Tag: journal

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2025-06-06 Barony of Darkmoor Session 22

Deaconess Targeta

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.

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Entry 60

Among the many reasons I have come to like and love Aldmaar Wynnrowan is that when he arrives, he rarely fails to bring an Aldermane that I may ride. I am no great horseman, and these great beasts all appear the same to me, but I believe the one I rode today is the same as when last Aldmaar and I rode together. I have not asked Aldmaar out of embarrassment. He has no difficulty in distinguishing one horse from another. Nor one squirrel from another, I suspect.

Lady Sparrowhawk, of course, has her own mount, “Spears,” as she calls him. No Aldermane, but fine and fearless in his own right. As the three of us approached Greensward, astride these majestic beasts, riding side-by-side, I felt that we must have appeared like something out of myth arriving at the mud-and-stone walls of the small town.

Such foolishness is pride.

As we made our way through the gates, past the mean-faced guards in their wooden towers and through the slick alleys, the eyes that turned our way showed not awe but fear. And, perhaps, hate. We arrived at the village’s tavern. No one took our horses, though there were those reclining on the shoddy porch who might have. “I will stay with the horses,” Aldmaar offered. The Knight of Darkmoor and I entered the dark establishment.

Inside were half a dozen villagers, dirty, most drunk though it was not yet noon. The sneered at the mark of San Nicholas on my armor and leered at Lady Sparrowhawk. When I asked for rooms, I was told by the innkeeper, a corpulent woman who seemed to care little for her hygiene, that no rooms were available.

“You have other visitors in this shithole town?” The Knight asked.

“Not very kind there, lady,” the innkeeper responded.

“Just turn around and go back out the way you come,” one of the drunk men shouted to laughs and acclaim from his friends.

One, unfortunately, could not refrain from making a lewd suggestion to Lady Sparrowhawk. I imagine they could put his nose back into place, after she was through with him. But what about the scattered teeth? I might have helped him, coughing and vomiting in that broken chair. I did not.

When we returned to Aldmaar, it was to watch him firing arrow after arrow into the earth, inches behind the retreating heels of a young, shirtless man. The man, running for all he was worth skewed in the mud, and slid face-first. Aldmaar laughed with that whole-body mirth that so rarely makes an appearance.

“What did he do?” I asked.

“Thought I wouldn’t notice him slipping a hand in your saddlebag.”

“Goodness. What did he take?”

Aldmaar shrugged. I followed the line of fine-feathered missiles while the youth struggled to his feet. As he attempted to flee, I commanded that he stop. Weak of mind, he could not resist my order. I pulled the fingers of his right hand open while his eyes along moved to follow my actions. Clutched in his filthy hand, still rolled up in a stout leaf for freshness, was a golden apple I had purchased from a vendor at Anthracite.

I bade him keep it.

I prised one arrow after another from the earth on my return and handed them to the ranger. “No rooms,” I reported.

“Just as well,” he responded. “But let us have a look about town before we seek lodging elsewhere. The Sorcerer said there was some secret here, did he not Lady Sparrowhawk?”

She nodded. We continued. We walked the horse through the small community, past the cemetery on the hill, past the several mills powered by great machine that, with its promise of consistent work must have drawn many of these residents here. We made our way, almost to the shore itself, entering at last that great barn-like structure with steel tentacles snaking down into the water and a massive chute emerging from the front where torrents of water extracted from the depths fed the network of aqueducts known as the Seaspill.

The Engine itself is a mechanical wonder — awesome and terrible. It belches smoke and produces a noisome ooze like niter infused with lampblack. The racket of its many spinning wheels and clashing cogs is unbearable. Without a word — at least that I could make out, Aldmaar stopped in his approach. He would go no further. We entrusted our horses to him and the Lady and I continued.

We spoke to the Engine-master, a clever fellow from Anthracite name of Thoren Calthex. We shouted to each other, truth be told, over the clatter. Lady Sparrowhawk wasted no time with niceties. “We have spoken to [the Sorcerer’s name]. We are investigating cult activity in this region. What can you tell us of this village?”

