The Barony of Darkmoor

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Moat House Status

Sir,

I hope this message finds you well. I have a number of updates for you and then request your guidance.

Regarding the repairs that you ordered on the Moat House, I can report that we have prioritized defensive positions. The walls surrounding the perimeter are completely repaired as is the gate and we have secured the two tunnel entrances at the far and near end. The interior is coming together well, though we have destroyed all of the Silencer and Cult furnishings… we all found them too unsettling so it is even more sparse than you last saw it. The automatons… the Caretakers are a wonder! They keep this place humming as you have observed. They… can become a bit of a nuisance if you let them… claiming your half-finished plate from beneath your chin. We’ve come to lock the doors when we want a respite, which they entirely respect.

Bristol, under Lathrop’s tutelage has gained more facility with the Murgathen tongue than we had any right to expect. I know that I was not as enthusiastic with your intent to dedicate one of our precious few recruits to such a duty, but your plan is coming to fruition. I will endeavor to put more trust in your instincts in the future.

There have been a number of ships that have moored out on the water and sent a rowboat envoy to see what we might barter — I gather the Silencers often had stolen goods they would sell to these lot. At first, we ran them off… we have repaired the ballista at the foredock as one of our first matters… however ships continue to arrive. There used to be a substantial dock and warehousing operation at the end of the Old Port Road, so Ralluk tells me. I imagine when the Baron finds time to turn his attentions in this direction he will consider rebuilding that capacity.

The Murgathen are a good ally, I must say. Their knowledge and willingness to help… I have to keep my heart hardened against hidden treachery which our times have so prepared me to expect, but thus far we have seen only good-hearted sincerity. Ralluk has proposed that we might, once again, seek to bolster the Moat House’s defenses by employing the Shambler… the adolescent monster that still prowls the swamps. He states that rather than terrorize it into submission, he might be able to serve as go-between to attempt to strike a bargain with the beast. I am not at all sure this is a good idea. However, one way or the other we are going to have to come to grips with this beast in our own, so to say, back yard.

Some unabashed good news: one of our joint Moat House — Murgathen patrols managed to find a young girl, Lessip, who had escaped, so she says, the Cult’s clutches. The Cult’s assault on Greensward resulted in a group of Cultists skirting the swamps on their way to the Old Port Road, it seems, and one of their young captives managed to escape into the swamps and survive for days before we found her. She is a young girl, far from home and even our female recruits are not… motherly, I confide with all honesty. Lessip is tough and as well take care of as we can muster, but she needs a touch that our gauntlets preclude if you will forgive the flowery language.

Regarding your priorities, please advise on how you would have us proceed.

  1. Continue Fortifications. The towers have not really been addressed at all, I’m afraid. They stand… but are in the same state you last saw them. The gaol has been entirely ignored to this point, if we are to serve as the Royal Goal as in days past, that will require much improvement.
  2. Add to the Garrison. Shall we recruit more men-at arms? We are not yet at capacity, as you well know. I’m certain our People are more than willing to send us capable men and women.
  3. Establish routine Patrols.  If the Barony would focus on making the possibility of improved commerce between settlements approach what it might be, we stand ready to clear the roads to facilitate this crucial activity.
  4. Train our cadre. I could use a few corporals to oversee our shifts. I have my eye on those most suited for this responsibility.
  5. Deploy a squad for duty, either as a) Mercenaries to serve in other lands and thus produce much-needed coin for the Baron’s coffers or b) Guard a location that you designate, where the locals might lack the ability to manage Cultist or other threats. I hear reports of significant activity at Anthracite and in the region of the Twisty Wood.

I remain your humble servant,

Captain Lassadorn, Castillian of the Moat House of Darkmoor

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Entry 61

“It is one thing to wish you had powerful allies nearby,” Aldmaar told me this morning. “It is quite something else to have the Sorcerer of Anthracite poke his pale head inside your tent.” I laughed. Aldmaar did not even smile.

It was quite a surprise to all of us that REDACTED, the taciturn master of that dark tower joined us outside of Greensward on the morning. Although… I must say that my slumber had been restless. I had attributed that to our time spent within that unwelcoming community. Now, I wonder…

We met together, us four around the meager fire that Aldmaar had quickly stoked while the Knight and I had tended to the horses after quitting Greensward. The Sorcerer welcomed hot water for his tea, but eschewed our offers of bread and cheeses. “And if the bread comes from Harrowfen,” he said, blowing the steam from his rather too-ornate-for-travel cup, “I shouldn’t eat it either, were I you.”

