Author: Buck Headstrong

Session Notes

I am afraid, loyal reader, that my circumstance has changed, and not for the better. Not only is the claret exhausted, but the quality of lodging has taken a drastic turn for the worst. One of Darkmoor’s benighted noble class, in the spirit of arts benefaction, had opened their home… or at least their cellars to yours truly, but given the troubles has reluctantly withdrawn support. What times are these, friends?

It is I, Buck Headstrong, your fearless chronicler and the greatest Sage Darkmoor has ever known! I know you are eager to learn details about my unfortunate experience vis-a-vis accommodations. More of that anon, firstly I must turn things over to my correspondent Fluffy. I have heard from many of you concerns that all of this activity in the marsh might have resulted in injury to our black squirrel friend. Relax dear reader: 1) Fluffy is fine; 2) Fluffy is not a squirrel and, as I remind you time and time again, 3) Fluffy is anything but friendly. Without further ado:

Thus endeth the report from Fluffy. Perhaps it is merely my reading of it, here, huddled in the dark and deprived of even the middling spirits native to this backwater, friends, but do you find that Fluffy has added some rouge to his prose? Certainly he would not be so bold as to believe he might supplant myself as correspondent of choice?

In any case, we will continue to follow events at the Moat House and keep you abreast. And whatever wretch sold you this foolscap, please remind them there is only one source for your Circle updates: Buck Headstrong, chronicler extraordinaire. Accept no substitutes.

Session Notes

Good morning, citizens of Darkmoor! It is I, your beloved chronicler and sage, Buck Headstrong! Reports of my demise, though humorous, are unsubstantiated. I remain ensconced in my secret lair, gathering the information for which you thirst, all for mere pennies from your depleted purses.

Activity in Elder Pool continues to simmer, perhaps just below the level that you might observe it. Yet you feel it, do you not, dear reader? An undercurrent of malice that throbs and vibrates, and gnaws at your guts?

Or perhaps that is merely the magicks, surely of an evil nature, that the Circle of Darkmoor employed to bring into our midst a dozen or more tattered, filthy and undeserving prisoners of the Moat House. Reports indicate that the buzzing that we all felt occurred concurrent with the arrival of these wretches. More mouths to feed. Surely Elder Pool possesses already an abundance of poor, homeless, likely diseased refuse from other realms. Given the substantive problems that our current regime can not adequately address, can we truly afford to have these refugees in our midst?

And how did our loathsome lovable Baron respond to this new threat in our midsts? Did he castigate the Circle for bringing these escaped criminals to within our city walls? Did he punish the dark sorcerer of Anthracite who employed this disruptive spell technology to cause these peasants and worse to suddenly appear, in a way that caused our very innards to recoil? No. He preferred an ancient title, that of Inspector of Darkmoor, upon that evil warlock. This, my friends, is the state of depravity in which we find ourselves, today.

Alas, my friend Fluffy¹ has grown silent in recent days. However, from the accounts of the refugees of the Moat House, I have learned that the Circle, while within the subterranean spaces of the Moat House, discovered more magicks of that dread sorcerer of Anthracite whose name has been lost to time². Dark books of enchantment. A fearful enchantment scratched into the living rock of the Moat House. A nice comfy blanket!

Furthermore, beyond a concealed panel, the follower of that abominable St. Somethingorother, discovered that same long-deceased “cleric’s” hidden apartment at the Moat House, and may have carried away some item found there.

We face, together, dear reader, the fallout of the failed mission of the Circle to confront the bandits of the Moat House. They have brought with them only more burdens and pestilence. Have they recovered items or treasures of benefit to the Barony? Of course not. They have merely uncovered items important to their own shadowy factions, likely to be used for purposes contrary to the interests of you and I. Items that were best left buried.

We have to ask ourselves if we were not better off before this Baron and this Circle seized power. Was it a problem for Elder Pool that these so-called bandits operated on roads outside of town? Were times not better before so much turmoil, here and throughout the Barony, was caused by this whelp of a Baron?

I can only think these sad thoughts, my friends, and write them down as best I may. I sip on this unremarkable claret and think of the good days. Shouldn’t we return to them? I leave that as open question for you, my loyal friends.