The man’s eyes narrowed and he cast about him. I nearly laughed from the theatrics. “You mean the Temple,” he replied. There was no hint of a question.

“What have you seen?”

He gestured back into town, in the direction of the cemetery. “There’s a shack, yonder. Past the gravedigger’s. Looks like the others but has this symbol cut into one of the posts..”

I described the symbol. His eyes widened again. Nodded. “Down inside, they do their… rituals. Used to keep it secret, months ago. Now they don’t seem to care who sees. Their robes and their masks. Their chants.”

“Mela torum, vena sela…” I recounted.

He hissed at me, made a slashing motion with his hand. “Don’t want to hear that! Stop it, I say!”

Lady Sparrowhawk calmed him. “You’ve seen them? The cultists? Do you know which of the villagers might be participating.

He made a broad sweep with that self-same hand. He took in the entire town with that gesture.

The Knight of Darkmoor and I could only lock eyes.

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2025-06-05 Barony of Darkmoor Session 21

Farrier of Elder Pool

Session Notes

A joke that I have recently heard in the streets of Elder Pool: What goes into one of Gilda’s brambleberry scones? Answer: Sir Kog’s fist!

It is I, Dear Reader, Buck Headstrong! The greatest Sage and Chronicler of this or any age. Vellan, do you hear me? I am the greatest Sage and Chronicler!

The joke, I admit, is a sad one, and no more sad than the truth that underlies it. Whilst the supposed cult continues to go about its filthy business undeterred, the great Circle of Darkmoor is spending their time upsetting the small local shops and eateries that are the lifeblood, such as it is, of Elder Pool. When it comes to halting murder and naked aggression, my friends, the Circle excels at arresting suspect grain.

The Circle discovered, I am told, the cult hideout at the Grain Records office about which many of you, please do not deny it, were already well aware. Inside, however, they were quickly thwarted, after having narrowly survived a cut-and-thrust encounter with a pile of rocks, by a series of damp stairs. Rather throws some suspicion on the recounting of that fell squirrel1 Fluffy that this group managed to defeat the famed Shambler of the Swamp, doesn’t it?

Now, at least, the Circle has departed. Off tilting, it seems. at windmills. Leaving us to our own devices. Which may simply be for the best.

I did foreshadow in a previous missive a discussion of the great beasts, the Aldermane, did I not? I arrived here at Elder Pool for the first time, my friends, young and full of vim, knees still shaking from a journey in the fantastic carriage of the Earl of Eregore, that great noble of this region. I have witnessed for myself the uncanny speed that can be achieved by such an enchanted vehicle pulled by a team of Aldermane upon the legendary High Way. If you ever manage to experience it, Dear Reader, you will have lived a very full life. Let us not, however, delude ourselves. You never will.

The Aldermane were once bred here in Darkmoor, by the Seldan family, under charter of the sixth Lord Grey. Yes, Brannick Seldan, who today toils with more mundane horseflesh at the family farrier trade in Elder Pool is descended from the family who alone possessed the knowlege of breeding these fantastic beasts. At the end of the Great War, however, as with so many once-booming industries in Darkmoor, that enterprise collapsed.

The Aldermane live on, wild, in the Twisty Wood. The King’s horsebreakers, with their cruel magics, impress the great horses of Darkmoor into servitude. They are, I understand, short-lived and temperamental in this forced labor.

The carriages themselves are a wonder, and also, in the bright days, produced here in collaboration with black Anthracite. As well, that business has fled this benighted land.

It is a dismal business, recounting the wonders of a gilded age long past, when our present is one of squalor and our future looks no brighter. And yet that is why you have parted with a hard-earned copper in the cup of that filthy ragamuffin who has carried this letter to you. To escape from these Grey Days and to dream of a time the likes of which none of us shall ever see again.

I salute you, brave reader. Except you, Vellan. May you choke on a brambleberry scone.

