PrP: The Haghill Horror

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Log Info

  • Title: The Haghill Horror
  • Emitter: Lenore
  • Characters: Virton (Art4)* Shagara (Mnk3)* Charity (Mnk3)* Ezekiel (Inq2)* Wilros (Ftr1/Wiz1)*
  • Place: Haghill - Alexandria
  • Time: April 30, 2016
  • Summary: There was a tale once, many years ago, of a man that hunted and killed every living man, woman and child in the place once known as Haghill; a sleepy little town to the west of Alexandria, on the outskirts of a mired bog that has not been entered since. The story goes that the murderous bastard that did these foul deeds was put to death and buried in some shallow grave amidst the muck and grime. There has been evidence of a copycat within a newly growing community not far from Haghill, and the city guard grows concerned. It has asked that the Adventurer's Guild send aid in order to put to rest the culprit, or the rumours.
  • APL: 3
  • Encounter 1: 4 Fast Zombies, 1 Morhg, CR9



ST:


It is a chilling tale, to be sure, the documented case of Edwin Kolowicz, The Haghill Horror; something that is still discussed even now amidst certain circles, some cautionary thing told to the unwary and adventurous greenhorns in various guilds the nation over to remind them that things are not always as they seem. Some of our heroes may even have heard the stories, or seen the gruesome likenesses of the several savage scenes that unfolded some 30 years past.

The wagon provided by the guild to carry our would-be rescuers to the abandoned town rocks in a gentle sway as it meanders down the traderoute's well-worn path, and the rhytmic stamp of the horse that pulls it's hooves creates a sort of lulling pattern that draws away from the words of the old man out front as he regales the collection of adventurers.

"I remember it like it were yesterday, I do. Sight of them little ones still haunts me." He explains, his head hanging slightly, a straw hat's brim pulled low over his diverted gaze as the afternoon blazes on, filling the canopied path with a muggy heat that sticks to the skin and brings whatever fabric it can along for the ride. "Was a much younger man back then, still had th' dream that I might do somethin', ya know? Somethin' to change the world. Somethin' to help. Just..." There's a faraway moment of silence as his chin lifts and glassy blue eyes, tired and woestruck turn to the dusty path that seems to go forever. "... Somethin'."

He takes in a long, shallow breath and lets it out steadily, swallowing hard as he gives the reins the barest flick, thinning lips pressed tight, the grooves of age showing around the edges, and obvious discomfort surrounding the topic. "Then I got a job, haulin' out the bodies of them poor folk from Haghill -- middle of the summer stink, it was -- they heat weren't helpin' none, that's for sure. I remember one little girl, pretty as a picture, blonde hair," He recollects, shifting to rub one hand at the back of his neck, trailing it forward as though he touched the locks. "Big, green eyes and round little cheeks with no colour atall. Looked like she were sleepin', she may wella been... were it not for all the blood drained out her, and the wounds what I saw carved from stem t'stern, all jagged and angry. I asked the man there 'Gods' sake, what happened to 'er??'..." He pauses again, licking suddenly dry lips, rocking with the carriage that ferries the group along.

"Y'know what he told me?" Of course not. His head gives a subtle shake, corners of his mouth tugging downward as his jaw works at chewing on some imaginary bit. "He said, 'They tried t'eat 'er.' ... They tried t'eat that li'l girl. Carved? She weren't carved. They damn near pulled that child apart."

His head lifts again as the fork in the road appears, spiraling away from the path and heading down the steep hill that surrounds the marshy valley that was once home to Haghill, and he steers them that way. A sharp breath, a sharper exhale as the gasses of the swamp waft over in a blanket of hot, stagnant air, the old man's body sitting back with a thump, his knuckles white with the grip he has on those reins. It's fresh with new greenery brought about by spring, but despite the gentle rains of earlier days and the valiant pastel pink and purple blossoms that hang heavy from low branch and full brush, it still reeks of death, and screams of nightmares not yet long enough past.

"... Gods take mercy on you all. There aren't nothin' but evil in this place." He continues down the path, a visible tremble in his old hands, clutching as they do. "Guard's just ahead, they should have more..."

