HellHound
ENnies winner and NOT Scrappy Doo
Just finished another game of Gloom - and the game gets better as you learn to tell good stories with it.
Here are how two of the 12 characters that died expired:
Butterfield was the buttler at Hemlock Hall... A lurking man of ill intent, he had nothing but foul intentions towards the twin children of his master, Lord Wellington Smythe. The tots were dark and twisted creatures in his eyes, responsible for the death of their mother in the very act of bringing them into this world. Ungrateful wretches.
Butterfield concocted a plan to rid the world of these foul creatures, and arranged for the pair to be marooned on the moors behind the old Hemlock Hall estate. Although clever children, the breadcrumb trail they made to trace their way home was eaten by the crows that followed them, and soon the buttler who lead them there was nowhere to be found. Covering his tracks, he proceeded to the park where he hid from his deeds in wine, bread and cheese as he watched the ducks cavort in the pond.
But the children, by their own clever ways, managed to return to the family estate and called forth the police who arrested Mr Butterfield and threw him into jail. There he was comforted only by stale bread, dirty water, and the memories of the ducklings eating from his hand in the park.
But the charges of children are easily dismissed, and Butterfield was released the next week. The charges may not have stood up in court, but the foul little beasts uttered them to everylistening ear in town, and none would speak to, nor hire the poor man. Shunned by the town, he burried himself in his rye and looked, ever hatefully, at the children of his old master, his nemesi.
Butterfield was not seen again for some time, but that fall at the wedding of Miss Angel of the Blackwater Watch, he did disguise himself and returned to the fold. At the feast in her honour, he drank and caroused, and made many friends among the folk of the town.
The pudding was served at the fine evening feast, a delightful custard with sharpened sharks teeth (for it is said it would bring her good luck). The desert did not sit well with young miss Angel, but the party continued around her. As the sun set, she was wed with great ceremony to that young man from Doreshire that her mother so liked.
Butterfield's disguise did not fool all that night, for behind the fake moustache and the rye they saw the man who left them to die. They spoke to the other children around them that night, and plied them with drink and friendship. Once they finally got Butterfield alone, the children emerged with knives from the kitchen and made chase. They ran the poor man down, through the hedges, down the street and into the moors. As they ran from the feast they heard screams and sobs behind them, but on they ran, chasing him down. Butterfield did escape the wretches in the end, but drunk full of rye, tired and frightened, he passed out in the moors, retching and panting, and choked on his vomit. And died.
But back at the party that night, things went foul - for the lad for Doreshire was slain most horribly under the weight of the Blackwater family chandelier as it plumeted down from its ancestral home. Angel cried and bemoaned, her white gown sprayed with red, as the guests slowly slipped into the night.
The next morning, young Angel, sat quiet and despondent, turning to drink and dark thoughts. That night she wandered to the top of the mansion, where she stood on the widow's walk. From that height she did jump, hurtling herself to the ground, but was saved at the last possible moment. A young man had saved her, a local young lad who had fallen in love with her at the feast. To save her from these dark times, he took her to the moor (ah, what fools to think the moor is a safe place) where he left her with a picnic basket he had packed, hopeing to find her in somehwat of a better mood. Leaving her with fine cheeses, fruits and a roast chicken, he returned to the town to make preparations for her to leave with him by train the next day to a safer home. He returned to the moors not six hours later, to find she had choked on a bone.
Here are how two of the 12 characters that died expired:
Butterfield was the buttler at Hemlock Hall... A lurking man of ill intent, he had nothing but foul intentions towards the twin children of his master, Lord Wellington Smythe. The tots were dark and twisted creatures in his eyes, responsible for the death of their mother in the very act of bringing them into this world. Ungrateful wretches.
Butterfield concocted a plan to rid the world of these foul creatures, and arranged for the pair to be marooned on the moors behind the old Hemlock Hall estate. Although clever children, the breadcrumb trail they made to trace their way home was eaten by the crows that followed them, and soon the buttler who lead them there was nowhere to be found. Covering his tracks, he proceeded to the park where he hid from his deeds in wine, bread and cheese as he watched the ducks cavort in the pond.
But the children, by their own clever ways, managed to return to the family estate and called forth the police who arrested Mr Butterfield and threw him into jail. There he was comforted only by stale bread, dirty water, and the memories of the ducklings eating from his hand in the park.
But the charges of children are easily dismissed, and Butterfield was released the next week. The charges may not have stood up in court, but the foul little beasts uttered them to everylistening ear in town, and none would speak to, nor hire the poor man. Shunned by the town, he burried himself in his rye and looked, ever hatefully, at the children of his old master, his nemesi.
Butterfield was not seen again for some time, but that fall at the wedding of Miss Angel of the Blackwater Watch, he did disguise himself and returned to the fold. At the feast in her honour, he drank and caroused, and made many friends among the folk of the town.
The pudding was served at the fine evening feast, a delightful custard with sharpened sharks teeth (for it is said it would bring her good luck). The desert did not sit well with young miss Angel, but the party continued around her. As the sun set, she was wed with great ceremony to that young man from Doreshire that her mother so liked.
Butterfield's disguise did not fool all that night, for behind the fake moustache and the rye they saw the man who left them to die. They spoke to the other children around them that night, and plied them with drink and friendship. Once they finally got Butterfield alone, the children emerged with knives from the kitchen and made chase. They ran the poor man down, through the hedges, down the street and into the moors. As they ran from the feast they heard screams and sobs behind them, but on they ran, chasing him down. Butterfield did escape the wretches in the end, but drunk full of rye, tired and frightened, he passed out in the moors, retching and panting, and choked on his vomit. And died.
But back at the party that night, things went foul - for the lad for Doreshire was slain most horribly under the weight of the Blackwater family chandelier as it plumeted down from its ancestral home. Angel cried and bemoaned, her white gown sprayed with red, as the guests slowly slipped into the night.
The next morning, young Angel, sat quiet and despondent, turning to drink and dark thoughts. That night she wandered to the top of the mansion, where she stood on the widow's walk. From that height she did jump, hurtling herself to the ground, but was saved at the last possible moment. A young man had saved her, a local young lad who had fallen in love with her at the feast. To save her from these dark times, he took her to the moor (ah, what fools to think the moor is a safe place) where he left her with a picnic basket he had packed, hopeing to find her in somehwat of a better mood. Leaving her with fine cheeses, fruits and a roast chicken, he returned to the town to make preparations for her to leave with him by train the next day to a safer home. He returned to the moors not six hours later, to find she had choked on a bone.
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