  1. Surely, by now, you no longer require this footnote. ↩︎
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2025-05-20 Barony of Darkmoor Session 19

Session Notes

The Guilds of Darkmoor have served the realm nearly as long as there has been one to serve. Of all the institutions of Darkmoor, they have best weathered the period of anarchy and depression, post-War. Much of the continued success of this faction can be attributed to the leadership of the guilds, and in particular to their current High Guildsmaster, Andreas Book. While trade with Darkmoor’s neighbors is only a shadow of its former glory, it, along with the taxes paid by the oppressed nobles, accounts  entirely for the coin that runs through the fingers of Lord Grey, Baron of Darkmoor.

Is it the continued success of the Guilds that has caused so much recent upset and rancor in Elder Pool? Shopkeepers and innocents of the street have run afoul of these new Dark Cloaks who seek to inspire terror and disrupt business in the heart of Darkmoor’s capital, all going about their criminal business with impunity. With no answer from the Circle of Darkmoor, recently returned from their vacation in the marshes.

It is I, Dear Reader, Buck Headstrong! How your eyeballs surely have suffered in the absence of these carefully printed missives! My apologies, friend. Never again shall you have to withstand such a sustained famine of the legendary honey that drips from my mouth and pen, I promise.

And what of that shadowy being, Fluffy? I can say only that you my relationship with that ungrateful rodent is fully exhausted. Good riddance, I say.

Let us turn then to the Circle of Darkmoor and the violence that has become such a commonplace under the rule of this latest Grey. Andreas Book, as well as his close associate met with the Circle. Subsequent to that meeting, the Circle approached one of the victims of the recent Dark Cloak violence, Shen Varle, local cobbler. We all have seen the violence done to poor Shen.

Subsequent to their interrogation of that frail cobbler, already, surely, having suffered enough, the Circle then made their way to the cemetery. Not,  though, I am told, based on anything they learned from poor Shen. As, by now, we have all learned, I suppose, the Circle discovered some sort of hidden temple or shrine beneath the mausoleum of one of the former great families of Darkmoor, where Dark Cloaks were carrying out rites of an unholy nature involving nearly a dozen citizens, recently murdered.

The Circle then made their way to the hut of kindly local herbalist, Salina Tamsen. I am told, Dear Reader, that the Circle asked her to evaluate a number of items, including a powerful, dangerous poison which that suspicious tool of Anthracite — you know the one — having learned of the chemical’s fell nature, tucked into a secret pouch with a foreboding leer.

Word reaches us, Dear Reader, of unspeakable violence in the small village of Greensward. Violence is growing throughout the Barony, it is now clear. Something is simmering, bubbling, festering in Darkmoor. A dark shadow is creeping across the land.

Who amongst you believes that this Baron and his selected Circle are capable of any course other than, as has been their repeated pattern, turning matters towards the worse?

You shall hear more from me soon, loyal reader.

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Entry 59

We camped near the water, between Anthracite and the swamps, the wind whipping at our meager fire. Lady Sparrowhawk had joined us, up from Anthracite. She shared with us a story she had gleaned from meeting with the master of that dark tower.

There was a plague, she recounted, even adopting a bit of the sorcerer’s creaking voice, with a glint of humor in her eye, in times past. Generations past, she waved her arms as he is like to do, that afflicted, first, the wheat and barley of the field.

This pestilence (she continued) caused whole crops to fail and a fear of famine swept Darkmoor. Worse, however, was that the bread made from the wheat and the ale from the barley caused those to consume it to be likewise afflicted. Those suffering from this blight could eat their fill, enough for two or three men, and remain starving. They grew gaunt, with their skin hanging from their bones regardless of how they fed. Their eyes seemed to grow huge in their narrow faces. And they hungered.

The only satisfaction they could achieve was in eating the flesh of their fellows; sipping on their blood, cracking their bones to feast on the marrow. And this frenzied feeding made the afflicted powerful and manic. The hair of their heads and bodies fell away and they eschewed clothing; indeed even boots on their feet as they chased after the only herd animal they valued: their neighbors.

