News from the Road

Session Notes

And now the latest from the far reaches of the Port Road¹:

The Circle of Darkmoor, having in last weeks’ missive (mostly) defeated a Dark Cloak patrol at the old Carriage House, set out to hunt down the one surviving criminal who had fled into the depths of the swamps. Three of the Circle proceeded through the mire, whereas the follower of that Nick fellow took a more circuitous, less scenic and far less dangerous tack via the road. I do not mean to impute cowardice, of course. I declare it forthright.

The Aldmaar, the Anthracite and the orc — this is not the setup for one of my famous jests, I promise, gentle reader — pushed their way through the muck, trailing the fleeing Dark Cloak until, having arrived at a rare patch of higher ground, found themselves surrounded and outnumbered by a pack of upright frog men dressed in mossy finery the like of which has not been seen since the most recent Grey family wedding. The horrible creatures — bullywugs, I’m told — leapt into the fray and engaged the heroes. The frog-beings proved doughty foes, particularly for a group of heroes already partially exhausted from previous combat and with one of their crew off literally chasing swamp lights!

I was not there, of course. While I would love to accompany the Circle and document their activities in person, my duties here in Elder Pool require so much of me it is simply not possible. Also, the mud would absolutely ruin my new purple loafers with the brass buckles! Nonetheless, a certain black squirrel² informs me that the fight eventually came down to the chubby wand-twirler and the last of the bug-eyed, warty dandies. “Did the Circle survive?” Of course they did. “Oh, you mean that unattractive Anthracite woman defeated the… big… toad?” Yes. In the same way that you defeat the baker every time you wrest a bit of cheesed cake from his clutches by overpowering him with bits of copper from your purse.

Meanwhile, literally high on his horse, the Great White Pope tired of chasing lights and discovered that a passage leading north off of the main trail through the swamp was lined not just with the remnant of the wicker man from which the Circle had freed the tart Dark Cloak, but a series of them. What of that?

My research, dear readers, tells me that these wicker men date back at least a hundred years. Perhaps several hundred years in this depressing duchy. In particular, there is a perambulation of these wicker men stories that may prove pertinent. This story involves a terrible beast of the swamp known as the shambler. This shambler, the legends recount, was literally lured to the edge of the old Moat House as the smelliest possible guard dog. Perhaps, more likely, the shambler found itself at a structure — the old Hay Barn — and set up shop, so to speak, and the occupant of the Moat House realized that there was some possible benefit from having a murderous pile of garbage camping on the front lawn. In any case, this shambler is as afraid of these burning wicker men as the San Nicholite is of wandering brightly-colored swamp gas. So, the master of the Moat House deployed these wicker men to keep the shambler at bay, but to also discourage it from moving along. Supplemented with occasional live offerings, one assumes.

Thus, the wicker men, at least in times of old, were deployed by the Moat House to control the shambler. One imagines that whatever the veracity of these tales in olden days, that the shambler menace has long ago faded into the moors and any on-going occurrence of wicker men can be put down to modern superstitions no longer grounded in purpose other than inertia.

So there it is, dear reader. The history of the wicker man and the crucial role it has played in the historicity of Darkmoor. Supposedly.

The Circle returned to the Carriage House, battered, covered with frog gore and swamp mud. Except for the fine priest, who if he had soiled his clothing at all, it was at the thought of lights in the swamp. They rested. Recovered. And, as the sun once again climbed into the sky, a local approached, trailing the horses that had been lacking from the Carriage House on their return. It inspires me that so many want to participate in what many are calling the resurrection of Darkmoor. The Circle have created the perception that some positive change is possible. I don’t, dear reader, scoff at these ideas. I understand that matters in Darkmoor are terrible. And that the common man desires to play some role improving matters, that warms even the chilly heart of your narrator. That the Circle are certain to fail and disappoint the masses, well that seems as inevitable to me as the rising of the full moon and the concealed implications of that phenomenon upon a certain noble.

I digress. Now armed with a full handful of steeds, the Circle, after some significant debate, set out once again on the road and down the muddy path. They arrived, as had the Nicholite, at that intersection of the well-carved wagon path and that narrow, mostly overgrown trail. The one, you will recall, lined with wicker men. Except now, as the heroes discovered, the wicker had been set ablaze.