There, on the ground at the very edge of the cobblestone approach to the town proper, the bodies of the contingient of the city guard you were meant to meet in order to discuss the investigations to follow. Blood is everywhere, bits missing, faces contorted in anguish and frozen by fear. Already the buzz of scavenging insects can be heard, attracted by the hastened decay of the heap of broken bodies, seeping a collection of fluids that trickle off betwixt the stonework into the surrounding bog.


Spurs give an audiable *tink* noise as the Golem shifts his feet, Virton listens to the tale from the old man with the same stoic expression as ever - because his face has no moving parts, and is more or less permenantly stuck that way. A puff of black smog escapes from the exhaust pipe that sticks out of the corner of his mouth as the old man finishes his tale, and Virton's mouth-unit gives a pulse of orange as the vocalizer buzzes out his desired words. "This place gone t'hell in a handbasket, iffin' you don't mind me sayin'." Comes his line of thought on this place and the undesirable situation that occured within.

As the scene of slaughter comes upon them, he hauls his feet over fully and promptly drops himself onto the earth, sinking in a small amount before he steps forwards with a 'schlorp' of sucking mud at his heels. His head tips towards the older man as he flicks his poncho over his body, "You be stayin' in that there wagon, I reckon. Get yourself back a bit, too. Seems you were a mite too right, considerin' the evil that we be seein' here." He buzzes, with the soft 'sst' of pistons as he hauls a thunderbelcher that is usually strapped to his torso is gripped by mechanised hands, flexing a few times before checking the charge on the artificer-tinkered weapon, which begins giving off an ominous hum.


Ezekiel swallows hard before pulling out a handkerchief from his sleeve, pressing it to his nose and mouth to fight down the stench and bile. His eyes dart to the bodies, the ichor, and the insects in rapid succession, mind whirling away. "Well, it's not every day you get to investigate multiple deceased," he says from behind the handkerchief, voice clipped. He follows the golem, eyes flitting about in search of anything to give him a clue.


Sitting in a lotus position, Shagara seems to be meditating as she rides, which is amusing since most haven't seen a meditating oruch....ever. PLus the fact she's not in armor, and the only weapon she seems to have is a rather big sword upon her back.

When they get there, she looks somewhat impassively at the slaughter around them. "good thing I brought a sword." She says as she slides the blade from her back.....and holds it in a reverse grip.


"If there is nothing but evil..." Charity reasons, shaking her head. "Then it will be easy to wade in and strike down the wicked before us."

The chilling tales of this place had drawn the Dragon-ite faithful Monk, having been on quite the mission(s) of mercy previously.

And then, as the approach to the town and the grisly sight before them, the oruch's face twists into a grimace. "Awful. We must put their spirits to rest with swift vegeance. Nothing that does this should be allowed to continue upon this plane, or any other."


Admist this group of adventurers, a young boy, no more than twenty, is settled into a corner of the wagon with his arms hanging off the sides of the cart and his blonde hair falling low over his eyes. The soft snoring indicate that he was likely sleeping for a majority of the trip. The tale the old man was telling couldn't have been that interesting. As the cart rides into a stop, he does a start, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "What's that smell?" He questions unknowingly. Soon the source of the stench comes into sight, and he goes pale and quiet.



ST:


The old man simply stares at what lay before him with all the wide-eyed horror he had those 30 years ago, his breath shallowed as his still-shaking hand comes to cover his mouth before a sound of sorrow is breathed into it; half sob, half heave, all devestated. There are tears that well up in age-worn eyes, his body giving a subtle heave as his sorrow tries with all it is to cripple him in that moment. For a long while, it's as though he simply didn't hear the Wargolem that tells him to stay back, his head shaking back and forth with a growing rapidity as the revulsion continues to build. Finally, he snaps his hand down, jerking at the reins to draw his horse, and the wagon, backward up the path. "I-I'll get... help, or, I..." His voice breaks, "I'll head on up ahead, see if I can't find the guards up the way and bring'em back to ya!"

He clicks his tongue, turning the horse and abandoning you all in this place. Poor man clearly isn't thinking straight.

"Don't you go dyin' on me!" He hollars back over the sound of the hoofbeats.