“This story, Knight of Darkmoor,” I intervened, “is not the sort I prefer immediately before retiring for the evening. It does not prefigure a full night’s rest.”

They laughed, though I made no jest. Why was she telling us this tale?

“The sorcerer felt there was some lesson in this for us, Brother Pieter.”

“And how does this legend conclude, in the sorcerer’s telling?”

“He states that, in the end, an accord was reached between the living of Darkmoor and these cannibals. There was insufficient food, given the blight, to feed the entirety of the realm. And there were these ravening Glass-eyes, as they were called, who cared not for wheat and barley.”

We stared at each other across the fire.

“I can guess the rest,” Aldmaar was the first to break the silence. “These Glass-eyes, well-fed and satisfied became the noble classes of Darkmoor.”

We laughed again. I thought we had moved on, when, in the waning light, Lady Sparrowhawk spoke up again. In her own voice.

“The Sorcerer says, rather, that they founded their own church. And the children of this church have kept its nature secret for generation after generation. That they built a Temple, under the guise of the church of Zuggtmoy, and until that Temple is discovered and finally brought down, the Glass-eyes will always return.”

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Entry 56

Unfortunately the Sorcerer was not present or otherwise not able to receive us. However, Lady Sparrowhawk and I did meet with Rectus. He shared a great deal about what he variously called the Cult and the Elementals. We listened with interest, but as is often the case in these consultations with the Royal Sage, the diversions and cross-references and allusions made it difficult to glean from the session everything one might.

The Cult, apparently, has existed in the region of Darkmoor, at at least some minimal, bubbling level, for centuries. Rectus indicated that it may be that the ancient origins of the Cult may have crawled out of the swamps and spread first amongst the rabble before being adopted by certain power-hungry members of the guilds and the nobility. The Sage spoke, a bit hesitantly, about some great-great uncle of Lord Grey who was burned due to his heretical beliefs.

The being these Cultists revere has transmogrified over time. It was much more openly Zuggtmoy the lady of rot and ruin initially. In a second or third rising of the Cult, the emphasis was on a being representing the elements of mud, wind, wildfire and storm. What name they may have given to this creature is lost to time. Although perhaps now known to the current iteration.

Rectus showed us a drawing from a yellowing scroll of the symbol of this Cult. Both he and the Knight of Darkmoor turned immediately to me. I must have emitted a sound without realizing it. The figure on that fading parchment matched — not exactly, but unmistakably — the bit of scarified ink scratched into the lower back of Valentine.

Recommitted as I am to the Truth and to disclosing those uncomfortable facts that I previously withheld, I disclosed my personal history with this symbol. “She told me it was a family crest, of a sort,” I explained.

“The Cult survives, one assumes,” the Sage replied, keeping any note of recrimination from his tone and expression, “by handing it down in secret from generation to generation.”

We spoke further of this Cult. Rectus provided us with a mystery, which he challenged us to investigate. A bit of a chant or poem, from the secret tongue of the Cult:

Mela torum, vena sela

Salat ferum,

What that is supposed to mean, I have no insight.

Tomorrow, I am to meet with Aldmaar while Lady Sparrowhawk remains in Anthracite in hopes of meeting with the Sorcerer. I must disclose the truth of this Cult and my own perfidy to my great friend. I will feel better once I have bared my soul, though the act of doing so at this moment seems impossible.

San Nicholas, I beseech from you the strength my convictions require.

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Entry 54

I sit here in this modest room at the Ragged Moon, hunched over this journal. I commit to this: no matter how shameful my actions have proven to be, I will not withhold them. I have been lying for too long, to my flock, to Aldmaar who only sought to help me, to the very Lord I have sworn to serve, and most despicable of all, to myself.

I was almost literally dragged by my ear by Lady Sparrowhawk, Knight of Darkmoor, to the cemetery where she shattered the chain securing the great door of the mausoleum. “Pieter,” she advised, holding my gaze with her firm, piercing blue eyes, “you and I will investigate, in this moment, what has been occurring here amongst the dead, as you have several times promised his Lordship you would do without fail.”

