Some matters have come to my attention about which I though you would urgently want to hear. I apologize for the delay in getting this letter to you; I imagine you will be reading this, at best, two days’ hence. The courier, Yanush Metz is, as you doubtless recall, one of our newer recruits, but I trust in his resourcefulness in locating you.

I was awakened last evening by Bristol Grenville who had been alerted by the swamp-man Lathrop. The swamp-men… I apologize, I have no idea how to write the name by which these people prefer to be called… had captured an individual on the edges of the swamp. He put up quite a fight, it seems, but the… our allies managed to subdue him and brought him to us for questioning. Ralluk turned him promptly over to me, ensuring that we had no qualms with how this person had been treated and also, that they would be given full credit for having done the right thing. I assured him of our gratitude and of our concurrence in how they had gone about this matter.

The man that they turned over was, without a doubt, a member of the cult that you had warned me of ere your departure. He wore modest travel garb but had in his possession dark robes and an ornate mask embroidered with symbols of the four elements. Ralluk indicated that the man had been searching for someone in the swamps when they found him.

The man was already in rough shape by the time we received him, and I must confess that our questioning of him was rather more intense than we might have wished. He expired in the early hours of this morning. Here is everything that we gleaned from this person, incorporating what we also heard from Ralluk and Lathrop:

He was involved with other cultists on a raid of Greensward — known by locals, I gather, as “Harrowfen.” I understand that this is a small community just south of the marshes, or perhaps on the very edge. I admit that I have never seen this village. The cultist invaded the town and killed some number. Their objective, originally, was to capture the young girls of the community. While there, they apparently learned of a hidden shrine of old, underground in Greensward, to the Temple of the Elemental.

They made off, according to this man, in two directions. He and his cohort with three of the young girls, a separate group with three other girls and with nine adults they had also abducted. These nine he said were to be the “walking dead.” He did not have a chance to disclose the meaning of this cryptic phrase.

The cult found, it seems, something unexpected in that shrine. He was most evasive on this topic, and drawing this information out of him, ultimately, led to his demise. But it appears that they found ‘some” stone tablets. How many total, I do not know but it appears they made off with one of these tablets.

This cultist had been left by the others to search for one of the young girls who had escaped into the swamps. If she lives, I can not say. I have asked Ralluk to do what he might to attempt to find this girl and bring her — unharmed if at all possible — to me. I hope I have not overstretched my authority in promising him a significant reward if he is successful.

The cultist would only say that he followed “the Wind that Listens.” That whole thing is what he called his leader. I thought he was kidding. The leader of the second cult group which seemed bound for Elder Pool, at least initially, he called “the Stone Beneath.” I thought he was referring to the tablets for the longest time. This cultist fellow I now prefer to think of “Breakfast for Thalgruun,” which Bristol tells me is the name for the great moat beast.

If there is any update, I will do what I can to get it to you. Which brings up a modest request: the Circle have entirely bereft the Moat House of any horses. I might have been able to get this message to more timely if I had been able to dispatch Yanush on horseback. Would it be possible to send back with Yanush one or two of the steeds your allies borrowed so that we might have access to them for patrols, dispatches and the like?

I remain your humble servant,
Captain Lassadorn, Castillian of the Moat House of Darkmoor

You say your goodbyes to the Circle. You have borrowed a dun mare from the Moat House. You make your way, guided by Lathrop, whose name you have learned is actually some unpronounceable series of guttural noises and clicks. Lathrop, as you have come to better know him, is both surprisingly gentle and funny. You and he struggle to communicate, but have found yourselves laughing until the tears come at your inability to do so at times. He produces a sachet of dried flower as you arrive, as promised at a trail leading west to the Tradeway which, ultimately, will lead you home. The flower is, he says, known as a medicament even amongst “your people.” “You exchange, you get good back!” He smiles in that wide-mouthed way.

You make your way to Anthracite, down by the coast here, then along the inland Tradeway almost to the Girdle, that great stretch of mountainous terrain that spans Darkmoor, east to west. You take the road eastward again, and there, perched at the foot of the mountains and the gateway to the Sea, is the looming ruin of Anthracite. Dark and imposing and frightening in the waning light.

