it was but once he had had
enough of the poetry he yelled and threw his stein at Friedrich and snorted,
“AMATEURS… FOOLS… PETTY DABBLERS… YOU HAVE NO IDEA OF YOUR LACK OF WORTH… YOU
ARE SNOT ON THE PAGES OF A LARGER PLAY AND YOU KNOW NOT WHAT LIES BENEATH AND
BETWEEN…”
With this he pulled out a pistol and drunkenly swayed across the room. His eyes were bloodshot and weepy. After some more ranting he shot himself in the face but did not die quickly, or easily. Manfred, armed with one good handkerchief and at least an ounce of concern, checked the stricken playwright, only to have perhaps a quarter pint of blood coughed in his face as Udo pressed a small box wrapped in a crumpled handbill into the actor's hand. “Take this to my Father…” Udo croaked before shaking uncontrollably and fitting violently before one last choke, a rattle in his throat and he lay still, finally at peace. Or it would be so, had his face not contorted into a look of abject terror.
He had dirt ground under his fingernails, some were tattered and torn. The handbill was a tattered and water-stained invitation to view the debut of a ‘fresh and thrilling new play’ in Heideldorf the previous week. Inside the box was a key, ornate, the size of large thumb, and inscribed with cryptical arabesques.
Father Otto Dirkschneider, Dirk’s father, is a priest in Uttenhoffe and tends to the spiritual needs of the locality outside Brunnen, between the western reaches and the edges of the Teutoburgerwald. After some discussion, a couple more cognacs and a brief diversion to see Hans the Fence at the Golden Kugel (where Manfred undersold the wooden box for a paltry sum) the company deigned to rest the remainder of the night before departing for Uttenhoffe to discharge their vague acquaintance's dying wish.
2. The Tower on the River
After a good night’s slumber, the artists determined that the easiest
way to travel to Uttenhoffe was by skiff on the sluggish but as yet unfrozen
river. Mid-morning the gang passed by
Mischer, a small village where a gypsy boat failed to sell them some lucky
heather. An ill omen perhaps? Travelling onwards they spied a small jetty by a
path leading into the dense fringes of the Teutoburgerwald. A boat appeared to have been unloaded onto
the jetty but the cargo not taken further, coated as it was with the ubiquitous
frost. Being an aspirational group the gang determined to examine the cargo
afore making off with it downriver. However some commotion in the treeline
distracted Friedrich, and the three boar melee underway gave sufficient cause
for salivation (wild boar making for a delicious roast). The ex-soldier handily
dispatched two of the rucking beasts with shot and knife leaving the remaining
combatant, a huge, scarred and one-eyed beast, to drag its prize into the
trees. The detritus littering the scene, mostly tattered cloth and human
organs, suggested that the three animals had been fighting over the ruin of a
man.
Curiosity roused the artists to explore the path, lest the occupants of
the abandoned boat (and perhaps the companions of the corpse) be in some
distress and/or in a lootable state. Some yards up the steep and heavily wooded
hillside trail they happened upon a guard-tower occupied only by the dead. Five
men and women, deceased for some days, apparently killed at each other's hands.
One was bitten around the neck and face, and another on the hands and forearms.
The bodies wore well-tailored but worn leather jerkins and boots in the
merchantman style. Weapons were amongst the dead, short swords and a dirk, as
well as some small trinkets, tobacco and foodstuffs. Curiously there were also
a couple of handbills similar to the one that Dirk had wrapped around his box.
In better condition the hand-drawn imagery was clearer…
A hooded figure taking a mask away from its face to partially revel
that behind it… Another mask…
And the text more fully legible...