I swallowed my pride, and creating a minor enchantment so that we could see despite the impinging darkness, she and I descended.

I do not know what I expected to find. However, my breath was quickly drawn from me as we continued. Row after row of shelves, sepulchers and niches where the bodies of the fallen of Darkmoor had been respectfully interred now lay bare. Not all of the remains had vanished, as we inspected passage after passage in that dark, damp space. Those whose final resting places bore the holy symbol of San Nicholas — or those who had been interred bearing or clutching symbols of my faith– remained. However, many … far, far too many, who I had personally delivered to them their final rites and seen brought to earth here, were lacking. And in a number of instances so great I… do not know how to confront, another symbol had been hidden here, perhaps alongside them this entire time. A dark symbol of fire and torrent, marsh and smoke minted into coins and pressed into stone and woven into dark, noisome bedclothes were all that served to indicate that a person, in their final form, had ever resided in these spots.

“The people, Nikita, they’ve been stolen.”
“The dead, Pieter, have arisen and stolen themselves.”

The symbol, I knew, was that of a threat, a cancer growing in Darkmoor. The “Old Church,” I’ve heard it called. The “Temple of the Elemental.” A secret cult whose members meet in basements and in catacombs, tunnels, concealed places beneath the earth. They speak a forbidden tongue, evil and powerful merely in the speaking. They lie and obfuscate and disguise in their daily lives while they meet in their hidden worm-holes and spread their contagion, pulling especially the young and hungry in with their promises of dark power.

And they prey upon the gullible, the old and vain, with flattery and promises and little gifts. And even those whose wisdom, so-called, is vaunted by many may fall into this web of lies. And then lie to obscure their own part, their own foolishness and naiveté. The cultists use these fools to do work they could not themselves, such as having their allies freed from an earned imprisonment with the shallowest of misrepresentations.

The love that they give, these cultists, is of the ugliest sort. Easily discerned by any willing to look past the pure animal acts. Easy, that is, except to those who look only for evidence that someone might love them.

“You have cried enough, Pieter,” Lady Sparrowhawk said, not unkindly. “Now we must act. At last, you see what is happening in our Darkmoor.”

We returned to the shrine in Elder Pool, to find it entirely vacated. Every item of monetary wealth, gone. Deacon Willmat slain in his robes, a leering grin cut into his dead face by some ritual dagger. Thomas Slate, freed by my incompetence, entirely at large. And with him, likely clutching his young hand and having a shared laugh at my expense, Valentine. Lovely Valentine.

The scales have fallen from my eyes. In the morning, I will travel with the Knight of Darkmoor to speak to the sage, in Anthracite. To learn what we might about how to confront this threat.

But only after I confess my sins to the Lord of Darkmoor. Whatever recriminations he has for me, I will bear with equanimity and take to heart that which I can bear. I have disgraced myself and failed to live up to the promises I made to San Nicholas, on that spare altar these many years agone. But I am Pieter of San Nicholas, and there is no more time for self-pity and tears. We are at war. I can, at this moment, not yet find pity for those who oppose us.

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2025-05-06 Barony of Darkmoor Session 17

Session Notes

Ralluk of the Hundred Tongues stood at the burned site of the old Hay Barn. His Murgathen1 fellows having dragged away the old, sad corpse of the once-feared Shambler to be skinned and essential oils and juices drained, Ralluk watched the last remaining oak post fall into the muck with a sizzle. Ralluk is no leader or strategist, he would be told what role he would play next in this unfolding drama between the hated Gauntlet and the new murderous group, known — as I reported to him — as the Circle of Darkmoor.

“Will they treat?”
I responded that I did not know. That I had witnessed little but impulsiveness and reaction from the Circle.
“Ah. So, they can be manipulated, perhaps?”
I responded that doubtless that was true.
Ralluk nodded his head in that sidewise way peculiar to the Murgathen. His ornate wicker hat interwoven with finger bones from the flightless gobi birds remained implacably perched on the rubbery skin of his scalp. “I will speak to them.”
I cautioned him that the Circle would likely slash first and listen to reason… thirteenth.
He nodded again. The nictating bit of skin moved across his glassy eye. “I must not be too subtle, then.”