1. If something has befallen Fluffy, vile and unrepentantly murderous though he was, I shall never rest until those responsible are brought to justice. After, I hasten to add, my afternoon constitutional, of course.
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2. Many incorrectly believe that this powerful mage of that time long ago was himself named “Anthracite.” I assure you, that is not the case. The grand, grim tower that he caused to be raised out of the dead soil of that region in the south of Darkmoor, his school and manufactory was named Anthracite. The sorcerer himself… no one living recalls his name. Nor what became of him. ↩︎

Session Notes

It is I, loyal fans, Buck Headstrong! You may have observed, given the current state of unrest in Elder Pool, that your loyal chronicler has been taken away from his preferred stool at the Gibbering Ravening Ragged Moon. Fear not! Once matters settle, you will find me once again partaking of inferior ale and subpar gossip.

Despite the troubles here in Elder Pool, our great hope, the Circle of Darkmoor continue to swat at mosquitoes far away in the swamps of the northeast.

This edition, I must turn over the narrative to one of my correspondents on the scene: my friend¹ Fluffy, the black squirrel.²

The Circle of Darkmoor emerged from the filthy passage leading to the old Hay Barn and onto the flagstones of the first subterranean level of the Moat House. Dixit, the Anthracite-follower scouted the currently empty hallway. She discovered sounds emerging from two of the three doors that were revealed in this well-lighted passage. Behind the first — sounds of movement, of pacing, perhaps. Occasional metal-on-metal. Behind the second, someone was strumming at a lute.

Exploring further, Dixit identified more sounds of activity; perhaps of pans and pots beyond the final door. The passage furthermore extended east at the north and south ends. After conferring with the Circle, Dixit approached the first door. She discovered that the door was barred from the inside. Without much difficulty, she managed to pry the door open.

The Circle rushed in, prepared for combat. Inside, they found a being, fully armored, visor low, gleaming in contrast to the mud and mire that coated themselves and that had been all they have witnessed in many days. And the narrow room inside; just as pristine. The armored being attempted to push past, armed… with a mop. The Circle began to combat this creature but quickly realized it was intent merely on escaping the room and setting about making clean the hallway.

Inside, as well, was a neatly-organized pile of remains of some unlucky individual. As the Circle entered, it flared, briefly, to un-life, only to have its skull unceremoniously crushed by Sir Kog.

Why was this armored maid here? How was it trapped by a lock that it could easily have opened from the inside? And what about the arrival of the Circle caused the previously harmless stack of bones to attempt to reknit itself and rise once again? The Circle put these questions aside and imprisoned the being of plate and scale once again.
Returning to the entry hallway, there came to the heroes the sounds of shouts, of activity. Of horses, it seemed, from further inside the complex.

The ranger from Aldmaar had by this time determined that the passage at the north end of the hallway lea to stairs descending further. Reasoning that the foe that they sought — the supposed leader of these Dark Cloaks — the Gauntlet, would likely reside at a lower level, they moved in that direction.

As the Circle reached the second subterranean level, they were met at once by sounds of sparring from nearby. Not actual combat, it seemed, but training of some sort. The stairs opened onto a hallway that bent immediately right (southwards) before terminating in a passage stretching away to the east. To the west: a yawning drop to some space below. Quick scouting determined that there was a sort of cavern below with tiny cave-like cells and what appeared to be ragged prisoners toiling in the earth. This pit was overseen by a wall of glass. Torches were arrayed around this recessed space so that those below could be observed at all times.

Unfortunately, a guard in this panopticon noticed the Circle and a rolling battle began. Bandit troops began to attack from beyond the bend in the as-yet unexplored passage , and one even sprang through a shattered window to leap onto the narrow passage above the gaol space to meet the Circle head-on. Another bounded atop the half-wall of an otherwise open expanse littered with wooden swords and shields and blunted spears.

Sir Kog moved quickly ahead once he might and engaged waves of bandits by himself, while the remaining Circle held their place and fought a more thoughtful, tactical fight in the narrow hallway.

As the passage to the east bent again to the south, two new foes emerged from the doors lining this hallway. Another bandit leader, it seemed, and a sorcerous female. The bandits fought with their crossbows and swords and javelins. The female attempted an ensorcelment upon Kog, which he shrugged off. She then retreated beyond a stout door. The epithets hurled her way by her bandit associate did little to slow her retreat.

There was give and take. Cut and thrust. The bandits fought well, but they were no match for the Circle. Sir Kog slew two of the bandits and when two more approached, he slew them in turn.