Nearly as soon as he's off on his way, something moves; the slick sound of skin pulling away from its anchor, the clear and incessant drip of something into those pooling liquids, visibly rippling across the surface. "Ssshhhuchj..." A voice slithers up from the mound of bodies, apparently having some difficulty speaking, low and curiously smooth with a gravitas one might expect from a man spinning some gruesome tale to unruly camp children. "A messshj..." It slurs and shifts, the fingers of the bodies twitching, curling, balling into fists and going limp once more, blood trickling down the digits of some with that audible shatter upon the stone below.

Drip...

Drip...

Drip...

"Ah, but... where are my mannersshj?" Limbs again stir, arms lashing out, hands grabbing at nothing, and a cacaphony of moans erupts in a fit of anguish that has the ravaged cadavers scattering, scuttling away like cockroaches from the light, not one of them right; they move like the possessed, twisted and stretched, unearthly quick, utterly broken, devoid of life in eyes that rest open, mouths gaping wide.

"It'sshj shjo shhj..shh..." From beneath the last, a creature rights itself, organs visible, pulsing, oozing down the front of its pale, stretched-open torso, ribs wide and pulling the skin taught, tongue eeling about as though with a mind of its own. A smile is carved into its face, curling from ear to ear, eyes a vacant white. "...Shhjeldom," It slurps, "I have vishjitorzh." It shuffles a step, coated in the liquids left by the newly deceased, its head rolling back and forth in a languid stretch, before its attentions roll toward Wilros, rotted teeth revealed in that demented grinning.

"It'shj what'shj... for dinner."

With that, the four creatures that had skittered away before begin their unified surge back toward the company.



Seeing the undead things approach, Shagara seems ready to go charging off after them. Instead she keeps her position so everyone can help her out....


Ezekiel hides a gag behind the handkerchief. "It had to be undead." A shiver of revulsion rolls along Ezekiel's spine before he pulls the handkerchief away from his mouth. A faint whisper of the divine passes his lips, and a flurry of white motes sizzle, zipping to Shagara. The motes flicker and pass into her skin, the divine will be done.


With a crumple of his chassis, Virton is sent staggering backwards as one of the fast zombies really gets the drop on him, and.. Goes fast. With a blurt of static as a cry of alarm, Virton's body gives a soft 'vvrrr' noise as the titan armour so integrated into his body goes into overdrive, and a soft orange glow begins to pour from his joints as his armour feeds essence into his pistons and servos, giving him a higher degree of flexibility and dexterity. With a blurt of noise that sounds Eldritch in origin, the Artificer promptly produces a small spray canister and sprays the air infront of himself -- which rapidly comes together and coalesces into a shimmering shield of force around the Artificer. The canister promptly caves in on itself, its resevoir of essence ran out, and is discarded to the side.

"Yah crumpled mah chest, ya dang nuisance!" He buzzes. At a mindless zombie. At least he feels better about it.


Glints of terror flash in Wilros' expressive blue eyes, and he reflexively gags as the abomination's tongue sweeps around its rotten teeth. He swallows hard as if swallowing back fear before unsheathing his composite longbow and preparing for fire. This is not his first confrontation with the walking corpses, and it won't be his last. He unleashes hell upon the weird looking one.



ST:


Limbs are twisted and broken, knees bent the wrong way, heads twisted fully around, and still these things move -- still, they attack in that rolling wave of the newly deceased. The stench, instead of rot and decay, is the rancid odour of sewage, the mingled voidance of their prior mortis, streaking down bare legs, staining the cloth that remains of what uniforms they had worn. Their motion is unnatural and quick, yet completely graceless as their mangled limbs fumble over each other in their mad crawling.

"They jusshjt want to get... to know you..." The organ-spilling man staggers in place, a hand with fingers too-long, blackened nails gnarled and long, a horrid breath taken into those visible lungs just as pitch, crackling and gurgling as they fill with air, that grin widening ever further as its tongue lolls out to sup at the oozing cruor that leaks from its own body. "Shjuch a beautiful family... won't you join ushj? Ha! Haha! AAHAHAHAHA!" His arms raise to the sides in his mad cackling, digits unfurling to properly impress his imminent villainy.