I eyed the chunk of bread in my hand, a conspicuous bite missing from it. Aldmaar began to cough and sputter. I shot a look at the Knight of Darkmoor who merely smiled. “I bought this in Anthracite, as I’m sure our new companion knew at a glance.”

The Sorcerer explained that the Cultists here at Greensward and in other hidden locales throughout the Barony were working together to solve a riddle. “They know it as the Sator chant,” he said. “For reasons they don’t understand.” Then he stood up from the fire, gathering his dark-purple cloaks around him and in a surprisingly fine voice, sang:

Talas verum, dronum malas
Alema sero, luna lema
Level credo, noxa revel…

His voice had turned slightly guttural, issuing these strange syllables. “I’ll spare you the rest. Singing it… unsettles things.”

And we had felt that, as he sang. Perhaps some enchantment he had knowingly or otherwise imbued the chant with… or something about speaking these words… I had felt the hair on my arms rise and there was an uncomfortable knot that had started to thicken in my stomach. The bread, despite Seralyne’s reassurance, no longer appealed. I saw a paleness, a strickeness in the countenance of my friends.

“What does it mean?” Lady Sparrowhawk asked at length.

“What’s important is what the Cult believes,” the Sorcerer respond in his typically elliptical fashion. “And they believe that it means that they must abduct the young girls of the Barony and search for hidden birthmarks that will give them the access they require. They do not know it, but that song tells them where to look. Fools.”

“And to what do they seek access, REDACTED?” said the Knight, the only one of us brave enough to call him by his rightful name.

He seemed to take no offense. “The Temple of the Elemental,” he replied with a brief pause. Then he threw the remnants of his beverage into the fire with a hiss and a pop, and a blue-black puff of smoke. “Now, let us enter Harrowfen and deal with the filth that have made of it their lair.”

“How do we tell the fair from the foul inside?” I asked, meekly.

“The fair will cry for mercy when we slay them,” the Sorcerer of Anthracite replied. “The foul will retain a bit more dignity in death.”

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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. They 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 alone 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 horses through the small community, past the cemetery on the hill, past the several mills powered by a 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 REDACTED. 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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To Sir Kog

Captain Everett Lassadorn

Some matters have come to my attention about which I though you would urgently want to hear. I apologize for the delay in getting this letter to you; I imagine you will be reading this, at best, two days’ hence. The courier, Yanush Metz is, as you doubtless recall, one of our newer recruits, but I trust in his resourcefulness in locating you.

I was awakened last evening by Bristol Grenville who had been alerted by the swamp-man Lathrop. The swamp-men… I apologize, I have no idea how to write the name by which these people prefer to be called… had captured an individual on the edges of the swamp. He put up quite a fight, it seems, but the… our allies managed to subdue him and brought him to us for questioning. Ralluk turned him promptly over to me, ensuring that we had no qualms with how this person had been treated and also, that they would be given full credit for having done the right thing. I assured him of our gratitude and of our concurrence in how they had gone about this matter.

The man that they turned over was, without a doubt, a member of the cult that you had warned me of ere your departure. He wore modest travel garb but had in his possession dark robes and an ornate mask embroidered with symbols of the four elements. Ralluk indicated that the man had been searching for someone in the swamps when they found him.

The man was already in rough shape by the time we received him, and I must confess that our questioning of him was rather more intense than we might have wished. He expired in the early hours of this morning. Here is everything that we gleaned from this person, incorporating what we also heard from Ralluk and Lathrop:

He was involved with other cultists on a raid of Greensward — known by locals, I gather, as “Harrowfen.” I understand that this is a small community just south of the marshes, or perhaps on the very edge. I admit that I have never seen this village. The cultist invaded the town and killed some number. Their objective, originally, was to capture the young girls of the community. While there, they apparently learned of a hidden shrine of old, underground in Greensward, to the Temple of the Elemental.

They made off, according to this man, in two directions. He and his cohort with three of the young girls, a separate group with three other girls and with nine adults they had also abducted. These nine he said were to be the “walking dead.” He did not have a chance to disclose the meaning of this cryptic phrase.

The cult found, it seems, something unexpected in that shrine. He was most evasive on this topic, and drawing this information out of him, ultimately, led to his demise. But it appears that they found ‘some” stone tablets. How many total, I do not know but it appears they made off with one of these tablets.

This cultist had been left by the others to search for one of the young girls who had escaped into the swamps. If she lives, I can not say. I have asked Ralluk to do what he might to attempt to find this girl and bring her — unharmed if at all possible — to me. I hope I have not overstretched my authority in promising him a significant reward if he is successful.

