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Mortigny, 755 BC
The once-stately Dulapont Manor had seen better days. The walls of the house were still strong, but it had been a year since the doors and window shutters had last seen a coat of fresh paint, and Chalmers, the butler, did not anticipate a chance to address this problem. Truth be told, there were many problems he did not anticipate a chance of addressing any time soon, what with the money being as tight as it was. He was frankly lucky to still be employed, even if he did have to do more work than was pleasant for his old body.
As he rolled the freshly-polished cart containing the family's dinner from the spotless kitchen to the grand dining room, Chalmers noticed more signs of neglect. Dust in the corners he was too stiff to reach. Cobwebs at the ceiling ... How the deuce did the spiders weave them so quickly? He'd spend an entire afternoon straining his back and elbows sweeping them away with a long-handled broom, and when he turned around, there were fresh webs. The once highly prized Borcan carpets were fraying at the edges, and it was simply impossible to get some of the tiny granules of dirt out of them anymore. Heloise, who now doubled as cook and maid, had beaten the rugs for a full hour before she gave up.
Chalmers shook his head. Heloise was a good child, who had stepped into the breach in a magnificent manner when the former cook left in a huff because the Old Mistress would not increase his wages. Parasite! The man had sensed weakness in the family and tried to capitalize on it. He wouldn't have dared if the Old Master had still been alive ... But Heloise had remained loyal, had stayed on, just like Chalmers. It was commendable. And it was no good; the girl was young, she still had a future. Plenty of jobs working as maid and cook for houses that weren't in their decline. Not for a creaky old fossil like Chalmers, of course. He could stay. But the girl, oh, the girl.
Chalmers stopped the cart in front of the dining room's double doors, straightened his butler's uniform with a few quick tugs, and knocked. Waiting the appropriate three counts, Chalmers opened the doors himself and announced: "Madame et messieurs, your dinner is served." Wheeling the cart into the room, he kept his face carefully composed. Signs of decay, indeed, and nowhere else more than in this room.
Oh, the carpets here were still spotless, a shimmering sweep of golden and silver arabesques and spirals, whose creation must have blinded at least a dozen children locked in some odious Borcan sweatshop. The heavy wooden furniture, lovingly crafted by the hands of Darkonese elves, was clean and stately. The great dining room table stood firm under a weight of spotless silver cutlery and porcelain plates, a giant candelabra of pure gold providing enough light for a ballroom. A roaring blaze in the fireplace kept the damp and the evening chill at bay.
But as he quickly and efficiently started to ladle out the first course -- a very fragrant turtle soup, one of Heloise's best efforts -- Chalmers couldn't help but notice the signs of decay. They were not in the room itself, they were in the Family. Where once the grand table would have seated at least a dozen members of the Dulapont family, now there were only three. Just three glasses to fill with a barely acceptable red wine from Barovia.
The Old Mistress looked exhausted and frail; her age had caught up to her in a most disturbing way. Her recent tendency to dress all in white did not really suit her, or so Chalmers felt. Pale and white-haired as she was, it made her look like an unusually well-kempt ghost. Silver rings set with emeralds glittered at her fingers, silver clasps kept her thinning hair in check, a silver choker with more emeralds sparkled around her throat. A second silver necklace bore an ivory symbol of Ezra, and the Old Mistress's left hand was constantly caressing it. Her lips moved endlessly, though no sound emerged that Chalmers could hear. Prayers. The Old Mistress was at the end of her rope, and prayers were all that kept her going.
Master Jeremy did not look ghostly. He looked thunderous, constantly angry. Chalmers knew the Young Master was angry, had been angry ever since he returned from his long stay in Nova Vaasa. The Nova Vaasan sun had darkened his skin, which was entirely in keeping with his black hair, dark brown eyes and his preference for dark brown clothing. Even though the Young Master wore a well-made dinner jacket and pantalons, he still affected the riding boots of a Nova Vaasan lord. And the moustache, one must never forget that small, pointed moustache -- nor the way those flashing eyes stared daggers at everyone who came close. Chalmers kept his eyes averted, so as not to provoke the Young Master when he served him. The Young Master's favourite whip lay beside his plate. Another sign of rot, in Chalmers' opinion.
And finally, Younger Master Traven. Younger Master Traven had withered. His once-black hair had turned an ashen grey since the funeral, and his skin was almost as pale as his mother's. He was still hale and dexterous, unlike his frail mother, but not as vital as his older brother. If anything, he looked like he was the older brother. And he still wore mourner's black, although the official mourning period of a year and a day had passed weeks ago. The Younger Master kept his company too much these days, Chalmers thought.
The Family Dulapont was in its final decline, or so Chalmers felt. The Old Mistress was not long for this world, Master Jeremy wasn't the man to restore the house, and Younger Master Traven, who Chalmers had once held high hopes for, had been broken by that horrible business. The money was running out, the business opportunities were getting very scarce, and ...
