[The Burning Wheel] Beneath the Delirious Moon [IC]

[Boethius Junior]

Beneath the Delirious Moon

Chapter 1: Autumn

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Through open passageways
I felt my breath grow shallow
Lend me a voice, oh God
To scream and shout and bellow.

–All Them Witches: “Open Passageways”, Dying Surfer Meets His Maker (2015)

‘Then it is agreed. May you be animated by Wit’s light—go forth, with our blessing.’ So began your errand; expeditionary into the Fringe of Bás. As furious THROM tore himself into being, your company burst forth from the Council’s Gate, striven by your great purpose and the Council’s confidence. Your task is simple at its face—appraise this land. The Highest Council desires to learn whether this apportion has become a meritorious addition to the League; whether the investment shall see full return. Moreover, you stand to be rewarded handsomely upon completion of this effort. You are expected back to the Council’s chambers in one year’s time, with report ready to be issued.

The moon has grown fat and then starved himself into near-nothingness upon the night sky before your company arrives to the Fringe’s periphery. On the westward road you toured Primrose, homeland of Lord Crofte, the chief of your expeditionary council—there you supped plentifully and rested well. Similarly, you enjoyed the hospitality of Torre, neighbor of the Fringe and home-country of Lord Adelric de Torre of your number. Now though, the countryside has turned unkind.

The roads are ill-worn; encroached upon by weeds and errant stones. Wagons risk their wheels and horses need be led by hand to stave off any fatal stumbles. Without fail there is a stream the trickles beside or flow directly over the footpath, making a dry passage impossible. The slopes beyond are severe, topped by dense tangles of bracken and the odd gnarled tree. The clouds billow overhead, threatening with rain.


* * *

As had been promised, messengers were sent ahead to herald your coming. Your first stop was at Stathes’ Crossing, wherein you met one of five nobles: Lord Randolf Tawic. Commanding the entrance to this frontier, his holding bridges the Auth at its widest and most tumultuous point locally with a thin stone passageway—the roads are more bearable leading into this place; a hub of travel to and fro. Here you glean a clear view of the Fringe’s settlers: rugged Shambryfolk mostly, with the odd Chaun or Pug making up the difference.

Lord Tawic is a doughty man himself, eager to welcome and please. He bears a drooping mustache, and his scalp is mostly bereft of hair. Though not tall he is powerfully built, evidence of a lifetime of hard labor. His dress is plain, barring the golden torqs wound about either arm—symbols of honor to the Wallapug people. He smells of water-rotted wood.

You spend a brief day in his company before progressing onwards to your destination: the Abbey of Dom Doren. From there you shall conduct your operations within the region, with agreement already in place to assemble the resident lords in three days’ time for council. You pass through Gristing on your way; a bustling milling town of prodigious wealth and even stone-cobbled streets, much unlike the prior hamlets that dot the roadside. If he knew of your coming, Lord Helwy Mull did not make it apparent: neither he nor any of his servants were present to greet your arrival through his lands, forcing your train to lodge in a mere roadhouse.

The prosperity of Gristing spreads to Dom Doren, evident at your arrival by the following sundown—substantial resources have been poured into the project: a stone edifice many spans tall, circled by a wall double high as a man. Oddly, you notice the wall has no gatehouse, instead culminating in two roundels through which any might walk freely. Among the many outbuildings, throughout the vineyards and across the pastures bustle monks at their work making ready for the harvest.

As you ride the final distance forth to the passage through, a rotund man shuffles forward to greet you, waving enthusiastically. He is of rosy complexion, with bushy eyebrows that jut from beneath his tonsure. “Good eve, dear Lords! Good eve!” his loud voice booms resoundingly, ill-practiced at quiet. “I am Abbot Aerer Caleah! Welcome to our humble house of worship! Pray your travels have been well?”

NOTE: Having been a poor horseman in his youth and now advanced in age, Lord Crofte took to riding among the baggage. He spent much of the journey seated throughout the four carts bearing your various supplies and provisions. Currently he is at the end of the train, among the footmen.

[The Void Dragon]

Faust slows his steed, a slight smile on his face as he looks upon a thriving place of Wit's light. Upon the Abbot's appearance, he halts and, still smiling, responds, "Hail Abbot Caleah! Aside from the poor roads of the outer Fringe, our travels have gone well, thank Wit; though none have greeted us so warmly as you."
Faust is trying to make a good first impression here, by being as earnest and polite as the Abbot.

[Boethius Junior]

The Abbot's smile widens at Faust's kind words. "You humble this old fool, your grace. I am but a simple servant of Wit, who knows we need good cheer and gladness. Please, allow my brothers to tend your steeds." At his gesture a trio of monks shuffle forth to take your reins, while the Abbot bids you follow him through the passageway.

He continues to speak idly, but once past the walls his tone shifts to a confidential whisper - though his resounding voice surely undoes any attempt at subtlety. "I surmise that Lord Mull neglected to acknowledge your passing? You must forgive him your graces; he does have his troubles, I assure you. Do not let this misfortune mar your judgement, lest the summit be endangered."

[Henry the 57th]

Lord Adalric di Torre arrives on a powerfully-built black stallion, a beast befitting the ruler of an Estate and recently inherited along with the land. Even his less elaborate travelling clothes are a brilliant white contrasted by violet trim and a red sash. A pendant bearing a golden image of the noonday sun - a local symbol of Wit - dangles from his neck. His status as an Arch-Prelate could not be more obvious to anyone with a basic education. As he grows closer to the Abbey, a genuine smile grows on his face as he perceives an echo of the familiar churches back home.

"Hail Abbot," he says in an unquestionably superior tone, though with genuine warmth in his voice. "Adalric di Torre, Arch-Prelate of Canticles of the Torre Estate, pleased to make your acquaintance." He doesn't bow of course, that wouldn't be proper, but he does offer a friendly nod. "The journey I'm afraid has not always sat the best with me, but where Wit and duty call, who are men but to go?"

[Boethius Junior]

The lord of Torre's striking presence seems to cow the Abbot, who ceases his conspiratorial tone. "Lord Adalric di Torre, welcome. I recognize your name; a dear neighbor. I am glad the Council has seen fit to send a countryman, and one who holds stake our continued well-being at that!" With sudden realization, he offers a sheepish apology to the Chaun and Wallapug of your party: "Of course meaning no offense to your graces from beyond."

He pauses, rubbing his hands nervously, and bids you follow. Now within the confines of the wall you are greeted by rows of bustling gardens tended incessantly by further teams of monks - the air is sweet with pollen and rich herbal scents. The Abbot chatters as you walk, describing the grounds and their yield; pointing out flowers native to the Fringe and fruits of particular worth. He seems to have already forgotten his hushed words from before, leading you on towards the primary cloister.

[Kessler]

“Good day, Abbot Caleah” Krasimir greets their host. His mood has been somewhat sour since Lord Mull’s neglect of hospitality and Abbot’s words don’t fully dispel his concern. Krasimir lingers a bit to direct servants and followers in unpacking and transporting their mission’s luggage. Then he quickly catches up with the rest of the group, following Abbot through the gardens. His eyes study the garden and he listens with curiosity about the local bounties of the land. Though his interest lies with local plants, he does ask Abbot Caleah “Your gardens are rich and well-tended. But I notice your walls have no gate? Why is that?”

[Tentreto]

"Greetings good Abbot Caleah," says Iald evenly. "I am Iald Brigson from the Heralds." As he is dressed in his travelling clothes with his hood, he is obviously not a noble, although his feather necklace does hang out. He dismounts with ease and gives the reins to the attendant who looks the most competent.
For Iald, the journey has been incredibly slow, having been used to riding at speed. He has received far better hospitality than he usually expected delivering messages though, Lord Mull nonwithstanding. He is certainly impressed by the Abbey and its bounty, which seems incrediby prosperous.

As they journey onwards, Iald does take some note of what the Abbot says, though some of it does go over his head. Iald says: "If I may ask, how many monks serve at this abbey?"

[Boethius Junior]

The Abbot is delighted at Krasimir's interest in the gardens, eagerly noting the Abbey's success with grafts and the health of their apiary. "Our wines and mead might even challenge that of decadent Primrose, you know!" he titters with excitement. "You really must try them - after we sup I shall have the cellar-master select us a fine vintage."

He continues jovially on, only finally giving pause when you ask of the missing gatehouse "Oh, that? A request of our lords', who assisted in the Abbey's construction. They asked that they never be turned away from Wit's holy house - silly, isn't it? Yet I've grown rather fond of it, myself. As we say: 'All are welcome!'"

He spends another moment in thought at Iald's query, then answers: "Somewhere just above a dozen score, I should think. I haven't given the rosters much consideration lately, what with the harvest nearing and your coming, but we never lack for hands in Dom Doren."

By now your party has reached the cloister; the primary structure of the Abbey, built of dun sandstone. You enter behind the Abbot through a small wooden door, emerging into a long hall of worship rowed with wooden benches. The windows are indeed glass, yet are small and emit little - despite dusk being still far off, the chamber is illuminated mostly by the flicker of candlelight. You are led on, through narrow passages and up a revolving stair until you reach the pinnacle - a tower; one of two that emerge from above the cloister. The space is cramped and dusty, yet you are provided an excellent view of the country beyond. "The other is our belfry, which I imagined would be an uncomfortable office. What's more our barracks are full, so I'm afraid this is the best we can offer. Well, I'll be leaving your graces to get settled then, unless there's anything more I can do?"

[Henry the 57th]

"I have heard the rumors, but I would know it from your own lips, Abbot." Adalric slips off his horse as his knights and retains begin unpacking around him. "How fares our faith in this land? How many truly heed the word of Wit?"

[Boethius Junior]

"All proper Shambryfolk give due worship to Wit, your grace. See how many serve? We have built this Abbey as a testament to our faith; the stronghold of Witticism in the Fringe!"

To keep things running smoothly, I am assuming Adalric's question is answered on the way to your staging area, the tower.

[atlastrembles]

Brysen Mock had been intrigued and excited the entire journey to the Abbey. He had never sailed this arm of the Mighty Mother Auth and was eager to see what lay in these lands. He knew one thing for certain, wherever the Auth touched, Pug-Luck grew where Wit would will them. He noted Lord Tawe's Pug armbands and filed away the detail to return to later; a potential ally, a countryman in truth or did he understand the importance of the torcs he wore?

These were questions as he left four of his staff behind as a skeleton crew to watch the Magpie, his trusted cog in Stathes' Crossing's dock. He warns them, as always and congenially, that if anything happens to his boat, he will have them buried at the bottom of the Auth, Wit be damned.

Lord Mull's absence and impoliteness he registers later, instructing some of his staff to go drink in the alehouses and inspect the mill. An absent Lord could either mean nothing or something, but he would learn what he could learn in any case.

Upon reaching the Abbey, Brysen takes in the land and the edifice with an appreciative eye. Upon meeting the Abbot, Brysen sketches a comfortable bow, touching his forehead after kissing his fist in a makeshift prayer of his personal theology, a blend of the Old Ways and Wit. He hops down from the wagon Abbot Caleah, thank you for your hospitality. Wit works through you to bring these lands such ripeness. I look forward to trying the fruits of such a garden as I'm sure many others in the League would.

Later on at their rooms, Mock nods appreciatively. A stout roof and a solid deck, what more can we ask he asks genially. Turning to his fellow travelling companions, he asks Would any of you fine men care to explore the grounds? To the Abbot, he finishes If that is acceptable, of course, Abbot Caleah, I would so enjoy hearing more about this holy place's construction, the stone for one, local? He continues to make easy small talk, ingratiating himself smoothly with their host through genuine interest.

[Boethius Junior]

"Local enough, good sir," the Abbot responds, obviously pleased by the inquiry. "Quarried from Olcet, in fact, and hauled to this site at Lord Mull's expense. When the earliest Shambrymen came to the Fringe they thought those rough hills too foreboding to penetrate. Yet sure enough they held a worthy bounty in ore and stone! Many Idh wander there, curiously - sometimes they amble their way through a village; a good omen. It is said that they carved ancient roads, hidden in the deepest wilds, paths that lead the lost back home."

A bell tolls distantly, breaking the Abbot's train of thought. He hurriedly makes ready to leave, calling back over his shoulder, "I must go, I am needed for Lectio! Feel welcome to survey the grounds your graces; the brothers have been instructed to attend your needs. The next bell shall toll for Vespers, then supper shortly thereafter." Unless you catch him in the stairwell, you are now alone in the tower.

[Henry the 57th]

"Fare thee well, Abbot," Adalric smiles as the older man vanishes from view. Once he is gone, a slightly more serious and businesslike expression takes over, and he begins the process of setting up his own quarters by performing a brief blessing on them while his retainers begin to unpack their things. Unless someone else raises an objection, his men set up in several rooms side by side in the tower, the well-armed knights taking the closest spots to their lord.

Once the initial phase of the unpacking is over, if left to his own devices Adalric opts to wander the grounds with two of his most trusted knights in tow. He'll be observing the religious orders and rites in this wild land to see how they compare to those back home, while occasionally asking his bodyguards just how peaceful this place truly looks. He loves temples to Wit, but the Arch-Prelate has heard too many disturbing rumors about less than orthodox religious practices on the fringe of civilization to feel entirely at ease in Dom Doren just yet.

[Tentreto]

Iald gives a slight nod. "I would be happy to join you good sir," he says to Brysen. "It would be wise to get an idea of the grounds seeing as we are here for a few days." If nothing else, Iald thinks, he could at least talk with his companions.

[Kessler]

Krasimir follows Iald, observing the grounds and nearby lands. He ends his inspection at the missing gatehouse, uttering a disapproving "harrumph". Likely the local lords saw some profit in denying monks gatehouse and dressed their ploy in the clothes of piety. What’s the purpose of wall, if there’s no gate? Tis like plowed field, without seeding, good work wasted.

He continues to the vineyards, there’s no doubt that they would be in an excellent shape, for certainly Abbey was built on the best land and monks are all hard working, disciplined men. It’s how well the land gives elsewhere and how hardworking and honest folk outside of the abbey, what would make Krasimir’s mind. Still, it’s important to see the quality of land and how well sun nurtures the grapes here. A feeling of joy and contentment seeps into the expression of gardner, as his fingers run through the soft soil.

[Boethius Junior]

With the chambers prepared to satisfaction your party returns to the Abbey grounds, passing back through the cloister. As you walk a low rumble reaches your ear - that of many voices raised in song, vibrating through the stone passages as breath through the body. Those among you of religious authority recognize their words as being cruthic, an old tongue which is said to predate the settlement of the Wüvd; spoken by the very first of pilgrims. Though modern teachings of Witticism do not strictly mandate its use for the reciting of canticles, neither is it considered an impropriety. Most deem it merely an outdated orthodoxy.

You emerge from the edifice into the warmth of the late afternoon sun, and find the gardens empty of their previous bustle. Scant few monks remain but to walk the walls or tend necessary tasks, the majority evidentially retreating within for prayer. If you press them, they answer your questions with deference - they respond with proper scripture to any theological matters, though you who are of knowledge recognize their positions as generally antiquated.

Krasimir's appraisal of the Abbey's soil finds it to be of excellent quality, and that due diligence has been given to the arrangement of their pastures. Of the twelve crofts that immediately surround the Abbey's wall, one-third have been left to fallow while barley, wheat, and vegetables occupy the remainder. Orchards of apple and pear, plus an extensive vineyard, have all been impeccably tended.

Meanwhile Brysen finds some of the information he seeks within the stables. There a dozen oxen, at least forty goats, and many hogs are kept. The stablemaster explains that their foodstuffs, and especially their drink, are the monks' greatest exports, trade in return for smithing and other labors which cannot be managed by the Abbey alone. He claims they produce written works secondarily, providing manuscripts and records upon demand. Furthermore, he states that the entirety of their harvest is milled at Gristing - "As are the grains of nearly all the Fringe, your grace." He directs you back to the Abbot should you wish to know more.

The afternoon passes lazily in this way, until you hear the final bell tolling for supper. The weather has inspired an outdoor meal, and you return to find rows of tables being lain in the garden. Above the clattering of the crowd, you hear your names being called - Lord Crofte and the Abbot beside him are seated at a round table, beckoning you to join them. You are offered an aperitif of spiced wine, of which your dining partners are currently enjoying.

"My dear fellows, are you well? I feel as though I have said not a word to each of you all day long!" gushes Lord Crofte, genuine concern showing in his voice. "I was just speaking with this good friar, who tells me you are all smart as whips - all ready to drive straight for business. Surely there is time enough to smell the roses? This wine makes me feel as though I am back home!"

[Henry the 57th]

After a lazy afternoon revealed nothing of great interest and no heretical conspiracies, the young nobleman shows up for supper in a markedly improved mood. Adalric accepts the spiced wine graciously. "No one like roses better than I my good Lord Crofte." he takes a sip of the wine, silently comparing it to the vintages back home and tasting the similarities. "And I cannot speak for my companions. But as for myself, I would not leave my Estate alone for too long. There are roses enough for me there, I think." Adalric sighs a little and takes another drink. "But I'm sure you don't want me to bring down your cheer with homesickness, so by all means let's hear about the roses. I'm eager to hear tales of beauty and joy, they might just take my mind off the saddle sores." He smiles a little self-depreciatingly.

