Where adventure goes to die
Just a couple things from last session:
Anker’s body should be returned to Aldmaar; Juttah has already indicated that he doesn’t plan to return at this time
Milestones for advancement to next level:
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 dogs 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?
After Baron Grey’s magnificent speech, the heroes were alerted, having returned to the Ragged Moon for a communal libation, that there was trouble upstairs. Juttah, the northern ranger informed them that their captive, Norwich, the former dark cloak as well as his ranger guard Anker, had been assassinated in the immediate aftermath of the speech. They raced up to the common room to discover a bloody scene, and through the window, another group of dark cloaks fleeing on the High Way.
After defeating this group of assassins, they took a captive, a creature who called herself Lucretia. She shared a typically dismal history for this type of depressing woman which had led to her joining the group of dark cloaks — the so-called Silencers. She answered the questions put to her with enough seeming sincerity that the Circle allowed her to escape, unpunished.
The party, rather unceremoniously and by most accounts, alarmingly, returned, with the blood-soaked armor and weapons of the slain assassins decorating their shoulders.
They reported what they had learned from the assassin Lucretia and put the Baron into a state of alarm that he might be the subject of additional murderous escapades. With little enough evidence, I amend parenthetically.
The Circle then returned to the matter of the mysterious waste pit discovered behind a hidden door in the catacombs having first secured a hastily-constructed rope ladder fit for purpose.
They descended the 75 or so feet down into the noisome space beneath even the catacombs. And thereby discovering an underground river of shit. Directly beneath the vertical column they had just precariously traversed, a collection of rotting or long-past rotting corpses.
From the narrow walk space alongside the slow-moving turd torrent, the heroes could see a sewer passage heading both east and west. And, dimly in the dark in each direction, light, perhaps streaming down from above.
The Circle moved east, upstream of the crap creek, with the presumption that moving towards the center of Elder Pool might yield a better result than away. After some travel on that narrow shelf adjacent to the feces flood they found themselves in a circle of diminishing daylight, from some sort of exposed grate a few score of feet above, occasionally dripping down into this space. They discerned the remnants of iron handholds in this vertical shaft, but the party, having experienced more adventure with the rope ladder than anyone had hoped, they eschewed the opportunity to ascend.
As they continued along the passage east, the waste wave accompanying them, they began to believe that the passage was trending generally upwards. And then, to their considerable surprise, they discovered a woman to the left, a door opened above a climb of shitty stairs, hurling her reeking chamber pot their direction.
Recovering admirably, they climbed the steps coated with soil of the night and after maneuvering through a cellar crowded with coal and firewood, they emerged into the ruin of an Elder Pool home, to startle the older woman squatting in this abandoned space.
And that is where we find ourselves, gentle reader. In a state of affairs where one dark cloak, intended to serve a penance has been slaughtered while under house arrest. Another who participated in this murder in the center of Elder Pool, released to perform whatever foul deeds a tramp of the meanest sort might contrive. The Baron confined to his apartments, shaking in fear. And the great heroic hope of Elder Pool playing at seek-and-hide amongst the excrement.
Every day in Darkmoor is an adventure, I must say, gentle reader.
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!
Rules notes: we discussed “weapon juggling” and how the rules explicitly support stowing and drawing a weapon as part of the Attack action, plus stowing a weapon as a Free Action, meaning that a PC with 2 weapons drawn could stow both weapons and still draw another as long as they are taking the Attack action.
We also discussed that administering a potion, to oneself or another, is a bonus action.
To discuss: using DNDBeyond for initiative and HP tracking
Each week I’ll provide a “Session Notes” post from Buck Headstrong that will be a narrative recounting of what happened, and a separate “Addendum” such as this one with mechanical/meta-game stuff.
Loot: there is some loot to be gathered after the fight, no big surprise. This won’t come up often, but Arthur is going to take a significant “share” of the take, which leaves the following for the party:
To discuss: Level Objectives
The heroes, who I’ve come to think of as the Circle of Darkmoor, set about questioning their captive, a dark cloak who had attempted to rob the Barony of its riches. And, as a separate matter, murder one of the Circle. Kog, of the Peoples, set about asking questions of this young miscreant. Unfortunately, he seemed to know little enough. He indicated that he was a member of a group of itinerant criminals who mostly plied their illicit trade by assaulting those moving through Darkmoor on the open road. The map that had been retrieved, he claimed, belonged not to who but to their ringleader. He said that he had never seen the map directly, himself, therefore could not explain its contents.
