Tag: Gaming

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. ↩︎