Session Notes
Dear reader, it is I, your humble chronicler. I have for you today the latest (mis-)deeds of the now-famed Circle of Darkmoor. I can not count how many mugs of inferior ale that have been slung my way since I began narrating these acts of the Circle. Truly. I can no longer count them. Nor find the door. Another round, good barkeep!
In the previous edition, still available via our growing network of street buskers, industrious young lads as like to pick your pocket as sell you a new edition, I recounted the investigations being carried out by the Circle. This edition — I promise — contains fewer references to feces.
The Circle, having found their way to the residence of the local Guildsman who had been apparently bankrolling the despicable atrocities at the cemetery, and having rather soundly clonked said Guildsman, bound hand and foot as he was such that, as it has been reported to me, the unsavory fellow can now observe you both coming and going without the effort of moving his neck, pursued the man’s rather fetching female guest down into a subterranean passage, hidden in a wardrobe.
The follower of that faith which we should not name, Hammond, immediately made the way safe for his fellows by throwing himself onto the spikes of a pit trap so that they may proceed unharmed. Beyond this snare the Circle found a great bronze and wood door, the envy of any banker. From the far side of the door a voice addressed them, warning that there was no way forward for them. Interpreting that this meant that the speaker was trapped — a fact that when I heard it, I promise you, I sprayed ale all over my newest velvet trousers — they set about laboriously beating on the door with an axe. So if you were awakened by the sound of thunder, rest assured that it was only the vassals of Baron Darkmoor knocking about underground. Better to lay down the axe and use their skulls next time and let us all slumber peaceably.
Eventunally… eventually, they made their way through the great door to be confronted by an even greater beast chained as a sort of guard dog, to block their path. And another door further on, made of even sterner stuff. Most, at this point, I think we can all agree, seeing that the terrible monstrosity was chained in place, might have backed away and reconsidered. Not our Circle! There is only one way, when one is a hero! Forward! No matter how many traps and doors and shocking monsters lie between us and… the furniture shop. For this is where they emerged, inside Alder Appointments, the local furnishing storefront. After hours. No sign of the fleeing lady nor of the rather rude gentleman who spoke to them through the door.
And what, I can hear your upraised voice, gentle reader, of the Guildsman? What account did he give of his role in all of this? What name did he give of the damsel who escaped the powerful Circle? I extend my closed hand in response and then, revealing that it is empty, you receive your answer. The Guildsman had been spirited away in all the pounding and hacking and ogre slaying. What then? What essential activities do they then take up, our glorious saviors?
Sawing away at the poor creature they slayed to remove his head as some sort of gruesome keepsake.
In the morning the Circle returned to the furnishing shop. Alder Appointments is, as it turns out, owned by the selfsame Guildsman — I see recognition dawning on your otherwise placid features, dear reader. Yes, that Guildsman! The shop is operated, however, by a man known as Clinton. Clinton, as we all know is that rather dry gentleman’s name. Clinton it is and has always been. Clinton, under questioning, admitted that he knew about the recent excavations under the shop — those leading to the Guildsman’s private abode, but he understood that it was in his best interest not to notice or to ask questions.
A brief aside:
I, as the newly self-appointed Great Sage of Darkmoor was requested to look into a matter that might be of some interest to all my readers. That of the identify of the “fountain girl” in the middle of Elder Pool.
I have to say, having arrived here some weeks ago, the shabby fountain, broken-down and useless, did not strike me as being of interest. Nor did it occur to me that it might be intended to represent an actual person. In that, I was mistaken.
Lisle Whiteberry, “Lil” to her friends, was a rather unassuming local girl who worked at the cheese shop that at one time occupied the space where the tiny draper sells his wares today. She was, by most accounts, pleasant enough. Plain and unmannered and often done poorly by men of the rough sort. But with a certain pluck and determination. And little did her detractors know what an important role she was to play in the history of the governance of Darkmoor.
On that fateful night, some three or four days after the last full moon of harvest, when the traitorous Barnabus Rey allowed the cultists into the catacombs, they would have succeeded at reaching Lord Grey and, one assumes, murdering him and his family, had little Lil not seen the group entering the sewers and ascending that hidden column at Rey’s behest.
Legend tells us that she made her way to the manor house and managed through persistence and some amount of shin-kicking to reach the Lord’s man-at-arms, who finally, convinced of the threat, managed to spirit Lord Grey and his family away to safety with only seconds to spare.
What became of that young, brave little girl? That exemplar of bravery in the face of brutality?
The cultists –naturally– captured, tortured and murdered her and left her corpse hanging in the town square as a warning to others.
But the citizens of Elder Pool, may years later, erected that fountain in her honor. You know the one I mean: moss-covered and broken, forgotten to time.
Thus: the story of fountain girl.
Our heroes, the Circle of Darkmoor then carried their investigations to the cemetery where they met with the care-taker. That lanky figure shared a similar story to that they had previously heard from Clinton; whose name, as I have already stated, is, was and always will be Clinton: that he was paid to look away and not ask questions, despite the horrific acts being carried out within his area of responsibility.
The Circle then met with a figure of some high-standing and wide authority who we shall not name. As a result of this significant conference, the Circle now is committed to stomping out the dark cloak threat that we have all anticipated them taking up so long ago.
I applaud this new focus. Let our heroes carry the fight to where it belongs: far and away where those of who have had perhaps one ale too many can get a decent night’s sleep, undisturbed by door-smashing and free of horrible amateur taxidermy.
