Chapter 15 - Die Alten Hofs - WHQ - The search for Kelly's Gold - Part 1

Image - Kelly's Gold

Characters: Gwendolyn Woods - Wizard and Drugen Greyfoot - Dwarf Brewmaster, Anilah - Albion Druid and Futhark Runemaster (Die Alten Hofs), with Lorenzo Chiorboli D'Este - Imperial Noble (Les Ultras)

 It was some weeks after the departure of Jederman from the Elvenwood, the trees still whispering his name like a ghost on the wind, that Gwendolyn found herself once again in the smoky warmth of the Lehmitz Inn, nestled near the edge of the Weeping Hills. The fire crackled with the deep red glow of pine logs, casting flickering shadows across timbered walls and worn stone. She sat beside Drugen, the sturdy dwarf with his beard plaited in the runes of his forefathers, each braid a tale of battle or kinship. They hunched over their mugs of thick brown ale, warmed not just by the fire but by familiar company.

They had learned from the innkeeper—a leathery old man with one good eye and a memory like iron—that Jederman had left some weeks past with Hockrup the Iron-Handed and a hard-drinking, harder-fighting mercenary band known as Les Ultras. Their destination: the ruins beneath the Shrouded Vale. A place of legend, whispered of but maps refused to name.

“Sounds like the Jederman we know,” Gwendolyn said with a rueful grin, lifting her tankard.
Drugen grunted in agreement. “Aye. Headfirst into fire, that one. Never stops to check if it’s dragon-breath or cook-smoke.”

They clinked mugs and drank to the impossible—to Jederman, to Hockrup, to mad glory and the friends who chased it.

Hlega, too, had left the Elvenwood for the storm-battered isles of Helgoland. Neither Gwendolyn nor Drugen were surprised she hadn’t returned. Helgoland swallowed those who didn’t listen to its tides. And Erendriel—Eryndor’s quiet, mourning brother—had remained behind among the glades and thorns of Elvenwood, more shadow than elf now. Again they drank, this time in solemn silence, their faces lit only by the orange glow of the hearth. “To absent friends,” Gwendolyn said softly.

It was then, just as the fire hissed beneath a new log, that the door burst open with a flourish of cape and clatter of boots. A man entered, theatrical as a traveling bard, dressed in fine silks gone slightly threadbare at the cuffs, his rapier swaying at his hip like a dancing snake. His moustache curled like the flourish on a noble’s seal.

“Ho there!” he called to the room, as if he expected trumpets to accompany his words. “Have any of you seen the gallant company known as Les Ultras? Men of purpose and peril, brave and bold?”

Most patrons merely grunted, sipped, or ignored him entirely. In his fine clothes and perfumed swagger, he seemed as misplaced as a golden candelabra in a coal mine.

But Drugen, ever the curious one when ale loosened his tongue, raised a hand. “Oi. Here. Come sit, if you’ve more than hot air in that velvet coat.”

The man strode over with a bow so exaggerated he nearly toppled over his own boots. “Lorenze Chiorboli d’Este,” he announced, with all the gravity of a prince declaring war. “Imperial nobleman, and—if the stars still favour me—a patron and protector of Les Ultras.”

“I’m Gwendolyn Woods,” she replied with a measured nod. “And this is my companion Drugen, of the Dwarf Stronghold, Clan Greyfoot.”

They took the measure of each other. Lorenzo’s eyes sparkled with charm—and desperation. He ordered wine, naturally. Only the best. Gwendolyn raised an eyebrow as the innkeeper disappeared to the cellar with a theatrical sigh.

“You say you knew the Ultras?” Drugen asked.

“Knew them?” Lorenzo gestured with his goblet. “I funded them. Or… well, offered my moral support. They left two weeks ago, chasing some wild myth. Something about the Pentacles of Solamon. Nonsense, if you ask me. But gold-laced nonsense.”

Drugen chuckled. “That sounds like them.”

“Still,” Lorenzo continued, “I find myself…without engagement. And perhaps, perhaps! fate has led me to you two. You look capable. Tell me do you seek adventure? Purpose? Riches, maybe?”

Gwendolyn leaned in, eyes narrowing. “We might be. Depends on who's asking, and what the pay is.”

“I have a proposition,” Lorenzo said, his voice low but clear above the din of the tavern. “The search for Kelly’s Gold.”