Welcome, Dear Reader! It is I, Fluffy, your correspondent from the fens. I have much to share about recent events involving your favorite topic: the Circle of Darkmoor and their on-going assault on the Moat House.

At last reporting, the Circle was hunched in a disused room in the Moat House, licking their wounds. I withheld the exact location in my previous post so as not to guide the Silencers to their holdout before the Circle is ready. Fluffy, my friends, is not quite ready to see an end to the saga of the Circle.

Squeezed into this room, an animated Caretaker harassing them, no doubt, throughout the night, the heroes must have observed the activities being carried out around them within the Moat House’s catacombs. The rounding up and pilfering by various parties. The disputes and threats and recriminations amongst their enemies. While further defenses were being prepared and multiple scenarios were debated, the Circle slumbered, though doubtless with one ear pressed to the door of that shabby room. Did the Murgathen enter the Moat House and confront a small contingent of dwindling Silencers? Did Larsson, captain of the Silencers attempt to lure his erstwhile underling Lucretia out of hiding? Did the witch Vindurain loot the Gauntlet’s treasury and escape via hidden watercraft in all the confusion and preparations? Who can say?

Once the Circle did emerge, they seemed to find themselves alone within the catacombs. There had been the great clatter of the steel plate that secures the catacombs from the surface. As they moved about the echoing complex, there was no sign of the Silencers. They searched and found no one remaining.

Acting on a rumor repeated by Lucretia that the Gauntlet might have had his own secret exit from the complex, they made their way through the concealed door, previously discovered by the cleric of San Nicholas. The Circle dawdled for a bit, examining the room of long-lost Pieter and of Aldmaar. A heavy trunk bearing a significant lock was discovered under the bed of Old Pieter; though it proved too great a task to open given other matters. Amongst the spare apartment of Aldmaar they found a never-used but impressive long bow, doubtless crafted by that famous ranger of old.

However, it was the last room down that hidden hallway that beckoned. It’s great door had been left ajar. Within was a significant horde of items, artifacts, glistening wares of silver and gold, rugs and tapestries of great craftsmanship. And, hanging open and empty, a heavy steel safe. Beneath a tattered rug, they found a grate and beyond it, a ladder leading to a rough passage.

The Circle followed the passage and the trail of dropped coin, ultimately, to the surface, a scant one hundred feet from the Moat House. They emerged, once again, into the fens, unaware of the scores of eyes watching that tunnel opening and their own clumsy splashing about. Did they spot a rough trail leading to the great sea? If so, they did not act on that knowledge.

The Circle wandered in a great Circle of Darkmoor through the dark moors for a time, while the creatures of the swamp watched, contemplated. Licked their rows and rows of dagger-like teeth. Eventually the heroes found the historic Moat House trail, and upon it, a pair of Silencers on horseback returning empty-handed from a vain attempt to find Vindurain and her purloined wealth.

Thus began another battle carried out in well-rehearsed Circle style: running full bore into the teeth of defenses the enemy has prepared with as much coordination and forethought as a pack of wild dogs that finally corners their prey, a thick-skinned, poison-barbed tharg with a separate stomach set aside for each of them.

To their credit, the Circle did manage to slay three of the bandits without losing any of their cohort. Did the Gauntlet and Larsson and two injured Silencers escape, as planned, back into the Moat House and lock themselves back inside and the Circle back outside as if none of this invasion had ever happened? The asking of the question obviates the need to even answer it.

Was there comical scaling, falling and re-scaling of walls? Of course. Did the Circle proceed in multiple separate directions as if even the simplest of battle coordination had never occurred to them? Laughably, yes.