[The Void Dragon]

Faust joins the table, a pleasant grin on his face. "To be honest, Lord Crofte, I haven't done anything but 'smell the roses' since we've arrived. It's nice to be surrounded by Wit's ordered growth after having spent so much time in the wilderness, myself. I could stand to hear some more." After some more casual conversation with Lord Crofte, Faust turns to the Abbott; "Good Abbot Caleah, would you mind if I attended one of your services tomorrow? It has been some time since I last heard a proper sermon, even if you don't include the Prophet in your teachings." The grin becomes a little more awkward at that realization.

[Boethius Junior]

Lord Crofte chuckles at Adalric's quip, gently teasing: "You should have joined me in the wagons, my lord. A much more pleasant way to journey, I've always thought." He pauses to take a deep draught from his glass, then holds it aloft to inspect the drink within. "Perhaps not a rose," he sighs, "but a very fine specimen all the same." The talk becomes plain for a short while thereafter; conversation civil yet utterly inane. The dinner procession bring welcome relief to the formality. While your men are served hardy stew and bread, the Abbey has prepared pickled game-hen, marmalade, and savory custards for your table - along with more of their wine.

When Faust addresses the Abbot, he is stricken by a visible unease. "The Prophet, eh? Yet does Wit teach charity. You shall allow your presence among the enclave at Prote, though I do ask you remain quiet during song."

[Tentreto]

Iald gives a very slight bow of defference to Lord Croft. "The way it seems for me, as long as we are in a garden, we are able to do both at once." With that said, he takes a sip of wine, and sits down.

[atlastrembles]

Meanwhile Brysen finds some of the information he seeks within the stables. There a dozen oxen, at least forty goats, and many hogs are kept. The stablemaster explains that their foodstuffs, and especially their drink, are the monks' greatest exports, trade in return for smithing and other labors which cannot be managed by the Abbey alone. He claims they produce written works secondarily, providing manuscripts and records upon demand. Furthermore, he states that the entirety of their harvest is milled at Gristing - "As are the grains of nearly all the Fringe, your grace." He directs you back to the Abbot should you wish to know more.

Brysen makes a mental note of the inventory and the circular trade relationship between the Abbey and Gristing. Nothing surprising in the flow of agricultural goods in return for raw materials and skilled labour. However, his interest is piqued about the Abbey's services around manuscripts and records on demand. He would dearly love to know more about the kind of writing coming out of such a unique place, perhaps there was a market for such specialty goods back in the League proper. Nobles and the other educated classes were always eager for novelty and the work of a fringe monastery in a dangerous and unexplored corner of the Wuvd would be novel indeed! He thanks the stablemaster and flips him a coin for his trouble; as always, an investment that might pay off in the future.


The afternoon passes lazily in this way, until you hear the final bell tolling for supper. The weather has inspired an outdoor meal, and you return to find rows of tables being lain in the garden. Above the clattering of the crowd, you hear your names being called - Lord Crofte and the Abbot beside him are seated at a round table, beckoning you to join them. You are offered an aperitif of spiced wine, of which your dining partners are currently enjoying.

"My dear fellows, are you well? I feel as though I have said not a word to each of you all day long!" gushes Lord Crofte, genuine concern showing in his voice. "I was just speaking with this good friar, who tells me you are all smart as whips - all ready to drive straight for business. Surely there is time enough to smell the roses? This wine makes me feel as though I am back home!"

Very well indeed Lord Crofte! We have been occupied exploring the Abbey and its bounty, which you have so astutely begun to sample while we laggards have naught to show but dusty boots and sweaty tunics! The time is absolutely right to be smelling the roses, and this wine I dare say! Brysen appreciatively takes a sniff and then a deep drink from his spiced wine. He savours the rich taste - so much more nuanced than the burning grog he had grown up drinking on the Auth. As they eat, he turns to address both the Abbot and Lord Crofte So, my Lord, Abbot, I am surprised Lord Mull was not present to greet us in Gristing. Surely all is well with him?

[Boethius Junior]

If Faust's request fouled the Abbot's mood, the atmosphere surely fares no better as Brysen diverts the topic to Lord Mull. In fact, the talkative Abbot seems nearly at a lose for words; making several false starts before finally clearing his throat and beginning once again. "We have...much to owe Lord Mull, and I mean that truly. Yet the others, and Wit forgive me for saying so, do not share my opinion - they consider him the most feeble of their number. I admit he has his flaws, as can be seen by his treatment of your graces..." Here becomes firm: "Nonetheless, his knowledge of quarrying and milling is invaluable to the Fringe."

[The Void Dragon]

Faust tips his glass towards Abbot Caleah, saying"Food and shelter often are. Still, could you tell us the nature of his troubles? It wouldn't do to look shocked upon meeting him at the summit; better to clear any surprises now." He then tilts the glass back into his mouth, clearly enjoying the vintage.

[Henry the 57th]

"Yes," Adalric agrees, holding his wine delicately between three fingers but no longer drinking. "Since the nature of our enterprise will entail serious labor, let us get it all in the open before we're all too inebriated to understand it properly." He smiles slightly. "What do you know of Lord Mull? And for that matter, the other Lords we are to meet with? It is always better to be prepared."

[Kessler]

Krasimir shows a good appetite at the table, minding his manners and speaking few words, so as not to commit a faux pas. Eventually he asks Abbot about geography of Fringe of Bas. “From the maps I’ve studied before our departure, the land seems to be split in the middle by mountains. One must cross Affers Bridge and what I assume to be a mountain pass to cross from Gristing to the towns north. Or go around them to Udwold or fork in the road at Stathis Crossing. Do you know, how is travel in Fringes of Bas? Are roads safe and passable in all seasons?”

[Boethius Junior]

Abbot Caleah frowns, his aggravation at odds with his usually blithe demeanor. "I cannot break the sanctity of confession, your graces - I have been entrusted by Lord Mull to keep my word, a confidence that has been endowed by Wit. What I can tell you is that his lordship in Gristing is the only man to whom the mysteries of stone-carving have been so thoroughly unraveled. He is a miller par excellence, and there are none beside throughout the whole Fringe. All who grow must pay for his services, or tender crops that do not need them."

Here he turns to answer Krasimir's call: "You are correct sir - the pass of which you speak is named Lilde's Slip, which links Unwald to Affers' Bridge, and is the gate to Gristing in the east. Unless one wishes to pay the tolls of Wodengard, that is. Lord Shawe rules there; he possesses the greatest strength of arms among the lordship, and would not have them forget it - though his parcel of land is least among them. His charter was granted with the belief that the south was needing of combat with axe and fire, to rid us of wicked forests. Toady, this battle has long been won."

"Thus access of Udwald and Scawic to trade with the Fringe's southern bound has been stifled by distance and cost. I can tell you this: Lords Zarboch and Croom, respectively, do not take kindly to their treatment of late." He sighs, and slumps back in his seat. "Yet am I merely a servant of god - I know not how to address these matters."

[Tentreto]

Iald has been enjoying the wine and food greatly while the others had begun asking the Abbot. Finishing a mouthful he chimes in: "That reminds me, where are the trades dispersed? If Lord Mull knows of Stone-carving, do other Lords have such singular knowledge of trades?"

[Kessler]

“A dispute over tolls and trade is seldom an easy affair.” Krasimir glances at his companions as he sips wine, enjoying it's taste. "Well, if this wine flows freely at the summit, we may find a way to understanding and common ground, that much easier." He smiles at Lord Crofte and Abbot.

Krasimir continues conversation “I’m heartened to hear that wildness has been tamed in the south of Fringe, for nothing is more beautiful, then land civilized with love and care.“ Still, he certainly would wish to ascertain whether land is truly tamed with his own eyes. “What of the folk? Are children plentiful and healthy? Are there many men arriving to find their fortune here?”

[Boethius Junior]

The Abbot continues to fidget and stumble through his answers, as though taken by a sudden weariness. "The nobles are not themselves of singular purpose, though their charters have all been signed thusly. Their mottos tell as much - the House of Tawic, 'Astride Thy Fury'. You see? Someone surely had a laugh at that." Lord Crofte chuckles softly at the remark.

"As for fortune and family, we have our plenty. Near to the Abbey you will find few who are wanting; you see how the lords' generosity has built this house for Wit. Those who lack are well cared for."

[atlastrembles]

The Abbot continues to fidget and stumble through his answers, as though taken by a sudden weariness. "The nobles are not themselves of singular purpose, though their charters have all been signed thusly. Their mottos tell as much - the House of Tawic, 'Astride Thy Fury'. You see? Someone surely had a laugh at that." Lord Crofte chuckles softly at the remark.

"As for fortune and family, we have our plenty. Near to the Abbey you will find few who are wanting; you see how the lords' generosity has built this house for Wit. Those who lack are well cared for."

We don't doubt it, Abbot, for the truth of your words is in the very wine and food we enjoy tonight. Yet it is all too clear that among the Lords, pride comes before cooperation all too often. Wit would have us all strive for our own elevation, yet storms and shadows wash over us all, rich and poor alike. We must weather such tribulations together, rather than apart, for their are dissonant forces in the wilds that threaten our Harmony.

Brysen turns to his fellows with a pointed look and clears his throat diplomatically. But come, comrades, our thirst for gossip and intrigue after many days on the road threatens the conviviality of this gathering. Let us enjoy our food and wine and the blessing of company and pester not the Abbot further. We test his grace with such questions. A toast, to Wit, the Abbot, and the wonder that is Dom Doren in the Fringe. Brysen holds up his wineglass and toasts the host.

[Boethius Junior]

"Hear hear!" Lord Crofte exclaims, and downs his glass. The Abbot proffers a less vigorous response; slowly climbing to his feet to give a curt bow. "Your graces must excuse me - I need speak with the Cantors to discuss preparations for the summit. Unless there is any further assistance that I might provide?"

[atlastrembles]

"Hear hear!" Lord Crofte exclaims, and downs his glass. The Abbot proffers a less vigorous response; slowly climbing to his feet to give a curt bow. "Your graces must excuse me - I need speak with the Cantors to discuss preparations for the summit. Unless there is any further assistance that I might provide?"

Brysen toasts as well, taking a sip of his wine. He puts the cup down and adopts a look of concern on his face. Must you so soon? Well needs must of course and the summit is important, a chance for the Fringe and for Wit, if only we can seize the opportunity and work together for the greater good.

Brysen stands and returns the bow, It was a pleasure, Abbot. Until tomorrow.

[Henry the 57th]

"My good Abbot," Adalric says slowly, taking a sip of wine. "I don't relish the idea of discomfiting my brothers in the faith, but I feel that I must remind you that the seal of confession is not a reason to keep secrets from those who truly need to know. I give you my word as a man raised in the church, it is important for the good of this land and the spread of Wit's faith within it that we are made aware of as much as possible of the condition of these lands." He pauses a moment to let the chubby man mull it over, draining the last of his glass as he does. "Now, before you go, is there anything you would like to tell me?"

[atlastrembles]

"My good Abbot," Adalric says slowly, taking a sip of wine. "I don't relish the idea of discomfiting my brothers in the faith, but I feel that I must remind you that the seal of confession is not a reason to keep secrets from those who truly need to know. I give you my word as a man raised in the church, it is important for the good of this land and the spread of Wit's faith within it that we are made aware of as much as possible of the condition of these lands." He pauses a moment to let the chubby man mull it over, draining the last of his glass as he does. "Now, before you go, is there anything you would like to tell me?"

Brysen regards Adalric neutrally, waiting at first to see where he was going with this pious line of reasoning. His instincts for information gathering are on high alert as he gets the inkling of what his new companion is up to. He chimes in, We have a saying among the Pug, 'damming the river floods the village'. We might mean well, but there may be unintended consequences to our stopping up of the flow, whether it be water, coin, or...information.

[Boethius Junior]

The Abbot pauses, unwilling to meet your gaze in the pregnant silence. Finally he speaks: "Yes...I suppose you are right, good sir. I will tell you all, but not here. Come with me; I will take you to the sanctum." He shuffles toward the cloister, revealing a smaller entrance hidden from plain view. Producing a key from within his vestments, he unlocks the door; you hear the dull clack of latches moving out of sight, and are greeted by a waft of cold air from within.

A short flight of stairs leads you down into a cool but expansive chamber, dimly lit by flickering braziers. The Abbot claims one to light your way. "These are our cellars," he explains, leading past racks of oaken barrels and stuffed larders. In the gloom you catch sight of the ever-present monks, seemingly going about their business within. Eventually you arrive to another wooden portal deep among the cellarage, barred with iron and similarly locked - the Abbot unseals the way, illuminating within. You enter a humble place of worship, furnished only with kneeling-benches; all directed towards the icon of Wit which dominates the far wall. Shelves fill the remaining space, stuffed with manuscripts, treatises, and leather-bound volumes.

"Our sanctum has been built to withstand the assault by both men and of fire; all our most precious documents are stored here within. They represent the accumulated knowledge of all the Fringe's flora; all that we have so carefully tended above. We also keep our most precious copies of The Dictate, lovingly conserved - gifts from the One Basilica upon our founding. Yet there is more beside." With utmost care he retrieves a delicate scrip, upon which you can see unmistakably the seal of the Order of Criers.

"This document was entrusted to our care by Lord Mull himself - daring not to keep it in his own house. Read this, and you will see his worries in full, and why he fears your coming, and especially the others." He bids you read the brief message:


Lord Helwy Mull,
Time shall arise when the League can no longer refuse our due recognition. Know this: they shall press a crown upon this blasted coast, an icon we would see upon your brow.
This is our charge - you shall bear this prize.


I am assuming you all move together, as the Abbot does not refuse any of your number - he knows what station you all hold.

[The Void Dragon]

Faust gives an approving nod when the sanctum is shown; upon reading the missive, he frowns. Holding a hand to his chin, Faust ponders who these mysterious backers might be, and wonders aloud: "Why would this make Lord Mull so concerned with seeing us? If the evidence of some shadowy faction backing him was here, in this sanctum, then why not simply welcome us as others do, and just not mention the situation?" Then, a flash of inspiration lights up in Faust's eyes, his hand leaving his chin and pointing to his comrades as he explains. "Maybe he wasn't worried about us finding out, but of his backers realizing that we found things out. He might be watched by these strange benefactors. Or, he might just be terrible at keeping secrets." Upon realizing the simpler explanation, Dominik lowers his hands back to his sides.

[Henry the 57th]

"You have my thanks for bringing this our attention, Abbot." Adalric says as he looks over the scroll carefully, trying to think of whether he might have seen any similar handwriting before. "You did the right thing. If there is some hidden faction that wishes to apply pressure to Lord Mull, it is good that we are aware of it." He scrutinizes the letter as best he is able, digging mentally through the countless works he has read to see if anything stands out.

[Tentreto]

Immediately, Iald looks over the seal, although it was a small chance at best it was forged. It was not.
"This message is genuine," he half announces, still slightly in shock. "A Chamberlin approved this, one who has some knowledge of the Fringe, or is representing it. But why.." he stammers for a second, "why would any Chamber want a King? Why would the League approve a crown?"

[Kessler]

“If you would excuse me. I’m weary from travel and sated with good food of the Abbey. I shall withdraw to my room, to rest for morrows toils.” Krasimir excuses himself, to retreat to the room prepared for him. He reads his tome “Plants of Wüvd”, before falling asleep.

[atlastrembles]

"This document was entrusted to our care by Lord Mull himself - daring not to keep it in his own house. Read this, and you will see his worries in full, and why he fears your coming, and especially the others." He bids you read the brief message:


Lord Helwy Mull,
Time shall arise when the League can no longer refuse our due recognition. Know this: they shall press a crown upon this blasted coast, an icon we would see upon your brow.
This is our charge - you shall bear this prize.


Brysen's right eyebrow twitches upward in curiousity, then unfeigned surprise. This is worrisome...and interesting. he thinks to himself as he considers the range of possible benefactors who could be pushing this agenda. He muses out loud in response to his colleagues, schemes within schemes wheeling through his head.

It's clear that Lord Mull was uneasy about the missive, entrusting it as he did to the Lord Abbot. And right he was, this talk of crowns and prizes. The Fringe is certainly seen as an opportunity for the League, but the Shambryfolk are no serfs and recognize no king, so some of this must certainly be rhetoric. But in any case, what this shows - and what should be of primary concern - is that first, there are those in the Fringe who see themselves as powerful enough to bestow a crown in the first place and, second, that Lord Mull agrees that they have this power. He is concerned enough to fear for the message's very existence.

To the Abbot, he asks, Lord Abbot, please, is there any more information you can give us about who delivered this to Lord Mull? Anything you can tell us about would-be kingmakers in the Fringe?

