Private Tales Dirge For The Deathless

[Oathbreaker Dran]

To a party of seasoned vampire hunters such as yourselves, what you see is but another dull tavern, in another dull town, in some nameless province. It is but another span of time between the challenges of true adventuring. A dense fog had settled over the town, amplifying its drab taste. The damp, cobbled pavement glistens as the lights of street lanterns dance across the slick stones. Chills run up your spine and stand the hairs up on your arms. Like reeds jutting out of a lake. To escape the creeping trepidations, you enter the tavern. Inside the tavern walls the food is hearty, and the ale is warm and frothy. A fire blazes in the hearth, and the tavern is alive with the tumbling voices of country folk. Drinks shared, food devoured, the night wasn't a total loss. Suddenly, the tavern door swings open and smacks the walls inside, silencing the noise. Framed by the lamp-lit fog, a form strides through the doorway. The convivial attitude of the tavern picked up after he shook his coin purse and hoarsely grunted, "One round on me." The light from the tavern illuminated the man. His garish colored clothes draped in loose folds about him, and his dingy brown hat hung askew, hiding is eyes in shadows. Without hesitation he walks up to your table and rummages through his pockets. He pulls a wet folded letter from one of his pockets and places it on the table. He groaned out in an accented and guttural voice, "I have been sent to deliv'r this message. If you be creatures of honor, you will come to me masters aid at first light. Take the west road through the Svorlick woods." He smiled. His yellow teeth revulsive, yet proud. With a spin of his heel and flourish of his cloak, he was gone.

The letter is lying before you. The seal in the shape of a crest you don't recognize.

"I aint touching it til we all agree on the job." His orcish wasn't as good as it once was, but he liked to keep up the practice with his mates. Fizzgig, his owl, chirped in agreeance. He leaned back in his chair, the hearths fire revealing his scarred face. "What's the verdict? Rest, or worry?"

 

[Bengt Bertuli]

Bengt looked down at the letter, at the seal that stamped it shut in black wax. "Worry mate," the dwarf cracked a grin. Big case rested by his seat, tankard of frothy ale there before him. "Always worry," he nod, and took up his drink, gave it a quaff.

The tankard hit the table again with a clack, the dwarf grumbled. "Whatcha think, Oliver?" he asked his compatriot.

The young strawberry haired man blinked. "Uh, I dunno Bengt, seems, well, not too keen on it is all," he said, and sipped on his flagon.

Bengt smirked. "No, no, suppose you aren't," the dwarf grinned, and rubbed the grit at the side of his face with his thumb, like one might strike a matchstick. "Well, anyone else want to chime in?"

 

[Zolin Fettle]

Creatures of honour get murdered by the score, what an absolute boorish thing to implore, double quick this lot do hesitate, hasty hasty I must operate.

Zolin Fettle snapped his hand upon the desk and with sharp eye did appraise the situation with quick tongue and swooping gestures as if to provide gravitas to his small frame. Gnomes often spoke far too quickly to be understood, but Zolin's pronunciation was clear, knife like, cutting the air in rhythms that while rushed to each point, cut with incisions as if all verbiage was but mutton to be sliced thin by delicate implement so that it might melt upon the tongue.


“So it falls to us it does do fairly seem that fate seems to grin and admire from afar our exploits gained upon this scene, hazard not a hesitation for there is profit in this marked crest, for what they implore they shall quickly be found with but a cut of the letter open. Shake not in worry, but be hardened to the task, for we are in demand, for this the man approacheth must attest. Hark, I know an honourable exchange is hard pressed in firmer light to bring profit from a fight, but to this we shall attend and be all fixed to the trim by first light's compulsion to act as directed. There's profit in it in my own business, to glean the component of beast that does prey, such I have divined, but little more I can reveal. Much labours won and fought in good measure to seize fortune from other's miserable fare. Ha ha, who's with the task then, who readeth the letter, unless you think the crest be cursed, and I find some better measure of fellow to find a fortune bold from victorious jaws that snap snap snap at our treading heel! Here, a knife, to cut open the envelope.”

He rapped his fingers impatiently before slamming a knife down into the table so that might be wrenched from the table. He continued.

“If you ask more of me to lead I'll demand more my share, I am not one to teach you to read instruction, rather, improve our method by direction divined by arcane eye and feeling paragon of skill that I represent in office here today, truly, it beggers belief that none do not open it immediate without my thrusting a knife into this foray.”

He leaned back and looked challengingly at each person in turn to see who might take the knife and read the letter.

 

[Finn Glider]

Finn Glider, cocky son of a whore as he was, had entertained himself by trying to find the most attractive country girl in the tavern. Coming up empty, he made his way back to his companions. Quite the group they made, each different and strange in their own way.

He leaned against the table, crunching at an apple as he leaned to the side to take a look at the presented letter. As dramatic as the messenger arrived, how undramatic was his exit. Finn glanced at the orc, their undefined leader of expedition and grinned. Before he could respond, Zolin piped up and he internally groaned. For someone so small, he certainly talked a whole damn lot.

He waited, drumming his fingers on the rough surface of the table. This would take a minute. Finally, he was able to put his two cents in, and the grin returned. "Let's go hunting, it's what we're here for. We can rest when we're dead."

 

[Oathbreaker Dran]

He reached out and grabbed the letter with a grimace, stiletto in hand. He was a veteran of his craft. But even still, the nights grew long, ever growing towards the inevitable. Death. This letter reeked of it. They always did. He opened the letter with a seasoned swipe and read it out loud.

