The Witch Chronicles - Part I by Jim McDaries

The iron hinges were barely supporting the great brass doors. The door’s shape had been distorted by some intense heat source originating from inside the tomb. It was if the damage had been caused by an enormous fireball which burst the once locked doors apart and left the chains with the sigil of the City of Crowyn half buried in the blackened earth. The grass outside of the tomb was scorched twenty feet from the entrance. The passageway into the tomb was shrouded in darkness and the sunlight from the doorway could barely penetrate the gloom. The oak beams that supported the tunnel were barely visible. All was quiet, but not the quiet of a still morning or the stillness of twilight at the end of a day but a unnatural stillness as if the sound was swallowed by some unseen evil. The silence was felt.

It all started a couple of days at one of my favorite taverns, the Mermaid, where I was performing one of my newest renditions of the very popular and beloved classic - A Hairy Foot in My Path. I had added an entire new verse, some new more “up to date” lyrics, and a much-needed tempo increase. All was going well and I was just entering the lute solo when I looked and noticed that either the tune or I had somehow insulted a very large, short-tempered half-orc and his mates. He was rather upset and menacing looking. So with an innocent thought I tried to calm the situation by giving the half-orc the gypsy elf signal for friendship, which is a slow drawn-out flick of the back of my hand from under my chin. It must have ment something else to half-orcs because he was not pleased at the gesture and with a bellow, started toward the stage. As he moved through the crowd he started manhandling some of the more rambunctious youths that were they’re enjoying my song and tune. This aggressive action of more robust pushing and shoving motivated the crowd to partake in the newest form of non-lethal pit fighting dance, if you will, know as the mosh.

It was all fun until I realized that a dagger had been thrown at me by the rude half-orc from within the crowd and embedded itself in the oak beam above my head. He nearly got me in the lute! Uncalled for and if you asked me in poor taste! I continued to play and apparently, my “good ol’ drinkin'” song was instead turning into a “good ol’ fightin'” song and a brawl ensued. Now I tried to live up to the traditions of my art and family, and since my old pappy used to say “the show most go on, unless arrows start a flyin'” I kept singing and playing…

Well, boys will be boys and after a couple of sword thrusts here and a dagger parry there the fight was over and a quick exit from the Mermaid was needed. In comes the priest to save the day. The clergyman had stayed and witnessed the entire scuffle and wanted to talk to us about “other work” and stated that if we didn’t want stay the night in the watchtower sleeping on flea infested hay mattresses we should follow him to a safer place to discuss his proposition. So as the night watch was coming and I didn’t think we could sing our way out of this mess, we exited stage right with the priest.

To make long story short, my party and I were ask by the priest, one Father Quay of the temple of Arkyn the Meticulous, to do some unofficial investigation of grave robberies on behalf of the church. The clergy have been denied access to the private crypts of some local nobles that had been desecrated. The families involved insisted that this was a family matter and that nothing unnatural had occurred. There had seemed to be some strange happenings involving the recently and not so recently deceased from several prominent and noble families from the city and nearby countryside.

After speaking with many different persons and breaking into the tomb of one of the nobel houses (the Sunbrights... very pompous sorts), we learned of an old trial and execution of four witches or more accurately sorceresses that took place ten years ago. We were planning our next move when we had unwilling gained the notice of an individual or individuals that wanted our investigations to end. Last night, while at a local favorite, Murphy’s Tavern, I was entertaining the crowd with a spirited instrumental called Flight of the Bumble Bee when a ruckus in the kitchen completely ruined a masterful display of a series of finger hammer-on triplets on my lute. All that was heard was the chorus of three fear-stricken barmaids and a wail, which can only be described as a goose being strangled by a farmer’s wife, of a thirteen year-old boy whose occupation is dishwasher. As the quartet burst from the kitchen, I quietly stood on the stage with a failed tune on my lute and the remnants of a song on my lips. Blast!

Undaunted by the destruction of my song and being the heroes we are, my comrades (Sorelis - my brother, Burgell the Gnome, and Vastil the musketeer) and I leaped to our feet to take action and raced to the kitchen. Now I must admit I am a lover and not a fighter and that I do not possess the stomach or constitution for very much blood, entrails and other various goos and secretions from the living; so what I saw next was somewhat unnerving to say the least. I had been the first to reach the kitchen door and when I opened it I immediately regretted being so eager. As the door flew opened my nostril were assailed by the most horrid stench. It was all I could do to keep my late lunch where it should be kept. But as combat has a way settling the unsettled, I was able to keep my composure and assess the situation at hand. There standing in the kitchen were two fresh or should I say not so fresh zombies, one was dressed as a commoner and one in noble clothes. In fact the nobilic, if that is a word, zombie was none other than the late Lord Sunbright himself, signet ring and all! Quickly I struck at the first zombie (Sunbright) while executing a beautiful, textbook withdrawal into the main room of the tavern for aid from my friends. The battle with the undead lasted longer than I care to remember but no one was seriously injured and the nasties were sent back to their grave. After the fight the most peculiar things came to our attention; firstly the zombies showed little or not interest in our party members that were not of noble birth... they seemed only interested with the evisceration of our musketeer, Vastil of the noble House, Montague. Secondly there was a note pinned to the lapel of the commoner zombie’s tattered jacket, warning us not to "meddle in the affairs of witches". Well now sorcerers, undead, noble corruption and mysteries; if you ask me, that sounds like the making of a great epic, story, song, or saga, so as a moth is drawn to a flame so we were drawn to delve further.

Through other various clues and investigations, our search for the apparent Necromancer has led us to this tomb of an ancient Skorhean raider base, abandoned hundreds of years ago. It was here where the the witches were executed by decapitation and their bodies were entombed. However, by the condition of the tomb doors our resting witches could be somewhat restless? Perhaps they have been awakened or more sinisterly, summoned back to unlife? Could there be witches or maybe now, Liches?

Oh well, it cannot be said that Margolis Satriani and his friends are afraid to seek the unknown and risk peril to discover the truth in the dark and uninviting places of the world. So steadily, with the escape routes planned and rehearsed, and with the comforting shine of Vastil’s glow sticks, we enter the tomb with hopes for answers to many questions…

But that’s for a later installment…