Tag: journal

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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.

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Entry 53

To my shame, I was summoned once again to Wolf Hall. His Lordship asked for an update on the matter of the caretaker. I could only honestly reply that I had not, as yet, taken up the matter.

He was very cross with me. I could not argue.

“I am told that you… picnicked on the green?” I admitted that it was true.

“I will summon my Inspector and ask him to look into this mystery at the cemetery, since the Royal Confessor has no time for such matters.”

It stung, hearing these words. I promised that I would delve further into the murder of the caretaker forthwith.

“Do no disappoint me again, Pieter.”

I am not sure how I have allowed things to come to this state. I must make amends.

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Entry 51

I met with the Castillian upon my arrival. He was quite surprised at my rapid return. When I stated my business, he insisted that we retire to his apartment that we might have more privacy.

“Pieter, what is the meaning of this?”

“Sir, I have receive reports that you hold an innocent man here in your gaol. I hope to convince you to free him that I might return him safely to his family.”

“The man that you speak of, Thomas Slate is in no ways innocent. He is a member of a band of thieves and bandits who have raided the shoreline for months. He was caught, amongst his companions, red-handed, their little slip heavy with stolen items.”

“They are a criminal crew, to be certain. The young lad I name, however, he was impressed into their service. Kidnapped from his family and required to serve them. He committed no crime other than what, at the point of a blade, he must to survive. Any of us, in similar circumstances and at that age, would have done similar.”

I was able to convince the Castillian to release the lad into my care.

Thomas Slate was drawn and hollow-eyed, in his little cell. When I told him that he was being released, he could scarce believe it. He embraced me and promised he would do better.

In the morning, we shall depart for Elder Pool, where he can see his family, his parents and his young sister again. It feels me with gratitude that amongst the grand projects, there are these small acts that we can take that can have such a meaningful impact at the level of the individual.

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Entry 49

The lodging at the Ragged Moon, at least, is an improvement over that of Lord Valle.

I attended services at the shrine this morning. Deacon Willmat attempted to goad me into leading the reading, but I demurred. The attendance was outstanding. The enthusiasm of the youth is intoxicating. Afterwards, a small number of those present met briefly for tea and discussion. I departed, carrying with me their prayers and wishes.

I met briefly with his Lordship. He was dealing with a number of pressing matters, of course, but made time at my request. We met in Wolf Hall. I reported on what I had discovered at the cemetery.

After a moment of silence, he added, “And is that all you have uncovered, Brother Pieter?” I could not take this as anything but a rebuke. I assured him that I would attend to the investigation forthwith.

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Entry 48

I did not sleep well, last night, on the cot in the main construction tent. I dreamt of spiky swamp weeds grasping, pulling me deeper into the mud of the fen.

I watched the sun rise over the walls of Elder Pool. To the south, the sun glinted off the great tower of the Sorceror.

I met this morning with Royal Engineer, Lord Valle. He detailed a number of items on which he wanted my input, foremost among them a concern regarding the ground under which the main entrance and grand facade are to be constructed. He presented a pair of alternate concepts which would be far lighter. I rejected these.

“You are a man who knows what he wants, Father,” Lord Valle said from underneath his heavy brows. He is at least twenty years my senior. When others call me “Father,” I correct them. Lord Valle may use whatever title for me he pleases.

I considered visiting Anthracite before I return to the shrine. However, one is not exactly given a warm reception, arriving without having been summoned. Unless one carries a shopping list in one hand and the reins of a horse in the other, its saddle bags heavy with gold and platinum Wolfs.

I spent some time in the recently excavated sub-basements. They are unfinished, but perfectly square, as one would expect from a project overseen by the Royal Engineer. That space will serve as sepulcher for church leaders of the future. I may ask that my own remains be interred there.

We are a faith who privileges the sun, the snow and a spirit of optimism. Down, in that hole, I ruminated on the fact that, ultimately, we all will lie in darkness.

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Entry 46

Today, Deacon Willmat introduced me to a young lady. Valentine. She is full of energy and said very kind things about today’s reading and sermon.

She comes, she says, from the south, where too many have not heard the gospel of San Nicholas. She shared that this idea that we all have an obligation to help each other, that there is more to life than the wolf-eats-wolf grimness that is all so many know, has awakened something inside of her. That the word of San Nicholas has generated a sense of hope and purpose that her life has lacked.

What could I say, but to encourage her to read the texts and to help to spread the word?

She is lovely, I must acknowledge, this Valentine. Lovely, indeed.

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Entry 43

This evening I met with Lord Dahlen, at his request. He shared a concern that there have been… disturbances at the cemetery. His family, of course, have long made use of the Royal Mausoleum. The Caretaker, as is custom, answers to the ruler of Darkmoor. Dahlen, it seems, fears that someone else, or some other force, holds sway there.

I visited the site, though it was late. The gate was locked, but I had no difficulty in letting myself in. Cemeteries are not prisons for the dead.

Walking through those rows of graves, some tracing back two thousand years, I was reminded of the great legacy of Darkmoor and the Grey family who has ever ruled here. I know that many feel dread finding themselves amongst the deceased, especially after dark. That has never been my experience.

There was a light, I discovered, at the Caretaker’s shed, which sits atop the mausoleum. I made for it.

The shed was locked. That provided no more barrier than did the chains at the cemetery entrance.

Inside, the Caretaker sat at his desk, a lantern flaring. His throat slit.

The door, I reiterate, was locked from the inside. Amongst the ornate tombs and sarcophagi, I found no one, living or otherwise.

What this all means, I have nothing material to add.