[Boethius Junior]

"Your graces' minds are indeed sharp; all this and more is implied by the scrip," the Abbot whispers, despite the sealed and locked door. "Lord Mull presumed they intended to name a regional power - ascending one House to govern over the rest, and that worried him enough. Recall all that I have said of tensions among the nobles! Should one be positioned above the rest, especially that of Gristing whom the others' resent, there will surely be open and armed conflict."

"But silence is key! Lord Mull knew not who propositioned this envoy; neither its backer nor whose hand signed it. Thus it came to me. Do not speak of it beyond this chamber, lest rumor begin to fly."

[Tentreto]

Iald turns to the abbot quickly. "Do not worry, I feel as you do about the gravity of this message. The fact that Lord Mull trusted you with this is trust enough, when he had no need to otherwise."

Iald's head is still spinning. What plan was this? It made little sense to create a king, or even an overlord before the survery had even been completed. Not to mention that Lord Mull controls the mills, and no peasant would trust a miller.

Iald brought himself out of his stupour. "Hopefully this will not affect the summit too much," he begins, "but when I get an opportunity, I might see who the Chamberlins of the Fringe are."

After a little more talk, Iald glances upwards. "With the talk of rumour, it might be worth having an excuse for being down here. I expect half of the hands already are speculating where we are."

[The Void Dragon]

After Iald's reassurance, Faust raises his right hand to his chest, bows his head, and quietly states: "I swear to keep this missive secret, as I am far too familiar with the depths nobility can stoop to." He then raises his head slightly, glancing at his companions as a smirk creeps onto his face. "As for an excuse, Iald, isn't it obvious? After tasting the fine wine of the Abbey, we just had to visit the cellars to pick out the next vintage for sampling!"

[atlastrembles]

After Iald's reassurance, Faust raises his right hand to his chest, bows his head, and quietly states: "I swear to keep this missive secret, as I am far too familiar with the depths nobility can stoop to." He then raises his head slightly, glancing at his companions as a smirk creeps onto his face. "As for an excuse, Iald, isn't it obvious? After tasting the fine wine of the Abbey, we just had to visit the cellars to pick out the next vintage for sampling!"

Brysen laughs, hoping to ease the tension. He's not sure he succeeds, but he presses on with a touch forced good humour. Aye, let them gossip, and let us drink a few more glasses to make the mummery complete. Better to be thought of as lushes than conspirators. He looks over the paper again, committing its words to memory.

He looks back to the Abbot, Movements like these do not emerge from nothing, Lord Abbot. I know you work for the good of all, but do you have any inkling of where such an idea has taken root?

[Boethius Junior]

The Abbot laughs reassuringly at Faust's jape, though he hurries to replace the scrip upon the shelf and unlock the door. "Yes, a good excuse indeed my lord! Yet I worry all the same. Time enough has passed - we should return to the above."

As you make your way back through the cellars, the Abbot divulges on the Fringe's ranks of Criers: "Their principle lodge is located among the outskirts of Gristing, unsurprisingly. There are other holdings at each of the lords' houses, yet all journey to their central office to conduct business, and always behind closed doors. The High Chamberlain is Echther Rochus; a native of Torre I believe, though I hear he was schooled at the Holy Basilica from an early youth. Be wary of him, your graces, for surely he is the pen of whom we just spoke. He shall surely be present at the summit."

Your absence from the grounds went apparently unmissed; the last scraps of dinner are now being dutifully cleared, as the amber sun begins its final descent into the horizon. The Abbot retires for the night, as does Lord Crofte, recommending you all as well - to think on the day's revelations.

[Kessler]

In the day between the summit, Krasimir asks Abbot Caleah, if he has heard of any scholars studying mysteries of Fringe or otherwise knowledgeable persons and explorers, particularly those studying animals and herbs. Certainly if such persons exist, they would have sought services of the Abbey. He is also interested to hear about any expeditions into the wild forests, mountains or sea voyages - how much of the land remains untamed and unknown?

He also seeks out Brysen Mock. “Ser Mock. You are a merchant, you must have head for numbers.” he states bluntly. “We can use the time before summit to study the records at the Abbey, to get a sense of things.”

[atlastrembles]

As the party heads to bed after the reception, Brysen sneaks an extra bottle of wine up to his room under his cloak. Drinking from the bottle as he takes off his boots and hangs up his cloak, Brysen thinks over the night's event. Taking a deep swig, he considers his feelings. He felt more excited than frightened. There could be opportunity here, too, for one who could ride the turbulent currents. With thoughts of waves and the taste of truly excellent wine, Brysen falls asleep.

In the morning, Brysen meets with his remaining crew and passes on instructions to make friends, make themselves useful, and be sympathetic ears to the Abbey's servants, stablehands, cooks, labourers, and anyone else who'd have a carp to share. For Brysen's part, he determines to make nice with his fellows, Lord Crofte, and the Abbot, keeping his ears open in conversation and spending time in the library, eager to learn more about the Abbey's maps of the Fringe, being no slouch of a cartographer himself.


He also seeks out Brysen Mock. “Ser Mock. You are a merchant, you must have head for numbers.” he states bluntly. “We can use the time before summit to study the records at the Abbey, to get a sense of things.”

As for making nice with his fellows, Brysen puts on a friendly smile for Krasimir. Ser, no, merchant, yes, and worse names I've been called too! he laughs. I'd be happy to lend what small skill I have to look over the Abbey's stones and bones, Krasimir. Brysen also knew it was an excellent source of information for his own purposes. What had he said about opportunities, earlier, no?

When his crew report back in the evening of the next day, Brysen gives a further set of instructions, to host a small game night as a way to break the ice with his new companions and the Abbey's staff. Who knew what secrets might slip when the dice were rolled?

[Henry the 57th]

After the rather surprising yet somehow expected events of the evening, Adalric retires peacefully to his chambers after a polite round of goodnights. When he has some solitude, the Arch-Prelate opts to spend a few hours in simple prayer and meditation, as he once did as a lowly church initiate. The teachings of Wit are a perennial comfort, but the sacred music itself has always sent his soul souring as if it would burst from his body and fly to the heavens at any moment. In particular he finds the tune of Strain of the Spirit to be almost transcendence itself.

In the day leading up to the summit, the young nobleman decides to spend his time amidst the abbey's extensive collection of manuscripts. In his experience there is often a great deal to be gained by leafing through the dusty tomes of the past, and the church has ever been one of the single most reliable record keepers. If there is something that could give indication of who these unknown conspirators might be, of who would have some historical motives to want a local lord made king so badly, he means to find it. Barring that, anything that might be of use during the summit itself is his priority.

[Tentreto]

Iald walks away from the message still wondering at the implications. He had gone on survey, hoping it would at least be straightfoward, but already it was moving in dangerous ways. Despite this, he gets to sleep quickly, partly from wine, partly from fatigue.

Iald spends the next few days reviewing his memory and some of the abbey sketches of the Lords. While it was his duty to remember each individually, he also begins trying to learn some of the thoughts of each Lord from their crests, to get an idea of their temperment. It was an inprecise art at best, and as he pours over the fine details, he has a sinking feeling that it would be next to useless. Iald does help his companions where he can, although he is no scholar. He can however regale stories to others, and grab attentions to allow others to ask their questions more discretely. He can be found all around the abbey, talking and asking a few questions, though none intrusive. In particular, he stays near the gardens and stables, checking up on the horses.

One afternoon, Iald decides to clear his head and ride around the nearby lands with a single servent. He had always been at his best on horseback, and learning the land was certainly a bonus. This certainly clears his head, as well as gives him some more time to ponder what he had gotten himself into.

[The Void Dragon]

As the evening draws to a close, Faust retires to his bed, thumbing through a small prayer-book about the Prophet and his teachings, quieting his mind after some frenzied conspiracy-crafting. As the days roll on towards the summit, he attends the Abbot's sermons, and talks to members of the congregation, seeking to learn of the faith of the Fringe. When he heard about young Iald's attempt to analyze the heraldry of nobility, Faust went forth to play to the pride and rules of Noble Court, only to find that the youth had gone off riding. Such impetuousness reminded Faust of himself, though matters of the spirit kept him tied to the Abbey for the time being.

[Boethius Junior]

The records of Dom Doren are indeed thorough, extensively describing the arrivals to and departures from their halls. You are hardly surprised to learn that the majority of trade is conducted with Gristing—being geographically the closest power and furthermore the most developed power among the Fringe. Not only are raw materials moved through this region, there also appear to be a high concentration of skilled labor and the beginning of demand for luxury items. While the Abbey’s liquors are found in demand throughout all of the Fringe, especially upon the tables of landless nobles and among the wealthy, it is only in the southeast that any substantial call for writings is made. The other regions seem not to desire them.

Indeed, there is as little movement of goods or people from northwest as the Abbot implied. Udwald does not have much mention through the books; stone was once quarried there, but the opening of Olcet has beaten them into irrelevance. There is iron that is mined, but that is sourced in Wodengard as well.

Scawic in particular does not seem to produce any perishable resources that you can note – at least not any that have made their way into the Abbey’s larders. Instead they reap altogether alchemical substances: oils and tinctures the likes of which you are unfamiliar. The monks elucidate: “Their admixtures are graceless attempts at medicine, blended from whatever rot they can pull from the mire. That coast barely provides enough to fill a stomach so they seek riches elsewhere.” (see: Brysen’s cartographic findings) Few of the unctuous cocktails find their way to Dom Doren, where they are sent to the Abbey’s infirmary in hopes of proving their worth.

In response to Krasimir’s pointed questions, the Abbot informs him that Lord Croom and his folk are the only others who actively have sought deeper knowledge, though their fascination with the Smear has left their studies, “sorely lacking”. The Abbot is unwilling to provide any concrete determination of the Fringe’s settlement, claiming a lack of surety – he redirects your efforts on to the coming nobles, who “know their own lands better than I."

Idle conversation with the Abbey’s brotherhood proves at first futile for both Brysen and his crew—the monks are wholly devoted to their labors and are lack for conversation beyond. Success is eventually met however, among the smallfolk who have made the Abbey their temporary lodging. Merchants, pilgrims, mercenaries, and travelers alike compose the troupe; all alike in their desire for good company. As they cheerfully bemoan the sobriety of their lodgings, they are more than willing to share the word of the road, such as it is—among the deluge of voices, your men collect some choice morsels:


“There’re wolves ranging in the valley north of Affers’ Bridge, so I’d recommend not crossing that way ‘til they’re cleared. If you can’t last the winter then take the Grey Road—a toll is better than being served for supper! Old Zarboch’s sons love to hunt wolves anyway, so they’ll jump to it.”

“This winter will be rougher than the last, I swear it!”

“The big millstone at Cafeld broke and still hasn’t been fixed, by Wit! We can’t keep goin’ north every harvest; it’s too far and I’m too old now. Something has got to be done.”


“I heard tell Lord Shawe can quiet a mad hound with only a stare! Remember when he kilt little Jamis? I near thought the end was coming then; now look where we are.”

“Somethin’ special was pulled from the mud up in Spream that got everyone excited! The whole town threw a festival, I’m told. Wait, last week was their founding day wasn’t it? Could have been just that.”


“Lord Mull hasn’t been seen outside his manor for weeks now! My Nan says nobody lives there anyhow but the servants—Mull and his crazy daughter are hiding in the hills or somesuch.”

“I took a sip from the Lilde on my way here, and the water tasted foul.”

“This harvest looks like to be the best in years! Things keep as they are I’ll need buy myself another hand!”

“Could’ve sworn I saw lightning over the woods last night while riding. It was striking fast and quick, but there weren’t noise nor clouds neither. My horse was touched at the sight and nearly threw me off, damn thing!”

“I think the Abbot is fatter this year than the last. He is getting old, isn’t he?”


“There was a boat liked none I’ve ever seen moored at Stathes’ Crossing. It’s surely new, because it wasn’t there the last time. I wonder where it’s from.”

“There are holdings dotted between Watun and Cawold where I usually stop on my way through. This last time I saw trails of smoke that look queer and I decided to keep going. Sounds silly now that I say it, yes?”
What may be of more immediate import are Brysen’s cartographical discoveries. The Abbey is replete with sketches and diagrams of land; some aged while others appear of more modern design. Yet across them all you notice that there are bizarrely no distinct boundaries between the divisions of the Fringe—there is even a lack of any landmarks that have been laid claim to. It would seem that the titles of each lord are based entirely upon the settlements which are under their respective rule. There seem not to be any laws regarding poaching.

Furthermore, the promised coast of the Fringe leaves you greatly disappointed. All maps credited with creation in the last generation leave that border conspicuously blank. Looking back further you find that the “coast” is itself a misnomer—local belief claims there is an ocean somewhere in the beyond, but the Fringe’s west simply disintegrates into miles upon miles of tarry mud flats. This fixture is aptly named the Smear; the expanse of muck broken only by the silty outwash of the Auth-Daughter and the Lilde.

The discovery of the Fringe, and subsequent founding, occurred in an anti-clockwise manner—following the Auth-Daughter downstream until reaching the Smear, and hooking around as has been said. The earliest years were barely survivable, reminiscent of the first pilgrims landing to the Wüvd: skirmishing between settlers and Wallapug tribes enraged at the incursion awoke slumbering Thurs (trolls; grotesques Theadh-fragments, unfortunately true-breeding) who rested deep among the mountains.

After long warring the Theadh were overcome, and they loped off to their holes; returning to their never-ending sleep. From there much of the growth was as might be expected: the Thurs had kept out much of the insignificant Theadh, who dwelt in the southern forests. When Wodengard was named and the weald faced in open engagement, an arable expanse was revealed beneath. It was at this time that Scawic was named, founded to find worth in the Smear and its surrounding marshes. Finally, it seemed that there was to be some promise.

Yet the concurrent naming of Gristing and Stathes’ Crossing changed the entire face of the Fringe—the burgeoning south became no longer dependent upon passage through the northern bound, which would begin a slow descent still felt at present. There was in fact a brief military conflict between House Shawe of Wodengard and the newest nobles, though true open war never broke as pressure from the League soon ended the matter. In this conflict House Zarboch of Udwald sided with the newcomers, while Scawic refused to be involved. The following two generations would "reveal the Fringe’s bounty", according to the Abbey’s records.

It was nearing the end of this period of plenty that the dominance of Gristing as an agriculture power would become felt in full, finally putting out of competition (or by claiming) all alternatives for milling. As well, an attempted marriage between son of House Tawic and daughter of House Shawe was soured; a challenge ending in death nearly resulted in greater bloodshed. This was avoided then by the Abbey’s construction—upon an edict issued from the Holy Basilica to prove piety. The quiet has kept since then, and now the League has sent their agents: all of you.

Though he is unable to decipher too much of their significance, Iald does find exact details of the noble houses, their mottos, and their heraldry:

House Zarboch, Udwald
The oldest of the nominally landed noble families, Udwald was given charter to defend the Auth-Daughter against raiding from unfriendly Wallapugs tribes and savage Thurs roaming the northern mountains. Their motto is “Weary and Witless”; their heraldry depicts a rook gripping a stone and a yew branch in its claws. Their current patriarch is Lord Griel Zarboch. Their colors are black with yellow and white.

House Mull, Gristing
Technically the youngest among the ranked nobles, though undeniably the most successful. The rights of milling and all profits therein was granted to the family Mull, provided they ply the strength of the Lilde to forge a fertile basin of the Fringe’s south. Their motto is “A Profound Grain”; their heraldry predictably depicts a sheaf of wheat, positioned above a millstone. The punch at the stone’s center is wide however, appearing almost hollow. Their current patriarch is Lord Helwy Mull. Their colors are green and white.

House Tawic, Stathes’ Crossing
Chartered near to simultaneously with Gristing, the name Tawic is synonymous with bridges; the purpose given was quite clearly to open the Fringe to the rest of the League, and provide an avenue by which the south could become accessible. Their motto is “Astride Thy Fury”; their heraldry showing a wash crashing against stone edifice. Their current patriarch is Lord Randolf Tawic. Their colors are blue with gold.

House Shawe, Wodengard
The second oldest of the charters granted to the Fringe’s lords was to Wodengard, when the hills beyond Haywyst and Olcet were deemed impenetrable, and the southern bound was swathed in what is now the Wolf’s Briar. Conquest was the command given them; to beat back the Guallamar wildmen and overcome the wilderness—their motto is “Temper Thy Neck”; their unsubtle heraldry displays an axe held in mailed hand. Their current patriarch is Lord Baburh Shawe. Their colors are red with black and gold.

House Croom, Scawic
The uncovering of the Smear nearly saw those first charters revoked, yet there were some who believed there was some profit to be made, hidden in the quagmire. The charter of House Croom was won by direct petition by a select group of settlers, unique among their fellows as not having been appointed. Their motto is the optimistic “No Stone Unturned”; their heraldry depicts an eel curling itself into a knot. Their current patriarch is Lord Shengi Croom. Their colors are deep brown with blue.

Faust’s efforts are stymied by the apparent unwelcome word of his own beliefs have brought, yet his study is not all in vain. While the practices of the Abbey are indeed outdated by the most recent of theological conventions, they are absolute in their exactness. Their service of the canonical hours; their veneration of Wit; their diction while readings at the lectern; and so on could serve as example to the wider faith.

