We are shaken from having encountered, them. I have never seen anything, like them. Black ooze pouring from where Kirrix’s rapier found it’s purchase. Now safe inside the thick walls of the Keep of Flod, we pause a moment in the great hall, deciding what to do.

I’m still disguised as Sven, the Lady blessing me with this illusion. We have to choose about going down, most likely to the boathouse and escape, or going up to, further explore the keep.

I lead the way up, to the unknown.

The upper level of the keep is deserted, probably because we just dispatched it’s previous resident. What have I gotten myself into. I have no trouble defending myself, but we just murdered that inquisitor for no other reason than the Hand told us to.

I’ll have time for moralizing later. We push into a room the reeks of the same stench that came from them. A pool of black ooze sits on the floor, not contained, but not spreading out. It bubbles as Friq approaches and I see him shake his gloved hand like he’s been stung by a bee.

Kirrix moves to the winch holding a chain that ends in the pool of the ooze and slowly starts to raise the chain. Friq raises his crossbow and I string my longbow. A bald head emerges and then a scarred face. The tar like blackness drips off like blood and then, my ears are ringing.

I’m covered with dust and the wind and rain is lashing against me. A dark figure towers in a gaping hole where the wall had just been. The five stories between us and the earth did not stop his approach.

Even the impetuous Kirrix is stunned and slams the release to lower the body back into the tar. We back away slowly knowing that we know not what this is. As the Black Knight pulls the body out of the ooze we hear him say “Brother!”

It’s now time to go. We move quickly through the great hall and down to the boat launch.

Kirrix and Friq are searching for, who knows what, and I just want to get out of there. The gash on my shoulder where one of them caught me is staring to throb with pain, so I stick my head in the storeroom and suggest it’s time to get the flock out of here.

But we’ve overstayed our welcome. More decaying villagers shuffle towards us. Elros gets Walter to the boat, and I move to prevent any of them from getting to the gangway.

Kirrix and Friq and still in the storeroom and suddenly I’m surrounded by three of them. I called on Tymora earlier to banish these devils and she did not answer. I ask her to rain down sacred fire and manage to slow one down, but not before another knocks me down.

The next thing I remember, is the smell of blood on Friq’s copper armor. I know it’s mine, because they don’t bleed. Friq slouches me off his shoulder, and I crumple in the stern of the boat as we row out into the river.

I pray we are headed back to the village where I can rest and be healed, but I feel like we ar heading away from shore, closer to the cursed shores of Grado.

I’m currently playing through a campaign DM’d by the indominable Erik Maxwell. As a writing exercise I’m giving myself 30 minutes to recap our weekly adventures.