There was a series of sharp rappings from overhead, as if someone were knocking on the ceiling from above.
The Old Mistress screamed in fright and clutched her chest; Chalmers dropped the cheeseboard he'd been carrying to the table and hurried to her side. On the other side of the table, Younger Master Traven gasped, rose and also rushed to his mother's aid.
Young Master Jeremy snatched up his whip, surged up from his seat and shouted vile curses at the roof. "Come out and show yourself, you coward!" he roared, brandishing his whip as if it would be any good against a real poltergeist ... or something worse. "Come out! Or get out of my house! Out!"
The rapping noises did not retreat, no specter manifested. The noises just grew louder, and the very walls of the manor creaked. The Old Mistress started to sob helplessly, although Younger Master Traven held her in his arms and begged her to "Be calm, mother, calm. It'll soon be over. Mother, mother, please ..."
"Chalmers, you oaf!" Young Master Jeremy cursed. "Get the dogs from the kennel! Give them free reign of the upper floors, let them chase this intruder out of my house!"
"I regret to inform you, Master Jeremy," Chalmers replied with hard-won dignity, "that there are only two dogs left to the house: Snuffler and Miss Jenny. Miss Jenny is currently awaiting a fresh litter, sired by Snuffler, and he is --" He barely managed to duck an infuriated swing of Young Master Jeremy's whip.
"Why is everyone around me so utterly incompetent?" the young nobleman raged. "What did I ever do to deserve this?"
"Jeremy." The Old Mistress's voice cut through her older son's rage like a knife through water. So strange, so impressive; even as near death as she was, the Old Mistress still held absolute authority over her son. "Jeremy," she repeated, her calm momentarily restored by Younger Master Traven's proximity. "Be calm. There are no dogs. There are no servants apart from Chalmers and the maid. And I forbid you and Traven from going up there again to look for the ghost."
"Then what are we to do?" Young Master Jeremy asked. Such torment in his voice ... "Mother, this is our home! It is all we have left!" Aye, such terrible torment.
"Chalmers," the Old Mistress said, beckoning her butler closer. Her thin, trembling hands reached up and unclasped her choker, the precious gift from the late Master. "Take this to be appraised by that nice young man, the jeweller who gave us such a good return on the Old Master's rings."
"Mother, your necklace," Younger Master Traven protested, his expression one of horror. "No, please don't. It's a memento from father, I -- I'll put together some money if you need it." Firmly, he stopped the Old Mistress from handing the choker to Chalmers.
"Mistress," Chalmers said, his voice catching a little. "What is it that you wish me to do?"
"Put out the word," the Old Mistress sighed, "that the Dulapont family is in need of mercenaries to cleanse our house of a specter of some sort. What else?"
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Now recruiting interested people to play 'the unsettled house', a Ravenloft campaign initially set in Richemulot. If the first adventure goes well enough and the participants want to keep playing, we may very well move beyond Richemulot. (As stated up front, I am not the world's greatest DM.)
I am looking for a maximum of seven players.
Starting level: 2.
Preferred source material for character creation: D&D PHB, D&D DMG, Ravenloft PHB, Complete Adventurer, Complete Arcane, Complete Divine, Complete Mage, Complete Psion, Complete Warrior, Expanded Psionics Handbook, Heroes of Horror, Magic of Incarnum, Savage Species, Ravenloft Gazetteers, Van Richten's Arsenal, Legacy of the Blood, Dark Tales & Disturbing Legends.
Character creation: 20 point buy system. Five of your stats start out at base 10, one at base 8. You are thereafter at liberty to divide 20 points among the abilities.
If you have a character concept, please tell me in a pm.
Please create your character sheet at http://www.myth-weavers.com.
We'll be using http://invisiblecastle.com/roller/ as dice roller.
Story hook: For whatever reason, you find yourself in Mortigny (backstory options galore) and in search of gainful employment. Somehow, you get wind of the Dulapont family's need for 'specialists' to rid their house of a haunting, a curse, or some other affliction that is causing regular disturbances and upsetting that most noble bloodline. One person (first come, first served) can choose to be a member of the Dulapont family who lives elsewhere in Richemulot (a cousin once removed of Jeremy and Traven is the closest family link permitted), and has come for a family visit or to offer support in this difficult time. (Warning: whoever plays a Dulapont will be required to take at least one (1) level of Aristocrat!) If you absolutely insist on playing an evil alignment, I suppose it can be done -- however, if an evil PC betrays the rest of the party, I won't protect them from their wrath. If your PC is killed in the course of the adventure, there will be ways of bringing them back, but you may find yourself indebted rather heavily to some people with a long reach and a long memory for debts.
Any questions? And more importantly -- any volunteers?
Recruiting ends as soon as seven people have joined up or on coming Sunday, whichever happens first. Ideally, roleplay starts next Monday.
) I'm sure you will be a more than capable DM.
And I must say I have seen no fault in your English so far.
