The Barony of Darkmoor

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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.

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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.”

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Entry 39

I am quickly scribbling these notes before I forget any of the detail of this morning’s activities.

I met after breakfast with Barnabus Rey. Aldmaar had asked that I check in with the man while I was in town. Rey, as competent as ever, provided only good news. He has his men well-drilled and they have gone through the Lord’s Manor with, as he says, a fine-toothed comb, ensuring that every lock is in good repair and every barrier inspected, and where necessary, mended.

Later I had an encounter, in the square, with a men who I did not recognize. He was dressed well-enough. Likely a tradesman of some sort. Tall and rangy, with a rough patch of beard. He seemed to be watching the guards on their rounds a bit too attentively. I approached the man, pleasantly, introducing myself and asking him his business in Elder Pool.

"My business is my own," he replied, curtly.

"Perhaps," I responded. "And yet I will ask again what it is. I do not know you, fellow, and I note your attention to matters that may have impact on the business of myself and those I name my friends."

The man uttered a low oath, then claimed that he was a treewright and was simply come here to see for himself the quality of woodwork done in Elder Pool. "Nothing so special," he deemed it.

The man made away without another word. I allowed him to depart. Later, when I happened to mention to Rey this encounter, he was quick to dismiss it.

And yet, I wonder.

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Entry #35

Today, Aldmaar and I met with a Captain of the Darkmoor Navy, here at the Moat House. He and a few of his men came to shore to reprovision and provide a printed report to the Castillian to be couriered to His Highness.

I sailed here to Darkmoor as a child, though I scarce recall it. I remember the voyage as several days in the cold and damp in the hold of a cargo vessel. Most around me were sick much of the time, and the captain was a heartless rogue, laughing at their misery.

Aldmaar has never been aboard a ship, and despite my encouragements, he was utterly unwilling to step foot even onto the small boat that ferried the naval men to shore. He did not take my jests at his expense well. Perhaps I took the wrong lessons from that ship’s captain as a child.

Tomorrow we set out again. I do enjoy our respites here at the Moat House. While the terrain is wild and dangerous, Aldmaar is an unerring guide. And there is a beauty to all of this unspoilt nature. Despite the insects and the swelter, I feel drawn to this place.

Nonetheless, I have a flock to which I must attend, back in Elder Pool. And my investigations into this Elemental Church must continue. I fear how this belief system is spreading; in the dark and without showing itself. It feels like a weed, just beneath the surface, proliferating and extending its tendrils…

As well, I have work in the south. The Royal Architect has plans I must review to extend the apse and the chancelry. The glaziers have a sample for the great rose window that I saw in my dream so many years ago. This work is foreign to me and exhausting and it is hard at times to justify pulling myself away from my work with the people. Yet I know, in my heart, that this what San Nicholas compels.