That name alone was enough to still a few tankards midair. Even among hardened adventurers and half-mad sell-swords, the tale of Kelly’s Gold was one wrapped in myth and madness. Supposedly gathered by the infamous Captain Kelly and his crew during the Labyrinth Raids—before the rise of Moloch and the Sundering of the Old Realms—the treasure was said to be vast beyond imagining. Jewels from the Emperor's own vaults. Relics from the lost sanctums of Yrlon. Coins from kingdoms swallowed by time itself. But most dismissed it as campfire fantasy, the sort of thing you told squires to keep them hopeful through a long march or drunken children to make their eyes shine.

“I’ve heard that tale since I was a boy,” muttered Armond, eyeing Lorenzo sceptically. “Fairytales and riddles. No one’s ever found even a trace.”

“Not so,” Lorenzo said, his eyes glinting with a dangerous certainty. Slowly, he pulled a scroll tube from beneath his cloak—worn, leather-bound, and sealed with a sigil none of them recognized. With a reverent motion, he unfurled the ancient parchment onto the table.

“I have a map,” he declared. “Not a riddle. Not a scrap of hearsay. A true guide to its location.”

The others leaned in. The parchment shimmered faintly in the candlelight, its ink dancing like veins of fire through old skin. The markings were not in any one language, but a convergence of dialects—Labyrinthine glyphs, Old Elven trace-runes, and even the jagged scratches of Skaven cartography.

“It won’t be easy,” Lorenzo admitted, his finger tracing a winding path that seemed to spiral in impossible directions. “The treasure lies within the Lorn Vaults—deep beneath the Bleeding Hills, beyond the Twisting Sepulchre and the Gate of Echoes.”

Gwendolyn’s brow furrowed. “That place shifts. It doesn’t obey the rules of space. Whole legions have vanished there.”

“And it’s closer than any of you would dare to think,” Lorenzo continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. “So close, in fact, that it might already be watching us.”

A silence fell over the table—thick, tense, and brimming with the weight of possibility. Outside, the wind howled like the call of an ancient beast.

Drugen broke the silence first, draining his tankard and slamming it down.

“Well then,” he said, eyes gleaming. “What are we waiting for?”

Just then, a rough cough sounded from a nearby table. A cloaked figure sat alone in the corner, his hood pulled back just enough to reveal a craggy face and a beard braided with carved bone beads. Before him, a circle of flat, carved stones clinked gently as he cast them again onto the table. They glowed faintly in the firelight, etched with ancient Futhark runes.

“The runes have spoken,” the man said, his voice like gravel turned by a slow river. “What the runes say, the runes say. And they say I am to join you.”

Gwendolyn turned, brow raised. “You were listening?”

“I was reading,” he said, eyes never leaving the stones. “And listening, yes. Your talk of gold and fate echoes in the runes.”

Lorenzo looked from one to the other, clearly unnerved but intrigued. “Who—ah—might you be, good sir?”

The druid stood, wrapping his cloak about him. “I am Anilah. Futhark Runesmith of the First Order. Reader of the Old Stones. Wanderer of ley lines.”

Drugen scratched his beard. “Well, I’ve seen stranger bands form over worse ale. If the stones say it, I won’t argue.”

“And now we are four,” said Gwendolyn, draining the last of her drink.

Lorenzo lifted his wine. “To gold, glory, and good company.”

Gwendolyn met his eyes. “To whatever waits in the labyrinth.”

Drugen just puffed a long, hard puff on his pipe. The embers glowed like watchful eyes in the dark.

As they wandered through the narrow corridors of the upper Labyrinth, dim torchlight flickered against damp stone, and every footstep echoed as if it might wake something slumbering in the dark.

Gwendolyn paused as they approached the iron-bound door to the first chamber. Her mind turned to what Galadran had said before they entered. Jederman and Hockrup, she thought. They’re already ahead of us—cutting their way through this gods-forsaken maze-like wolves through lambs.

She glanced back at her companions: Lorenzo, grim as ever, his longsword already half-drawn; Drugen, the dwarf, muttering low curses under his breath and tightening the grip on his double-headed axe; Anilah, cool and steady, already whispering the opening words of a protective prayer. The smell of old rot met them as the door creaked open.

The Torture Chamber was shrouded in the sickly yellow light of ancient braziers. Chains clanked as they passed through, and in the centre of the room lay a rotting corpse—its mouth agape in a frozen scream.

“That’s Sundras’ kill,” Drugen spat. “I’d recognize the slice of his blade anywhere. Guess he passed this way weeks ago.”

But before any could reply, a piercing scream rang out from all four doorways.