The heroes moved up this trail, the Aldmaar man alone clever enough to hang back — to safeguard the horses, you understand. The others proceeded up this trail, investigating the still smoldering wicker men. As the passed one installation after another, each more recently set alight than the last, they began to notice that:

• a body had recently been dragged up this trail
• that body left blood and gore in its wake
• a spot off the trail to the left was recently tamped down and the line of evidence of the body seemed to originate from that area
  And, most importantly:
• the tall thatched roof of a structure seemed to lie at the end of this muddy trail.

The Circle had been warned a number of time, my friends, to do whatever they must to avoid the Hay Barn. That some dire threat resided therein. And yet, here are they, within a few short strides of that site, mouths agape and unmentionables freshly sodden.

And that is where I must leave the tale, dear reader. Until next time.

1. There is the question as to where specifically on the Port Road the heroes find themselves. There is, as you may know, a dispute as to whether the Circle of Darkmoor has any legal or jurisdictional basis to be operating on this stretch of land, given that the Port Road east of the Third Stage Road lies within the Earldom of Eregore. We will return to that question at some future point, I am certain. ↩︎
2. These are not squirrels. Do not, patient reader, interact with the “black squirrels,” I implore you. ↩︎

Session Notes

Word reaches us, dear reader, of the exploits of the Circle of Darkmoor, now firmly ensconced in the East. Praise the Unburning Tree. Or that Nicholas fellow. Or whomever else we can credit for their absence. The young Lord, one supposes.

The heroes ventured forth and discovered more misdeeds of the Dark Cloaks, in the form of a ravaged coach, its draughthorses slaughtered and likewise its crew and passengers. These thugs are truly animals. One wonders whether the Circle really comprehends the difficulty into which they are so confidently striding.

They continued to follow a map that they previously wrested from the Dark Cloaks in that ill-fated assault on the Baron’s purse which now seems years agone, which led them away from the road and onto an overgrown path in what had become a verdant, muddy fen. They traced the furrows of wagons through the mire. Despite the obvious indications that traffic had split at a certain point, some bending away to the left, some to the right, before rejoining up the path, the Elf of Anthracite, a wand-twirler of a clumsy sort, proceeded straight ahead. Ignoring the signs, evident even to an overfed, ink-stained scrivener such as your loyal narrator, this man walked without hesitation directly into the quagmire before him and had to be rescued by his associates. I suspect that some of you, dear readers, believe that I fabricate these misdeeds. Trust me. I recount merely what transpires. In an inimitable style, I daresay.

They continued, the Athracitizen now fully bedraggled in what had become a freezing night air. Discovering another trail heading more northerly (their current bearing primarily easterly) which they took to lead towards the “Hay Barn” identified on their map, about which they had received multiple warnings was the lair of some fell beast, when suddenly nearby: a wicker man.

I delved into this matter, my friends, the “wicker man.” There has been in these parts the phenomenon of constructing these effigies, often from reeds, wicker, straw, and other dried vegetation. These man-shaped — though often quite large — objects are then set alight, sometimes as part of a ceremony or associated with a funeral.

However, there is a barbarous aspect to these wicker men, in addition to their more festive uses. Some horrible personages encase their pathetic victims in wicker, my friends, and then set these miserable packages alight. It is said of these wretches that they have been “candled.”

There is some historical record, furthermore, involving the use of wicker men by the Church of Elemental Evil. Additional research into this matter continues.

To return to our narrative of the Circle: inside this particular wicker man they discovered a victim, bruised, battered, beaten and naked: Lucretia, the Dark Cloak they “rescued” from her life of crime. Freed from her reedy confines, she recounted yet another tale of woe, having been captured in her attempt to depart Darkmoor for northern climes, she was brought back to the marsh and left to rot amongst the rot in the fetid swamp.

She reported that a group of Dark Cloaks had taken up post at the abandoned Carriage House back on the road. She suggested that the Circle might have to face this crew at some point, perhaps at a less advantageous time. But if the Circle struck first… they might steal the brutes’ garments and disguise themselves, perhaps making entry to the Moat House a simpler matter.

