Nightmares belong in bed, not in the receiving hall...

Being taken to Madame Knyveton, Lucy leads them down the wide, elaborate marble halls to a beautifully appointed room where they meet Lucy’s governess, a cherub cheeked, grey haired, elderly lady with beady-black eyes, with a weak smile. Her manner is mincing, severe; wide at the hip and bosom. Dressed in a drab grey shapeless gown, with a red scarf, and plain satin slippers. She wears a large cameo at her throat. Her hands are smooth.

As they follow, Wik and Martonis overhear some comments that don’t make them feel comfortable with the security in the palace, and Lucy’s security in particular. They whisper to the party to be on their guard. Martonis wonders aloud who Edith is and is brought up to date.

They speak to the governess enjoying her hospitality. The governess is polite but very cold. She disapproves of Morgan particularly as he mentions the daggers he gave her.

Ooma and Morgan disapprove of the nanny’s reaction and Morgan gives her another knife, which the guard steps forward to take and Lucy refuses to give it up. Taking Morgan’s hand she pulls him to her room to show her the other knife, the one he gave her in the Knoll.

Morgan has a tough time as his eyes bug out when she opens her jewel chest. Morgan tries to comfort the nanny, “We are friends and we want Lucy safe as well. We won’t do anything to hurt her.”

His words calm the nanny although she watches curiously.

Wik and Ooma follow a shadow that moves into Lucy’s room as they enter.

Being curious Wik and Ooma head around, following the shadow and promptly find themselves going through a secret panel leading to the outdoor rear patio. The panel of course, slides closed and clicks behind them. And the shadow has disappeared.

After a series of attempts they both finally notice the large open doors leading to the reception hall and return inside, recognising the room, and the direction of Lucy’s room. As they make their way through the enormous hall, a sudden rumble and a sound of rushing wind or water floods the air. It shakes the foundations of the building.

Turning sharply a wavery vision appears, leaping through the thick fog the resonance of a wicked, ghostly blue-black Hell-Horse breathing flames and snorting pitch, trailing wisps of embers and carrying a giant erect figure upon its back gallops in the hall, a fiery-furnace burning inside the black iron armoured figure, flames shooting from eye-sockets and a fiery lance held aloft, the tip an inferno, bursting down the wide hall of pure white marble. The echo of a thousand hooves clattering striking fear in mere mortals... Ooma and Wik, their hearts racing, prepare for battle.

Ooma grapples with the huge axe crossed above the huge fireplace, but it proves too firmly attached to make use of for this encounter.

A fierce battle erupts between the three, and the horse. Our heroes receive deep wounds and even deeper bruises as they lash out at these demons from hell. Thunderous clashes eventually bring Martonis into the fray. Morgan stays behind with Lucy, concerned with her safety.

The addition of the cleric to the fray helps turn the tide of evil, casting his spells and calling upon Pelor for his assistance. Morgan joins in as well when he hears the loud clashes and sees the windows rattling in their frames.

Shaking his forefinger at the nanny. “Keep her safe!” he growls at her. Joining the attack his help proves instrumental in turning the tide and bringing down these huge appalling characters.

As the knight collapses Morgan, lifting his helm off, is hit with a fiery blast that singes the others as well.

“What the EFF?” Morgan shouts, spinning around just as Lucy’s voice penetrates the dying commotion.

“Wha hap’ened?” she gasps, her nanny close behind her.

“Where are the guards?” Martonis and Morgan wonder. Ooma and Wik also curious as to why no one came to their aid.

“I’m not cleaning that up,” Ooma mutters under her breath.

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XP: For the destruction of TWO, NINTH level creatures you receive 3,000 XP, each; EXTRA-XP for those who write a story (with the Tavern at its centre...); journal entry (of usefulness); or an insight into their character’s back story... 50xp x character level, for one entry per week…

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VIDEO PROOF

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Zis countree, zee France? It iz dangerous!

fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

~*~*~*~

Gendarmerie…

AWAKENING IN THE MORNING: 

Ooma:
I wake up very early to the smell of brewing coffee and cooking bacon... I smile as I stretch. I go to the water basin next to the mirror and check my face for stubble. I spot some, and a straight razor next to the basin. I give myself a quick shave, then a wash. Then I armour up, grab my gear and head down to the dining room for breakfast. I seem to be the first of our party here, so I'll grab a big table and order for the table some bread and cheese to start, and myself, a full breakfast, then I wait for my companions, sipping my, very strong, and smooth, coffee.
__________

Martonis:
Waking up, I feel thoroughly disgusted. Now I'm all for love and all, but whoever was put in the room next to mine just has no manners. Obviously the couple were, uhm, vigorous, and had plenty of energy to burn, but for the love of Pelor's Divine Radiance, MOVE the headboard of the bed away from the wall! All night long... bump... bump... whack... whack... "Ohhh baby!" ...and then again; and yet again! Oh well, might as well get up and pray.