Out of the shadows came twelve Skaven warriors, their eyes glowing red and blades glinting with poison. Their screeches echoed off the stone as they surged forward.

“Form ranks!” bellowed Lorenzo.

Drugen stepped beside him, feet rooted like an anvil. “Come, then, rat-bastards! Let’s see what your blood looks like!”

The clash was immediate. Skaven blades darted and stabbed, their wiry forms weaving and twisting. Lorenzo parried two attacks, then riposted, severing a snout and spilling black ichor across the flagstones. Drugen swung wide, cleaving through two in a single, brutal arc. Bones cracked.

“Gwendolyn! Now!” cried Anilah.

The elven sorceress’s hands blazed blue. “Arcanis Fulmen!” she chanted, unleashing a bolt of energy that arced through the center of the pack, tossing Skaven bodies in all directions.

Anilah spun in a graceful pirouette, her scimitar singing, catching a Skaven across the throat and sending it gurgling to the floor.

Within moments, the chamber was quiet again—strewn with fur, blood, and the smell of burnt flesh.

They pressed forward, deeper into the ancient stone tunnels. Bats shrieked as they emerged from crevices above, while scorpions scuttled from cracks in the walls.

Drugen stamped one underfoot. “Bah! These are no beasts. Just crunchy.”

Lorenzo grinned as he sliced through a flurry of wings. “You ever consider taking up falconry?”

They laughed—briefly. The light-hearted moment ended as they emerged into the next chamber.

As they entered the Well of Doom (chamber 5) the carnage was already done. Goblin corpses littered the floor, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Blood trailed down the ancient stone well in the centre, forming a shallow pool of red.

“This wasn’t an ordinary slaughter…” Gwendolyn knelt beside a corpse. “These are Jederman’s strikes. And that—” she pointed to a body with twin punctures in its chest—“that’s Hockrup’s hand-blades.”

“Then they’re clearing the way for us,” Lorenzo muttered.

“Or awakening something worse,” Anilah added darkly.

In the Monsters Lair (Chamber 6) the walls were jagged and broken, like something massive had clawed its way free. And then they saw it. The Minotaur.

It stood nearly eight feet tall, muscles rippling under black fur, steam hissing from its nostrils.

“By the gods,” Lorenzo breathed.

It charged with a roar, hammering toward them like a living avalanche.

Drugen was the first to meet it, axe raised high. He struck a glancing blow against the beast’s chest—but the Minotaur backhanded him across the room, slamming him into a wall.

“Drugen!” Gwendolyn screamed.

“I'm fine!” came the echo.

Anilah ducked a wild swing from its cleaver and jabbed her blade into its thigh, but it barely noticed. Gwendolyn cast again—Mystic Chains—binding one of its arms in glowing blue bands.

“Now, Lorenzo!”

Lorenzo and Anilah struck together, one from the left, the other from the right. Their blades sang. Blood sprayed. The Minotaur staggered, bellowed—and fell with a crash that shook the chamber.

Signs of Les Ultras were everywhere. Skaven corpses, some charred, some missing limbs. A trail of destruction.

But peace never lasted in the Labyrinth. As they entered the Torture Chamber (Chamber 6) Six orcs burst from the darkness, weapons raised, howling as they came.

“Positions!” yelled Anilah.

This time the fight was closer. The orcs were larger, better armed. Drugen and Lorenzo took on two each, their blades clashing in brutal, dirty combat. Gwendolyn cast Blinding Light, staggering one long enough for Anilah to stab it through the heart.

Lorenzo was tackled, smashing into a stone pillar. His sword flew from his hand.

“Behind you!” Gwendolyn cried.

Drugen, bleeding from his shoulder, dove into the fray and hacked the orc off Lorenzo before it could end him.

Grunting, Lorenzo retrieved his blade and shoved it through the final orc’s gut.

The silence that followed was heavy with exhaustion.

They collapsed where they stood, bandaging wounds and sharing the last of their water.

Gwendolyn leaned against the wall, breathing hard. “If this is what we face in the shadow of Les Ultras, what horrors lie deeper still?”

Drugen lit a pipe and puffed. “We’ve bled and lived. That’s all that matters.”

“Not quite,” Anilah said, eyes glowing faintly with divine energy. “There is more darkness yet to come. I can feel it.”

They looked down the steps into Deep 3, the black stone descending into silence. And from somewhere far below… a chittering sound.

The staircase twisted downward in two long, narrow flights—damp stone steps slick with age and echoing with each footfall. The further they descended, the colder the air became. Torches guttered in the low ceiling, casting twitching shadows that danced across moss-covered walls.

