The Barony of Darkmoor

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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benefaction, had opened their home… or at least their cellars to yours truly, but given the troubles has reluctantly withdrawn support.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 to see me so quickly returned. When I stated my business, he insisted that we retire to his apartment that we might have more privacy.

“Peter, what is the meaning of this?”

“Sir, I have received 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 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.

He 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 fills me with gratitude that amongst the grand projects, there are these small acts that we can enact which 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.

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Entry 41

Amongst all other matters, I am encouraged by our activities, here at the shrine of San Nicholas in Elder Pool. My sermons draw significant numbers. More, in truth, than I have ever faced before. There is a positivity in those sessions. I am thrilled by the energy of those who attend, especially the young.

Deacon Willmat introduced me to several of those who attended for the first time, this morning. Such enthusiasm and eagerness to learn and to good things.

We sat about, after the ceremony, making our way through the streets of Elder Pool, sweeping the trash from the streets and offering assistance to those poor and indigent as we might.

Our site, here in Elder Pool will never possess the grandeur of the great cathedral we are constructing in the west. But these days, amongst these assembled, lighten my heart.

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Addendum to session 14

We discussed Luck Points. Specifically, transferring them from one player to another. We agreed to try out a method for this as follows:

  • The PC must exhaust their current total of any Luck Points on the roll in question. They may then be supplemented by gifts from other players.
  • PCs may gift their own Luck Points to other players using their Reaction. Obviously, a PC who has already used their reaction this round may not thus gift.
  • The use of Luck Points,  including all gifts as well as those from the PC whose roll is pending, may not exceed 5 points.

We’ll try that out and see how it goes.

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The Druid of the Sacred Wood

Departure

You have driven your horse, and your associates, harder than might be safe, you know. This matter with the Druid has been pulling at you for weeks now. You’d hoped it might simply… resolve itself somehow. That was idle thinking on your part, to be sure. Yet the work that you and your allies have undertaken has seemed so important; both critical and immediate, that the matters of the Wood could be set aside for the present. Except the Druid would not allow that to happen. And come what may, you and your people serve the Druid, the Protector of the Sacred Wood.

Last evening, while your allies slumbered and recovered from the confrontation with that great shambling beast, you had a few moments to reflect on your circumstance. You had arrived precisely there, in the Carriage House on the far reaches of Darkmoor; assuming one could rightly even call this place within Darkmoor, because the Druid, so you had been informed, had selected you as one of the representatives of the Aldmaar peoples to the Installation of the Baron. Because you had been sent, you had found yourself aboard that carriage with Arthur Grey, and through your own willingness to do what was right, and some instinct of the Baron, his seeing some special spark within you, that had resulted in you becoming a member of this band. The Circle, so-called, of Darkmoor.

And then, as you contemplated, there came the call from the darkness. The out-of-place whistle of the spotted brown pheasant that you almost immediately realized was directed at you. By a ranger of Aldmaar. You discovered Merith waiting for you on the Old Port Road, bearing word from the Druid, a loaned horse and a hearty hug.

Young Henrik Mars was to take your place, here with the Circle. To assist with their assault on the Moat House. You were to return, to meet with the Druid.
“It’s serious this time, Sylvar” Merris had proclaimed. “He will not accept another delay.”

To abandon your new friends on the eve of the long-anticipated assault on this bandit stronghold seemed unthinkable. And yet, you are a Ranger of Aldmaar. And the Aldmaar peoples serve the Druid.

Merith is not to blame for you being placed in this abominable circumstance. Nor, certainly, the centaur Indira who accompanies him. As you push your horse and Merith and Indira to their limit, speeding back to the wood, to meet with the Druid, you tell yourself that. That thought does nothing to arrest your boots at stirring the cohort ever forward.

Arrival

Your arrival at Pebble Brook was met with a certain enthusiasm, though muted. The people emerged from their tents and shanties. They called your name. Some patted your back or shook your hand. The children turned out, as they often do, to see you. Clutching their toy bows and swords, those eyes in their dirty faces wide.

You and Merith and, somewhat reluctantly, Indira, were given warm food and a place around the fire. Your refusal to drink with the people was confusing to them, but something about your expression seemed to mollify any hurt feelings. You are not here for drinking and debauchery.

Fresh horses were provided and you pressed on after a too-brief respite. The girl Indira seems shattered at the pace you have kept, and still she pushes on.

Climbing the old hill, with its snaking switchbacks slows your progress. Growing in your gut is a sense of uneasy anticipation. You have endured the Druid’s acid remarks before, but something about this summons is different. You prepare yourself for the worst. Could you be exiled? You would not be the first.