The captured criminal did, in attempting to negotiate the imposed sentence of six months’ labor (or eight months — retellings differ), claim that he could identify a local member of the wealthy classes who participated in identifying juicy targets for the criminals to rob in exchange for a share of the take.
To this end, the Duke sent forth word that a meeting would be held in Elder Pool where he might address his subjects, during which the criminal might be able to point out the person he claimed had cooperated with the criminals.
However, the Duke had more pressing matters. His desire to reclaim the Throne of Old drove him and the Circle to descend once again into the catacombs beneath the streets. They story that they recount, friends, of doorframes constructed of living bone, of a small army of reanimated corpses little more than that draping skin over murderous skeleton that meant to kill the young duke, at the bidding of a horror of multiple limbs and burning eyes, and behind it all, a spectral being of dead flame.
Though limited by the blood disease common to the Great Grey Family, the Duke and his allies prevailed. And, once again, the Duke of Darkmoor sits upon the ancient throne.
After returning to the Aldmaar Ranger camp as heroes, having rescued Merith Ermris and most of his crew, Mateo, one of the senior rangers advised that, without at all criticising Sylvar and the rescue team, it might be best if they were not around when the druid learned of the killing of the matron ankheg. Taking that into account, Syvar, Dixit, Anker and Juttah set out for Elder Pool.
Along the way, their slumber was disturbed by a woman astride a horse apparently fleeing some threat. The “woman” was revealed to be a female centaur ( a femtaur?) who was fleeing a pursuing ogre.
The rangers and Dixit, with some help from the centaur, Indira, managed to defeat the fell beast. She revealed that it had been pursuing her for some time and she had dragged him toward the campfire seeking help.
Continuing on with Indira interested in seeing Elder Pool for the first time, the party stopped at the Millcloud family farm where Dixit had previously stopped on his way to find Sylvar. They were greeted with warm hospitality. Farmer Millcloud reported that there had been murmurings of some creature over recent days that might match the description of the ogre that Dixit provided.
The next evening some odd goat-like bleatings were heard in the darkness but no threat materialized.
While the group of five was making their way to Elder Pool, Kog continued to supervise reconstruction activities near the Ragged Moon Inn. He found himself accosted by two dark cloak-types with rapiers inside the inn. When Kog separated the first of the miscreants from one of his limbs, the other fled outside. Pursuing, Kog learned that he was being lured into an ambush — two more of the dark cloaks were positioned in the ruins of the nearby tower with crossbows awaiting Kog’s arrival.
A fight ensued, with some of the locals taking up sticks and rocks to assist Kog. The dark cloaks were defeated and one rendered unconscious and taken captive. From another’s pocket a map was discovered, which appeared to indicate a safe approach to some ruined tower in what was probably the marshy land to the northeast.
Later that evening, the Duke, Hammond, Rosenkrantz; Arthur’s man-at-arms, and a member of the wee folk dressed like a dandy arrived at the Inn. This little man introduced himself as Buck Headstrong, Esquire, Chronicler to the Court.
The group discussed potentially taking on the catacombs again, now that the group’s numbers have swollen.
But first, there is a dark cloak to interrogate.
Arthur remained ensconced at the Ragged Moon tavern as his temporary seat of power. He immediately sent word (or word rapidly leaked out) that he was hiring laborers to conduct repairs at the tavern at least while he occupies it.
Kog identified that one or more laborers might be attempting to defraud the Baron and be paid multiple times for a single day’s labor. He quickly brought a stop to that.
Hammond volunteered to accompany Arthur to the Earl’s capital city of Gwinned to attempt to hire an engineer who might manage repairs within the Barony, especially at the Manor House. They two departed in a stage coach for a multi-day trip.
Kog remained to mind the construction efforts. Arthur seemed especially concerned that workers received prompt payment daily, for which purpose he left a large sack of coins in Kog’s care.
Arthur requested that Dixit seek out Sylvar of the Aldmaar peoples, who had been called away, it seemed, on urgent business and not yet returned.
Sylvar spent a couple days on the road, making his way to the Twisted Wood. He met the perimeter security forces, rangers in the trees, of the Aldmaars. He was then led to where Sylvar was preparing a rescue team, which he joined. It seems that a Merith Emris of the Aldmaars and his woodsy crew had set out to preempt a team of the King’s lumberjacks operating in the Wood but not returned after several days. The decision to send Sylvar and his associates to rescue Merith was far from unanimous, but Sylvar won the argument. Dixit joined this emergency team.