You produce the appropriate magical sign that allows you through the gates. You feel the eyes of the people of Anthracite on you as the horse carries you toward your modest home. Your room-mate, Bramble, is surprised to see you and quickly moves his possessions back into his half of this ramshackle dwelling. He peppers you with questions. You answer mostly in monosyllables. Your head hits your pillow and you sleep for a long time.

You are roused after noon by Thaira Dewen, your former mistress of Rhetoric and Illusion. “Dixit,” she says, “your attendance is required with the Faculty.” You take the mug of warm tea from her, gratefully. “When?”

“An hour ago,” she replies with a firm look, but a twinkle in her eye. She promises to hold back the tide of growing ire at your tardiness as best she can, but entreaties you to hurry. “And perhaps bathe,” she suggests with a wrinkle of her nose.

The Faculty has gathered, not at the New Schoolhouse, as you expected, but in the lobby/great room of Anthracite itself. Magical light does not function in this space. It’s dimness is held back, barely, by guttering torches. The Learned are gathered around a table that has been assembled, bit by bit, from its recovered remnants. It gleams with an oily perfection, though the patchwork nature of its reconstruction is obvious. It is rather like the face of a beautiful woman, criss-crossed with the scars of brutal punishments.

Imber Corrin speaks first, attempting a conciliatory tone. He explains that a complete accounting of your recent activities in Elder Pool and at the Moat House is required. He bemoans the fact that all that they know of your whereabouts are the farcical musings of that fool Buck Headstrong and some supernatural squirrel named Fluffy.

You sketch out what you have been involved with, withholding details you feel they are better not knowing, which exercise means that you say very little.

Tamsin Wyrmhollow behind those concealing lenses grows angry and declares that you are keeping for yourself information vital to the School. “You are there to represent us, Dixit. Never forget where your loyalties lie.” You see an exchange of expressions between the Faculty at this. You realize that your loyalties have been, in your absence, brought into question.

“Well, just look at yourself,” Thaira says, attempting a kindness but there is an unmistakeable rebuke in her posture, “you do not dress like a sorcerer. You should have advanced more than you have, in the Art. You waste your time and your promise with this skulking and stealing-about business.”

Brother Elandros speaks up for the first time, raising his ancient head, a hint of white hair clinging to his skull like passing clouds.

“You turn your back on Anthracite,” he wheezes.

You sputter, but do not find the words to respond.

You find, to your amazement, that a vote is conducted, in your presence, whether word should be sent to Lord Grey, revoking your special status as representative of Anthracite to his Highness. The vote is unanimous. You may, if you choose to remain, return to your previous work as a junior scribe. Otherwise, you are free to make your way, as a burglar or whatever path you have now chosen for yourself.

Returning to your rooms, Bramble is waiting. “I know you were tired last night, Dixit,” he says. “But tell me all about it!” He is smiling, clearly oblivious as to what has, in a whirlwind of perhaps thirty minutes, just occurred.

You turn your back on Anthracite,” he wheezes.

You sense that you have arrived at a critical junction, if you are to continue to enjoy the support of Anthracite and to advance in your magical career. And perhaps, even, to have the support of Arthur Grey, though you suspect he cares less about the specifics of your professional advancement.

You speak up for yourself. You remind the Learned of the lost books of the ancient Sorcerer which you have reclaimed and provided to Anthracite. “These are not mere philologies or taxonomies, these are important artifacts hand-made, I’m certain, by the great Sorcerer.” You see how your words strike Gregor Hast and you realize that in belittling his pursuits you may have created an enemy. When Hast attempts to angrily cut you off, to your surprise, it is the feeble voice of Elandros who stops him and gestures for you to continue.

What do you say?