And yet. And yet. They persist. The once vaunted Silencers and their leaders: the Gauntlet, Larsson, the witch Vindurain and the mysterious cultist woman are either fled, dead or hiding in the Moat House exactly as the Circle had done only hours beforehand. The Circle of Darkmoor has not defeated the Silencers. They have not seized the Moat House.

Quite.

  1. The Murgathen do not appreciate the name given to them by others; would you enjoy being called bullywug? ↩︎

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2025-04-29 Barony of Darkmoor Session 16

Session Notes

I can scarcely arrest my enthusiasm to report to you, Dear Reader, the most recent developments at the Moat House. Let us simply state that the evil triumvirate that has for so long ruled the House, kept the turgid, glistening peoples of the swamp under their thumb and threatened the Old Port Road and beyond has splintered.


It is I, Fluffy, your friendly1 reporter in the fens. I have observed directly, and collected from my embedded spy network the report that you will read here, delivered to you by my guild of intrepid street urchins, and I hereby attest to its accuracy and comprehensiveness.


Our heroes the Circle of Darkmoor found themselves, as you doubtless recall, in a rather tough situation: in a dark passage, on the wrong side of an improvised battlement, Moat House bandits ready with crossbows at their murder holes. A difficult battle — the first of three, Dear Reader — ensued. The witch Vindurain accompanied by a unit of the so-called Silencers: one Bandit Leader and three foot soldiers awaited the Circle. The witch used her preferred technique: opening the fight by employing magical fear on the greatest threat. For a time, both the celebrated Sir Kog and their newly-acquired junior member, Lucretia, formerly of the bandit gang fled under the effects of the spell. The crossbowmen targeted Dixit, Royal Inspector, much-maligned by the so-called Sage of Darkmoor and another auxiliary member of the Circle, the Aldmaaran Ranger Henrik Mars. The Circle tried to target their foes through the barricade, and to bring it down. Vindurain now fixed a spell upon Dixit.

The Circle brought down the two crossbowmen, but their fellows stepped in to take their place. As Dixit attempted to remove herself from the area of the witch’s enchantment, the magical cloud was moved with her; as if Vindurain had a particular interest in eliminating the Anthracite caster.


Ultimately, Kog shook off the effects of the curse and returned to the fray. The Circle managed to penetrate the barricade and then made short work of the remaining bandits. The witch, in a recurring theme, took her exit.


Moving now into the Moat House proper, the Circle decided to march with alacrity towards the entrance, rather than, as they had in their initial foray, descending into the catacombs. They ran almost immediately into another prepared defense. However, Sir Kog as inspired as he is impetuous, smashed through a nearby door, based on his understanding of the layout of the complex, derived, I understand, from one of those recently freed from dread incarceration in the gaols of the Moat House, and bypassed the defensive front.
A general battle ensued, with yet another Silencer troop in defense, assisted by the seemingly rejuvenated Vindurain. The Circle made relatively short work of this crew. Vindurain fled.


Alas, before the Circle could even draw a breath, the fiercest threat possible emerged from the great circling ramp of the hatch-entrance to the Moat House’s catacombs: several bandits, the bandit chief Larsson, the witch Vindurain, an oddly-attired cultist and the castillian known as the Gauntlet.


The Circle at this point had clearly over-extended themselves. They were exhausted, their cleric having expended his larder of curative magics in, mostly, keeping Sir Kog of Darkmoor in the fight. And yet now here was the most daunting battle they had yet faced.
The Circle engaged this fearsome cohort.


The witch, once again, perhaps, renewed, used her fear magics. This time they proved effective against Dixit and Lucretia. Sir Kog drove forward and began, in his inimitable way, to plough through the lower-challenge mass. But the force they faced proved fraught. I will not leave you in unbearable suspense, dear reader, for too long. Our heroes survive. Somehow.


Vindurain, likely having emptied her magazine of spells and having taken blow after blow, departed, leaving the fight to be “mopped up” by her “allies.” She ordered the cultist, who had employed dark clerical magics of her own, to follow.