Two fists come flailing at Shagara, bones crunching as they make contact; not hers, goodness, no, but the fragile things that the host no longer has any mind for in the hands of recently human guardsmen, head hanging limp backward over its shoulders, staring off at the forest behind them. Only one makes contact, the other swinging wide with a momentum that causes the creature to lean into the monk, smearing blood and filth between the two of them before it yanks backward.

"Mmm, I can... feeeel their HUNGER!" The creature bellows. "Feeeaassshjt!"

Another scuttles toward the wargolem to repeat the same, bashing into his chassis, tearing at the poncho he wears, gifting upon it a whole new array of colours and smells that will doubtlessly be with him for ages to come. It almost seems as though the undead might try to speak, its teeth clacking together once or twice, before a strangled moan manages its way out, hands still reaching, pawing for the cowboy as though he could somehow help them, already gone.

"HahahaHAHAHAHA! AAAHAHA--GGHHSSSHH!" The Morhg mocks mightily, cackling away at the expense of those being battered by his mini army of the deceased, right about until an arrow whistles forth to puncture through one of his goopy, pulsating organs. "GAH! You... you..." This is why we keep them on the inside. "Mmmnnnnn... sshhlllsshh," Its eyes reflect an image of Wilros as it stares toward him with nothing but hatred and contempt, as he is wont to do, a hand moving up to coil about the shaft of the arrow that pierced through one of his vitals, tongue whipping about in slobber-shedding madness. "No matter! Shhjoooon, you shhjall be jusshjt... another... victim." It snaps the arrow, throwing the fletched end onto the stones with a sharp clatter.

The other creatures continue to wash over the group in clawing, smashing abuse; as blood is drawn and one of the zombies is laid to rest in finality, another comes up from behind, scampering up over the crumpled body to wail on the monk, as well, but to no avail. It seems in its eagerness, it abandons all accuracy.

The last drills Charity in the face with two mangled fists, the bones already mashed, but the weight of them enough to do a hefty bit of damage. There is no mockery there, no smugness, but had there been, it'd be punched clean off in the oruch's retort, pounded into the ground with little more than a twitching of digits not dissimilar to what they witnessed before that burial heap came to life.



Shagara shakes her head. "No amount of slurring is going to save you." She says turning and kicking the next one in the face then hitting the same spot with a spin kick....unfortunately, it's still up.


Ezekiel narrows his eyes as he watches the creatures attack Charity. "Not on my watch," he mutters before quick-stepping back with the grace of a dancer, fingers outstretched and swirling with white motes that disappear into Charity's skin as he makes contact.


Wilros' swift fingers reach for another arrow, even as that undead tongue lashes out at him...FROM FORTY FEET AWAY!! The tongue connects to his body and suddenly he can't move. At first, he supposes that perhaps he is sooo petrified that he is incapable of movement. But as the effects last for longer than physically possible, he mutters a silent curse. Rendered powerless by the nimble tongue of some zombie leader. All he can think of is how disturbingly kinky this is...


"GIT YA GONE!"

Buzzes Virton as the fast undead continues powering after him, blows either reflecting off the shield of force that protects his body like AXE bodyspray protects virginities, or by dint of the fact that Virton is now moving at a much more dexterous and essence-fuelled pace. Speaking of mana essence, Virton's shoulder cannon gives an 'ooumm' as it pulses into life. The Artificer takes one quick hop backwards, giving himself momentary distance from the undead monstrosity, and both hands come up to cradle the death ray, bracing himself by placing feet shoulder length apart. With a 'brrzlzrt' of electrical discharge, a red-bolt of lightning impacts into the Undead, hopefully rendering it fully dead. Redead. Deaderer. The recently deceased now properly deceased.


Punching - and dispatching - one of the vile creatures coming at her (no matter what you are, if you slaughter people like in this town, you fall under the 'vile creature' cateogry, that's a science fact!) and tearing deep holes in her loose top to take two chunks out of her, before an elbow finds and fells it, she spots Wilros' attacker, and with a roar, charges after it, to!!!

Miss completely. Headlong charges have just /not/ worked out for the Daeusite monk.