[Boethius Junior]

In the gardens of Dom Doren, where the air carries pleasant aromas and wind blows warm, there are lords arriving. The agents of the council have prepared for this moment, spending the previous three days scouring the Abbey for all its secrets, learning much. Still, there is an unmistakable atmosphere of ill ease; the Abbot especially seem to be unsure. Together you wait beside a table lain in the sunshine, readied with necessary documents, food and drink for the coming while.

Across the morning they arrive, one by one riding through the open gateway with parties in two. First is Lord Tawic, whom you met already; he is cheerful as he was before and willing to make comfortable talk—though it is not long before the second enters. Lord Griel Zarboch reveals himself to be tall and gaunt; built of sharp angles with sunken eyes. He dresses in heavy travelling leathers, wrapped in a thick fur cloak despite the relative warmth, and rides atop a slight grey horse. The two lords greet one another amicably, if not with overt friendship.

You are introduced by proper announcements, and Lord Zarboch glances over you all in appraisal. His voice is thin, yet hard: “You are not as I was expecting, your graces. Still, I welcome you to this our country—and pray that all is to your liking. I hear that whimpering fatman refused you hospitality. Is this true?”

[Henry the 57th]

Adalric is dressed smartly for the occasion, dressed in a rich crimson tunic embroidered with gold and a silver pendant of Wit dangling from his neck. Despite the finery, he looks mildly uncomfortable, though he's trying to hide it.

"Alas my good lord, I am afraid that it is true. Lord Mull showed us nothing in the way of hospitality." He does his best to look only mildly disapproving. "Still, I would ask that we ought not to think too harshly of the man. Wit is a god of all that noble in the human soul, after all, and as they say to forgive is divine." Adalric smiles a little. "Besides, we will probably require his cooperation at some point. Better not to hold too many grudges, I think."

[Tentreto]

Compared to Adalric, Iald is plainly dressed, wearing his heraldic tunic, in the trim of the League's colours. He has his better leather shoes on, though few would notice the difference. His feather pendant is tucked into his tunic, although the chain is still visable. He looks focused, taking notes of what each Lord is wearing, while remaining quiet.

"The country seems fine so far my Lord," Iald comments. "Although the weather has been wild, the land itself has a beauty and bounty to it."

Iald makes no attempt to comment about the 'whimpering fatman.' He already knew Lord Mull was hated, and he didn't trust himself to not antagonise either Lord.

[Boethius Junior]

Zarboch's responds to Adalric with a harsh bark of a laugh, and brushes past your company to approach the table. "I've more grudges than can be counted, your grace. Perhaps you'll hear some today - come north and you'll see bounty too." The Lord of Udwald nonchalantly takes to drink, muttering in low tones with his staff. Your attention is stolen however, as the other nobles are arriving; each announced in turn by the attendants swarming throughout.

Lord Shawe arrived on foot, and revealed himself to be a beastly man; head covered in wiry black hair with beard to match, and eyes that roam constantly. He is fitted for travel mostly but wears jack-of-plates, and bears an axe brazenly tucked through his belt. Besides the mountainous master of Wodengard Lord Croom seems small and almost disheveled, shabbily dressed in an ox-hide coat - yet he seems tightly wound, like a spring ready to burst. Though he is quite older than his peers, he moves his lean frame with an energy unfitting his age. He and his entourage arrived riding mules.

Finally comes Lord Helwy Mull, stepping down from his carriage emblazoned with the mark of his name. He is indeed fat, though not prodigiously so. He is powdered, mustache trimmed and kept; though his eyes are small piggish points and he dabs sweat from his brow continuously. His dress is handsome, the mostly lordly of among the lords; wool coat and linens affair, with golden rings upon his fingers.

The table is shortly filled and the as crowds subside to the backdrop Lord Crofte clears his throat pointedly for hush. He reads a short preamble: "We are gathered today as humble servants of Wit, in the beautiful gardens of Dom Doren, at the behest of the Grand Arch Council of the Shambry League - and all shall conduct themselves in manner befitting these lofty titles. This summit of lords has been convened for the sole purpose of beginning this most esteemed Council's inquiry into the Fringe of Bás, for whom my dear fellows and I are mere instruments. Thus shall we begin - but first, a few words if you will good friar?"

The Abbot stands at call to recite an aphorism: "Oh good Wit, mover of man, who animates us base creatures with noble ideals - oversee our work and judge us worthy of rejoining you in the thereafter. May the sound cosmic flow strongly within us: to quicken our minds and lead us unto the moral path. In your name!" There is a brief moment of silence, and then the assembly begins in earnest.

You are now given the floor: this council is yours, to ask of these lords that which you wish.

[Kessler]

Before the meeting, Krasimir speaks of borders - or rather lack of them. “It’s troubling to me, that there are no defined borders in Fringe. If farmer knows not, where his field ends and his neighbor’s begins, it will bode ill for the whole village. Yet, I fear this issue is avoided by Lords of Fringe, because it shall lead to strife and anger, were it discussed. An illness left to fester out of fear, that it will be made worse. Well, perhaps I am overthinking things.” He then offers his opinion to his companions. “I think, we should start with more neutral questions, before reaching for the more thorny ones, about trade disputes and this strange lack of borders. I shall ask them to describe their lands - perhaps their answer would reveal much not just of their domains, but also of their character.”

Krasimir sits still, waiting for Lord Crofte and then Abbot to finish speaking. He then delivers his question. “Lords of Fringe. Would you speak of your lands and their worth?”

[The Void Dragon]

Faust, in response to Krasimir, simply nods. He has long grown tired of the politics of nobility.

Lord Zarboch, when he arrives, finds Faust leaning back in a chair towards the corner of the room, clad in brown trousers and a beige tunic, one hand resting on the pommel of his blade, the other, on the arm of the chair. He gives a slight smile of approval as he appraises Lord Zarboch, seeing a man stern and disciplined.

As the other delegates file in, Lords Shawe garners another approving look, his strength and practicality self-evident. Lords Croom, Mull, and Tawic garner a more neutral expression. Remembering how the conversation with the Abbot went, however, Faust decides to hold his peace. At least, until the others have established more congenial relations.

[Boethius Junior]

"Wealthy is their worth your grace!" The first to speak is Croom, whose exuberance clashes with the dour demeanor worn by the others. "The coast brims with life, should one know where to look - all manner of creeping things secrete themselves beneath the flats. And such birds there are; storks and striders like seen nowhere else-"

Tawic quiets the older man, clapping a hand to his shoulder and chiding: "I think that is not quite what he meant, my friend." To the rest, he speaks more directly. "I can tell you that the Crossing is hale; we are exhaustive in our harvests and judicious with our stores. Trade is plentiful from without the Fringe as within. Of late our troubles are blessedly minor: the odd unruly foreigner may start a brawl, or we may lose the scant patch to an early frost - but this is rare. We are of good health and stoic spirit!"

"The same can be said of Udwald," follows Zarboch, and Lord Mull nods profusely in agreement.

Only Shawe is undaunted, his arms crossed beneath a scowl: "I might tell you the sum of my coffers," he gravels, "or how many men I could arm; or even whether my roads are safe to travel, for they are. But I think that is not what you ask. No - I think you ask us judge ourselves. That is a charge I cannot decide for you."

[Henry the 57th]

Adalric, for the moment, seems to be holding his peace. For all his finery he still isn't entirely comfortable in these gathering of the rich and powerful. So it goes for a short while, as he tries to get handle on who is and who might be trustworthy. Or worth talking to in the first place.

"My good lords," he eventually speaks up. "I hope your journeys here were not unduly difficult, and that adequate hospitality was shown to all." He gives Lord Mull a brief sideways glance before continuing. "But now that you are all gathered here, I would know: what is it that vexes these lands? For in my experience, there is always something. Better for us all, I think, if any difficulties we face be out in the open."

[Boethius Junior]

An uncomfortable pause follows Lord Shawe's outburst, bringing brief quiet until Adalric probes them once more. Mull shifts, squirming uncomfortably in his seat. The Master of Udwald speaks:

"Troubles? Though I dare not speak on behalf of my fellow lords, I can assure your grace that Udwald is utterly untroubled." Zarboch grins wolfishly, leaning forward to rest his chin upon knotted hands. "Mayhaps you should come and visit my humble home; you will appreciate true hospitality there."

[Kessler]

Krasimir ponders the answers, taking Lord Shawe's response with calm detachment. He lets Lord Adalric answer the invitation to Lord Zabroch's offer of hospitality, before proceeding to ask each Lord individual questions:

“Lord Croom, how far westward have your men ventured?”

“What goods of note does Udwald produce, Lord Zabroch?”

“Lord Tawic, can you tell more of foreigners who visit the Crossing?”

“Lord Shawe, what is your ambition for the future development of Wodengard?”

[Boethius Junior]

The nobles reply to Krasimir each in turn, with varying degrees of intensity.

Croom makes no effort to hide his eagerness to discuss the topic, climbing to his feet and shuffling haphazardly among the papers scattered across the table. "Aha, I am very glad you asked, your grace! A map, has anyone a map? Are there are mariners among our number?" He glances throughout the party, eventually settling his gaze on Brysen, to whom he then seems to speak directly. "You are an Auth-trader, yes? That is what I have been told - well, surely you have ever been grounded upon a muddy bank? How the silt seems inescapable for even the most doughty vessel? The Smear is much like this; oily muck stretching far into the horizon, farther than the eye can see. After many years we have fashioned particular crafts that can carve their way atop the mire. Thus we sluice our way towards the sunset." Hoisting pen he marks three small scratches upon the map, each beyond the murky westward coast. "Here is the extent of our forays to date - three islands of firmament hidden deep in the mire. We have not explored them fully yet, but it is my pleasure to announce to this council that the men of Scawic have begun colonization efforts therein!

Zarboch's smile is lost by Croom's triumphant conclusion. "A fine a time as any to play your hand, my Lord of Scawic. I never would have guessed your strenuous," he coughs dryly, "efforts might bear fruit. My congratulations. I myself lack anything quite so rousing to report - Udwald exports iron ore, mostly, plus hardwoods and furs. What else I can confidently state, is that we produce the finest warriors across all the Fringe."

"The cold hills of Udwald produce fine, brave men, my lord - but they cannot compare to the stout lads of the Crossing, ha ha!" Tawic's laugh seems to your ears strained. "But that must be decided upon the tournament's floor - there will be time enough for that come the spring. To your question, your grace, there is little to report. The majority of traffic across our bridge is from nearby estates, such as your grace's home of Torre. There are some Chauns, especially pilgrims, but they are a rare sight. Moreso still are the Braven Men: those few who cross my threshold are lone warriors out seeking glory. They attempt to claim roadways for Pas d'armes or other such contests, and thus we must set them straight.

Lord Shawe speaks last, staring intently at Krasimir as he speaks levelly: "My only desire is to see Wodengard endure, your grace, and I shall do all in my power to ensure just that."

[Henry the 57th]

Adalric does his best to look grateful but noncommittal in the face of Lord Zarboch's offer of hospitality. "If time and duty permit, I should like to visit your estate whenever you would have us. Is there any particular time that you might prefer?" he says politely.

[Boethius Junior]

Zarboch's smile returns at the Lord of Wodengard's stiffness. He almost smirks his reply: "The time is of your choosing, your grace. My sons and I would be glad to welcome your entire company soon as this dreary council ends. Surely this Abbey has begun to tire you - and if the locals are so committed to unkindness, I expect you would grasp at the opportunity."

Iald, who has been carefully tracking the nobles' gestures, finds all of them ill at ease except this most talkative member. The rest bear their caution uniquely; Tawic obviously feigns mirth, while Shawe is combative. Croom seems oblivious to your eye, while Mull cannot restrain his discomfort.

In the distance, thunder rolls softly.

[Kessler]

Krasimir seems to catch some of the tension, his fingers begin to quietly drum, a gesture he seems to be unaware of.

“So, how are the martial threats to the Fringe - Wallapugs and Thurs? And the efforts to make forests of Fringe safe in Wodengard?” Krasimir addresses Lords Zabroch and Schawe. “How tame and safe is the land nowadays?”

“It would be interesting to see these islands, Lord Croom.” he replies to the Lord’s story of discovery.

“Lord Tawic, where will spring tournament be held? And can you explain in more detail, what draws Brazen men to the Fringe?”

[Boethius Junior]

"The roads are safe enough, especially through Wodengard - though the smallfolk rankle at my tolls, they dare not complain at the guards who ensure the paths remain secured. Once, the whole south was swathed in ancient forest, thought to be impenetrable. My ancestors proved otherwise." Lord Shawe speaks matter-of-factly, shrugging his shoulders.

Zarboch follows: "Indeed, though it is wise to not travel alone if it can be helped. Wolves, bandits, and the like are not uncommon occurrences." Shawe scoffs, which goes ignored. "We need not worry of the Pugs; they are trading partners any longer - and not a single Thur has been sighted in the valley for near thirty years. They are gone by now, rest assure."

Mention of the hated Theadh brings a stillness to the company, which is awkwardly broken by a laugh from Tawic. "If the tournament has your interest lad, you would do well to attend! The location moves between the homes of these lords before you, the next being held at Udwald actually. Thinking of trying your hand? Everyman is welcome!" He sobers: "As for the Brazen Men - who can say? They are an odd folk. I think their moor touches the minds, to tell the truth. Nothing good about that much open space."

[The Void Dragon]

At this point, Faust leans in, interest evident on his face, and confidence in his smirk. "A good tournament always peaks my interest, Lord Tawic. Almost as much as your talk of Pas d'armes. Tell me, how do you set the Brazen Men straight on the matter?" Faust will then turn his attention to Zarboch. "I must also thank you for your invitation, Lord Zarboche, as I have heard two things about your lands; that wolves are ranging through your northern valley, and that if I don't hurry, your sons will have done all the hunting themselves! Still the fact that you speak of wolves and bandits brings up a concern of mine: chiefly, I ask all of you, why does the Abbey have no gate for its walls? Come winter, those wolves and bandits will be quite hungry, and the abbey is a veritable larder for them to pilfer."

[Tentreto]

Iald gives out a sign and nods when Lord Tawic mentions the Braven men. Skinflints and untrustworthy as far as he saw them. Beside that, at least the Lords were attempting to strike up conversation, despite their unease. Except for Lord Shawe, who had said next to nothing about his holdings. Iald decides now is as good a time as any to ask his own questions:

"How well do messangers and couriers travel in these lands?"

[Boethius Junior]

"By force, if we must - though I prefer it never come to that." Tawic speaks gravely. "I take no pleasure in drawing blood, but I cannot allow foreign interlopers to harass my countrymen. Especially when their cause is so couched in greedy glory." The mood does not last, and soon the nobleman is back to his exuberant self: "You are an eager man, I can tell. If your grace would rid me of such troubles, I would surely sleep more peaceably, ha ha!"

Zarboch shares the cheeriness: "Aye, your graces' aid would be most welcome, though I fear my sons will have driven down the curs upon our return. They are quite the capricious pair of lads, those two. As for the Abbey, think on its location, ser - it has been constructed centrally with purposeful intent. There are no dangers here among the civilized quarters of the Fringe. Is that not true, Lord Mull?" The heavyset man again nods in profuse agreement, sweat pouring from his brow - an omen of the coming deluge should the skies continue to threaten. You note that the Lord of Gristing has become labored in his breathing; producing a slight wheezing with every draw. He clears his throat and gulps more wine in the interim.

Shawe takes the opportunity to answer Iald, though he does so with his typical brusqueness. "Messengers, be they of the Criers or council-appointed, must pay my tolls - as do all others. In doing so they enjoy all the due protections of my rule - as do all others. My law has no exceptions, thusly I can guarantee the safety of all right and proper travelers."

[Henry the 57th]

"May I ask what your toll is, then, my lord?" Adalric asks with a raised eyebrow.

[Boethius Junior]

"The official price is two Shale, though few carry spare coinage these days," answers Shawe. "I will claim an equivalence in goods, materials, tools, and so forth when I am forced."

A slight drizzle begins to fall, and hastily the attendant monks begin to organize the various ledgers strewn throughout. Thunder rolls once more.

[Kessler]

Krasimir adds “I have noticed, that there are no set borders here at the Fringe. Is there an unofficial understanding, which roads are patrolled by which Lord?”

“Lord Mull.” Krasimir addresses Lord of Gristing for the first time. “We’ve heard of the brave soldiers of other Lords. What of the men of Gristing?”

[Boethius Junior]

Lord Mull's wheezing has grown more pronounced, and between gasps for air he attempts to answer. His voice is jowly, yet shallow and clearly labored. "Legally speaking, the Fringe is one singular estate...and not the five that we five pretend it to be." He pauses, emptying his glass with an effort. "Martial conflict, of which surely your graces are aware, has been the sole determinant of our faux nabes. Tis all a sham! And thus no chronicler would dare to mark it."