The Aldmaars and Sylvar made their way, tracking, through the dense forest. Crossing a cold, winter stream, they moved through a thicket and were confronted by a goblin tribe in the trees. A skirmish resulted. After regrouping, the elf team moved once again further and the goblins, this time, were willing to parlay. They reported that a group of elves had come through a few days prior, chasing a group of goblins. Both groups had moved through.
The elf group proceeded and came upon an area of loose earth, from which voices seemed to emerge. As did two large ant-beasts, which, when killed, splashed a thick glue onto those around them, temporarily immobilizing them.
After defeating the ant-beasts, the elves descended into the crude tunnels of their lair. Within, they located a sort of chamber where victims, some still clinging to life, were buried. While attempting to rescue Merith and the surviving members of his crew, the seeming ant-beast matron returned. More carnage ensued. Eventually, the elven crew defeated the great beast and managed to extricate themselves with Merith and some of his associates. And with one goblin, as well.
In Gwinned, Hammond sought out followers of San Nicholas. Befriending one such, he was brought to a hidden tavern filled with like believers.
He and Arthur would be spending at least another day in Gwinned, while Arthur sought his expert engineer.
You gathered before sunrise two days ago, just east of Elder Pool, where the High Way turns finally east. Horses and carriages had been sent by the Court. Each of you presented the wax-sealed summons that was your passport to Mainesbury and the “celebration.”
The royal guard, resplendent in their finery had treated each of you with appropriate respect, but with a firm hand. When the Royal, Lord Sparrowhawk had puffed out his vest about being seated amongst rabble, he had been informed in no uncertain terms that he was a guest of the King as were all those who had borne the sealed summons. You may have smirked at that.
The travel was long and you each had a chance to say something about yourselves, about the peoples that you represent and their hopes and fears for what a restored Baron in Darkmoor might mean.
After an overnight at an inn, where you had been helped to clean if unremarkable lodging, but good, warm food and better ale, you had continued. There had been some unrest on the road yesterday, but nothing the guard had any difficulty with. War, it seems, is imminent on the far eastern borders. Some suggest that it has already begun.
You have, personally, never before been to the capital. Mainesbury is vast. Wealthy beyond belief. More citizens worked the river, in their fishing boats, crabbing nets, water taxis and dredgers than live in all of Darkmoor. And that is merely the river. There are broad, mostly clean boulevards. Vast arches and pillars, shrines, monuments and glittering temples are seemingly around every corner. Dandies in their finery sip at cafes along the brickwork, rubbing elbows with artists and artisans, courtesans and plumbers.
Your trip through the streets of Mainesbury was dizzying, but did little to prepare you for the opulence and extravagance of the Royal Residence. The Court, with its marble-floored, silver-columned, frescoe-ceilinged richness was more than you could take in. At a certain point, it simply overwhelmed the senses. The smells of lilac and incense, the gold and ivory, the music in every chamber, the clever, concealed heating and lighting suffusing every room, despite the blustering wind outside.
You listened intently, for a time, at the pronouncements at the ceremony. Then, as the long lists were recounted, of lords and barons, relations and relations and webs of relations… who sired whom who later sired someone else.. your attention flagged. But, finally, he was revealed. Arthur Grey, Lord Grey. Now, at a sweeping gesture of the silvered sword from the great King, Baron of Darkmoor. The young man, clean-shaven, broad of shoulder and guileless in his demeanor. He accepted the honor with a seeming sincerity of gratitude that you found difficult to dislike, as much as you might have been prepared to do so.
Now, after the applause and the scraping, the hand-shaking and backslapping, you have been lea back to the carriages. To return to Darkmoor. Now, however, there is a great, ornate vehicle, drawn by a half-dozen pearl-white steeds at the front of your convoy. The emblem of a raven rampant on the silvered doors. The Earl of Eregore’s carriage, someone whispers to you. And here is young Arthur Grey, being introduced to each of you in turn by his man-at-arms in his heavy armor, the wolf of Darkmoor cut into the cuirass.
Lord Grey approaches you, an embarrassed smile on his face as he stretches out his hand. “I’m sorry,” he says. To you, the Baron of Darkmoor apologizes in his fine voice. “I did not catch your name.”