Seeing wisdom in this approach, they set about it. A battle ensued at the Carriage House, which for a time seemed poised on the edge of a blade. The tide turned when the Badit captain was brought down. The Circle defeated the remaining minions with little difficulty. However, one escaped into the marsh. Fearing that he might alert the Moat House, the Circle is, at this very moment, in pursuit, if my sources can be trusted.

I promise to keep you, gentle reader, informed as this situation unravels.

Session Notes

The heroes, the Circle of Darkmoor, returned from the Lord Baron’s speech to his peoples, which was met with wide-spread acclaim, to discover that their captive, a member of the highwaymen who apparently call themselves the “Silencers,” and who reportedly had professed contrition and a turning over of a new leaf, retreating from his life of crime, had been murdered in cold blood, alongside his gaoler, Anker of Aldmaar.
The Circle pursued the attackers, who they saw fleeing on the High Road. The pursued fled as long as they might, but eventually the heroes overcame them, once again demonstrating mercy in taking a captive rather than to cut the murderers down like downs in the street.
Is there no end to these murderous onslaughts? How can the baby-faced Baron implement his far-reaching policies if at every turn the criminal element outflanks him?

Good day. To those whom I have not yet met, I apologize for that lapse. I am Arthur Grey, named Baron of Darkmoor.

I come to you today not merely to introduce myself but to discuss the current state of our Barony, as I perceive it.

I have seen, in the scant time that has elapsed since the King proffered this title upon my shoulders, a darkness over this realm. There has been a void of leadership and sense of community in Darkmoor that has allowed this darkness to take root.

The lawlessness and lack of governmental presence has resulted in a community where fear is a commonplace. A scant few days ago, criminals attacked the town, murdered two citizens and attempted to pilfer the Baron’s purse. In the middle of the day, in the middle of town.

At the Royal Court, Elder Pool and Darkmoor broadly are referred to as "that hideous place." The ancient origin of the word "hideous" comes from our modern word "hide" which originally meant "fear." Our community is one where fear prevails.

Fear not just of the criminality that I just mentioned and that we have all seen, but also fear of one another. Today, Darkmoor is not a single community; it is a collection of factions; small collections of peoples who rarely interact with one another, and when they must, they do so at arms-length. Or at the length of a blade.

That is not the type of society in which I wish to live.

When the king called upon Darkmoor to send its representatives to the ceremony at which I was installed as Baron, you sent your finest. I have seen firsthand the heart and greatness of these people. I would not be here today, were it not for the service, heroism and prowess of representatives of these factions of which I have spoken.

There is a darkness, today, in our barony. It has been allowed to fester and to grow and to split us up into our little communities, separate and afraid. But it need not remain that way.

Our once-great buildings have crumbled. Our walls have collapsed. Our roads no longer connect us. This darkness has surrounded us, forced us into tiny islands of faltering light.

What can be done about this? We can rebuild. We can reconstruct the core of our community, make it safe and whole. This work has already begun, as you can see with the improvements at the Ragged Moon and that task is not yet complete. We will rebuild the roads so that all points in Darkmoor connect once again to Elder Pool. Safe and stable roads will encourage the flow of traffic and of commerce.

We will not merely focus on Elder Pool, however. There are valuable — critical functions in all corners of our Barony that will be restored for the benefit of us all. In the old days, the mystic powers of the wizards and sorcerers of Anthracite generated magics hailed far and wide for their effectiveness. If we create the proper conditions and lend them the support they need, they will do so again.

The people of the Wood provided the lumber required for any community to thrive. Today, that lumber leaves Darkmoor and merely serves to furnish the castles and limousines of foreign nobles. The most excellent hunters of the People of Aldmaar once provided the realm with the finest of furs and game meats. There is a bounty in that wood that today, must be reserved only for the followers of Aldmaar, because they have no other recourse for feeding their families.

And yet, our nobles own vast farm lands that could, as they once did, provide food — milk, cheeses, beef, bread and beer, potatoes, yams and carrots — enough for every table in the Barony. But those farms produce so little, due to a lack of available workers, poor and broken tools and the ravages of wild beasts who damage or steal crops. Too often, the wild beasts are of the two-legged species.