The others bristle at his speech, Lord Shawe especially who appears visibly disgusted. The heavyset nobleman merely smiles from behind sunken, glassy eyes. The rain has now begun to intensify; fat droplets which deliquesce the earth into a sodden mess - the servants are all scurrying for cover.

Shakily the Lord of Gristing clambers to his feet: he coughs, then chokes, then sighs, and collapses to the ground.

[Tentreto]

Iald reacts quickly, standing up from the table.

"Lord Mull!" he cries, "Are you well?" As he does so, he moves over to the Lord's body, to see how he is.

[Boethius Junior]

Lightning splits the sky, yet the table-mates are transfixed. Quiet reigns among the stupefied lords of the Fringe while disarray erupts beyond: shouts of confusion overlap the trampling of men seeking cover from the sudden squall. Within the Gristing camp there come rallying cries, and the unmistakable flash of blades being drawn. Already the calls of "Murder!" and "To the lord!" are heard - they shall surely reach you soon.

Mull's passing is not pretty - Iald, and the Abbot coming close behind, are witness to his final convulsions. Strenuously he gasps for air as the color drains from his once-flush face to an icy pallor. Spittle flecks at his lips, to be replaced by an unctuous black ichor as his contortions finally cease.

[The Void Dragon]

Faust jolts upright when Lord Mull collapses, and draws his blade when he hears the cries of Mull's men. "Companions, gather your men. We must impose order before chaos engulfs this camp. Then we can have a proper inquisition on the matter." Scowling, he goes to gather his own men-at-arms.

[Kessler]

Krasimir stands shocked at the death that happened before him. Slowly his wits return. He trusts his companions to deal with the Lords and men of the slain Mull. He focuses on servants, who have served food and drink - "Gather them in one room, they must be interrogated." He tries to remember the evening - could anybody covertly tamper with food and drink? Was Mull's food poisoned in advance, during the meting or was he poisoned even before coming to the table?

[Tentreto]

Iald is beyond shocked, beyond stunned. A man he had talked to just minutes beforehand was dead before him, down in the mud and rain. The shouts of his companions rally him however, and he stands himself up. He would guess that Lord Mull had been poisoned, and he has a horrible feeling of why. Iald glances over to the Abbot next to him.

"Good Abbot, gather your people, we must ensure no more blood is shed this day." Iald says as calm as he can manage.

With that, Iald moves a few steps foward, away from the body, making his presence known as best he can to the surrounding men. "Hold!" he yells, in an attempt to forstall any rash actions.

[atlastrembles]

Brysen had been uncharacteristically quiet during the proceedings, his silence the result of a combination of decorum and subterfuge. In the former case, not being a noble he did not want to ruffle the haughty feathers of these would-be Masters of the Fringe and in the latter case, his reticence afforded him the opportunity to gauge reactions and watch body language while his more esteemed colleagues deliberated with their fellow Shambrymen. Truth be told, he wasn't overly concerned with the petty border squabbles in the Fringe. It mattered not to him which jumped-up opportunist held title, so long as trade continued. He did perk up at the mention of the exploration of the Smear and made a note to follow up with Lord Croom about said expeditions when the timing was more propitious.

His comfortable surveillance of the party is broken by Lord Mull's collapse. Instantly, Brysen is on high alert, scanning his surroundings and sending hand signals to whichever of his staff are in attendance to keep watch as well. While his companions attempt to bring order to the chaos, Brysen watches from the edges of the gentle melee, trying to pick out any signals in the noise of the noblemen cawing like a disrupted flock.

[Henry the 57th]

Adalric's eyes grow wide as saucers at Lord Mull's collapse. He wasn't quite used to or comfortable in noble functions to begin with, but to see a man he had been speaking to just seconds before collapse in front of him... well, he wasn't exactly feeling up to dealing with it. Instinctively, he clutched at the pendant around his neck, drawing strength from the idea that his god was with him. He was a man of the church, he couldn't simply do nothing.

"SILENCE!" he bellows out to the crowd in his best sermon voice. "STAND DOWN AND HOLD YOUR PEACE!

[Boethius Junior]

Thunder's deafening retort beats upon the heartbeat-drum of discord, and amidst the hurling masses there comes an answer to Gristing's challenge - a band bearing the axe of Wodengard are all to eager to stymie their advance, and the brief flash of swordplay leaves one of Mull's less a hand. There is little better to be had among the nobles, who have flung from astonishment into animus. Senselessly they bicker, levying charges yet impossible to prove; Tawic stabbing his finger at Shawe's chest with an accusation of blood.

Then, as though spoken with the voice of THROM, Lord Adalric roars for quiet - and quiet there is, save for the gushing howls of the injured. The moment of stillness is opportunity for Faust's call, and your seconds quickly take to the field at your side. Among the company Lord Crofte stands weary, hand upon his pommel but waiting yet to draw.

At the foot of the corpse the Abbot breaths heavily; Iald can tell that he may be struck by panic - yet at your calming presence he finds courage: "Yes...yes I shall gather the medics. We must prepare the funerary rites, as soon as possible..." His voice is weak, but he rushes to the medical pavilion with a purpose nonetheless. Meanwhile Krasimir wracks his mind, but at the moment you are unable to remember who specifically from among the servantry filled Mull's glass, save that you know it to be one of the monks. They alone attended to your council's needs and staffed the kitchens for your supper, while the lords' men remained outside.

The calm remains, but you can feel how feeble its hold. From among the assembly come many dark glowers, all pointed your way.

[Tentreto]

Adalric had worked a miracle stilling the tensions, and for now that was enough. Iald steps foward, his arms brought up slightly, allowing his outfit to be seen, as a reflection of who he serves. Hopefully this would calm nerves, and be a reminder to everyone of the powers invloved.

"Lord Mull is dead." Iald pronounces. "He has been poisoned by some malevolent force." He sweeps his gaze across the many faces around him. "To find his killer, we must act swiftly and orderly." Once again he sweeps the crowd, gauging their temperment, and giving time for Adalric to continue.

[Boethius Junior]

From among the combatants pushes forth a slight, bookish man with anger and worry plain upon his face, outlined in crimson from a gashed brow. He bears an arming sword, though it is lowered yet. As he speaks, you recognize his as the voice that rallied the Gristing camp. "I am Guisa, majordomo to Lord Mull," he shouts, "Disperse and grant us our lord's remains, if what you say is true!"

[The Void Dragon]

At the majordomo's demand, Faust does disperse his men - by quietly sending them to the outermost parts of the camp, with orders to apprehend anyone trying to leave. Faust himself tries to find a vantage point from which he might see any assassins fleeing under the cover of the storm. His right hand, once resting lightly upon the pommel of his blade, now tightly grasps the blade's grip.

[Kessler]

Krasimir stands, full of worry and concern. How could their mission take such tragic and dark turn right at the beginning.

[atlastrembles]

Brysen edges to the rear of the room as Guisa steps forward to confront Adalric. He whispers to his crewmen, directing them to reinforce Faust's men, catching his companion's eye and nodding his unspoken agreement and understanding.

After giving the orders, Brysen turns back to the majordomo and bows deeply.

A terrible crime has been committed, and under Wit's own roof. No more blood need be shed tonight. If - emphasising the word slightly - what my companion says is true, surely we all have an interest in confirming those suspicions. The most neutral of us are the monks and with your supervision, Majordomo, perhaps those skilled in medicine could exam Lord Mull before rites are performed as befitting his station?

[Boethius Junior]

The scattering of Faust's arms-men, and Brysen's words thereafter, puts the majordomo more at ease - such as is possible given the circumstances. Shakily he agrees, sheathing his sword and pressing forward to take his fallen master's side. He is followed by another half-dozen of Mull's guard, who position themselves to defend the corpse. Beyond the garden's center, the stalemate persists, punctuated by whimpers from the wounded.

The Abbot returns presently, a troupe of heavy-laden medics in tow, bearing the many tools of their trade. At once taking to their unhappy work - yet soon they are given pause, for upon stripping the nobleman's shirts they find a coat of mail hidden beneath.

[atlastrembles]

The scattering of Faust's arms-men, and Brysen's words thereafter, puts the majordomo more at ease - such as is possible given the circumstances. Shakily he agrees, sheathing his sword and pressing forward to take his fallen master's side. He is followed by another half-dozen of Mull's guard, who position themselves to defend the corpse. Beyond the garden's center, the stalemate persists, punctuated by whimpers from the wounded.

The Abbot returns presently, a troupe of heavy-laden medics in tow, bearing the many tools of their trade. At once taking to their unhappy work - yet soon they are given pause, for upon stripping the nobleman's shirts they find a coat of mail hidden beneath.

Brysen frowns at the revelation of the mail surcoat, but is not surprised. Turning to the Majordomo and pitching his voice loud enough to be heard by him and his companions, but not necessarily the thronging crowd of the other Lords' staff and various hangers-on, Brysen gestures to the armor A sensible precaution, but sadly ineffective at preventing choking. Why did Lord Mull believe himself in danger within these walls?

[Boethius Junior]

"It hardly matters now, does it?" sneers Lord Shawe, brushing to the fore. "His precautions were proven fruitless, and now he faces judgement eternal." He gestures to the medics, presently struggling to invigorate the flame within an iron brazier. "Soon we'll see what he left behind; what kind of man he was."

Meanwhile, Faust has followed the path you were led before, and traces his way through the monastery towards your occupied spire. The stone passageways seem emptier than before; fewer monks at their business, the hum of song replaced with the dull hammer of rain. Without delay you ascend, and having recovered your full armament surveil the grounds from above. The nobles' entourages loiter cautiously amongst themselves, as do the council servantry and Abbey's brethren, who mostly occupy the garden beyond the various camps.

[Boethius Junior]

Their flame at last stoked into a hearty glow, the lead medicae begins to heat his iron pokers and brands into a beating orange heat, readied for the rite of disposal. The others wrestle Mull's mail aside to reveal his bloated chest and their captain plunges the hot iron against his bare belly - releasing twists of foul-smelling smoke as the flesh sears. Raising their voices in song, they recite a hymnal of banishment.

Leaving them to their work, Abbot Caleah approaches your number. He speaks quietly such that none beyond the garden's center might hear: "The medics have concluded their autopsy, and thus have begun the funerary rites. They have concluded that Lord Mull was indeed poisoned by monkshood; which you may know as wolf's bane. They suspect that he was poisoned quite recently; today in all likelihood."

These practices of Disposal are utilized to forcibly draw out the Kuan after it has spawned. More "barbaric" alternatives require butchery, to seek out the worm by hand, or the burning of the whole corpse - an affront while the Kuan is still within. Experienced Cantors may utilize Harmonic Magic to kill the creature without disturbing the body, but that practice requires a level of expertise uncommonly found outside the Basilicas or major metropolitan regions.

[Kessler]

Krasimir speaks: “It is confirmed then, a murder most foul occurred before our eyes. It is our duty thus to investigate and to determine the responsible party. Lords of Fringe, will you confirm, that you will cooperate fully with our inquiry and give answer to all questions that may shine truth on this matter?” Though Krasimir phrases it as a question, his tone makes it clear, he is not expecting refusal.

Krasimir whispers to his companions “We should questions Lords and Majordomo Guisa, while they are still shaken - or not, for if the guilty is among them, he would be feigning shock, while hiding a wicked smile. Preferably separately - a public questioning risks reigniting violence. Cooks and servants as well. And the food should be secured and examined for poison.”

If no objection to this plan is offered, Krasimir will order the food to be secured, and organize questioning, starting with Majordomo Guisa.

[Boethius Junior]

The nobles return sober nods to Krasimir's request: with a few brief words to their accompaniments the tension finally breaks, and drawn blades are lain to rest. The Abbot takes charge of the clergy, ordering the staffs of the kitchen and cellars be assembled presently. "You may levy your inquiries in the nave," he directs at you, "beyond the crowds' peering eyes." Lord Crofte offers to remain outside and direct matters, to ensure an orderly procession. A runner is sent as well to alert Faust and take his place should he desire to rejoin the company within.

Before you take your leave, the medicae reach the climax of their ritual - among the noblemen Shawe alone watches, with a lusty glint to his eye. The others remain apart, beyond the reach of the burnt smog and its pungency. The hymnal rises to feverish pitch as Mull's belly pulsates beneath the scorching brand; the captain releases his iron just as the flesh ruptures up from below. At once a horrid wailing touches your ears, not unlike a newborn babe's, yet distinctly bestial - the creature squirms from where the lord's stomach was charred, compelled forth by the medics' mystic art. They seize upon it with toothed-tongs and stand triumphantly bearing their quarry.

The twisting worm is a sickly pale where nor coated in ichor, and as its progenitor is fat already; distended like a ripened fruit. "It weighs perhaps a quarter-stone," the captain appraises, "and its flesh is taut, a sign of heavy guilt - as can we see the mark of gluttony. Yet this is no extraordinary specimen; Lord Mull shall surely enjoy his seat at Wit's table, free from his earthly baseness." Though the thing continues to cries unabated, he thrusts it within the brazier's flame, where it is utterly consumed.

The rite of disposal completed, the late-lord's corpse is lain upon stretcher and finally delivered to the medical pavilion. The majordomo then acquiesces to Krasimir's request for questioning, sending four of his guard with the body. The final two he demands accompany him however, at least to stand beyond the monastery door while you speak within. Though his discomfort is plainly apparent, he seems willing to cooperate.

No Steel test necessary here - though perhaps disturbing to many, the ritual removal of sin must be done with all who pass, lest you allow the creature to grow. This was an ordinary procedure, which you have all seen before.

[atlastrembles]

Brysen watches the ritual cleansing blankly, his attention internal and elsewhere, poring over the details of the past couple of hours and trying to find any hint or sign of the party responsible for Lord Mull's assassination. When Krasimir firmly intones their plan for interrogation, Brysen stirs and nods his agreement. He also adds, as an aside to the Abbott, for his ears alone.

Dear Abbot, given the nature of Lord Mull's demise and what you showed us previously, perhaps it would be prudent to have the monks here review and assemble a guest list. It would also be useful to have them pull any natural records regarding the local flora - perhaps the provenance of the wolfsbane will give us a hint as to where the killer sourced the poison.

Turning back to the proceedings, he motions to his companions to assemble the cooks and wait staff. He could trust his staff to question the unranked servers and labourers while they focused on the Lords and their ranked retainers. Remember, he adds to his staff, we're particularly interested in anyone hired recently - after the Council was announced here at Dom Doren. I doubt the killer is on the Abbey's staff, but it would be good to eliminate the suspicion entirely.

[Boethius Junior]

The Abbot responds to Brysen with raised brow. "I shall have the records scoured as you request sir, and names divined - but monkshood grows abundantly throughout. We have some in this garden, though I cannot imagine the killer would pluck from our crop when he might do so from the abominable wood."

As the servantry move to comply with their various commands, the grounds once more jumbles with activity: cantors walk among their brethren calling names and assembling groupings of the Abbey-dwellers. In short order their ranks stand as on parade, bearing the elements stoically; though the storming's worst has since passed. From within the monastery, you can hear the shout of call and response as the rosters are counted, though the weather dulls them somewhat.

When the Abbot refers to the "abominable wood" he simply means anywhere "off the path", as it were - a figure of speech common to Shambryfolk. Wolfsbane/monkshood grows readily in low brush, especially during the rainy season, and so could be found without terrible difficulty by someone who knows what they are looking for. Krasimir would know this at once.

[Kessler]

"The first question would of course be, do you know those, who would strongly wish ill for Lord Mull." begins Krasimir. "Were there any signs of trouble for this meeting? Reasons to fear for his life? Has anybody here acted in suspisious manner, from your perspective? Did Lord Mull eat anything shortly before meeting?"

He adds "And who is going to inherit his lands?"

[Boethius Junior]

Guisa is slow to answer at first, yet as he speaks his vigor grows and his voice fills with newfound strength. "My lord was much beloved for the prosperity he brought - Gristing is the jewel of the Fringe! For which the other nobles were ever envious of. Shawe especially, damn him; his whole family ever since the estate was named." His glower deepens and he pauses, as if taken by a sudden thought. "Poisoning is unlike him; he prefers bloody duels - he is far too direct for such underhanded methods. Lord Zarboch is canny enough, yet his forefathers took to our side during the last war. I can think of no reason they might change their course, nor do I believe that Lords Tawic or Croom would betray him so.

"As for eating? Lord Mull did have much love of food and drink, but his meals were always prepared by the household staff, prior to his arriving here. Wit forgive me, but he must have been poisoned in this abbey, it is impossible otherwise!" He pales. "My lord is succeeded by Lady Cyna, his only daughter, though she has not yet been wed - the Criers may revoke the title for this, if she is not betrothed."

[atlastrembles]

Guisa is slow to answer at first, yet as he speaks his vigor grows and his voice fills with newfound strength. "My lord was much beloved for the prosperity he brought - Gristing is the jewel of the Fringe! For which the other nobles were ever envious of. Shawe especially, damn him; his whole family ever since the estate was named." His glower deepens and he pauses, as if taken by a sudden thought. "Poisoning is unlike him; he prefers bloody duels - he is far too direct for such underhanded methods. Lord Zarboch is canny enough, yet his forefathers took to our side during the last war. I can think of no reason they might change their course, nor do I believe that Lords Tawic or Croom would betray him so.