"Oh, Divine... Pelor!” (Damned headache!) “By your radiance, let, uhm... Oh yeah, let the land be replenished, the unnatural be exposed to the Light for all to see. Let your ...ahem, Illumination awaken all to the Good that is about us. Let your Blessings, er... hmm, ahh... provide us with the skills needed to prosper, the intelligence to know that we never know all that is needed to be known, and the wisdom to realize the need continually seek for those answers. Oh blast, can't think, too tired, yadaa, yadaa. You know what's in my heart, oh Divine Radiance, please forgive this servant's poor attempt at your due!”

I then gather up my belongings and traipse sleepily down to the dining room. Spotting Ooma already at the table and I join her, requesting a cup of tea from the serving girl.
_________________

Morgan:
I will drop the pouch and broach in the wash basin and soak them both to get the itching powder off. I tear up the Turkish robe and make a sling and lash the broach to my side. I will place four silver bands and a garnet in the pouch and have it delivered to Lucy if I can. Then I go in search of the pleasant young woman to give her my thanks (and invite her to my room for a drink or two).

Unable to locate the girl from the opera, I am pleased to make the acquaintance of a pretty young lady with large green eyes and straight midnight-black hair on my way back to the hotel. She is affable to joining me in my room and we spend a happy evening enjoying each other’s company. Deniz, (her name) didn’t drink too much, but she was wise in the ways of pleasure, plus she did volunteer to take the package to Lucy. 

I wake just before dawn, finding Deniz, and the package, gone, so I set out to find a general store. I hope to purchase about ten identical belt pouches from the shop. I’d like to place few bands, charms, coins and cheap gems into each. I’ll likely get strange looks; I’ll tell them I’ve been burning the candle at both ends with the lady folk. I also need to look for replacement armour for my destroyed mithril chain shirt; preferably magic over mithril if possible. 
_________________

Wik:
I rise, perform my morning rituals gathers my belongings and head down for breakfast.
_________________


The large bed and breakfast, teeming with guests, awakes early, the crow of the rooster ensuring everyone knows the sun is rising. The proprietors bank the fires in the kitchens and dining hall, swiftly moving through a routine they have danced for several decades now.

The cook shakes her head as she fries thick rashers of bacon knowing the tantalizing odour will soon bring guests down, hungry. She sets the percolator on the flat top of the iron stove and slices thick chunks of fresh bread, (baked the afternoon before) as she punches down a new batch and sets it to proof, ready to be baked after the morning rush.

A few guests straggle in and she watches as the strange guest from last night, the queen’s acquaintances, makes his way down the oak staircase and, instead of turning to the dining room, he heads out into the street. She shakes her head, wondering whatever is he up to? Nothing is open so early. Shrugging she supposes he has a meeting, possibly with that lovely lady who joined him last night and left before the sun rose this morning. The owner thinks no more of it as she moves about the dining room, setting tables with cutlery and condiments.

Ooma takes a seat and orders The young girl who comes in to help with the breakfast fills her order and, when she is joined by Martonis and Wik a few minutes later, the serving girl cheerfully fills their orders.

Morgan, meanwhile, has found the streets fairly deserted, only a few ragged urchins, pulling tin wagons are around poking into trash bins and gathering up the bits of treasures left or tossed by the well-to-do. It appears this city stays up late, and sleeps in. After attempting the doors to the Bastille Armoury, he turns to retreat down the stairs, muttering about “lazy, good for nothing…” He is not so caught up in his mutterings that he fails to notice several large uniformed men approaching…

The scrabblers, nearing the opposite end of the block, mind their business, intent on their goals. Morgan astutely turns and retreats toward the urchins attempting to avoid contact with the uniformed men. He tosses a handful of coins to the ground in an endeavour to create a distraction allowing him to put more distance between him and them.

It works, slightly. As the men push passed the homeless, gruffly but without rancour, Morgan turns and peers at them. Deciding they maybe aren’t a threat, he pauses, waiting for them to catch up.

They do, and promptly arrest him. The gendarmerie try speaking with him, but the language is insurmountable and Morgan, after a small struggle, goes peacefully. The seven police officers march him through the street to the police station, a few streets along.