The mines and stone-working expertise of the peoples of the south have been lost, or at minimum lie fallow under a cloak of darkness. We need those metals and that expertise if we are to build a healthy Darkmoor. We must invest in these resources.

The Guilds today produce a meager offering, compared to what they once could. Waxes and honeys and meads and fine finished goods, gowns and boots and –hear me my agrarian friends — tools and weapons, all were produced in great number in Darkmoor and the quality was renowned. What few items the Guild produce have no viable, no safe markets here and are thus exported.

These problems arise not from a lack of will or of character in our Darkmoor. They arise because we separate ourselves into our shadowed enclaves where we fear the other and have come to believe that isolation and alienation is the only way.

I have come here today, my subjects and friends, to tell you that there is another way. The way of community. Of brotherhood. Of joint purpose and collective effort for the common good. I do not preach a fantasy where we must subjugate that which makes us special and unique in order for Darkmoor to flourish. That way can not succeed. We must celebrate the unique qualities, the odd quirkiness of our individuality; embrace our differences. But recognize that we all — all of us — have value and we can all contribute to making our collective lot better. The soldier, the farmer, the craftsman, the artisan, the mixer of potions, the cook, the brewer, the wayfinder, the laborer, the mender of garments, the artist, the musician, the teacher and … yes, even the noble — we all have a role, a value that we can bring to the community. But we can only experience the full blooming of that self-worth when we can bring it to bear to help our fellow and to lighten one another’s load. Two men together can do what a scattered dozen can not, as we say.

Why do I believe that this is possible? Why do I think that despite the darkness that like a heavy smoke lies over our barony, that we can come together and achieve these things?

Because I have seen what happens when we work together. These four, who you, separately but acting in unknowing concert, sent to the King and thence, to me, have fought tooth and nail through an army of darkness to restore the royal seat of Darkmoor. They fought side-by-side. Had all not worked so loyally together, all would have fallen, myself included.

Likewise, when those criminals came into the center of our community, they were defeated by the joint effort of the citizens of Darkmoor. Two of our citizens died in rebuffing that attack. We must give honor and dignity to their sacrifice.

I invite Kog, representative of the Peoples of the South to say what he might about those who gave their all on that day.
[Kog speaks]

Kog was the direct target of that invasion, as he oversaw the reconstruction operations in my absence. By all accounts, Kog led the defense and made the criminals pay dearly for their heinous acts. And yet, when all was done and peace had been restored, he stayed his hand at the last and showed a mercy that these criminals would never in like situation, would have shown. Today, I present to you (ceremonial knighting) Sir Kog of the South, the first restored Knight of Darkmoor. Sir Kog, I offer you my sincerest thanks and this — the Noble Order of Darkmoor (affixes pin).

There is one group that I have not mentioned today. You might think that I fear to do so. I do not. I want us all to recognize that, as in the days of old, our community will only flourish if we strive for a higher purpose. A belief in deeds greater than ourselves. Beyond the simple black-and-white of hardscrabble existence there must be a heart that guides us, a wisdom that directs our actions. And when we are in our greatest times of need, a beacon to remind us that there are things greater than the deeds of man and beast. My family, the long lineage of the Greys have always clung to the teachings of San Nicholas. Not because he promised some great reward in the afterworld, that was never his emphasis, nor ours. But because his wisdom teaches humility, sacrifice, beneficence and goodwill to all. That following this guidance our hearts are filled, not just our bellies or our purses. That without love — love of our families and our neighbors and those who do us ill and even, even ourselves — what good is life, in this world or the next?

Our efforts, my brothers and sisters and friends, must be collective. They must be sincere and taken up with a heartfelt commitment and guided by wisdom. They must be brave and clever and well-considered. And swift. And before all of that, they must be undertaken in a spirit not of rebuilding what once was, but of building what must be. What should prevail.

I have spoken long, my friends. I beg forgiveness for my rambling. But all of that I have said, I will tell you with great earnestness, I believe it. All of it. I hope you will, too, even if you do not yet.

I leave you with this final, final promise: I see that Master Rouvel is in attendance. He will mark my words carefully, I am certain. The next drink, my friends and subjects, shall be served on my account! To the bar!