The Faithful continues....

Our numbers depleted by one, our spirits sank even further, but yet they were raised at the realisation that the translation sheet was the one thing that could save our lives. Within the gobbledygook that was the paragraphs of strange symbols was the way we could kill Stephenson, we were sure of it. We just had to work out how the key worked. Great minds pondered the many ways it could work but nothing appeared to be correct. Soon people were cursing any god listening at how preposterous it was to decipher, especially John Rhys-Lloyd who shouted out to the great god Hardy "You’re a bastard for doing this one!". Obviously somebody was listening (Stephenson, I’m guessing) because smoke started to fill the room, a light pulsating in its center. Three more globes of red appeared within the smoke, attached to three black hands, which was connected to three black robed figures. During the chaos of people escaping, grabbing the translation sheets, hiding etc., Tamarind and John West were touched on the shoulder and arm by the dark creatures. I saw them go down, and as their flesh withered and began to rot I thought they were done for. Luckily for them (and I use the term loosely) only the limb touched was affected and they were swift to join us in our flight into the woods.

   We lost the creatures within the maze of trees and gathered at a pillar to plot our next move. Stephenson’s spell book came to the rescue, the incantation for bringing the dark beasts to our world clear within it. What was also clear was the way marked clay tablets needed to be placed outside the area of summoning. Break these and the creatures would go. Simple enough, it seemed. We just had to get near the house to find them.

   A small team sneaked back to the house, moving slow and silent. A couple of times we were driven back by the robed monsters, who were tricky little so and so’s by playing dead and such like, but our party continued on once the way was clear. A clay tablet was found and swiftly smashed, and an inhuman cry filled the forest. Invigorated with our success we pushed on, just as two of the black things emerged from the woods, hands raised glowing red. Our searching turned frantic as they neared but another tablet was discovered. It was crushed underfoot, and one of the beasts exploded into ash. The last fell thing appeared to realise its end was near and it came at speed. But it was too late - the final tablet was spotted and thrown to the ground. The last robed creature disintegrated into dust as the tablet shattered into pieces.

   Back together at the house again work started on the translations. It was going nowhere for a while then there was a breakthrough, and paragraphs finally became readable. It was then we realised that John Rhys-Lloyd had disappeared. No one saw him leave, and our calls went unanswered (maybe because people were calling out for ‘Mr. Jones’ for some reason). It was tricky as to what to do but a decision was swiftly reached - he wouldn’t stand a chance alone in the dark woods with the zombies milling about so he was probably already dead. After a quick prayer for him and a wonder why he would do such a suicidal thing, people went back to work on the text. It reveled much, including the news that Samuel could be killed with the silver dagger, suitably enchanted. We had a way to defeat him! All we had to do was find him...

   ...which was easy enough when the Ancient One began to call. Stephenson started his ceremony to join it, lighting up a circle of candles, revealing his position. We set on our way, Fr. Case with the dagger (he seemed the most handy with it, oddly enough) and swiftly found the evil man within a marked area, with Mr. Rhys-Lloyd about to be sacrificed! Our group rushed into action, with Dot Kirkpatrick rushing face first over a log, and took on the twisted Stephenson and the herd of undead. Case was immediately paralysed with a single word and had his throat cut; Nails was blinded with another word, as was Daniel; Tamarind, Bart and West fell under a dozen blows from the undead. Our party was decimated within moments and we fell back to the building, Kirkpatrick braving the horrors long enough to grab back the enchanted dagger from Case’s ‘beginning to twitch because I’m coming back to life’ hand. Our party regrouped, we attacked again, drawing off the undead while Dot faced Stephenson. With a swift hand, she plunged the dagger deep into Samuel’s heart, listening to his empty threats as his life flowed away like his blood. Then she ran.

   One bad person down, one hoard of undead to go.

   Their numbers had swelled with our fallen friends and foes, and we now faced the problem of how we could defeat them. Rutherstone (his and Nail’s blindness had gone) and Spencer worked out with some glee we could use part of the spell Stephenson was about to use to destroy his own flesh on the undead, if we could get them all in the circle at the same time. It was going to be tricky, but what else was there to do? We charged off again, luring the undead into the area while avoiding getting trapped. Nails was at the center, drawing the walking dead to him with smutty language but not all were falling for it and some of the dead creatures turned for Daniel and Spencer. Seeing time was running out, they both completed the spell. There was a flash, and the shuffling cadavers had gone in an echo of dust, along with the brave Dr. Nails. Unfortunately only half of the Bartholomew zombie had been caught in the circle, and it began slowly dragging its half-a-body after the live flesh. The survivors ran for the house, thinking a legless zombie easy enough to outdistance. However the ex-Perry had also avoided the circle, and it made for us in its shambling manner. Quick plans were made up, and after a decoy attempt to lure it into the house worked, the Perry-zombie was trapped behind the electric grid.

   With the threat of the undead attacking us while we slept gone, we started our long journey back to civilization, still looking over our shoulder the entire time. But we made it back alive.

   And for the record: The plane crash wasn’t my fault.