Ham spends his days at the Moat House helping out, but spending his idle time with Old Pieter’s journal and in brief visits to his apartments. The Silencers and the Gauntlet did not, seemingly, have a passion for history or for the finer things. You and Kog and Lucretia unearth dishes and silverware, artful tapestries and expensive rugs discarded or unused by the most recent inhabitants of the fortress of the fens. Restored, just these small touches, combined with good food and the tireless cleaning of the Caretakers has made in a mere pair of days, some difference in pushing away the dark.

Ralluk visits rather more frequently than expected. He has arrived with increasingly contrived justifications for his attendance.  He has brought Lucretia swamp flowers, which she accepts with grace. And a bit of grimace. She, clearly, has some unpleasant history with the Murgathen.

Ralluk, if he notices this, is undeterred. He speaks enthusiastically to Kog about his people’s willingness to help guide those Kog has summoned to the House unmolested. He brings food for the Thalgruun, a grisly collection of grey and purple organs and gallons of red-purple blood. You do not possess the tact to even begin to question the source of this fodder.

But, most of all, Ralluk wants to meet with you. You sense that he lives a lonely life, one where his intelligence is wasted on his Murgathen cohort. He is an excellent mimic. He uses his skill to mock the Gauntlet. His impersonation is perfect, including his ability, bulging his throat grotesquely like a great swamp toad, to amplify his words. Ralluk has a rich internal life, you feel, deprived of much opportunity to share it. In a more perfect world, one such as Ralluk would entertain at court, rather than parlay with monsters such as the Gauntlet.

Ralluk has brought you an item you could not, at first, even fathom. It is a fine mace, well-turned and of finest materials. Certainly one hundred years old, perhaps twice that. Pressed into the sturdy ironwood of the handle: a circle of steel. Embossed, it only dawns after a moment, with the family crest of the Lorimers. How has he come into possession of such an item?

“Many crusades have entered the swamp,” he retorts with what you have grown to recognize as a sly smile on his wide mouth, “only to disappear into the mire.”

Seeing your expression, he says with a hint of recrimination, but also of compassion, “Do not judge us, Hammond of San Nicholas, differently than you would judge the manner your people would respond against invaders of any foreign power. We Murgathen are a sovereign people. Your Lords of Darkmoor have never invited us to join their table.”

As a result of  the many visits of Ralluk,  you have began to determine that he is not the master of the Thalgruun. If anything, he views the great moat beast as a ruler might view a dragon who, for its own reason, deters invaders. Or a fierce wolf pack that helps keep the frontier free of threat.

Furthermore, you have begun to wonder whether Ralluk actually leads these Murgathen. He certainly commands, within a certain scope. But you have witnessed discussions between Ralluk and other Murgathen, where they have evidenced an obvious lack of deference. Either Ralluk is a monumentally open-minded leader, or he does not rule with absolute authority. If he rules at all.

And, of course, you have fidgeted, worked at and harassed the lock that secures Old Pieter’s lockbox. And finally, somehow, without realizing how you have done it, the lock gives way and the box springs open.

Inside you found a molded bit of wood, velvet-lined. Some sort of ward — not intended for a cleric of San Nicholas, the hope, perhaps of a generation– diffuses around you. Harmless. Nestled inside is an amulet at the end of a brass and steel and bronze chain. The amulet is sizable. Silver. And empty. It emanates mystic power. You feel something shimmer inside you. A heat spreads in your being as you behold this artifact.

But nothing else, because the heart of the amulet is empty. And then, for a second, you see the blinding gem that should reside there. It is not missing. It has not been stolen. You have not yet earned it. For Pieter, you can only assume, the gem would not be so shy. When San Nicholas wills it, this item, which some voice whispers to you is known as as a relic of the Vigilant Flame, will appear to you, here, entwined with this chain and amulet. Why would Pieter have abandoned this relic in a box at the Moat House? You know, or at least were taught, that Old Pieter served out his days at the ruin of the cathedral, teaching the children and spreading what meager joy was available to him in the aftermath of the great war. And yet this magnificent artifact awarded him by San Nicholas was left here, in a simple box, in the fens on the far edge of Darkmoor.

You stare in awe at this item. It is, in its current form, worthless to you. But there is the promise of some greater power, and perhaps, some greater truth. If only you can accrue to San Nicholas the glory and the promise that Pieter of old managed to accrue.