The cultist would only say that he followed “the Wind that Listens.” That whole thing is what he called his leader. I thought he was kidding. The leader of the second cult group which seemed bound for Elder Pool, at least initially, he called “the Stone Beneath.” I thought he was referring to the tablets for the longest time. This cultist fellow I now prefer to think of “Breakfast for Thalgruun,” which Bristol tells me is the name for the great moat beast.

If there is any update, I will do what I can to get it to you. Which brings up a modest request: the Circle have entirely bereft the Moat House of any horses. I might have been able to get this message to more timely if I had been able to dispatch Yanush on horseback. Would it be possible to send back with Yanush one or two of the steeds your allies borrowed so that we might have access to them for patrols, dispatches and the like?

I remain your humble servant,
Captain Lassadorn, Castillian of the Moat House of Darkmoor

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2025-05-28 Barony of Darkmoor Session 20

Session Notes

Where does our water come from? There are crumbling ruins of an ancient aqueduct system that stretch across the landscape that carry …not a drop of water. And yet we have fresh water, all of us, available from the fountains (at least those remaining intact) and cisterns wherever one seeks it.

It is I, Dear Reader, your chum and the Greatest Sage Darkmoor has ever known, Buck Headstrong! I return with your much-needed quantum of news, charm and history for your delectation. Don’t forget to tip the ragged wretch of a newsboy from whom you received this gilt-edged missive. Or, at minimum, try not to kick him with the sharp toe of your boot.

I realize that many expect me to recount the (mis-)deeds of the Circle of Darkmoor, in particular given their return to our bedraggled beloved Elder Pool. I sigh, Dear Reader, sip at my sherry and take up this burden entirely for your sake.

We have all seen the Circle in recent days as they tromp through the midst of our outpost village town city, seemingly full of purpose and noble intent and then, hours later, often filthy and forlorn, seemingly having accomplished nothing, back again. They make demands and issue directives out of a sense of authority that clearly they lack. They insult, infuriate and impugn our citizens and those with real purpose and clear authority… and to what end? Has the discord related to those attacks on the Guild been resolved? No. If anything, the Circle have simply sought to bring discredit to the Guilds, who, let us not forget, are the victims of the crimes the Circle and their “Royal Inspector” are assigned to investigate!

The Circle did manage to, so it is claimed, discover the corpse of one of those missing stevedores you may have heard about. Or not. A misplaced porter or two does not lend itself to the kind of report that your favorite Sage is likely to take up. And of the second stevedore supposedly stolen and surreptitiously strong-armed into subterranean subjugation? Were there reports of one of those Dark Cloaks formerly of that criminal band who has now joined the Circle (but I repeat myself) sneaking a figure into the Ragged Moon, a sad fellow in an oversized robe? I do not traffic in gossip, my friends, and thus will not repeat such scurrilous speculations.

The Circle in their perambulations were seen over hill and under dale, particularly at the old stables which have their own history I may come to in the future. And amongst (and within!) the ruins of the aqueducts!

Our bespattered beloved Elder Pool, founded a thousand years ago or more, was so named due to its proximity to that body west of town, fed by the once-mighty Eglantine, roaring out of the mountains and Twisty Wood to the north and west. Who has not, on a summer’s day, rented a raft and splashed joyously in the cool waters of the Pool? I certainly have not, friends, and if you are reading and this and are currently not an eldritch being beyond death, neither have you. The days of pleasant visits to a flourishing water-side attraction are long past us in these grimmer nights of the current regime.

Despite this smallish lake having long out-lived its glory days, it is the pool that, through its artesian meanderings, feeds our fountains, wells and cisterns.

The aqueducts brought water from the Sea in times past, it’s true. The water, though, was not really fit for drinking; and drinking water was not in short supply, even in those days of boom and prosperity. The water brought power. Mills of all sort, throughout the realms were powered by the water brought to them by the aqueducts. As well, the water was used in irrigation, but I find no romance in the spilling of water on the ground. The machines, however, the engines that crafted the goods that made Darkmoor an economic powerhouse, these are something worth contemplating. Contemplating with a sigh and a bit of sherry amidst an oppressive cloud of nostalgia. Those idyllic advancements are gone, Dear Reader, in these Grey Days. We can only huddle indoors and hope that the Circle do not bang on our doors with their threats and accusations.

I remain, as always, your faithful fellow traveler on our shared journey of misery.

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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.”