They enter the compound and are greeted with angry shouts and bitter comments. “Thief,” is the one word Morgan is able to understand as he is hauled up and into the marble floored, mahogany panelled station, through the public area into the property room where the guards take his visible equipment, handing it to another clerk who takes and places it in a small room behind him, locking the windowless door securely.

Morgan is then hauled through the other door into a long room with maybe twenty cells down either side, their doors opening into the common corridor. A few lights hang down the centre illuminating the depressing area. Small windows, with closely-set bars, positioned into the walls near the ten-foot ceiling allow gusts of fresh air (and, often rain or snow) to invade the area. There are three other prisoners lounging inside the cells and Morgan is thrust into an empty one. The conversation he attempts receives blank stares. He sits and thinks to while his time.

Back in the hotel dining room, our rogue, fighter and cleric are enjoying the tasty foods set before them, helping themselves from the a la carte as their plates empty; croissants, hot chocolate, a sideboard loaded with bacon, eggs – omelettes, scrambled, coddled, poached – toast, potato hash, sausage, ham, scalding bitter coffee and watered wine…

The owner cheerfully brings in the morning’s newspapers, placing one on every table. Before our party has time to peruse it, a commotion in the lobby has everyone rubber-necking to discover the source. Wik lifts the paper and his eyes grow wide as he reads an alert on the front page, he relays the information quickly to his friends. 

Moments later a squad of Gendarmerie enter the dining room, their eyes roaming over the guests. Wik, attempting to avoid their attention, scrambles under the table, dismayed when he realises the table cloth is only a few inches long and doesn’t hide him at all. The movement catches their attention and they make their way to the table hosting our heroes and an arrest is made. The language barrier causes much confusion; the proprietress shakes her head, “Bad. Thieves.”

Wik struggles briefly and is placed in irons.

The officers check their rooms, returning with an empty vase, confirming it does not belong to the hotel. The party is escorted to the station where more disgruntled patrons have arrived from the bath house and are shaking their fists, demanding justice.

The party is taken through, their belongings rucksacks and other possessions placed in the locked storage before they join Morgan, albeit in separate cells. Morgan has attempted speech with the three other prisoners without success, and is happy to have his friends join him, although, when they later transmit the reason they are being held, he is outraged.

As soon as the guards exit the cell-room, Wik begins to pick at the manacles using his thieves tools. “So glad they didn’t search me before they tossed me in here!” he sniggers to himself.

The rest of the party soon hear the metal clang on the hewn rock floor. “Now, how to get out of here.” He fiddles with his lock picks unsuccessfully at the iron grate. Frustrated until he remembers a gold skeleton-key he picked up deep in the caverns.

Fitting the key, previously hidden on his body, to the lock, he is pleased to find it opens!

“There are keys on the hook by the door,” Morgan points out. Wik goes to the hook and takes the large metal ring, returns to the cell doors and quickly releases the rest of the group, including the other prisoners. Martonis makes a point of thanking him.

A plan is quickly hatched and not one of the team feels remorse at using the three criminals, but assuage their guilt by reasoning that the three probably are guilty of their crimes. Morgan hands each two daggers, and by pantomiming is able to have the three understand, (or, at least understand their part) in the diabolical idea. He also reaches in his pouches and extracts several rings and gems that he found, stolen by the mice, and hands it to the criminals, whose eyes glitter as they laugh coarsely.

The party, plus three, cautiously moves into the storage room hatching their plan. They unlock the door to the outer room, shoving the three criminals through, hollering and causing a commotion as Morgan slams and Martonis locks the door behind them, effectively tossing the three to the wolves. Our heroes then enter the lockers and retrieve their belongings, or, at least the stuff they can readily spot, go back into the cell room and head for the emergency exit, although, why it’s called ‘sortie’ they cannot fathom.

Now, to keep the officers from simply entering and subduing them, Martonis puts the key in the lock, turns it then brings his morning star’s head heavily upon the key, snapping it, making it impossible for a key to be used from the other side.

The party expects the key in hand to open the door, but, two keys; one for the cells and one for the doors. They brainstorm quickly, Ooma suggesting they remove the hinges. This is tried successfully and Morgan catches the heavy door, leaning it to the side as they make their escape down a metal staircase and over to a high stone wall.

Morgan grabs his grappling hook and tosses it over the wall, the party scrambling up it, Martonis, using the Grace of Pelor, heaving Morgan over when he loses his grip on the rope and begins to struggle. They no sooner hit the ground when a battalion of officers round the corner at the end of the lane. They start to run, but slow when they realise Martonis cannot run he is exhausted.