You give Kog and Lucretia your farewell. Lucretia, startling you and Kog both, gives you a gentle hug. You had not thought her capable of such a thing, as reserved and bitter as she has often seemed to you.

Ralluk walks with you and makes the path through the swamp as effortless as walking the streets of Elder Pool. He asks you about Gwinned, which you must have let slip you had visited. About the great hurtling carriages of the nobles on the High Way. About the fine clothing shops. He sighs and is wistful at your response. He waves, with those long, webbed fingers as you leave the fen behind.

You have borrowed a gentle roan from the Moat House and astride it you make your way to the ruins of the cathedral, far across the Barony, stopping only as you and the horse require. You are recognized at the gate and you see your brethren gathering as word of your return spreads. In the ruins of the temple nave you meet with Elder Conrad and Elder Revilar. They ask you of your exploits and the state of affairs at the Moat House. Conrad beams and Revilar glowers as you answer them. You discuss the discovery of Pieter’s apartments. They spy the mace of your ancestor at your belt. At the sight of the Stillbag, Revilar scoffs. Something about the moment — and the audience — holds your tongue regarding Pieter’s journal and the relic of the Vigilant Flame, both hidden in your bags.

You speak well into the night about events here at the cathedral. Revilar is eager to see Old Pieter’s apartment for himself, at the Moat House. You do not encourage him. As the twinkling of the stars turns to velvet and the golden sunrise announces its arrival, long after Revilar has limped to his home, Conrad looks you hard in the face. “You have changed, son,” he says, inspecting you as if looking for a hidden seam, or a trap on a door. “You are changing.”

You have no idea what he sees. You collapse into your old tent, the horse snorting nearby, your possessions close about you as the cathedral awakens around you and you sleep as if dead.

You and Hammond, Lucretia and Henrik settle in at the Moat House. Dixit departs, taking a horse from the stable, escorted by the Murgathen Lathrop, who returns the following day.

Ralluk of the Hundred/Thousand Tongues appears daily. His name, he suggests, doesn’t have a direct translation. The notion of a numbering system amongst the Murgathen does not extend beyond a dozen or so. When asked how many Murgathen live in the swamps of Darkmoor, he smiles that broad-lipped smile and says, invariably, “a dozen.”

Henrik keeps mostly to himself. He is eager to help out with any form of physical labor and works tirelessly when put to a task. It has become clear, however, that he is extremely uncomfortable down in the catacombs, away from the open sky and the fresh air, such as it exists, in the swamp. He says nothing about this claustrophobia, but when Lucretia points it out, you can’t fail to notice. Still, Henrik has been loyal and you see nothing within him but a spirit of service and sacrifice. He will do that which must be done.

Hammond lingers for a pair of days, helping out, cleaning, repairing. You expected him, perhaps, to lay his head in the apartment of Old Pieter of San Nicholas. Instead, he sleeps on a hard cot in the garrison space. You have seen him poke his head, warily, into the room of that lion of his faith. He does not linger, and other than the items you know he has removed: a journal and that locked box, he seems to leave that space as a museum, a tribute to what you can only assume is his hero.

Hammond spends some time, here and there, with the journal, reading it slowly, perhaps a single page at a time. He tucks it carefully away, then, and keeps it always close to hand.

Ralluk spends much time with Hammond. They speak frequently and seem to enjoy one another’s company. Lucretia, clearly, feels otherwise. Whatever her history with the Murgathen, about which she refuses to speak, it has left her unwilling to spend more than a few minutes in Ralluk’s presence, despite the niceties, flowers and compliments he would shower her with.

You offered Lucretia use of Vindurain’s rooms, which she vehemently refused. You offered her use of the Officer’s rooms. She demurred. “I sleep where you sleep,” she insisted.

Your plan to sleep in the cots of the garrison lasted all of one evening. Since then, she and you have taken up residency in the first room you and the Circle ever encountered, the room in which, until it was freed, the cleaning Caretaker was imprisoned. You have dragged cots into this room, after removing the bones within to be interred in the great Sea. Lucretia threw them into the water with no ceremony whatsoever.