I joined them in laughter. We took up our thoughts, in silence and the waning light until 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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Book I Coda — Dixit Sindarin

You say your goodbyes to the Circle. You have borrowed a dun mare from the Moat House. You make your way, guided by Lathrop, whose name you have learned is actually some unpronounceable series of guttural noises and clicks. Lathrop, as you have come to better know him, is both surprisingly gentle and funny. You and he struggle to communicate, but have found yourselves laughing until the tears come at your inability to do so at times. He produces a sachet of dried flower as you arrive, as promised at a trail leading west to the Tradeway which, ultimately, will lead you home. The flower is, he says, known as a medicament even amongst “your people.” “You exchange, you get good back!” He smiles in that wide-mouthed way.

You make your way to Anthracite, down by the coast here, then along the inland Tradeway almost to the Girdle, that great stretch of mountainous terrain that spans Darkmoor, east to west. You take the road eastward again, and there, perched at the foot of the mountains and the gateway to the Sea, is the looming ruin of Anthracite. Dark and imposing and frightening in the waning light.

You produce the appropriate magical sign that allows you through the gates. You feel the eyes of the people of Anthracite on you as the horse carries you toward your modest home. Your room-mate, Bramble, is surprised to see you and quickly moves his possessions back into his half of this ramshackle dwelling. He peppers you with questions. You answer mostly in monosyllables. Your head hits your pillow and you sleep for a long time.

You are roused after noon by Thaira Dewen, your former mistress of Rhetoric and Illusion. “Dixit,” she says, “your attendance is required with the Faculty.” You take the mug of warm tea from her, gratefully. “When?”

“An hour ago,” she replies with a firm look, but a twinkle in her eye. She promises to hold back the tide of growing ire at your tardiness as best she can, but entreaties you to hurry. “And perhaps bathe,” she suggests with a wrinkle of her nose.

The Faculty has gathered, not at the New Schoolhouse, as you expected, but in the lobby/great room of Anthracite itself. Magical light does not function in this space. It’s dimness is held back, barely, by guttering torches. The Learned are gathered around a table that has been assembled, bit by bit, from its recovered remnants. It gleams with an oily perfection, though the patchwork nature of its reconstruction is obvious. It is rather like the face of a beautiful woman, criss-crossed with the scars of brutal punishments.

Imber Corrin speaks first, attempting a conciliatory tone. He explains that a complete accounting of your recent activities in Elder Pool and at the Moat House is required. He bemoans the fact that all that they know of your whereabouts are the farcical musings of that fool Buck Headstrong and some supernatural squirrel named Fluffy.

You sketch out what you have been involved with, withholding details you feel they are better not knowing, which exercise means that you say very little.

Tamsin Wyrmhollow behind those concealing lenses grows angry and declares that you are keeping for yourself information vital to the School. “You are there to represent us, Dixit. Never forget where your loyalties lie.” You see an exchange of expressions between the Faculty at this. You realize that your loyalties have been, in your absence, brought into question.

“Well, just look at yourself,” Thaira says, attempting a kindness but there is an unmistakeable rebuke in her posture, “you do not dress like a sorcerer. You should have advanced more than you have, in the Art. You waste your time and your promise with this skulking and stealing-about business.”

Brother Elandros speaks up for the first time, raising his ancient head, a hint of white hair clinging to his skull like passing clouds.

“You turn your back on Anthracite,” he wheezes.

You sputter, but do not find the words to respond.

You find, to your amazement, that a vote is conducted, in your presence, whether word should be sent to Lord Grey, revoking your special status as representative of Anthracite to his Highness. The vote is unanimous. You may, if you choose to remain, return to your previous work as a junior scribe. Otherwise, you are free to make your way, as a burglar or whatever path you have now chosen for yourself.

Returning to your rooms, Bramble is waiting. “I know you were tired last night, Dixit,” he says. “But tell me all about it!” He is smiling, clearly oblivious as to what has, in a whirlwind of perhaps thirty minutes, just occurred.

You turn your back on Anthracite,” he wheezes.

You sense that you have arrived at a critical junction, if you are to continue to enjoy the support of Anthracite and to advance in your magical career. And perhaps, even, to have the support of Arthur Grey, though you suspect he cares less about the specifics of your professional advancement.

You speak up for yourself. You remind the Learned of the lost books of the ancient Sorcerer which you have reclaimed and provided to Anthracite. “These are not mere philologies or taxonomies, these are important artifacts hand-made, I’m certain, by the great Sorcerer.” You see how your words strike Gregor Hast and you realize that in belittling his pursuits you may have created an enemy. When Hast attempts to angrily cut you off, to your surprise, it is the feeble voice of Elandros who stops him and gestures for you to continue.

What do you say?