Morgan, about to toss Martonis over his shoulder, thinks Wik’s idea of each taking Martonis by the arm and dragging him along is a better one. Martonis, understanding they may need to leave him behind, tosses a bag-load of marbles which, like a comedy routine, has the officers slipping, tripping and falling in their haste to recapture these hardened criminals!

Our heroes hasten their way along the lane, turning several times, losing the officers, and nearly colliding over a rabble group scrounging in the trash, similar to the urchins Morgan met earlier. Our group is almost passed them when Morgan gets a bright idea. He grabs one of the urchin’s trolley handles, puffs up, and stares the ragged waif down, effectively forcing him to release the trolley, where upon, Morgan unceremoniously lifts Martonis and drops his feet first into the trash barrel on wheels. The party is able to travel much quicker as they jog along the road moving through narrow lanes.

As they hustle along, they notice the roads widening; the yards growing larger, tidier. Forced into a narrow walkway between two high-walled gardens, Martonis spots, like a telescope, at the opposite end, what the party perceives to be the palace! “There, that way!”

Morgan, spying the hill, turns to Martonis and groans, “I’ll take you to the bottom, after that, you’re on your own.”

The palace guard smirk briefly as they spy Martonis, his armour-clad body clanging in the rubbish-cart. They point the way to the entrance politely, being quite oblivious that these people are wanted by the police.

Arriving at the entrance, the party observes little pomp and ceremony, asking to see Lucy.

“The Queen?” the neatly uniformed officer repeats, his practised eye inspecting this varied group. A smile creases his face, “Are you Ooma?” He turns at her nod. “And you must be Wik, and,” he glances to Morgan, “Morgan?” I must apologise, I do not know your friend?”

“This is Martonis, he wasn’t with us when we rescued Lucy.”

“Ahh, I see,” his accent strong. “Please, follow me, the queen is expecting you!”

After being led through a maze of hallways and rooms, they are led into the throne room. The guard, hardly reading their names before a loud squeal and a flying torso of limbs leaps from the enormous throne, and flies down the length of the room, and launches into Ooma’s arms.

“You’re here!” a small child’s voice sings gleefully!

The party reacquaints themselves to Lucy, Queen Lucy now, and Ooma introduces Martonis. Although schooled in courtly manners, she is still a child and she clings to Ooma, shyly peering around her to look at the metal man.

Martonis for his part, removes his helm and kneels, “My lady.”

Discussions ensue, although it seems strange to be chatting about such adult ideals with a young child, she is the one who can grant their freedom.

Looking to her they quickly tell their tale. Lucy speaks with her advisor, who nods and bows graciously, “It will be taken care of, your majesty.” His scowl is noticed only by the newcomer, Martonis, as he exits the grand room.

“Your highness, if I may. Your advisor is especially evil and should not be trusted.”

“Nonsense,” Lucy giggles. “He’s been here since my parents were killed.” She grows sombre, her voice quavering and a tear encroaching in her sparkling eyes. This nearly breaks Martonis’s heart as he holds his arms open for her. She presses closer to Ooma, a childish shyness creeping upon her.

“Who takes care of you?” they enquire and Martonis is appalled to discover the toad who is considered her advisor is the one who makes the decisions until Lucy comes of age. Martonis tries his best to tell her what he has been given a glimpse of, but it is just too much for her childish imagination to take in.

“Nana, my governess.”

“Can we meet her?”

A wide smile fills Lucy’s face, “Oh, yes!”

“What happened to Edith? Can we send for her? Can she come and look after you?”

“Yes. If she will. My advisor can arrange it.”

“Maybe we’ll stay until she arrives, would you like that? If we stay until Edith arrives?”

Typical of a little girl who has just been given a very coveted gift she squeals and jumps up and down. “Will you!? Yippee!!” She clings to Ooma’s arm and begins to drag her along the carpet. “Come, you must meet Madame, and she’ll arrange your rooms!”

The four adventurers follow the small waif through the splendid gallery and further; the magnificence of the palace inspiring new respect at every turn.

 The party follows blindly a six-year-old child...

o0o

XP: 1150 each; surprising, ‘eh? EXTRA-XP for those who write a story (with the Tavern at its centre...); journal entry (of usefulness); or an insight into their character’s back story... 50xp x character level, for one entry per week…

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(video version)

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blindly following the child...
fledgling Dungeon Mistress,
khrys...

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