She lies on your cot, with you. She wears only a narrow shift. You do not feel that she lies with you because she loves or covets you, but because she only knows that it is her duty to lie with the master of the Moat House. You have tried to explain to her that she is free to do as she wishes; she owes you nothing. She nods as if she is listening.

You will not force yourself on her. Despite her obvious willingness to satisfy your animal cravings, you lie chastely at her side, trying not to breath in the intoxicant of her scent, to brush up against her soft flesh on this narrow cot.

You drag in a larger bed, explaining that if you are to share blankets, at least let it be on a space that can accommodate the two of you. That night is no better. The following night you drag in the Gauntlet’s great bed. She balks at this, and the two of you return to the smaller bed.

Henrik and Hammond make no notice of this arrangement. Hammond makes his farewell, leaving you and Henrik and Lucretia. Ralluk’s appearances diminish. During the day, Henrik and Lathrop speak together up in the ruin, the Ranger hurling rocks into the Sea.

On the fourth evening, despite all of your promises to your self, your determination not to do so, in the night you reach out to her and she immediately sighs and rolls to meet you. From that point on, you couple frequently. She never removes that narrow shift in your presence. You feel, across her back, tracks of scars, and on her hip. She does not mind that you touch them but will not allow them to be seen.

She is a hard women, this Lucretia. She says she thinks she was nine years old when taken by the Silencers, and thus has likely lived amongst them fully half her life. She does not take your hand, except in bed. She bathes alone, with the door locked. She always, always, keeps a blade concealed. Within reach.

The Peoples of the South begin to arrive, led through the dangerous swamps by the Murgathen. Four at first, then a second group of four, men and women. Hard like Lucretia, and ready to work and to learn and to fight if they must. You and Henrik and Lucretia drill these newcomers in what they must learn to defend the Moat House. How to work as a unified force. The hidden entrances and the measures that must be repaired and reinforced to safeguard them. Henrik takes to this work and they begin to call him “Captain,” to his dismay. You they call Sir Kog, with a wet-eyed reverence.

One among them, though he strives as hard as any, and curses himself at his own lack of progress you appoint, with a high-minded bit of pageantry, as Ambassador to the Murgathen. You introduce him to Lathrop and the two immediately bond. Rarely one is seen without the other. His name is Bristol Grenville.

Bristol approaches you a week after the taking of the House, Lathrop shadowing him. “Look, Sir Kog, I’ve learned how to introduce someone new in Murgathen!” He turns to Lathrop, produces a series of guttural consonants and clicks of his tongue, while gesturing, bowing. You recognize your own name being spoken. You look to Lathrop, once Bristol turns to face you, beaming at this show. Lathrop, slowly, only so you can see, shakes his head.

“Excellent work, Bristol,” you say, with an encouraging hand on his shoulder that staggers the young man. “Keep it up!”

It is only on the fourth day of the arrival of the cohort that included Bristol Grenville, shortly before you and Lucretia are scheduled to head out for Elder Pool, that you, in a flash of recognition, realize why this enthusiastic youth seems so familiar to you. The young brigand, the first Silencer captive you took, as the Circle, who was in turn murdered by the Silencer squad that included Lucretia, his name was Norwich Grenville. Your newly-appointed Ambassador is surely the younger brother of that brigand.

“Do you recognize him?” You ask Lucretia. She replies immediately, with a shrug, “he must be kin of that Norwich, that we killed back at the Ragged Moon.”

You think to ask if she was the one who did the slaying, but you do not want to ask nor to hear the answer. She would be honest, you think. She would not blanch from the question.

That the Silencers drew from your People is not a new idea for you, but here is proof that the evil that resides throughout Darkmoor resides also with your people. Its grasping fingers reach every corner of the realm. If Arthur Grey and his sworn supporters are to make of this barony a place safe from such darkness, much work and dire sacrifice must be carried out.

We must all be hard, you think to yourself. Like Lucretia.