ST:


"Nicjshe," It mangles a word, "Pick on a man with a with a sshhjpeech impediment! Classhjy!" The Morgh retorts, the expression on its face hard to read, with the rotted and gnarled flesh twisting the way it does, sneering across at Shagara with all the contempt he can manage.

It's a lot.

That tongue, thick and purple, coated with verdant viscous drool hangs low, milky eyes slowly ticking back toward Wilros once the Morgh has given Shagara a hard enough stare for being a bully. It darts forward, and then that tongue, spongey and flexing as it shoots toward Wilros like a viper striking, the tip forming a marrow-drinkeresque hypodermic that buries itself into the bowman's thigh, clamping down with that clawlike end, before coiling around him in a constriction that leaves his muscles spasming, fighting to regain their control as they're pumped full of a dark power unlike anything he's ever felt, before it whips back and coils back into the thing's mouth, hanging out at either side.

The smell is like a dead dog's bowels.

"Your friend, mmsshhhgk," It slobbers, sucking on that winding intestine that droops from its maw noisily, savouring the moment, "Ishj delishjioushhhj, I, uh-ahh, yeshj, I would... like shjome more! Give usshj a KISSSHHHJ! You're JUSHJT... my... type! Ha! Ahhagghh," It gurgles on its tongue, "AAAH----HHHA-Hahahaha!"

With the laughter, the Morhg gets a mouthful of ash from the zombie that is vapourized by Virton's deathray, red bolts arcing over the battlefield, reflecting off metal surfaces and culminating in the disasterous explosion of bits that not only have the morgh sputtering, but coat the remaining bodies in a fine powder reminiscent of what one might see in old war photos, complete with their guardsmen helms scattered across the ground as they are.

The zombie on Shagara continues to get handsy, moaning out its tragic end, tears streaking down its cheeks with one last remnant of humanity, visible as it washes away the grime from skin still touched by the blush of the living.

When Charity comes flying at Edwin, the Morgh Horror of Haghill, his arms swing wide open, that freakish grin splitting apart at the seams, flesh pulling and stringing between the gaps, "Oh! I love the aggresshsshhjive onesshj! You jusshjt loshjt your turn, shjweetcheekshj!"



Shagara smirks a bit. "If you were alive, you probably wouldn't have the speech impediment." She says using a roundhouse kick, then follows it a tornado kick. the tornado kick actually kicks the head off of the undead.....killing it.


Ezekiel inhales and nearly gags on the scent--nothing could smell so horrible. He reaches a finger out, tapping Shagara's shoulder and whispers softly in the din of battle, "May Justice show you the true path to victory."


"Oh, son. Yer all kinds a' messed up, ain'tcha." buzzes the cowboy Golem. He shifts, the cannon giving a low 'ooum' as it begins its charging process once more, the tubes that feed into the cannon pulsing in rhythm with the Golem's artifical heart-core, feeding it pure mana essence as it transmutes that into electrical energy. Both hands come up to clasp the cannon on his shoulder, bracing it as he steps once more into that shoulder-width of spread feet. Heels dig in. The blast from the cannon comes out in an eye-burning burst of red electricity, which jutters through the air before impacting on the side of the Mohrg, his heels sinking into the earth just a little more.


This awful thing had licked her. LICKED her! It was awful, but Charity grit her teeth and TOUGHED THROUGH the awful lllllick to her bloodied body, aiming two punches at the beast - both wide, and then a snap kick, which lands with a snap.

"Stand still and take your justice! Licking me is not justice!"



ST:


That tongue fires out at Charity as she comes flying into the Morhg like the champion she is, and it slinks along her face, leaving a putrid slimetrail all the way from the corner of her mouth over her jaw, until it bites into the shoulder and begins the same process that has Wilros frozen in fear.

But, her faith is strong! She knows how to carry on!

"Mmnnnleehhh," It breathes out a sound of 'tasting', its breath hitting the woman square in the face, more stunning than the unnatural toxin that courses through her body, the magical threat that only momentarily freezes her muscles with inherent fear of what this creature presents. "Up for more, darlin'?! I'm jusshjt gettin' shjtarted! Nnghlmmhmhaaa... mm," It sidles back over her skin in languid pull, tugging at her flesh as it moves over her in a casual creep that would make anyone's skin crawl, until he slurps it back up into his mouth like so much pasta.