"As for eating? Lord Mull did have much love of food and drink, but his meals were always prepared by the household staff, prior to his arriving here. Wit forgive me, but he must have been poisoned in this abbey, it is impossible otherwise!" He pales. "My lord is succeeded by Lady Cyna, his only daughter, though she has not yet been wed - the Criers may revoke the title for this, if she is not betrothed."

Brysen runs his fingers through his hair and squints, tallying up the names and cross-referencing them in his mind for future reference. He perks up at the mention of Lady Cyna and follows up with his own question.

My good Majordomo, what else can you tell us about the Lady Cyna? Does she have any suitors vying for her hand? Is she old enough to wed? I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with her personage.

[Boethius Junior]

Guisa's weariness returns, but he answers Brysen's questions genuinely - at least as best you can tell. "This will be her ladyship's nineteenth winter. She is a fiery, temperamental girl, much more alike her mother than Lord Mull. Richard of the Cockerel, a petty lordling from Udwald, made an honest attempt to court her this past summer but he was harshly rebuffed. The lady has refused all her potential suitors ever since Jamis Tawic..." Once more he quiets. "Well, that is a grave tale."

[Kessler]

"A rich inheritance could be a motive, though it is of course too early to say. But what is this unpleasant tale with Jamis Tawic?" asks Krasimir.


He whispers to his companions "There is the matter of that missive to Lord Mull, from the Guild of Criers. Now this deplorable crime gives them power in the matter of succession. I wonder about their involvement in the matters of Fringe."

[atlastrembles]

"A rich inheritance could be a motive, though it is of course too early to say. But what is this unpleasant tale with Jamis Tawic?" asks Krasimir.


He whispers to his companions "There is the matter of that missive to Lord Mull, from the Guild of Criers. Now this deplorable crime gives them power in the matter of succession. I wonder about their involvement in the matters of Fringe."

Brysen nods his agreement at Krasimir's line of questioning. It is exactly what he would have asked next about House Tawic.

[Boethius Junior]

"Jamis was the eldest son of the Tawic House, who was to wed the young Lady Mull six year prior. As she had just come of age, my lords sought to unite their names." Guisa pauses briefly to sigh. "Such a sad, stupid conflict. As foreigners to the Fringe perhaps you are unaware, yet before this there had been no marriages betwixt the five major houses. Instead they would take petty, landless nobles into their families; always maintaining their own higher name.

"Thus the betrothal was unprecedented. Lords Zarboch and Croom gave their blessing, while Shawe declared the marriage an act of war - drumming up the last conflict between their forefathers. Jamis took personal insult, leveling a challenge of honor against the Shawe, and...you can surmise the result."

[atlastrembles]

"Jamis was the eldest son of the Tawic House, who was to wed the young Lady Mull six year prior. As she had just come of age, my lords sought to unite their names." Guisa pauses briefly to sigh. "Such a sad, stupid conflict. As foreigners to the Fringe perhaps you are unaware, yet before this there had been no marriages betwixt the five major houses. Instead they would take petty, landless nobles into their families; always maintaining their own higher name.

"Thus the betrothal was unprecedented. Lords Zarboch and Croom gave their blessing, while Shawe declared the marriage an act of war - drumming up the last conflict between their forefathers. Jamis took personal insult, leveling a challenge of honor against the Shawe, and...you can surmise the result."

Brysen eyes his companions sidelong. It wasn't hard to make the leap that the murder of Lord Mull could be connected to this grudge in some way. The death of a child wasn't easily forgotten. Turning to the Majordomo for confirmation of his thoughts, Brysen asks,

So would it be fair to say that the Lord Tawic bears no good feeling for either Tawic or Mull? The former for the death of his child, and the latter for being the proximate cause of Jamis' stupid death?

[Boethius Junior]

Guisa speaks slowly, obviously choosing his words carefully. "Not as such, your grace. I do not believe the House of Tawic has ever thought my lord Mull accountable for the untimely death of young Jamis - we all grieved his passing. The Shawe, on the other hand, he surely hates with all his heart."

[Kessler]

The news of bad blood between Shawe and Tawic don’t improve Krasimir’s mood. More reasons for conflict and with prize of Lord Mull’s inheritance, conflict may turn into war. The matter clearly must be dealt with, if Fringe is to be preserved.

"We shall of course speak to Lady Cyna on the subject, once she is afforded opportunity to grieve. Though unfortunately it can’t be postponed for too long. Was Lord Mull favored by Criers Guild, how likely are they to give leeway to his heiress?" Krasimir searches Guisa's expression. Was he aware of the document speaking of crowns, held in the Abbey?

"Do you know if Lord Mull planning to reveal something during this meeting? Anything upsetting to other Lords? And outside of nobility, are there any groups of importance and means, that were connected to him and his domain?"

This murder could be part of the nobility power struggle and blood feuds. Or somebody else had reasons to wish ill to Lord Mull, though that seemed less likely. The last possibility was that the aim was not Lord Mull but rather creating chaos in the Fringe. Of course all of it was just pure speculation, until facts could be uncovered.

[Boethius Junior]

"The Chamberlain, Rochus, may have cause to favor my dear lady - he is her godfather, after all. Yet her being unwed will muddle the matter, and the Chamberlain is a severe man. I assure your grace, if she is to inherit Gristing then her marriage need be finally sealed." Guisa firms and carries on. "The Criers have station only a day's ride from my Lord's manor-house, into the mountains, and they frequent our grounds.

"There are numerous petty lordlings as well, who manage the various parcels of Gristing and give leal service to his name. Houses such as Cornfed, Quawry, Trumbel, and the rest; knights who answer the millstone's banner. There are traders beside; merchants who hawk their wares all throughout the Fringe, but they are of small note." He pauses to think.

"I can tell you this as well - my lord was of mind to arrange a marriage once more for dear Cyna. Whether he was to propose the matter at this summit, I could not say, yet I do know he thought to give the eldest of Zarboch her hand."

As the majordomo finishes his thought there is slight knock at the door, followed by the cough of Lord Crofte from beyond. "We have the monks arraigned, my friends," he haruffs, "and some number cannot be accounted from the rosters, says our Abbot. All men of the cellars, you should know."

[atlastrembles]

Brysen mentally notes the further names and web of allegiances and favours that the Majordomo reveals. The Fringe is a web and swamp both. We could drown here if we are not careful. he thinks as Lord Crofte returns.

He opens the door and lets Crofte in, nodding his thanks. How many of the monks are missing and do we know who they are? Names? Houses? Access to the cellars means they had access to the wine, yes?

[Boethius Junior]

The aged knight offers a crisp salute by way of greeting, and proceeds to shake the rain from his cloak. "There are four missing altogether, my friends. The Abbot has their names listed, but there's little to note there; smallfolk, the lot of them. Most notably however, the head cellarman is among their number - who I am told personally selected today's vintage." His hand strays to the jeweled blade sheathed at his hip, and he cracks a tight smile. "I'm of mind to lead a sortie down the larder myself, if you'd care to join? Too much politicking has got my head spinning."

[The Void Dragon]

Dominick Faust had watched the purgation ritual from his perch in the tower, the burning of the Kaun bringing a slight smile to his face. It is only afterwards he realizes how long he has simply been sitting in the tower. He then rushes down the stairs to check on the secret Nave, thinking that the murderers might be after the note Lord Mull had received; either to destroy evidence of a king-making conspiracy, or to use said conspiracy's existence as a justification for their murder. At the bottom of the stairs, however, Faust remembers another inconvenient detail: the only entrance to the cellar he knows of is kept under lock and key. The duelist resolves to find another way in, affixing a stern countenance on his face and a firm grip on his blade to ensure his search for another entrance goes uninterrupted as he strides across the storm-struck grounds.

[atlastrembles]

The aged knight offers a crisp salute by way of greeting, and proceeds to shake the rain from his cloak. "There are four missing altogether, my friends. The Abbot has their names listed, but there's little to note there; smallfolk, the lot of them. Most notably however, the head cellarman is among their number - who I am told personally selected today's vintage." His hand strays to the jeweled blade sheathed at his hip, and he cracks a tight smile. "I'm of mind to lead a sortie down the larder myself, if you'd care to join? Too much politicking has got my head spinning."

Brysen suppresses a sigh of irritation. This important of a gathering and no one bothered to vet the staff? Instead, he nods his agreement and cracks his neckAye, we've been sitting still too long already. I doubt we'll get more than stories and platitudes from our vaunted nobles of the Fringe. Sometimes a head needs to crack to spill the truth.

[Kessler]

"Let us proceed to the cellars then and try to find these missing men. If they have fled the Abbey, then the storm may delay them"

Krasimir whispers to his companions, sharing his thoughts “When you do not build a door to your Abbey, is it wonder, that anybody can enter? There is a downside to the welcoming spirit. I wouldn’t presume to meddle in the ways of the Abbey, but I hope Abbot takes these lessons to heart. And perhaps so should we. We may have underestimated the danger in which our mission waded and failed to take proper precautions. Let us be on our guard in the future.”

[Boethius Junior]

Lord Crofte cracks a wide smile, much unlike the soft manners with which he has late conducted himself. "Good lads!" he crows, showily drawing his glittering broadsword. He struts forth from the nave, plunging into the eve's storming as though a man much his junior; his vivacity is infectious, and you are pulled along his wake. Even the majordomo follows stubbornly, his own guard thumbing their hilts with anticipation. At Krasimir's cautioning, Crofte chuckles and winks. "Precautions, eh? Well, I've selected us another half-dozen hardy men-at-arms to come with, though in truth I think we needn't them! We'll show these outland bumpkins how well us true Shambrymen can swing a sword."

He jabbers on as you cross the yard - here you see the monks arranged fully into rows a half-score deep, and likewise abreast. Hunched against the weather, masters stalk among their ranks, calling for names in constant affirmation of those present. Of the Fringe's noble houses, they take shelter where it can be found throughout the curtilage. You spy the wounded of Gristing tended by the same medicae that cared for Mull; you presume his corpse must be thusly secured. The Abbot hurries to meet you, though your advance does not slow for him and he trots doggedly beside.

"Your graces, as I have informed Lord Crofte the only brothers missing were all assigned the cellars, including the cellarmaster himself, Rorie." He pants for breath, face flush with newfound worry. "I sent a novice to collect them just a moment before; they will surely come soon - please your graces, I beg of you, do not be rash." Overcoming his shame, he openly pleads for your cooperation - Lord Adalric and the vaunted Herald, Iald, are given pause by the Abbot's honesty and take sudden pause. However your company cannot be deterred and you press onward, armed with directions to the cellar's principle entrance. The indecisive naysayers are left stranded, waiting uncertainly back in the sullen courtyard.

Your path forges through the kitchens: an open vault armed with tall ceiling, dressed with many tables upon which the evening meal is strewn, incomplete. The eastern wall is lined with clay ovens of an obvious Wallapug design that heat the room to an uncomfortable stuffiness, at odds with the sodden outdoors. You find the passage to the cellar set into an alcove at the mess's northern span - it is an heavy oaken affair, barred with strips of iron, but thankfully unlocked. There you reunite with Faust, who has likewise sought the underground; his hand already upon the latch.

Drawing the portal open, you are greeted by the same cool shift of settled air as before - yet there is none of the comfortable candlelight that you recall having illuminated these tunnels. Instead the stone steps descend into an uncompromising, oily blackness.

[atlastrembles]

Brysen, not wanting to put himself directly in harms way for the benefit of the nobility - and generally mistrusting of dank, dark, tight spaces - bows to hide his discomfort and urges Lord Crofte to precede him down into the basement passage.

[The Void Dragon]

Faust, with one hand gripped about his sword's hilt, eagerly tries to go first. He stops at the beginning of the descent, however, and asks, peering into the gloom: "Does anyone have a torch?"

[Boethius Junior]

For all his vim, the darksome path gives Lord Crofte pause - allowing Faust to claim the fore. A brief rifling through the kitchens produces an oil lamp with sufficient fuel to spark; the meager flame cutting a path of stony steps into view. Reaching their base, the air has noticeably chilled to a degree unlike what you recall; your breath misting in the dim light. What's more, there is a conspicuous trail of crimson droplets that begins at the stair's landing and leads through the central option of the three passages available before you: west, north, and east.

[atlastrembles]

Brysen quickly wets a finger and holds it up to the air, swiftly deducing that the air was flowing down through the central, northern, passage, precisely where the blood trail led. Brysen urges Faust forward,

Come, the trail leads north and the wind is telling me there's a path to the air through. We shouldn't tarry else or quarry escape into the night.

[The Void Dragon]

Faust, kneeling down to examine the ground, nods in agreement, having found no sign of another trail. "Agreed." Without further ado, he draws his blade and sets forth along the blood-trail.

[Boethius Junior]

Your company follows the crimson trail deeper into the cellars, which seem bleak and alien in the half-light; the passageways looming too tall for your candle to reach the joists above. Intermittently you come upon sconces that once held torches of their own, their ashes now smeared upon the stony floor - some few embers are barely alight. After perhaps a quarter-hour of fumbling through the dim, you find one of the Abbey's larders left in ruin: the alcove torn asunder as though struck by a sudden gale, and the foodstuffs within partially devoured.

Worse still, the trail of blood has culminated in a shattered corpse, lying supine among the wreckage. It too has been gnawed, and a gaping spew of ichor has opened where the man's belly once was. This horrid wound did not kill the acolyte however, for the young monk's throat has been slashed. His body is cold.

[Boethius Junior]

Even in the dim the Auth-Captain's eyes are sharp; though the body has chilled, the blood is still wet - the monk could not have been long dead. Through the mess you also spy a medallion hanging half-exposed from beneath the man's habit. Tied with rough cord, a simple wheel of smooth stone has been strung about his neck and hooks upon his right ear, as though forced upon him.

[atlastrembles]

Brysen bends closer to inspect the body. Death did not bother him per se, he had seen many bloated corpses bobbing along the Auth in his day, chewed eyeless faces staring hollowly at the sky, for such a grisly scene to do more than provoke a slightly indrawn breath of surprise.

Peering closer and noticing both the neck wound and the shredded stomach, Brysen pauses to evaluate. It's then that he notices the loop of cord and the amulet. He takes out his body dagger and carefully lifts the amulet so he can get a better look at it, mistrustful of touching it directly with his own skin.

He muses out loud. Killed by beast or weapon? That neck wound looks too neat for the rending claw, but the stomach wound suggests otherwise. And there's this amulet, does anyone recognize such a thing? The Abott and other monks will recognize this poor soul, Wit preserve him, so we should not tarry overlong here. He then glances around the room to see where the trail might have led next.

[The Void Dragon]

Killed by weapon; the cold kiss of steel across his neck, from behind by the looks of it. Such methods are common to assassins and their ilk, but the stomach wound is perplexing; perhaps the assassin is accompanied by some hound with fell taste, or else this monk produced an unusually vigorous kuan. Mayhaps I look upon that amulet?
Faust asks, reaching out his hand, eyes darting about the dim for sign of naked knives or hungering hounds.

[atlastrembles]

Brysen grunts out an acknowledgement of the confirmation of his suspicions. So a blade, and a monster. Given what we've heard this terrible night, the course is much muddier than our charts predicted. There be dragons in these waters...careful now, this symbol is not Wit's.

He hands the amulet, dangling on his knife blade by the thong, to Faust, still refusing to touch it.

[The Void Dragon]

Seeing Brysen's reticence to touch the talisman, Faust pulls out a knife of his own to take the thing off Brysen's blade, frowning as he peers at the strange medallion. You are correct, sir; this is a symbol neither of Wit nor the Prophet. This all reeks of witchery. Faust then sets the knife down, before abruptly emptying his coin purse at his feet. As he then flicks the strange medallion into the empty pouch with his knife, he states: As the only one here who enjoys the protection of both Wit and the Prophet, I shall hold this potentially tainted proof; the rest of you only enjoy half the resistance to corruption. Come, we have dallied too long. Faust then sets off to check the remainder of the cellars, especially around the hidden nave's location.

[Boethius Junior]

Brysen and Faust return from the ruined larder to find their company three shorter; upon sight of this latest corpse Guisa and his men fled back to the surface. What remains of your company is shaken, but has courage enough to press on - yet before you may start again there comes an echo through the passages. One ringing strike followed by another, and more again; as piercing as the call of hammer upon anvil. The implication is not lost upon you, and with newfound resolve you surge together as one towards your search's end.

Or you would, were not the passage occupied ahead. From beyond the lantern's reach there glow two brazen ember-eyes; their bearer's shaggy bulk obscured - melding as one with the half-light and shadow. An undulating, chuffed growl rolls forth from the thing, and upon twisted thews it shuffles forth, probing at the flame's edge.