They arrived at the crossroads of Deep 3, choked with cobwebs and old skeletal remains.

“Smells worse than a goblin’s armpit,” muttered Drugen, sniffing the air with a grimace.

“Quiet,” Gwendolyn whispered, her elven eyes narrowing. “Something’s been through here recently.”

They turned south and made their way into Chamber 18: The Barrel Store. Cracked casks and splintered wood were strewn across the room, some of the barrels clearly broken open with force. Dried ale and wine stained the flagstones, and one keg had been completely drained.

Drugen crouched by the remnants, sniffing with professional disdain. “Blasphemy. Someone’s been at me malt.”

Gwendolyn shot him a knowing look. “Jederman and Hockrup,” she said softly.

He nodded. “Aye. Those two drink like starved trolls.”

They foraged through what remained. Drugen knocked on each barrel like a father testing melons, hoping to find anything salvageable. One, near the back, still had a sealed plug—he smiled as he opened it.

“Fermented turnip water. Horrible, but it'll keep a dwarf going.” He filled two flasks.

“Remind me not to drink anything you offer,” Lorenzo said, half-smiling.

Deciding to explore further, they backtracked and turned north into Chamber 14: the Sack Store. Burlap bags were piled high in dusty corners, spilling grain, mouldy rations, and desiccated mushrooms.

“This place has seen better days,” Gwendolyn murmured, carefully stepping around a rat-bitten sack.

Drugen chuckled, tearing open a bag and sniffing it. “Dried beetroot. Looks like Les Ultras skipped this one.”

They scavenged what they could—some dried meat, usable bandages, a few stoppered flasks of oil. But just as Lorenzo reached to lift a bag on a shelf, the stone above cracked with a sharp crack and then—

CRASH.

A stalactite the size of a sword fell from the ceiling and slammed into his shoulder, dropping him to his knees with a roar of pain.

“Lorenzo!” Anilah cried, rushing over.

“I'm—I'm all right,” he hissed, clutching his arm. “Nothing broken. Just crushed pride.”

Drugen pulled him away from the shelf. “That’s what you get for not lettin’ the dwarf check the ceiling.”

Anilah began binding his shoulder, her hands glowing with soft divine energy.

Back at the crossroads, they took the corridor leading toward the T-junction, heading north again.

Suddenly, CLACK!

Anilah’s foot depressed a hidden floor lever, and before anyone could react, a grinding of ancient chains echoed through the stone—then a massive iron cage dropped from the ceiling, slamming down around her with a deafening crash.

“ANILAH!” Lorenzo cried.

She gripped the bars, shaking them with force. “It’s locked! There’s no latch on the inside!”

Drugen and Lorenzo both tried to lift it—veins bulging, muscles straining—but the weight was overwhelming.

“Come on, damn you,” Lorenzo growled, sweat dripping from his brow.

Gwendolyn stepped forward, hands glowing. “Hold on. Unbind!”

She cast her spell—but the energy splashed harmlessly against the cage. “It’s dwarven-forged. Spell-warded.”

“No key. No spell. That’s a cursed bit of craftsmanship,” muttered Drugen, wiping his brow.

“We’ll find the mechanism,” said Gwendolyn, resolute. “We have to.”

Anilah nodded, eyes calm despite her situation. “Go. Find it. I’ll be here.”

They hurried into the northern chamber: Crate Store (15). The air was thick with dust and the mildew of ancient provisions, but again they found no key. Only supplies—dried fruits, more torches, a bundle of healing poultices which they gratefully applied.

Drugen muttered as he looked around. “Still no key. Traps like that usually have a switch close by.”

“There’s nothing we can do for her right now,” Gwendolyn said quietly, her voice tight with guilt. “We’ll free her. But we must move. The trail leads on, and the air is… fouler here.”

They returned to the corridor, heading east, deeper into the dark. The passage narrowed. Webs thickened. The air stank of decay, bile, and rot. It clung to their throats, made their stomachs churn.

Drugen covered his nose. “Smells like something died, then came back just to die again.”

They pressed on, each step heavier than the last.

Then—movement. Shadows shifted in the black beyond the door ahead.

They could hear clicking, skittering, and something else—chanting?

Lorenzo raised his sword. “That’s not just spiders.”

Gwendolyn’s eyes narrowed. “No. Something darker is in there.”

They formed a tight line, weapons at the ready.

“On your guard,” whispered Drugen.

Gwendolyn pushed open the door with her staff—

And they stepped into the dark.