The Rise of Sir Mortimer

Moderator: (Leichenberg) Necrarchs

Post Reply
User avatar
Sir Mortimer
Posts: 2
Joined: Thu Mar 19, 2015 1:42 pm

The Rise of Sir Mortimer

Post by Sir Mortimer »

The last thing Mortimer remembered was sitting in his study. The dusty tomes lining sagging pine shelves. A waning afternoon sun shining through the tall windows as specks of dust floated in the air. His ancient oaken desk littered with papers and gadgets. Outside, the heath on the moors had an earthy red, mixed with yellows and greens, stretching as far as the eye could see. He had been drinking tea when the pain in his chest had begun, then a shortness of breath as he clutched at his chest, sinking back into the leathern chair. Then darkness…. Complete and utter darkness….

He had assumed, then, that he was having a heart attack. And he had assumed correctly. But what had happened since then he could not ascertain. It was still dark, so he could see nothing. The air was cold and clammy.

First things first! Mortimer felt around to try and judge where he was. The space was excruciatingly small. It soon became obvious he was in some sort of box or compartment. The walls were made of wood, but the wood was old, damp, and spongy. “Where the devil am I?” he thought to himself. He continued to probe about, noting that the wood directly above him had some give when he pressed upon it.

It soon became apparent that he needed to get out of this compartment somehow. The wood above him seemed to have the most give, either being so rotten as to have no structural integrity left to it, or that it was hinged like a door. Rolling onto his side so that he could leverage his shoulder against the flat of the ceiling, he began to shove, slowly at first and then with more strength. The wood soon started to creak and crack, so Mortimer shoved all the harder. Putting all his strength into the effort he heaved against the dank wood. All of a sudden it shattered in a thousand shards with a loud crash, sending splinters flying everywhere.

Despite being free from the strange compartment it was still dark. He carefully let himself down out of the box he had been in, realizing that he had been on some kind of elevated pedestal. Again probing with his hands he felt the floor, which turned out to be cold flagstones covered in moisture and rather slimy. Standing up he felt around until he reached a wall, which was likewise cold stone, but not quite as slimy as the floor thankfully. Working his way around the room, Mortimer found it to be circular, without windows or other ornamentation. After what seemed like an eternity he found what he thought was a door, but the blasted thing was locked, and worse was made of metal. He checked his pocket, and was relieved to find that he still had his trust penknife. It took several attempts before he was able to free the stubborn lock on the door, but it was a great relief when he finally heard the bolt slide back with grunting resignation.

Mortimer turned the doorknob, which was rusted into near complete uselessness, and began to shove against the metal. Obviously in disuse and disrepair, the door at first refused to move. But after much shoving it finally began to creak open. At first only a tiny trickle of light, but as he shoved the gap widened more and more. Finally with a great heave he pushed the door open the remainder of the way, letting in a flood of bright sunlight. The brightness blinded him, as he’d become accustomed to the dark, and so he had to shield his eyes for several minutes before they adjusted. However, adjust they did, and he stood aghast when he was finally able to take in view his surroundings.

The stone building was a tomb, and behind him, on a stone pedestal, was an old rotting coffin, whose lid had been broke asunder. A dark realization began to emerge in Mortimer’s mind. He stepped outside into the light. The tomb was in a large cemetery, and around it the gardens had been carefully kept, and the exterior of the door had been lovingly polished, so that the brass shone bright in the sun. But it also acted like a mirror, and Mortimer stared in horror at his own decayed countenance. He was still wearing his suit, but it had decayed badly, revealing exposed bones and rotting flesh beneath. Likewise the skin of his face had become taut, dry, leathern, like that of a mummy, his eyes sunken deep in hollow sockets. Indeed, his eyes were the only vestige of humanity that seemed left to him.

“Oh blast,” he said aloud, “I’m dead.”
Sir Mortimer Holmes
Lord of Baskerville
Bailiwick of Moorheim


Played by Orion

User avatar
Sir Mortimer
Posts: 2
Joined: Thu Mar 19, 2015 1:42 pm

Re: The Rise of Sir Mortimer

Post by Sir Mortimer »

Part II: Sir Mortimer’s Ghost

Mortimer backpedaled to the coffin, albeit quite hesitantly. Looking inside, amidst the wooden splinters and moldering cloth, he found several mementos left behind by family. A small, framed picture of his wife, Deidre, a few books, some desiccated flowers, and his two Sperling-Watson revolvers. The revolvers! His trusted guns were one of the few truly innovative gadgets he might need. He glanced back at the picture of Deidre and thought depressingly that she must be dead at this point too. He slipped the small frame into his tattered pocket, shoved the revolvers into his belt, and left the tomb without a backward glance.