[atlastrembles]

Brysen's heart jumps into his throat, ancient terror awakening awe and adrenaline at once. The Auth Captain casts about for a torch, an instinctive need for more light. Light that could banish the shadows and dispel the horrors that lurked in them.

[Boethius Junior]

Scrambling across the cold stone, Brysen snatches at one of the snuffed torches; still mostly intact from despite the forceful extinguishing. He rushes to alight the fixture, as the others pause dumbstruck before the oncoming threat. In the distance hammer blows continue unabated - and Faust staunchly shoulders to the fore, facing down the inhuman foe.

[Boethius Junior]

With a horrid snarl the creature lunges forth, revealing to all its hideous nature - a gnarled, barely simian thing of shaggy hair and wretched, twisted limbs. Savagely it barrels towards Faust, who accepts the charge with measured practice; deftly parrying its grasping claws and delivering a harsh riposte across its breast. Ichor spatters the floor, dissolving into ash wherever it meets the candlelight. So wounded, the kuan attempts to retreat, shuffling back towards the candle's edge and the dark beyond.

[The Void Dragon]

Faust smirks at the telling blow, but hardly could let such a blasphemous being escape; so he lunged forth, sinking sword into heart and knife into throat. He turns to the party as the corpse slumps, raising his victorious blade.
So falls the fiend. Onwards! Our men require aid!
Pointing his sword forwards, Faust rushes towards the hammering throng of battle.

[atlastrembles]

Faust smirks at the telling blow, but hardly could let such a blasphemous being escape; so he lunged forth, sinking sword into heart and knife into throat. He turns to the party as the corpse slumps, raising his victorious blade.
So falls the fiend. Onwards! Our men require aid!
Pointing his sword forwards, Faust rushes towards the hammering throng of battle.

Brysen just lifts the torch in time to see Faust strike forward. With a grim set to his face, he edges past the corpse of the Kuan and follows the swordsman from half a pace back towards the battle. He was intensely curious to examine the beast, but now was not the time.

[Boethius Junior]

The creature collapses into a mess of deformed flesh; deftly felled before able to reach its dark safety. Where the raw torchlight crosses its matted hair as you pass, wisps of acrid smoke curl and sour the air, the thing already beginning to decompose. Still, your party is undeterred, and progresses swiftly through the knotted tunnels - edging ever closer to the hammer-fells. As you rush forth they ring continually, reaching a rhythmic fever-pitch of hurried beats that crescendo with the cracking of splintered wood and sundered iron. Ahead, you find light.

Spilling forth from the stone passageways, you have once more reached the hidden sanctum revealed to you so long before. This time however, the foyer is occupied. There are four monks of the abbey, dressed in their simple sackcloth habits, that start at your arrival - poised to cross the demolished threshold. The greatest of their number, adorned with tabard indicating his position as cellar-master, wields a hefty sledge. His companions wield swords and knives; drawn and waiting. The lamp they had rested upon the floor casts long shadows, and they glower from beneath their hoods; silently turning to face your number.

[atlastrembles]

Spilling forth from the stone passageways, you have once more reached the hidden sanctum revealed to you so long before. This time however, the foyer is occupied. There are four monks of the abbey, dressed in their simple sackcloth habits, that start at your arrival - poised to cross the demolished threshold. The greatest of their number, adorned with tabard indicating his position as cellar-master, wields a hefty sledge. His companions wield swords and knives; drawn and waiting. The lamp they had rested upon the floor casts long shadows, and they glower from beneath their hoods; silently turning to face your number.

Brysen holds the torch up and steps carefully forward, close enough to appear unfazed, but far enough away to be out of range of the drawn blades. Adopting a stern yet cajoling tone, Brysen holds up his empty hand in the universal gesture of "eeasssy nooww".

Good Wit's eve to you, brothers. You've done well tonight, all things considered, but escaping into the night is just not in the currents for you. He gestures to Lord Crofte's retainers filing into the sanctum, hard-eyed and professional. Consider basic arithmetic, there are more than twice of us than there are of you. Even should you monks be as good with those blades as you are at poisoning fat old lordlings, we have all seen your faces and at least one of us will return to the Abbey unharmed. The Fringe may be vast, but the reach of Wit is vaster, as vast as the pockets of the rest of the nobles here. We already know who sent you, so your master can't fault you for surrendering now. Rest your oars, savvies, if you know what's good for you. Trust that whatever cells you end up in will be kinder than being eaten in the wilds or watching your lifeblood ebb on this here cold stone floor.

[Boethius Junior]

The lesser three conspirators share uncertain looks, judging their chances against your number. Your words seem to have convinced, as they slouch defeated and drop their blades to the floor. The leader, however, dissents - casting the hammer aside he tugs a hooked knife from his belt. Hatefully, he spits a curse your way, raising high the blade: "May you meet ruin, 'pug. Come, judgement! I denounce this flesh!" With terrible cry he plunges the dagger into his breast, twisting and rending with the last of his strength; blood spilling as a fountain.

Taken now by panic, the surrendered monks scramble from their late-master's side, meeting only your unwelcome steel. Without other means of escape they press against the passage walls, striving to distance themselves from the warm corpse.

[The Void Dragon]

Faust, as is his wont, advances as the coward's corpse falls, blades already drawn. With a scowl, Faust simply plunges his weapons into the man's belly, hoping to end the Kuan before it can truly form.

[Boethius Junior]

A thin, wailing scream answers Faust's thrusts; his point stirring the man's organs into a ruinous slurry and further smattering the villain across the floor. With some effort, whatever spawn grew beneath the surface is thoroughly destroyed. This display of necessary violence fully cows the remaining traitors, who submit themselves fully into your custody - Crofte's men wasting no time in restraining them.

Poking about the secret closure reveals its contents undisturbed; it would appear the rogues had not the opportunity to search within. Additionally, you notice unnervingly a pendant tucked about the deadman's neck, identical to what was found upon the poor soul before.

[atlastrembles]

Brysen grimaces and swallows the bile creeping up his throat as Faust plunges the sword into the cultist's - what other word was there at this point? - gut and twists. Suppressing a shudder at the sound of the aborted kaun, the Auth Trader turns to the four remaining conspirators.

Ye've got some wisdom in your sails yet, lads. Now, before we go anywhere or turn ye over to Lord Mull's household - who I assure you will not be as gentle as we - tell us what the symbol on yon Wit-cursed cellar-man's necklace means. And be quick about it!

[The Void Dragon]

"Yes," Faust proclaims with a disdainful sneer, "confess your sins, for judging by your compatriot's kuan," he punctuates with the squelch of pulling his blades from dead flesh, "they are weighty indeed."

[Boethius Junior]

The weak-willed among the conspirators tries to answer, but he is interrupted by another. "We don't know spit, foreigner - just hired swords working for coin," he mutters, inclining his head towards the corpse. "The cellarman always wore the symbol; never saw him without it. Never thought to ask neither; just some old country practice." The man cracks an ugly smile, yet sweat beads at his temple all the same. "Pushed one of 'em on slow Rory after I split his neck, I can say that much."

[The Void Dragon]

Old country practices are oft the most dangerous; especially when they seem to accelerate the growth of kuan. We have one admission of guilt and of unknowingly committing witchcraft; your sentence shall be lightened considerably for this. Do any of the rest of you wish to confess your failings?

[Boethius Junior]

The man gulps, eyes shifting between the two of you. "Witchcraft? There's been no witchcraft; least none that we've seen." His fellows nod in hurried agreement. "What kind of judge are you anyhow? I dunno anything about what the cellarman did, only that he had coin for us if we didn't mind carrying swords and offing anyone got in his way. We ain't even monks, not really - been here all of a moon waiting just 'till tonight."

At this point the man breaks, divulging an obviously ill remembered trail of events leading up to these eve: "Only man we ever met was him, who hired us on with coin - gold coin! We met just up the trail by Watun, at an old inn while he was makin' his rounds selling the Abbey's ale. Said we could make more if we joined up for a time and did as he told us. The money couldn't a been his, nobody has that much just layin' about, 'cept maybe fer the fatman Mull - but fine, we took the shale. Who wouldn't, aye?

"So tonight we all bused the cellars getting that fancy drink for the lords above, and he smeared something inside Mull's glass before it was brought to the table. It weren't hard; one monk looks same as any other in his togs so we just slipped to the green and got it in his hand. Back down below and we go running, following him to this room. Along the way we hear Rory stumble down the steps so we double back to stick him; he sticks the pendant on 'im, hissed somthin' and there we are. So if you're lookin' for blame, that dead bastard is your man!"

His speech duly finished the man pants for breath, exchanging hopeful glances between you. At your side Lord Crofte whispers in your ear: "Impossible! These fools could not have achieved so much without further aide. Perhaps further witchery is at foot than just the kuan. Either way I recommend we drag them to the light and allow the House of Mull their due. And perhaps we not mention the hideaway at the moment either, yes?"

[atlastrembles]

Brysen raises a hand, gesturing to Lord Crofte to "hold on a moment". Turning to the conspirators, Brysen follows up with a stern voice. Look, cully, no matter what happens from here on out, neither of you are wriggling out of this here net. You're caught fast and the Mull household ain't exactly in the mood for forgiveness, ken? I know you've told us all you think you know, but just a few more details for us and we can see what good words we can pass along for Wit's sake, yea?

You mentioned an inn near Watun, we'll be needing to know where that was. And is this all of your number? Anyone else hired by the cellarman for good coin? And, final question, the water's still muddy on why yer pally back there was slit ear to ear...doesn't sail right with me that you'd just leave a friend to be murdered in cold blood and still follow this Wit-cursed blighter deeper in the dark. Brysen points at the dead cellarman with this last comment.

[Boethius Junior]

Another man pipes up, seemingly the youngest of their number: "It's just we three the cellarman hired, I swear on me soul. The place was at the crossroads of Giver's Row and the Motley Trail, not a day's walk out from Watun; called the Choked Hare."

He tries to say more but is interrupted by a harsh reprisal from the original speaker, who then carries on. "Aye, that's th' place, your lordship. We was reives; swords for hire, only we'd been ejected from the services of the Shawe not before Saint Helmaer's day. We had not a crust of bread between us, so we took the monk's offer. Rory there," he inclines his head into the distance, "just got unlucky. I've no fear of saying I killed him, and I did 'cause that was the job. I'm no monk and that's not the first fool life I've taken." Pridefully he puffs his chest at this final declaration.

[atlastrembles]

Another man pipes up, seemingly the youngest of their number: "It's just we three the cellarman hired, I swear on me soul. The place was at the crossroads of Giver's Row and the Motley Trail, not a day's walk out from Watun; called the Choked Hare."

He tries to say more but is interrupted by a harsh reprisal from the original speaker, who then carries on. "Aye, that's th' place, your lordship. We was reives; swords for hire, only we'd been ejected from the services of the Shawe not before Saint Helmaer's day. We had not a crust of bread between us, so we took the monk's offer. Rory there," he inclines his head into the distance, "just got unlucky. I've no fear of saying I killed him, and I did 'cause that was the job. I'm no monk and that's not the first fool life I've taken." Pridefully he puffs his chest at this final declaration.

Brysen files away the little tidbit that the murderers were previously Shawe's men. It may not be relevant in the grand scheme of this conspiracy, but a little leverage over a nobleborn, applied correctly and in the right context, could work wonders. Giver's Row and Motley Trail, not a day from Watun. The Choked Hare, got it me little blighter. This Pug thanks you for your candour. You can row on up to the good graces of the assembled Fringe nobility now, I'm sure they're eager t'meet you. Brysen smiles a little feral smile with this last comment.

[Boethius Junior]

The surviving conspirators fall into grim silence as they are led from the cellar depths. You emerge from the clinging dark bleary-eyed to catch the last moments of a brilliant sunrise; the storm having finally broke while you were below. The gardens are amiss with inactivity as soldiers, attendants, and monks alike lounge in tense uncertainty. Word spreads like wildfire of your advent and the crowds press forth as one, eager for news of the council's discovery in the tombs below.

At their fore is the Abbot, bearing as stern a grimace his jowls might bear. "What is the meaning of this?" he all but howls at the sight of his "monks" enchained. "On what charge have you bound these men? And where is Ames, the master of the cellar? You have restrained his staff yet he is not present. What is the meaning of this?" Though his bluster continues you cannot help but see beyond to the middle distance, where the Lords of the Fringe stalk with the countenance of vultures - keenly observing how you address the hungry masses.

Elsewhere you notice Guisa and his guard, convening with the others of the Mull household staff. In the confusion those others who had, at one time, occupied seats upon your exploratory council must have found an opportune moment to flee; as they and their staff are missing from the grounds entirely.

[The Void Dragon]

Faust sneers at the Abbot, shouting so that all may hear:
Your Master of the Cellar lies dead by his own hand, too cowardly to face judgement for his crimes. These men, he states with a flourish towards the prisoners, are his accomplices. They admitted to aiding him in poisoning Lord Mull, and the slew Rory in the cellars. His flourish turns into a pointed finger at Rory's killer, Furthermore, this one unknowingly aided the practice of WITCHCRAFT, as these medallions of Ames' speed the growth of KUAN! Faust screams, shaking the bag of tainted artifacts before him. Faust then takes a moment to collect himself, allowing the heat of righteous anger to dissipate, before more calmly stating: These men, however, admitted their guilt and surrendered to us. In light of that, I ask a small clemency; the tainted one should be executed, then burned, not burned alive as a full witch. Ames' corpse should be disposed of in similar fashion The others should receive whatever punishment is fitting for the laws of this land.

[atlastrembles]

Brysen suppresses a wince as Faust lashes out in zealous anger at the assembled crowd. Not wanting to ruffle the Abbot's feathers, Brysen waits for Faust to finish before adding the following in a more diplomatic and conciliatory tone.

What my companion states in words of fire I will try to quench with words of water. There is much more at play here than the selfish workings of the perversion of Wit's teachings. Lord Abbot, you could not have known that your cellarman did indeed practice witchcraft, a fact that Lord Crofte and the other house soldiers who accompanied us below can attest. Ames' duplicity was righteously punished as Wit would have it, and his kuan terminated before it had a chance to grow. But still its shadow is long and dark, hiding the demon from your Wit-blessed sight. These other "monks" detained here are no such thing - hired swords they are, by their own admission. What punishment may be wrought is of course your, and the remaining Fringe nobility's, prerogative.

Brushing his sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes, Brysen gives a wry smile. But all of this can be worked out over a warm meal and drinks, no? Having come face to face with the demons of old down below, I dare say a drink is in order even at this early light. My staff, dear Abbot, would be more than willing to aid in the clean up and recovery efforts down below. I would also gladly accompany you and stand witness for whatever cleansing ceremony would be deemed appropriate to re-sanctify the cellar after this vile bloodshed.

[Boethius Junior]

The abbot sputters with ineffectual fury, his visage contorting into a wrathful snarl unbecoming his otherwise soft features. "How dare-" he starts, but his anger is not alone and the masses likewise burst with jeers of disbelief, calls for justice, and the like. Only that your company is armed seems to forestall a riot, as some brazen number sling threats and slurs, either unknowing or uncaring for your noble stature.

[Boethius Junior]

Brysen's words find purchase enough to still the clamor, though tension holds in the air; taut like a drawn bow. The Abbot fumes: "I cannot believe these claims; word alone is insufficient. You assert these men are complicit in the act of discordant sin? Upon what evidence? You cannot deny the convenience of the moment-"

His rant is cut short once more, this time by interjection of the lead-conspirator, who admitted his crimes to you in the deeps below. Though bound he pushes to the fore, breaking free from your man's hold, and falls to his knees before the abbot. "'Tis an unjust lie, friar," he weedles, "We've been taken the captive of foreign brigands; intent on sowing division in this holy retreat. 'Twas they who poisoned my dear lord of Gristing, and pass the blame onto us poor folk."

At his pathetic pronouncements uproar erupts - forcing your guard draw their blades to keep the bellowing horde at length. Lord Crofte thunders above the din, sword in hand, howling that these wastrels their distance lest they feel his bite. "We are the dignitaries of the High Council!" he shouts, "and shall be given our due respect! Know these crimes shall not go unpunished!" Relentlessly the crowds press forth, testing the open space for any weakness; yet there is no swordplay - like an electric shock the mood tempers at once into demure reservation as the noblemen descend.

Though their majority still distance themselves from the swelling, the Shawe strides carelessly forth. Monk and lowman alike allow his passage; him and his train approach unmolested. Affixing his ranging stare upon the groveling criminal, then the Abbot in turn, and finally your number, he addresses you. "My lord Authman, you give us leave to handle this matter? Your erstwhile comrades have fled this abbey already, leaving just you three masters. We untidy folk have methods for determining guilt. I propose a trial by ordeal - a champion to present your foreign word against my countryman's. Are you agreed?"

[The Void Dragon]

Faust answers by dismissively tossing his bag of medallions towards the Abbot, and stating with some contempt; In there you will find your cellarman's folk practice, and the copy forced upon "slow Rory's" neck. A kuan burst from him in mere minutes. Check the bodies yourself if you don't believe us; their mortal remains will back our story. Unless you posit that Rory has been harboring some great sin all this time, or that I can force a man to plunge his own knife into his heart.