‘Friends… Waldemar and Company invite you to witness the debut of a
play in three acts, ACT 1: The Demoiselle d'Ys’
3. The Magistrate
As the light faded and the now shy sun dipped behind the canopy-draped
hills deep in the Teutoburgerwald the companions heaved to at Uttenhoffe,
little more than a walled village but at least an occupied and relatively safe
settlement free from the banditry and worse that blights the main roads to the
East and North of Brunnen. Father
Dirkschneider wasn’t at home, as his housekeeper Granny Grasser informed
Manfred Krupp. He had left the previous day to conduct confessions and services
at the woodlander villages of Gruuthuse and Mischer before attending the
spiritual needs of the town of Dunnacht, half a day further downriver. Granny Grasser, in between lengthy sucks of
her sole remaining tooth, explained that Dunnacht’s previous pastor passed when
the church roof fell in and crushed him in his pulpit some months ago.
Dunnacht was known by reputation to most occupants of these parts,
being as it was the site of mass beatings and later burnings at the latter end
of the pogrom. The tales of how
viciously the townsfolk turned upon the Calvinists and Lutherans that were
formerly their neighbours have haunted many a fireplace since.
Retiring to the village inn, The Gelded Fox, to take in the fire and
the hospitality of proprietors Karl and Wertha Tannenbaum, the gang hit the
booze and evaluated their booty from the day’s adventuring. Old compadre Didier Alencon and his
travelling company regaled the patrons with his latest short play The Jester, a
tale regarding an ancient god whose one power was to juggle balls to such
unfeasible heights that one day they never fell back. The punchline was that one did fall back, the
star (Morrslieb) and that the other (Mannslieb) must also follow. It wasn’t that funny.
Throughout the evening Didier’s capering was punctuated by the snoring
of a tall and gaunt old man slumped at the bar, his long fingers still wrapped
firmly around a stein. Fellow patrons,
in between rounds of banter and swearing, tipped off the companions that the
elderly gentleman at the bar was in fact Manfred Haarwitt, seasoned magistrate
and, latterly, burner of heretics and witches. Judging that her day had not yet
seen enough excitement, young Hans decided to steal his purse. Perhaps overcome by the heady contents of her
several cups, or maybe simply too unrefined in her method, the young urchin’s
attempt was interrupted by the realisation that the old man’s long fingers were
no longer on his stein. Instead they
were detaining her wrist in a painful iron grip and a pair of rheumy grey eyes
were regarding her with dawning awareness and curiosity. Sensing that his young semi-ward had
encountered difficulties Glen leapt to her defence with a holler, only to be
knocked backwards by the impact of Hans on his chest as the magistrate, defying
his apparent age and swinging the urchin like a weapon in a wide arc. Friedrich, rising to his feet, was knocked
down again by the bulk of the back-pedalling operator of heavy machinery, who
was simultaneously roaring in protest at the failure of his great strength to
offer any useful advantage. Now fully
alert and still holding a dazed Hans like a bruised ragdoll, Haarwitt
interrupted the progress of a charging Krupp with the thunder of a discharged
shot from a foot-long flintlock cavalry pistol and the actor took the impact
high on his shoulder. This may explain
the dramatic pirouette that described a glorious arc across the salon, scattering
cups, ale and patrons in its wake. Glen,
now simply furious, swung his blade with vigour (if not panache) and
re-tailored the old man’s battered leather coat and drew some blood to
boot. Now fully awake and focussed upon
his surroundings Haarwitt reared to an impressive height for 1795 and drew his
side-sword… notched, well-used and thirsty looking it was. Krupp, his palm stemming the weeping of
claret from his wound, called forth across the inn and made a call for
rationality and peace with great depth, timbre and impeccable enunciation. Glen and the magistrate lowered their weapons
and stood a moment, winded as they were by the sheer force of the actor’s
projection, and the whole inn took a grateful breath. Everyone was very… very… drunk.
4. The Dunnacht Horror
Following an alcohol and blood infused sleep the friends woke,
famished, and broke their fast on black pudding and turnips. Manfred Krupp was patched up by the
ex-soldier Friedrich in field dressing style.
Manfred, looking for revenge upon his elderly namesake expressed sorrow
and frustration upon learning that the patrician murderer of men, women and
children had left at dawn. The river,
and Dunnacht, beckoned.
At noon the skiff was steered through the crumbling arch of the south
wall of Dunnacht, a small town of modest means now sparsely populated thanks to
the flames of the pogrom. A heavy,
granular rain battered the cobbles, forming insistent rivulets in the cracked
and scorched paving in the square.