Although the day was sunny and temperate, the bright rays left a burning sensation on Mortimer’s desiccated skin – at least what little skin was left clinging to the exposed bones. He was actually surprised he could feel anything at all given the circumstances. Spying about the cemetery he noticed a small caretaker’s shed in a far corner and headed in that direction, sidestepping other tombs and gravestones.

The diminutive shed was clad in wood and the small set of doors hung at awkward angles on their rusted hinges. Whoever cared for the place kept the gardens nicely tended, but obviously had no fear of burglars, since the shed was unlocked. Mortimer peered inside and found a set of thick leather galoshes, a tall gardener’s cap, and a long leather overcoat. Given the rotted and moth-eaten condition of his clothes, he was quite glad for these findings, and eagerly donned the gardener’s clothes. He knew his condition would be frightful to those unaccustomed with seeing the undead, so he hunched up the collar to hide his face, leaving only his eyes exposed.

Now properly disguised his next objective was to get back to Baskerville Hall, his ancestral home. It was an old castle overlooking the moors, and was at a sufficient distance from Moorheim as to be relatively private. Provided it was still held by family, he should be able to secure safe refuge there. In any event, it was where he would be most likely to find the fate of his beloved Deidre.

Mortimer had recognized the cemetery as one he had seen on his excursions around the area, and so began to follow the dirt road most likely to lead him back to Baskerville Hall. The rutted and unpaved road had pools of mud from the warm summer rains. Except for an occasional wagon driven by a sleepy farmer, it was completely deserted.

After what felt like hours of walking, the sun finally began to wane, and the skies turned the majestic hues of red, purple, and gold. As twilight settled over the land, Mortimer rounded a hill and there, off in the distance, stood Baskerville Hall. Although only a black outline against the darkening sky, he immediately recognized the features. He recalled with intimate detail the ancient stone walls, the open courtyards, the formal gardens, and the vast surrounding moors over which it all presided. Picking up the pace he headed down the hill towards the castle.

By the time he arrived the sun had set behind the horizon and a full moon had replaced it, casting pale moonlight down on the landscape. Mortimer knew he had been dead for some time, but just how long he was unsure. But as he approached the castle his suspicions began to worsen. Even in the deep shadows he could see that the castle had fallen into disrepair. Unkempt weeds choked the paths and vined up the walls. Cobwebs choked the corners of doors that hadn’t been opened in years. Glass panes were broken and missing from the windows, replaced by the occasional bird’s nest.

Mortimer fumbled around to the side of the building, tripping over vines and detritus. Baskerville had obviously been abandoned for some time. Picking his way to the back he found what he was looking for. A small side door that lay almost completely obscured under the weeds. He tore at the vines, pulling them away and exposing a half-rotted wooden door. Luckily it wasn’t locked. The hinges grudgingly let him pull it open, revealing a set of dark steps leading down. The basement.

The old basement had been used for household staff, but he knew it well enough to make his way among the cobwebs and dark halls. He fumbled around, noting that much of the furniture remained in place. He then made his way over to a tall cupboard, which he knew was there only by feel. Mortimer fumbled with the latch in the dark but finally got it open. He was cautious to stick his hand inside, but then remembered he was dead. After some probing he found a pair of old candles and some matches that had miraculously remained dry. After a few tries he managed to light one, illuminating the basement in the meager candlelight.

Picking his way across the kitchen he found the stairs unimpeded and, after testing them for strength, began the ascent up. The door at the top was closed but unlocked, and it took only a gentle shove to push it open. The halls were choked with more dust and cobwebs than he thought possible. He decided to go right, back towards the front of the house, where the Great Room was. The hall had numerous doors off it, but he kept walking until it terminated in an opening on the center of the Great Room. The tall windows were covered with dusty drapes, but he could make out the piano, the settee, chairs, tables, and other odds and ends. It was the tall hutch he headed for however. The glass still intact, the craftsmanship was so well done that the items inside scarcely looked different from last he’d seen them.

Carefully he opened the door and reached inside. Mortimer removed a framed picture, one he hadn’t seen before. In it was a photograph of Deidre, much older than he remembered her. So this was what had become of his beloved?

Mortimer sat with an oomph on one of the chairs, sending up clouds of dust and irate spiders; but he hardly noticed. He sat and began to think to himself: Whatever became of you, Deidre? What has happened to Baskerville Hall? Why is this place as desolate as my tomb? And am I damned to wander these halls for eternity like some ghost?
Sir Mortimer Holmes
Lord of Baskerville
Bailiwick of Moorheim


Played by Orion

Post Reply

Return to “Treisenberg and the Common Bailiwicks”