Near the finale of the battle, two more bandits emerged from the panopticon, to target Sir Kog with their crossbows, only to be overwhelmed by escaped prisoners from below. A figure Kog identified as Aaron, filthy and wretched from his imprisonment responded to Kog’s questions and set about attempting to organize those amongst his fellows who could fight. However, he asserted, there were others below, sick and injured, who could not travel. He further identified the door beyond which the sorceress, Vindurain, had escaped, was in fact the apartments of the castillian; the Gauntlet. A stairway, he asserted, lead upwards from inside those rooms.

That, my friends, is the report from the marsh. As to its veracity, I can not attest. The recounting of such deeds of heroism and alacrity by Sir Kog, this humble narrator finds… unlikely.

In any case, as the Greatest Living Sage of Darkmoor, I can confirm that the Moat House of old, in times when Darkmoor was led by nobles of an actual noble sort, was favored by the lost magician of Anthracite and a number of powerful enchantments were to be found inside. Amongst them were the Caretakers, a number of objects animated to serve the castillian of the Moat House in all the mundane ways one might wish: preparing meals, maintaining and keeping kempt the grounds. Indeed, mopping the floors and tending to the laundry. were included in their charge. They were, according to legend, utterly incapable of aggressive action. Some reports indicate that they tended to an obsessive commitment to their obligations, sweeping away a glass of wine, for example, so that it might be cleaned, never mind that it was merely half-drunk.

An overabundance of fastidiousness, I need not tell you, dear reader, is not something one has to fear in Elder Pool.

I now must dash off to place this missive in the hands of the craven youths who distribute it, keeping my head down and my location secret. Hoping this message finds you… well, hoping that it finds anyone, at this point.

1. He is anything but friendly. ↩︎
2. He is not a squirrel, but some kind of fell beast. ↩︎

Session Notes

Oh, beloved reader, does your humble chronicler have news for you!

Our heroes, the Circle of Darkmoor continue their rampage through the marshes of far eastern Darkmoor. Or is it the Earldom of Eegland at that point? Accounts vary.

Since last I put pen to parchment the Circle, as recounted in my previous missive, having ventured into a muddy trail studded with wicker men, finally, finally realized that the thatch-roofed structure looming before them must surely be the Hay Barn. A location about which they had been warned numerous times to assiduously avoid. Avoiding threats despite repeated forewarnings is not, as you have doubtless observed, a characteristic highly prized by our heroes.

The famous, feared shambler was only a few feet away, feeding on the one dark cloak who had escaped them.

You, or certainly I, dear reader, might have used the brief opportunity to tiptoe away while the great beast was focused on its prey. Not our heroes. No. They proceeded, led by Sir Kog the fearless!

Naturally, a great clash ensued, between this legendary monster and our heroes. Were there great deeds? Of course. Setbacks? Perhaps. Sir Kog fleeing like a frightened girl, orcish tail tucked between his thick, chafing legs? Who can say?

They were aided, so the reports, by the spirit of the long-deceased Inspector of Darkmoor, Honaldo. What is it about this group that causes the dead to walk again? Whatever fell magics are at work, the Circle with their bony companion defeated the shambler. The great beast is dead.

Within the now-liberated Hay Barn they discovered the lost documents of Honaldo, including the only surviving record that could answer the territoriality question regarding that corner of the map. Perhaps they will live to see it brought to light.

Amongst those papers was some hint that there might be a secret tunnel leading from the Moat House to the Hay Barn. Or, most usefully from their perspective, the reverse.

The heroes, at the latest reporting, are making their way along the tunnel, past the vaunted defenses of the Moat House.

Muddied, bloodied, approaching a viper’s nest of cruel enemies in the dark, what chance have our heroes? Return to whatever street urchin you purchased this report from for the next edition to discover for yourself.

Session Notes

And now the latest from the far reaches of the Port Road¹:

The Circle of Darkmoor, having in last weeks’ missive (mostly) defeated a Dark Cloak patrol at the old Carriage House, set out to hunt down the one surviving criminal who had fled into the depths of the swamps. Three of the Circle proceeded through the mire, whereas the follower of that Nick fellow took a more circuitous, less scenic and far less dangerous tack via the road. I do not mean to impute cowardice, of course. I declare it forthright.