The clever San Nicholite used one last spell to drive, briefly, Larsson and the Gauntlet away. Not before, seeing the cultist attempt to flee, the Gauntlet struck her down with a single blow.


Finding themselves for a moment of respite alone in the crew’s mess, awash in blood and gore, some from their foes, some originating in their own persons, the Circle finally decided to make, in the humble opinion of you correspondent, their very first tactical decision of any merit. They withdrew.


They crouch now, my dear readers of Darkmoor, in a hidden location. Collecting their breath and their meager strength. Knowing that the witch and the Gauntlet and perhaps a scant handful of remaining troops walk the halls of the Moat House, searching, one assumes, for any sign that they remain.


The Circle, friends, is balanced on the edge of precipice. Can they succeed? Can the Moat House, finally, be taken?


Seek out your filth street urchin next week, my good friends, to find out.

  1. Contrary to previous statements by the interlocutor who I will not name, Fluffy, the “black squirrel” of the Darkmoor fens, is, in fact, a friend to all. Save that little shit Headstrong ↩︎
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2025-04-22 Barony of Darkmoor Session 15

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:

The Circle encountered, on the Old Port Road, that former Dark Cloak Lucretia, hiding in the growth. She had, she reported, after hearing the death throes of the ancient Shambler, returned to the fens and recovered the mounts the Circle had left while invading the Moat House. The bandit gang had, for reasons unknown, burnt the Carriage House to the ground and, based on the plume of smoke emerging from the swamps, apparently performed the same act at the Hay Barn. Now convinced that the heroes might have a legitimate chance at defeating the Gauntlet, Larrson, the sorceress she knows as Vindurain and their murderous crew, Lucretia offered her support in making another assault on the Moat House.

The Circle, now mounted, their numbers swollen, made for the Moat House via the trail through the swamps, only to be immediately stopped by a gang of bullywug ambushers. The lizardmen in their dapper attire once again made the Circle appreciate the ferocity of the swamp-dwellers. Led by a Bully Bog Sage, the natty mudmen killed three of the horses, felled two of the Circle and very nearly closed the book on Baron Darkmoor’s attempts to reclaim the Moat House. The Bog Sage immediately unleashed his famous, feared sphere of vitriol to set the right tone. In the end, the Bog Sage had to flee (hop) for his web-toed life while the bodies of his allies were plundered. The Circle, likewise, were forced backwards, to lick their wounds north of the Old Port Road.

After recovering, they decided to release the two remaining horses to fend for themselves before re-entering the marsh. They navigated the old trail, wary of another ambush. The Circle arrived, once again, at the hidden entrance to the tunnel that connects the old Hay Barn to the Moat House. It was locked from the inside. Sir Kog hefted his trusty axe to pry the hatch open… and promptly activated the fire trap on the door. It was more than just his eyebrows that were singed, from my vantage.

The Circle entered the long tunnel and proceeded with as much stealth as they could muster. They encountered, there in the dark, beneath the marsh what appeared to be another trap: a wooden platform, bending under some apparent weight, braced by two poles. After some investigation, they discovered that a great iron sphere was perched, waiting to crush anyone who attempted to remove the poles and clear the path.

After a bit too much deliberation, the Circle settled on the simplest of plans; Sir Kog attached a rope to one of the posts and while the others cowered behind him, he flexed his mighty thews and pulled the pole free. With a great shudder and crash, the massive sphere was released, tumbling forward, the Circle in an almost perfect line in its path… then ground to a halt after rolling a meager ten feet. A marvel of impressive engineering this “trap” was not.

The Circle progressed. At length they arrived at the few steps leading up to the door which, as they had previously learned, led to a hallway inside the Moat House. Dixit examined the door and uncovered an as-yet-unseen variety of trap on the door. Using unearthly skill, she managed to disarm it. Then, using the key ring they had captured from one of the bandits in their last visit, she unlocked the door, which opened to a wooden platform blocking their progress, and from behind holes cut in the planks for this specific purpose, the bandit crossbowmen unleashed their prepared volleys.

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.