Despite your determination to steel yourself for this confrontation with the great Druid, when you finally arrive at the crest of the hill, the great green wood stretching away in all its glory from horizon to horizon beneath you, the Druid’s Tree fogged in cloud before you, you feel once again like that child brought here for the first time for you confirmation as a Ranger of the Wood. Nine-year old Sylvar Norris, the youngest Ranger since Aldmaar the Great, you are told. If the Druid concurs.

Audience

As a youth, you climbed the rungs of the massive trunk of that great oak, led by Old August, chief of your tribe. Trailed by your father. The tree breathed as you rose up through the levels of the Druid’s home. And the forest likewise exhaled its perfumes of wood and cinnamon and mint and healthy brown earth. Wanting to be seen as deserving and equal to these Rangers, you strive to keep up, but to reveal no sense of effort. You suppress the signs of your heavy breathing as best you can.

When you arrive in the presence of the old, old man of the Wood, you realize that any attempts at obfuscation are folly. His eyes are shining, intense. They see all. His expression is sly, almost mocking. He reclines in the chair of yew which, perched here in the great limbs of this oak continues to produce green shoots. His white ash staff leans nearby. On the periphery of your vision you believe you spy woodland beings in the branches, watching. Sprites and pixies, here for a good show.

“Sylvar Norris,” the Great Druid said/says. “I have awaited your visit.”

You shake yourself free of the reverie. The words are the same, then and now. The Druid, however, has changed. He slumps as you stand before him, in his seat. The staff is clutched across his chest. His eyes, emerald as ever, are blood-shot and rheumy. His breathing ragged, his voice weak.

There is an odd odor here as well. The Druid, you realize, is dying.

“We have ridden without rest since I received your summons, Pater,” you say, and bow.

“You have brought a horse-woman?”

“Yes. She waits at the edge of the trail.”

The Druid nods, slowly. “Merith Emriss, this discussion is not for your ears. You may wait with the horse-woman.” He does not even glance Merith’s way. You hear your friend departing without a word.

“Why have you summoned me, Pater?”

“I have asked for you, Sylvar Norris, three times. Why have you avoided me?”

“I have been engaged, Pater, in the work of helping the Baron of Darkmoor. A work, I believed, you had selected me to fulfill.”

The Druid pulls himself up, and there is an intensity in his face that has always been there in the past. You expect a rebuke is forthcoming. Instead he asks your opinion of Arthur Grey, Baron of Darkmoor.

You state your opinion as honestly as you can. He watches you carefully as you speak.

“I believe that he is a good man, Sylvar,” the Druid says. There is a sincerity in his voice, and a softness. There is an unshielded vulnerability in these words that you have never heard from him, nor expected him capable of. “There are dark days ahead. Not because this young Baron wishes it, but because those who see him a threat know no other way to respond than with violence, lies, deceit and mischief.” He pauses, as if the effort of this honesty has caught up with him. “I fear for our people. I will not be, as you have divined…” he smiles and gestures at his form with what you see is a quavering hand, painfully thin, the skin gone the texture of worn paper, “…here to witness the outcome of this new struggle.”

You produce an effort to protest this statement which he interrupts firmly. “We need you, Sylvar…” he pauses for a second that stretches until you suspect that he has lost the thread until at length he continues, “…I need you, Sylvar, to be our voice with this young Baron. Stay at his side. Help him with your strong arm and your quick wit, to face these threats. Provide him counsel when he requires it; even if there are moments that he does not seek it. There once was a time, when I was younger, when a great threat came to this land. To my shame, I did not face it. I caused our peoples to withdraw. To allow others to be persecuted due to our inaction. Peoples who had been our friends and allies and partners, we turned away from. Out of a sense that we must preserve ourselves. The Wood and the People.”

You have no ability to respond to this admission. He continues.

“I did not act then, Sylvar. And now, at the end of my life, I no longer possess the ability to act when the opportunity arises to erase that stain. I can only place the burden for the atonement of our past betrayal on your shoulders.”

The Druid slumps again, whatever inner strength he had summoned expended.

“Merith Emriss will lead our People. He does not know this, but that day will be soon. I suspect you desired to be the Chief of Aldmaar, but that will not be. You must carry the weight of this with you. The People can never again allow ourselves to grow isolated and fearful. We must do what we can to build a stronger Darkmoor.”

He requires that you acknowledge his instruction. You acknowledge it.

“Go, now, Sylvar Norris. And do not speak of these things. The children believe you will be a great hero, to rival Aldmaar.”

He chuckles. “Let us hope you prove better than that.”