A brief stuggle can be observed in the ruins of Castle Raventhorpe’s great hall. Several spirits – five of them – suddenly attack other remaining ones and deliver the fatal blows, whether by a weapon or by magic. The victims don’t have a chance to react or retaliate.
Besides the five attackers – the members of Lord Curst’s conspiracy – only one other figure is left, a female elf in a priest clothing. The conspirators forcefully put her on her knees. Strangely, she looks fully material and does not appear to be any kind of spirit at all, albeit the attackers can’t see that difference.
“Who are you, anyway?” asks the young wizard, one of the conspirators, “You definitely weren’t on the invitation list, and no person should have been able to just sneak up here.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” the elf answers, “I have failed my mission. I just hope someone else will be able to save you. Even evil souls like you don’t deserve this fate.”
Her reply doesn’t make a lot of sense to the group, but, nonetheless, they proceed to plunge a sword through her chest. After that, there is no one left to kill. The game is finally over. They won.
A sixth figure emerges from a distance – a figure of the lord of the castle. He congratulates his accomplices and shakes their hands. Shortly after, a celebration is set up and wine from castle’s cellars is brought forth (which, as are all items they interact with, is an illusion only seen by them, as the castle’s ruins are barren).
Suddenly, in the middle of the drinking party, a man with long hair starts coughing and in a few seconds he collapses. Next one to fall is an old elf. He tries to mutter a spell that could save him, but he finds himself unable to move his tongue, and in a second, he stops breathing.
The young wizard only manages to give a wide-eyed look at the scene before slumping in his chair. The half-orc seems to be doing somewhat better. He looks at the lord of the castle and the witch beside him, who look at him back. The lord is laughing, and the witch is smiling. With staggered steps, the orc moves towards them and lifts his axe. However, just before he can deliver a blow, he collapses as well.
The lord looks at the scene, satisfied. He turns towards the witch, whose smile hasn’t shifted in the slightest. He goes for an embrace, but instead of the usual warmth, he feels a sharp pain in his gut. He submles a few steps back.
But the wound isn’t deep enough. He gathers his strength, pulls the knife back out and swings at the witch’s throat. She falls down.
With what appears to be his final remaining energy, he slowly walks towards a desk. He picks up a small diary and writes something in it, but not much. Then, he shouts an incantation.
The lord himself, and all of the motionless spirits in the area, those who have “died” during the game, vanish in a blue light. A moment later, they reappear, all standing together in a central area of the castle’s ruins.
The lord speaks to them from the illusory balcony:
“Greetings, my dear guests. I am Archibald Curst, the master of this castle. I greatly appreciate that you were able to attend this event…”