Session Notes
Hullo, Dear Reader. It is I, Buck Headstrong the greatest sage et cetera, et cetera.
Forgive me if I do not emanate enthusiasm at this writing. I feel, as you likely do as well, a grimness growing in the night’s atmosphere. A gloom descending upon Elder Pool that I can not shake.
I have been, you may have observed, somewhat of a critic of the acts and… feebleness of the Circle, so-called, of Darkmoor. Those representatives four of the great peoples of Darkmoor, nestled in their disparate camps. Darkmoor’s, as the young Baron put it, “collection of factions” sent forth their greatest and the result, for good or ill, was this Circle.
I take no pleasure in imparting to you the news, friends, that the Circle is no more. They have only, moments hence, managed to survive the Four Elemental Challenges of the Hideout (sic) of the Cult and are now rushing to their certain doom inside the inner ceremonial chamber where the Cult conducts their evil rites, sacrifices and summonings. These four, even buttressed by the cough redeemed cough criminals that previously — and now, it seems likely — once again perch in that Moat House, will prove no match for the Cult fanatics and their elemental soldiers.
Let us drink a modest toast to these lost heroes, or, if not “heroes,” at least to those Darkmoor mutts who strove to be such.
The Cult has risen. They sacked Greensward, enslaved a dozen or so of the citizens and took, as in those long-lost dark times, their youngest girls. Now that the Circle is lost, nothing may stand in their way.
And the grain that the Circle trudged so long and so fruitlessly to track? Even now is there black bread being produced and provided to the poor and starving of the south? My sources say that is true. The history of this black bread and of the blight that swept the realm in the long-ago is tragic and despair-inducing.
I may, of course, make my way back to the Court, to idle once again amongst the nobles and guildsmen of the great cities of Eegland. But what can you, the poor commoner with scarcely enough coin to purchase these missives that I pen on your behalf do? Little, I am afraid. Hole up, as they say. Trust no one. Guard your goods and your children. And despite the privations that are surely in our future: do not eat the black bread.
I wipe away my tears, my friends, pondering the suffering that comes. I cry for your misfortunes, Dear Reader. And for my own. The journey to Eregore is long, you see, and I have run out of sherry.