The Aldmaar, the Anthracite and the orc — this is not the setup for one of my famous jests, I promise, gentle reader — pushed their way through the muck, trailing the fleeing Dark Cloak until, having arrived at a rare patch of higher ground, found themselves surrounded and outnumbered by a pack of upright frog men dressed in mossy finery the like of which has not been seen since the most recent Grey family wedding. The horrible creatures — bullywugs, I’m told — leapt into the fray and engaged the heroes. The frog-beings proved doughty foes, particularly for a group of heroes already partially exhausted from previous combat and with one of their crew off literally chasing swamp lights!

I was not there, of course. While I would love to accompany the Circle and document their activities in person, my duties here in Elder Pool require so much of me it is simply not possible. Also, the mud would absolutely ruin my new purple loafers with the brass buckles! Nonetheless, a certain black squirrel² informs me that the fight eventually came down to the chubby wand-twirler and the last of the bug-eyed, warty dandies. “Did the Circle survive?” Of course they did. “Oh, you mean that unattractive Anthracite woman defeated the… big… toad?” Yes. In the same way that you defeat the baker every time you wrest a bit of cheesed cake from his clutches by overpowering him with bits of copper from your purse.

Meanwhile, literally high on his horse, the Great White Pope tired of chasing lights and discovered that a passage leading north off of the main trail through the swamp was lined not just with the remnant of the wicker man from which the Circle had freed the tart Dark Cloak, but a series of them. What of that?

My research, dear readers, tells me that these wicker men date back at least a hundred years. Perhaps several hundred years in this depressing duchy. In particular, there is a perambulation of these wicker men stories that may prove pertinent. This story involves a terrible beast of the swamp known as the shambler. This shambler, the legends recount, was literally lured to the edge of the old Moat House as the smelliest possible guard dog. Perhaps, more likely, the shambler found itself at a structure — the old Hay Barn — and set up shop, so to speak, and the occupant of the Moat House realized that there was some possible benefit from having a murderous pile of garbage camping on the front lawn. In any case, this shambler is as afraid of these burning wicker men as the San Nicholite is of wandering brightly-colored swamp gas. So, the master of the Moat House deployed these wicker men to keep the shambler at bay, but to also discourage it from moving along. Supplemented with occasional live offerings, one assumes.

Thus, the wicker men, at least in times of old, were deployed by the Moat House to control the shambler. One imagines that whatever the veracity of these tales in olden days, that the shambler menace has long ago faded into the moors and any on-going occurrence of wicker men can be put down to modern superstitions no longer grounded in purpose other than inertia.

So there it is, dear reader. The history of the wicker man and the crucial role it has played in the historicity of Darkmoor. Supposedly.

The Circle returned to the Carriage House, battered, covered with frog gore and swamp mud. Except for the fine priest, who if he had soiled his clothing at all, it was at the thought of lights in the swamp. They rested. Recovered. And, as the sun once again climbed into the sky, a local approached, trailing the horses that had been lacking from the Carriage House on their return. It inspires me that so many want to participate in what many are calling the resurrection of Darkmoor. The Circle have created the perception that some positive change is possible. I don’t, dear reader, scoff at these ideas. I understand that matters in Darkmoor are terrible. And that the common man desires to play some role improving matters, that warms even the chilly heart of your narrator. That the Circle are certain to fail and disappoint the masses, well that seems as inevitable to me as the rising of the full moon and the concealed implications of that phenomenon upon a certain noble.

I digress. Now armed with a full handful of steeds, the Circle, after some significant debate, set out once again on the road and down the muddy path. They arrived, as had the Nicholite, at that intersection of the well-carved wagon path and that narrow, mostly overgrown trail. The one, you will recall, lined with wicker men. Except now, as the heroes discovered, the wicker had been set ablaze.

The heroes moved up this trail, the Aldmaar man alone clever enough to hang back — to safeguard the horses, you understand. The others proceeded up this trail, investigating the still smoldering wicker men. As the passed one installation after another, each more recently set alight than the last, they began to notice that:

• a body had recently been dragged up this trail
• that body left blood and gore in its wake
• a spot off the trail to the left was recently tamped down and the line of evidence of the body seemed to originate from that area
  And, most importantly:
• the tall thatched roof of a structure seemed to lie at the end of this muddy trail.

The Circle had been warned a number of time, my friends, to do whatever they must to avoid the Hay Barn. That some dire threat resided therein. And yet, here are they, within a few short strides of that site, mouths agape and unmentionables freshly sodden.

And that is where I must leave the tale, dear reader. Until next time.