He's a first date kinda guy.

"Sshshshhjeeesshj!" Eyes roll -- or, at least, it seems like they might with the way the light moves on the colourless orbs at Shagara's continued verbal jousting. "Don't be jealoushj... I'll get to you, I -prrromisshje-!"

Seeming to think he's still got this under control, he chuckles smugly and turns his attentions away from the pair of monks, just in time to get an eyefull of the red charge, which he recoils from, taking a step back from Charity in the process, an arm coming up as though to shield him, which causes the ray to scorch across his long-dead flesh with a new scent; if you've ever left a pile of bacon out in a hot car for a few days, piled a fistful of hair on top of it and lit it on fire, you might get some idea.

He's then kicked by a monk he turned away from.

"Thiiisshhh... ishh.... sshjtarting..." When he stands, there is a new rage in him. His jest and mirth have gone, and his grin, though permanent, has turned sinister, "To PISHHJ... ME... OFF!" He booms with a vocal immensity that can actually be felt reverberating within, ringing like drawn steal, cutting through the buzzing still of the swamp like rolling thunder.




After dropping the zombie....or whatever it was, Shagara moves around behind the....thing and tries to stab the thing, but misses completely.


Ezekiel feels his cool exterior slip as his compatriot is grabbed and attacked viciously with the tongue. "Navos take you!" he growls under his breath before another whisper of the divine passes his lips. The white motes, fueled by his anger, glow brightly and disappear into Shagara's skin as he touches her.


"That's good, cause yer a dead man walkin', and I can't be havin' none of that."

Comes the buzzing, angry tone from Virton. The cannon's vents hiss as they vent excess energy, before the 'ouum' noise kicks in once more. His heels leave a line in the dirt as the cannon fires off yet another blurt of it's electrical discharge, impacting on the Mohrg once more.


"Mad? Good. You can be 'pished' all that suits you, creature. And then!" Charity rumbles, before a one-two-three stacatto of haymakers from her BULDGING MUSCLES FOR THE DRAGON FATHER, etc etc.

Punch punch punch, and it falls, the Oruch monk stepping back to survey the body. "As is right - good prevails, and evil falters and falls."



ST:


"Enough!" It shrieks, the wounds in its face beginning to bleed blood not his own, streaking down ashy flesh, burrowing through the divets that crease his cheeks and jaw, his eyes yellowing and mouth growing wider by the moment as it looses another booming call of woe directly into the face of Shagara as she goes on with her banter, swinging her sword, generally ticking the creature off.

"I told you... I would get to you.... eventually!" What was once a low tone, smooth and nearly enticing, if one weren't in the know of what was speaking, is now a wretched, mangled thing that sounds much akin to nails on a chalkboard.

Or Starscream.

It rakes into her with clawlike fingers, digging deep and drawing her in, that serpentine tongue gliding over her skin as it drags her to its undulating organs, pressing her into the writhing mass of tissue, slick with juices of various sorts, from several donors. "We could sshjpend hoursshhj.... jushhjst..." He drags his tongue over her face, digging his claws in more deeply, "Like..." His fingers curl, pressing into her skin, the spell cast upon her knitting up her wounds around those invading digits, cold breath panted out over her skin, burning her eyes with the putrescence it possesses.

There's a pregnant pause as he holds her there, his body going rigid, the false life in its organs rapidly flickering, spasming against the monk it's gotten in its grasps, the flurry of blows from the oruch behind him, distracted as he is, tearing the life from his unnatural, eternal self.

"Thiisshhhj...." His talons peel out of her shoulder as he folds back upon himself, his guts rupturing in his final moments on this plane, great gouts of blood black as night burbling up and out over the stonework, spilling into the swamp by way of the rivers the mortar between cobbles provides, creating idle patterns in its elegant, silent retreat.

The sound of hoofbeats and the ricketty wagon approaching can be heard from wence they came, "I'ma comin', youngins! I brought the other guy person! I got 'em! We'll... oh...."

They come to a halt as they bare witness to what has transpired, the guard promptly hurling over the side of the wagon at the sight.

"... Guess I could... haul 'em home one last time..." The old man sighs.


~Fin