To whom this may concern,

I am Kolan fe, the mayor of Fairgheight. My humble town has been sporadically sacked over the last couple of months. The crime, abductions. We have no name for the assailants for they haven't been sighted. Tensions are high. The disappearances of my people has inspired me to reach out to a more specialized group of individuals. Your hardships will be handsomely compensated. We are currently on lock down and high alert. Our gates will not open while the sun sleeps. Stick to the road, as it is safer than the neighboring forest. Haste is desired. Our walls won't hold for much longer.

- Burgomaster Kolan' Fe

He tossed the letter to the center of the table. He snorted, unamused, and took a swig of his honey mead.

A ghost. That's what she was. Or so he thought, with quick glance. She glided towards their table the moment he noticed her. An air of confidence accompanying. Her tone attested. "We always have a plan." He matched her. "And who might you be?"

Finn Glider
Zolin Fettle
Bengt Bertuli
Orsolya Embermoss

 

[Orsolya Embermoss]

She sauntered with silent footsteps like a ghost behind the little one. “Then I hope you are not yet tired.” Her voice is wispy, aetherial. It had been so very long since the bearer of the mirror blade had tested her magic. Her duties in the Anathaeum’s laboratory had kept her company for far too long, and her heart yearned to hunt.

She had joined late, and not part of this party, her own coming into this group, one of finding a flier posted on a random bounty board, buried behind lesser hunts.

Lesser to her, at least. These people needed help, and their prey was that which was meant to stay dead. It was right up Orsolya’s alley. The mirror hummed in her palm, begging to be freed into this world as she thought of the fights to come.

“I would hope that at least one of you have a plan?” She looked out amongst the gathered lot, so many of them lost in their tavern indulgences.

 

[Bengt Bertuli]

Oliver could hardly keep from gawking as the white haired maiden joined them.

Bengt sucked air through his teeth and smirked. "Plan is the same as always, little lady," he nod to her, half a welcome. "Stay alive, and stab the thing we aim to kill with the proper, instrument," he grinned, and looked to the others. "Things that go bump in the night, holds locked up tight when the sun don't shine," he smacked the table, and Oliver near startled out of his skin. "Sounds like we ought bring plenty of silver, aye?"

Oliver gave a shaky nod. "Ye-yeah, silver bolts, silver stakes, we, we have a few,"

"Gonna need a whole lot more than a few, Olie, didn't ya hear?" the dwarf cleared his throat. "Our walls'll barely hold," a click of his teeth. "Damn, tall folk and yer weak walls," he said with wry humor.

"Silver ain't cheap,"

"No, tain't that,"

---

Oathbreaker Dran Orsolya Embermoss Zolin Fettle Finn Glider

 

[Finn Glider]

Finn was absolutely unmoved by the new addition to the table, watching Oliver made him shake his head at the lad. He threw his half eaten apple at Oliver and leaned in, propping his elbows on the table.

Too much talk, could the get on with it already! He stifled a yawn of boredom and nodded as Bengt spoke. "Should be well stocked after the last job we took, shouldn't we?" He eyed Dran, as he also kept close eye on coin and inventory. "I've got my personal blade, naturally."

He still blatantly ignored the girl, and Zolin in kind. No patience, and arrogant. "What say you? Are we running this one?" Again, his gaze shifting to Dran.

Oathbreaker Dran
Bengt Bertuli
Orsolya Embermoss
Zolin Fettle

 

[Zolin Fettle]

Zolin gnashed his teeth at the question, as if chewing on the cud of the inquiry. He slammed his hand down on the table and retracted it quickly, his entire frame moving as if fire was an impetus from below his posterior.

“We run it! We run it through with silver true and be sure to do some sacking of our own, of larders of bounties and bountiful lard cooked food after the fact. I do so enjoy the feasts that arrive after a successful job when the people are all agape and ajar of jaw when the beasties that tear flesh are no more. What do we wait for then, another letter to tell us that they're all dead, let's be quick about it, well, perhaps after we are fed. But, do keep a clear head, yes, no drumming of the temple one would want when fangs protrude and we wish to assemble.”

He rapped his fingers impatiently, as if his gaze would make those who quaffed hurry up their business so they might be off.

Oathbreaker Dran
Bengt Bertuli
Orsolya Embermoss
Finn Glider

 

[Oathbreaker Dran]

He finished off his mead through Zolins emphatic speech and slammed the mug to the table. "I was hoping you lot would be eager to get the hells back out there. Because there's a trope for us to take part in. A good ol fashioned romp in said tavern, eh?" He shot a quick look to the barkeep. A lean, porcelain faced man gave a confused look back to the group. "That fucker has the stench of dead on 'em." He pushed off from the table, his chair scratching against the shoddy carpentry. He cleared his throat before addressing the sob, "Now how about you make this easy for us, or it'll be mighty painful for you." His words backed by the unsheathing of a silvered dagger. The patrons surrounding the group quieted down, their attention on the accosting orc. "This town is damn near barren. I didn't see torch or candlelight in any of the houses approaching the tavern. If you could even call those derelict structures homes. How is it you attracted these feigning frivolous natured folk?"

The man put down the mug he was cleaning and stammered in response, "I-I- We, we're just a small lumber town. Much smaller now since the work moved far west. We few have stayed behind to finish out the season."


Dran grunted, displeased with the blokes response. "Lumber eh? Then why do you reek of the dead? Hells, you look half dead. Doesn't he Zolin? Seems the hearthside has betrayed you. All you fucks look moon-kissed!" The tavern went silent. A quick glance of the inhabitants reveal sallow skin, glossy eyes, and tattered clothing. The warm glow of the fire suddenly feels frigid. Bereft of life. All crackle and no pop. The walls groan and wane as the wind lashes from the outside. "Familiars." He snarled, white knuckling his dagger.

Zolin Fettle
Finn Glider
Bengt Bertuli
Orsolya Embermoss