[Boethius Junior]

The abbot stoops to collect the sack and draws forth the pendants. If they are at all remarkable to him, he grants you no indication - instead he passes them between his hands, inspecting all sides of the smooth stones. With a gesture he summons a pair of masters from among the abbey's higher echelons. "Assemble a sortie, and arm yourselves. Go to the cellars and confirm if the councilman's speech." With stiff bows they rush to follow his command.

By now the crowds are abated, for though the air is still tight with uncertainty the presence of nobility has cowed their rebellious hearts. Not to mention the presence of your own guard, now rallied in force, should bloodshed have arrived. In the new pause, Caleah addresses the Shawe: "I am not opposed to your request my lord, assuming you suggest a cruentation?" - to which the nobleman nods. Taking a moment to collect his thoughts, the Abbot revolves to you stating, "This is an old practice my lords, not uncommon where men of Wit lack justices who might conduct trial. If you speak the truth, and my brothers have sinned as you claim, then you have no cause to fear the ordeal. These stones..." he pauses, struggling to find words, "mean nothing to me. Or nothing that I can recall, at least. Perhaps among the libraries, more might be uncovered? You say the dead were adorned thusly?" He holds one of the pendants aloft, allowing those present a clear view.

[The Void Dragon]

Well, your cellarman was wearing that while still alive, and Rory's was supposedly forced upon him while dying. Rory's Kuan was about the size of a small bear, and I thoroughly annihilated the cellarman's before it could gnaw it's way out. Faust then leans closer to the Abbot, dropping his voice to a hissing whisper, And then there's the matter that your "brothers" were all armed and just outside the hidden alcove, its entrance demolished. I think they are not of your ilk. Faust then steps back from the fool, turning to Shawe, declaring more loudly: If the Authman agrees, I will also gladly champion our word in the eyes of Wit and the Prophet, so that there is no doubt as to what occurred this day.

[atlastrembles]

Brysen lifts a hand to stay his hot-headed companion, still hoping to fend off the further shedding of blood. Friend Faust, I have no doubts your blade would confirm our righteous cause and Wit's own truth this night. But these are holy grounds and enough has already desecrated them this night. Further bloodshed would be folly to follow folly. Abbot he turns to address their host the day has been ere long already and I would like to see my bed. Much can be discussed with cooler heads and hearts prevailing by Wit's own grace. Let us withdraw. Your brothers will find below what we confirm and your records will surely indicate that these brothers who murdered Rory and the cellarman are only recent arrivals and have no long history at this place of peace.

[Boethius Junior]

The Abbot bristles with indignation at Faust's reproach; his mouth agape, unable to muster a retort. With Brysen's diplomatic offer he finally relents, and hangs his head in mute resignation. The Lord Shawe, on the other hand, makes his disapproval known: "You misunderstand, your graces. No mere contest of arms does Wit demand, but a trial of spirit." He matches your gaze for an uncomfortable time. Finally he continues, "Yet I see you have no desire for immediate satisfaction."

With guard in tow he withdraws from the gathering, calling loudly and openly to the public: "The House of Shawe will retire to Wodengard tonight. There is nothing more to accomplished - for there is no god to be found here." Striding across the grounds he mounts the charger upon which he arrived mere hours prior, as his servants disassemble their camp and prepare for the march. If uninterrupted they shall be departed in short order.

This latest disruption breaks the ranks of peasantry into a disorganized confusion of whispers, who amble apart into loose knots of discussion. Rumor will no doubt begin to fly, yet at the moment you seem to have at last gained some measure of calm. Your captives are relieved by some trustworthy of the abbey's care, accompanied by men of your own, to be locked away until the matter can be settled.

[atlastrembles]

Brysen breathes a heavy sigh of relief, letting the truth of his feelings show in this minor expression of honesty. He was learning quickly that it was in short supply amidst the brew and skein of rumours here in the Fringe. Quickly masking himself once again, Brysen approaches his men and passes out instructions: to those guarding the prisoners, to not let them out of their sight and to keep accurate tally of who visits and what is said, however trivial; to those guarding his chambers, to keep swords loose and eyes sharp; and to those who had rested already, to fade into the background and keep a close eye on the remaining Nobles at the Abbey. What'll keep us alive here, boys, at the end of the River, is each other and more importantly information. We have sailed into dangerous waters, so we must needs build a chart, savvy?

After making sure his retinue had their instructions, Brysen approaches Faust and bows to the stranger, now blood ally in a single night. Fried Faust, I owe you and your weaponmaster a debt. Your prowess tonight was inspired. I've seen many a knife-fight and a ship battle or two, but in terms of sheer ****'s water bravery, I've never seen the like.

Wanting to deruffle his companion's feathers, he adds, And nary you mind Shawe's words. Be not the pike who seizes the offered lure, the rest in a whisper for his ears only, Forget not that the traitor monk's below were Shawe men ere they were assassins. Mayhaps they still are Shawe men....

He claps Faust on the shoulder and turns him towards their chambers, walking and talking. Do not let yourself be baited so easily. We will not win this war with only your blade and the size of your oar. We must needs be patient and choose the right moment to strike.

[The Void Dragon]

Your words speak truth, Brysen. But I had to acknowledge Shawe in some form; to ignore him invites unnecessary insult, and to outright deny his request after my fervor would invite doubt into the crowd. Hence why I left the matter to you; you're better at saying "no."

[atlastrembles]

Your words speak truth, Brysen. But I had to acknowledge Shawe in some form; to ignore him invites unnecessary insult, and to outright deny his request after my fervor would invite doubt into the crowd. Hence why I left the matter to you; you're better at saying "no."

Aye, you did need to acknowledge his challenge, and a fierce notice it was. He won't soon be drawing steel on you again. We have sailed into dangerous waters, truth, and we will need both my skill in untangling ropes and yours in cutting them when warranted. What does your martial mind suggest we do next?

[The Void Dragon]

Faust inhales sharply through his teeth, before letting out a sigh.
Truthfully, I do not rightly know. I had initially considered taking up Lord Zarboche's invitation, but the ill deeds of this night have complicated manners. There is now the issue of Mull's daughter inheriting, informing the Criers of his last words, and other sundry locations and people warranting investigation. Never mind the fact that, with our former compatriots so abruptly abandoning their task, we are looked upon as untrustworthy foreigners. Our situation can rightly be described as a mess.

[atlastrembles]

Faust inhales sharply through his teeth, before letting out a sigh.
Truthfully, I do not rightly know. I had initially considered taking up Lord Zarboche's invitation, but the ill deeds of this night have complicated manners. There is now the issue of Mull's daughter inheriting, informing the Criers of his last words, and other sundry locations and people warranting investigation. Never mind the fact that, with our former compatriots so abruptly abandoning their task, we are looked upon as untrustworthy foreigners. Our situation can rightly be described as a mess.

Untrustworthy foreigners, aye, and not just because we are not Fringe-men I'd hazard. Your consideration of Lord Zarboch's invitation is well-reasoned, I say. It's probably the least predictable thing for our little company. Perhaps he will divulge some information of use when away from the other Lords? I also do not deny the attraction of leaving these kuan-cursed grounds as early as possible for I feel the prickle of the Fringe blades at the backs of our necks already.

[The Void Dragon]

Aye, the tickling of daggers lined for one's back often proves a most expedient reason to seek new grounds. Hopefully, Zarboche can help guide us to the hands that hold them. Let us gather our men, pack up our provisions, and take up his invitation post-haste.

[Boethius Junior]

Whatever good will remained within the hallowed halls of Dom Doren had been spent by that wretched day’s end, as the ire of every man within seemed to fall upon your shoulders. Though the matter seemed settled and the eve’s true villains awaited proper justice, the public eye must have witnessed otherwise. Brysen’s council did not go unheeded; yet even his expert spies hear little, as the whole abbey seems to be struck not only dumb but mute.

For their part the noblemen of the Fringe fare little better - the loss of their cousin has left a visible weight, as had the bullish antics of the Shawe. They do not tarry after the departure of the Wodengard patriarch, the Lord Tawic being the next to withdraw. The indignance he once wore replaced with naught but an empty stare, he leaves slumped low in the saddle. Croom follows shortly thereafter, leaving only Zarboch and Guisa - the majordomo left to represent Gristing. As the grounds are nearly vacant, with guard in tow the latter slinks toward your company. “I do not rightly know what befell you in deep, but for the time I am willing to believe you,” he states plainly. “We of Gristing will remain in Dom Doren until our lord’s body has been readied for travel - such that he may be interred within the land of his name. I…regret that I was not of greater aid.”

After a pause, presumably of meekness, he continues. “The matter of succession must be addressed. I do not presume to command your graces, but your word would not be unwelcome in ensuring Lady Cyna retains the family’s station.” His part said, he bows and takes his leave.

At last the day yields way to night, and all retire from the rising moon. Paranoia sees the nightly watch doubled, tripled even, across all remaining camps yet the eve is mercifully quiet. Come the dawn and a runner reaches your door bearing word from the master of Udwald, bidding you heed his invitation and join in the journey north. Upon discussion of your plans, Lord Crofte finds your assessment agreeable. “Best to keep the locals guessing,” he harrumphs, “and not play all our cards yet. I shall remain in the abbey and conduct our business as would be expected. Perhaps we may find an ally in Zarboch? He seems yet undecided between either of the local divisions.”

With guard and provision set you meet said nobleman at the abbey gates, such as they are. The dawn is barely ended and the air crisp, without hint of the yesterday’s storming. The Lord of Udwald greets you with a wolfish grin you are fast coming to recognize. “A wise decision, your graces, to heed my call. You shall soon find that us northmen know how best to wield this land.”


* * *

For three days you ride north along slim, poorer trails rather than the principle passageways. By taking to the open country you skirt Gristing entirely, at Lord Zarboch’s insistence. “Word will have spread of their master’s death,” he explains, “and my presence would surely agitate the matter. Better to hold to these older footpaths than risk trouble.”

Affer’s Bridge proves to be much alike with its predecessor, Stathes’ Crossing. The outwash from those centermost summits, the Otten Peaks, produces a swift current that tumbles across gullies of protruding stone – cutting through the mountain vale, with few offerings for safe passages. The late rain has raised the waters higher still, and you are forced to take the bridge: a wooden affair guarded at either end with a palisade of timber stakes. Though the toll is only a trifle, rumor may now spring of your passage north.

Across the span you are met by Anton, the younger of Zarboch’s sons. He is as tall and gaunt as his father, yet bears the vigor of youth. By the end of another day you take rest and restock your supply at Unwald. Here within his own country Zarboch leads you along the principal roadways, stopping at seemingly every hamlet or homestead along the path to display the bounty of his lands – and truly there is a bounty.

The harvest has nearly arrived, and you are treated to the good order emblematic of the Shambryfolk. Though Udwald is unlike the Fringe’s southern span, with a greater density of hills and sharp ridges; jutting boulders and copses of stubborn juniper bramble, its back has been broken. Orderly rows of buckwheat and rye are carefully tended; goatherds ramble over the slanted rock, tended by sharp-eyed shepherds; and through the far distance the plains have been divided by leagues of stone wall. “Beautiful, is it not?” Zarboch proudly states.


* * *

At last you arrive to Udwald proper, the city densely clustered between two risings hills; the Grey Road passing straight between. Modest homes lines neatly-tended cobbled streets, bustling with activity. There is the scent of industry carried on the air: burning coal, boiling wort, leathers set to tan, and more. At its center sits the keep; a looming edifice of old design, tall and austere, leaning over the streets like a stern father. Through its wheelhouse you are taken and finally reach your travel’s end.

Your welcome is warm – the fire roars already in the great hall, food and drink awaiting. There is fiery strong wine, bread and native cheeses, game fowl and roasted meats. The hall itself is long and dark, lit only by some few braziers, the walls bedecked with trophies. The heads of wolves, elk, boar, and even some Thurs leer from their perches.

“And now,” from his seat at the table’s head Zarboch addresses you, “is the time to talk. You have seen my lands; seen their plenty. I only ask, need you see more? Or is the matter settled?”

[The Void Dragon]

I must say, Faust begins, your lands are well tended, your trophies, he gestures at the Thurs, admirable. There is just one thing lacking; your sons. I had heard a good deal about those young men and was looking forward to meeting them all.

[Boethius Junior]

Zarboch takes a long moment to observe Faust, as though taking his measure. At last he answers: “My sons are of the age where they need me no longer - instead I have need of them. My lands have been wrought; beaten into shape as a smith beats iron. To do this - to achieve eden anew - requires a man of staunch will. They call Wit the gardener, whose song makes the world beautiful. We must strive as he does.” He stands and drifts about the room, trailing his thoughts along behind.

“You are both foreign-born, and as I judge of good stock. You see my blood: we are a thinly-stretched folk. My father...had name alone, but not substance. Udwald, nay the Fringe in whole, needs strength from its nobles - a visage to inspire. Now more than ever.” He turns his gaze back towards you, twisted to grimace and harshened from the half-light. “You saw the Shawe. Of late he is bolder and bolder. I fear he relishes the thought of war and so seeks it openly, lustily. Mull was weak; had he not been poisoned his own fat would have drawn him to the grave. Yet Tawic and I are now old, and his son is dead already. What shall we do this next time the Shawe births havoc?”

There is another long pause as he returns to his seat, the air pregnant, awaiting the lord to continue. “My sons must be strong, to answer this threat. Anton and his elder brother, Arthur, must be able to work iron with their bare hands. They must have the will to rule - so I task them as agents of my will, to do my work until I am no more and then they shall take up the mantle themselves.”

[atlastrembles]

Brysen can't help but tally the goods and inventory the harvest as they travel into Zarboch's lands. His merchant mind filing away ledgers of rye, bushels of sheep, and columns of ore, the trader keeps his face neutral though he can't help but see the potential profit in these hardy lands, if only it could be opened to trade with the greater Wuvd.

At Zarboch's keep he eats heartily, though only drinks sparingly, maintaining his sobriety to navigate the conversational currents that had already begun to swirl. He sips the excellent wine, allowing Faust and Zarboch the first exchange, the better to evaluate reaction and counter-action. The Lord's initial character taken, Brysen raises his glass to signal a toast.

Lord Zarboch, our thanks for sharing in the bounty of your lands. That we are here today enjoying the fruits - and meats and ales! - of your folks' sweat instead of the mealy gruel some outside the Fringe snicker to themselves is all this stretch of Wuvd offers is testament to your measure and your measured rule. he lets the words "measure" hang for a half second longer than natural Here's to the Lord Zarboch and the results of Wit's good work through him! After taking a drink, the Authman continues.

Speaking for myself, Lord, I am most heartily impressed with the fare and the rugged environs. So different from the lands around Dom Doren, but equally as impressive. As fire requires friction yet gives heat and light, so too might the Lords of the Fringe's competition ignite the potential of these lands. But fire must be carefully managed, no? Feed it too fast and it roars out of control, impossible to harness to productive use. Too slow and it sputters, effort wasted. Balanced, like the keel of a well-tuned ship, is how flames must be tended. There are those we have met who, alas, will likely learn either one of those lessons. Judging by yon hearth, I doubt you are among them.

I do not fear the Shawe as much as I fear the chaos haste would make of the progress made here in the Fringe. Despite the violence and evil we have witnessed, I find it harder to recall than the good works we have seen and that you have etched deeper. I would see more and meet your sons, the better to honour our good host and his own fruits.

[Boethius Junior]

Zarboch nods along with the Authman. "Aye," he agrees, "you understand of what I speak. Our plenty is wearily won, and my home is like dry tinder - it awaits an inevitable spark. I only hope that my sons are readied to weather the coming storm..." Across the hall a door creaks and a servant hurries to her master's side, ending his thought abruptly. They exchange hushed words, and your hosts rises again from his seat. "Please excuse me your graces, my presence is required abroad. You shall be attended momentarily." Briskly he exits, following the messenger from the grand chamber by the same passage she entered moments before. The fire crackles quietly in this new pause, and for a moment you seem to be alone.

[Boethius Junior]

In the warm dark of the great hall you host's absence starts to weigh. Though his servants come and go, ensuring your cup is ever full, they are either unwilling or unable to answer your inquiries into the matter - offering only in meek tones that he should soon return. "Unquiet news from the road," they say, "soon to be amended." Yet after the bells toll their evening chime still has he not returned, and even the porters seem less populous of late.

The hall has emptied but for your seats, and the quiet is abruptly breached by the sounds of muffled shouting then cut short. The servant's entrance creeps open, revealing three figures swathed in midnight black robes; their faces obscured with similar wrappings. They carry arming swords and knives, already drawn and whetted with use. The front of their number stalks towards Brysen's half of the table - "Where is the Zarboch?" he growls, voice thick with an accent you cannot at once place. Behind him the others circle towards Faust, approaching from either of his flanks.

[The Void Dragon]

Faust tightens his grip on sword and knife, giving the answer of naked steel as he charges the wordy assassin.