1. There is the question as to where specifically on the Port Road the heroes find themselves. There is, as you may know, a dispute as to whether the Circle of Darkmoor has any legal or jurisdictional basis to be operating on this stretch of land, given that the Port Road east of the Third Stage Road lies within the Earldom of Eregore. We will return to that question at some future point, I am certain. ↩︎
2. These are not squirrels. Do not, patient reader, interact with the “black squirrels,” I implore you. ↩︎

Session Notes

Word reaches us, dear reader, of the exploits of the Circle of Darkmoor, now firmly ensconced in the East. Praise the Unburning Tree. Or that Nicholas fellow. Or whomever else we can credit for their absence. The young Lord, one supposes.

The heroes ventured forth and discovered more misdeeds of the Dark Cloaks, in the form of a ravaged coach, its draughthorses slaughtered and likewise its crew and passengers. These thugs are truly animals. One wonders whether the Circle really comprehends the difficulty into which they are so confidently striding.

They continued to follow a map that they previously wrested from the Dark Cloaks in that ill-fated assault on the Baron’s purse which now seems years agone, which led them away from the road and onto an overgrown path in what had become a verdant, muddy fen. They traced the furrows of wagons through the mire. Despite the obvious indications that traffic had split at a certain point, some bending away to the left, some to the right, before rejoining up the path, the Elf of Anthracite, a wand-twirler of a clumsy sort, proceeded straight ahead. Ignoring the signs, evident even to an overfed, ink-stained scrivener such as your loyal narrator, this man walked without hesitation directly into the quagmire before him and had to be rescued by his associates. I suspect that some of you, dear readers, believe that I fabricate these misdeeds. Trust me. I recount merely what transpires. In an inimitable style, I daresay.

They continued, the Athracitizen now fully bedraggled in what had become a freezing night air. Discovering another trail heading more northerly (their current bearing primarily easterly) which they took to lead towards the “Hay Barn” identified on their map, about which they had received multiple warnings was the lair of some fell beast, when suddenly nearby: a wicker man.

I delved into this matter, my friends, the “wicker man.” There has been in these parts the phenomenon of constructing these effigies, often from reeds, wicker, straw, and other dried vegetation. These man-shaped — though often quite large — objects are then set alight, sometimes as part of a ceremony or associated with a funeral.

However, there is a barbarous aspect to these wicker men, in addition to their more festive uses. Some horrible personages encase their pathetic victims in wicker, my friends, and then set these miserable packages alight. It is said of these wretches that they have been “candled.”

There is some historical record, furthermore, involving the use of wicker men by the Church of Elemental Evil. Additional research into this matter continues.

To return to our narrative of the Circle: inside this particular wicker man they discovered a victim, bruised, battered, beaten and naked: Lucretia, the Dark Cloak they “rescued” from her life of crime. Freed from her reedy confines, she recounted yet another tale of woe, having been captured in her attempt to depart Darkmoor for northern climes, she was brought back to the marsh and left to rot amongst the rot in the fetid swamp.

She reported that a group of Dark Cloaks had taken up post at the abandoned Carriage House back on the road. She suggested that the Circle might have to face this crew at some point, perhaps at a less advantageous time. But if the Circle struck first… they might steal the brutes’ garments and disguise themselves, perhaps making entry to the Moat House a simpler matter.

Seeing wisdom in this approach, they set about it. A battle ensued at the Carriage House, which for a time seemed poised on the edge of a blade. The tide turned when the Badit captain was brought down. The Circle defeated the remaining minions with little difficulty. However, one escaped into the marsh. Fearing that he might alert the Moat House, the Circle is, at this very moment, in pursuit, if my sources can be trusted.

I promise to keep you, gentle reader, informed as this situation unravels.

Session Notes

The heroes, the Circle of Darkmoor, returned from the Lord Baron’s speech to his peoples, which was met with wide-spread acclaim, to discover that their captive, a member of the highwaymen who apparently call themselves the “Silencers,” and who reportedly had professed contrition and a turning over of a new leaf, retreating from his life of crime, had been murdered in cold blood, alongside his gaoler, Anker of Aldmaar.
The Circle pursued the attackers, who they saw fleeing on the High Road. The pursued fled as long as they might, but eventually the heroes overcame them, once again demonstrating mercy in taking a captive rather than to cut the murderers down like downs in the street.
Is there no end to these murderous onslaughts? How can the baby-faced Baron implement his far-reaching policies if at every turn the criminal element outflanks him?