Journal Thirteen

It all started so well. Actually, it started pretty badly. In fact the start was pretty terrible and it’s been downhill ever since, but we’ve now reached new depth both literally and metaphorically.

After waiting around for the priest to put in an appearance, I led the group on a brief ride upstream to a point where even a horseman of Boris’ – I hesitate to use the word – caliber could ford across the flow. Seeing no need for anyone else to get any wetter than we already were, I then directed Boris to head back upstream to the raft and send it across the river to collect Karl and me. And Victor – we mustn’t forget Victor.

Once across, Boris again volunteered to circle the Garden looking for an entrance, leaving the rest of us in the company of Wallflower, or whatever his name is. Wallbream? Either way, I don’t trust the odious little creature.

To cut a long story short, it transpired that the only point of note was a lightning rod at the rear of the garden fixed to some large mausoleum, and the only apparent entrance was via an underground tunnel. Boris took point yet again, feeling his way through the darkness, while Karl and I took advantage of the shelter provided by the tunnel entrance to play a few hands of cards. Wallcod watched.

Once Boris gave the all clear, Karl and I proceeded down the tunnel leaving Victor on guard outside with Walltench. Inside we found a large room comprising an alter, a font, a locked door beyond Karl’s skill to open, and several alcoves where three bodies appeared to be undergoing funeral preparations. Karl sadly lacked the sense to leave the dead alone in the current climate, and before I had the chance to tell him otherwise he had somehow provoked the three corpses to rise and approach us. While the other two busied themselves with mundane bullets and blades, I made the most of the font to splash a liberal amount of blessed water on the shambling forms and reduce them to, well, to slightly slower shambling forms which the aforementioned bullets and blades could more readily dispatch.

After recovering our breath and collecting some curtains from the alcoves to put to more beneficial use than preserving the modesty of the twice dead, we returned to Victor and used the curtains to form a rudimentary rope with which to scale the spiked walls. Sending Boris up first (Karl is arguably a better climber, but far less expendable) Karl and I followed. Again, we left Victor on guard, although thankfully the wretch Wallperch was nowhere to be seen.

We took the precaution of unlocking the door connecting the underground chamber to the Garden before continuing (Karl found it far easier from this side). We then turned our attention to a large monument in the centre of the garden – a crypt dedicated to the local hero, Stichelm. Somewhat predictably, the crypt was open and empty. Perhaps more interestingly, a heavy stone object had been removed from a alcove in the wall. I suspect it could be the next lightning stone as the batty wizard back in Stromdorf suggested.

Before I had a chance to suggest we do anything other than follow the track leading to a mausoleum at the far end of the garden I spotted something requiring a more immediate response. Several undead creatures had begun to drag themselves from their grave cutting off our exit and forcing us in the direction of… well you can guess where.

I set off at once establishing a good pace for my companions to follow as together we began to fend off our attackers. The last thing I saw was a shambling brute that slipped past Boris and charged straight at me.

I awoke in hell. Some might argue that a mausoleum is not inherently evil, and that a mausoleum in the Garden of Morr is really rather restful. I can only suggest that some have not woken to find themselves facing, and smelling, Boris Braubach. On the plus side, Victor appears to have joined us for this final sojourn and brought little Walltrout with him.

After seeing to my wounds, helping Karl with his and reassuring Boris that gangreen doesn’t usually set in for at least a few hours, we began a swift reconnoiter of our immediate locale. A set of spiral stairs led down to… oh what does it matter. We explored, we found the necromancer and now we are all going to die! But worse by far, my corpse will be found beside that of Boris (if not seen shambling beside it) and my shame will be eternal.

Journal Thirteen

Brash Young Fools destrin Trevelyan