Blackened, almost glass-like in places, the site of the burnings was
immediately before the ruined church, the Dunnacht Epiphanienkirche, roof
collapsed and masonry walls collapsed inward on two sides.
Before the companions determined what action was to follow, a vigorous
tremor shook the town causing dogs to bark and windows to shatter. Gathering
themselves and regaining their feet they heard a clamour of panicked voices up
the street from the square. Down Böttcherstraße
they found a group of locals, hysterically shouting, “The Aachen house… the
Aachen house… oh the horror etc.” Still
being largely drunk from the previous evening the gang entered the house,
finding little amiss in a spartan but lived in family home that looked to be
the domain of a family of five.
Venturing behind the house however young Hans found the old oak doors
to the cellar ajar and ventured down the stone steps into a dimly lit
chamber. The tang of iron, whale-oil and
shit in his nostrils, he could make out a body strewn at the foot of the steps
and, beyond two more, one atop the other. The latter two were children it
appeared, barely discernible in the gloom from the two flickering oil lanterns
hooked upon the walls. A fourth body
slumped, sitting, against a timber support, gasping fast but broken,
excruciating breaths. A woman Hans saw as he pressed forth into the murk, the
air close and clinging. Before she
expired she snatched words from the scant breaths she could muster against the
clods of part-congealed blood that sucked and blew from her broken lips…
“Oh my life… My love… You’ve come!”
By now Manfred, Friedrich and Glenn were surveying the scene and
attempting to comprehend the meaning.
All felt a pressure in their ears, a squeezing against their temples
and a chittering in their heads, like the chirruping of insects en masse.
Friedrich yelled out a warning and struck at Glenn. Hans shook her head free of the distractions
and leapt to her ward’s defence, to little avail. The wiry soldier, with steely determination,
cast the urchin aside and beat the shocked and confused Glenn to the stone
floor of the cellar, amongst the blood and bodies of the Aachen family. Manfred called across the cellar, his words
of power and reason piercing the fug of the cellar, and Friedrich froze, midswing,
legs astraddle above the prone nobleman beefcake, and regained his wits.
The three, their resolve temporarily broken by the scene, bolted for
the steps, desperate for egress and the outside air. As they panted and gathered their wits,
spitting the bitter taste of bile and the dense miasma of that terrible chamber
they considered events. Shaken they
were, and near broken by the experience.
Except Friedrich. He wasn’t
overly bothered to be fair.
Taking some control of the situation Manfred choked back the rising
stomach acid and ventured back below to drag Glenn by his substantial ankles
back to daylight.
The rain and some attention from the now rational Friedrich roused
Glenn and the four gingerly made their way back to the square, only to find a
small mob gathered by the churchyard howling and spitting.
“He’s there!” they cried, “There he his… murderer…!”
At a far corner of the churchyard, in the patch used for infants, a
teenage boy barely older than 17 knelt by a plot of clawed up earth. Between
the ragged, soil-encrusted fingernails of his hands he clasped a bundle of
rags. As the friends approached they
could see it was the corpse of an infant he was rocking back and forth and
speaking to in soothing tones. Despite
his rain-soaked clothes he was spattered with blood. As he rocked the child, part of the shroud
fell away to reveal legs like that of a small dog, only naked of hair and
pallid skinned.
Hans saw the child reaching for him, mouthing words. Moving closer he
heard the child speak…
“I am a dying god… coming into human flesh…”
All of this was rather unsettling, so they all went to the Golden Tap
to regroup. The boy was identified by
the locals as Henry Aachen, the eldest of the Aachen children and a black sheep
according to the rumours, as well as father to his sister’s child. Now, parted from the corpse that was hastily
reburied, he languished in a locked room in the cellar of the Tap whilst the
companions sought victuals.
NEXT EPISODE:
- More pubs
- More cellars
- Glen has an encounter with a knitting needle
- Even less heroics
- Some other things I can't remember...
No comments:
Post a Comment