The highs and lows of The Iron Valley hide within them far more than simple mysteries, built upon over the ages. There are secrets with depths, faith and knowledge, arcane blades and mystic armours; a great many things that even the most dedicated of Sagites would weep to find. Much of these lay in the lands lost during The Long Retreat, and until they are within Valley hands once more they are but lost history. Still, there are yet mysteries, new and old, to be found within current territories, and it is no hidden fact that Windholme and Bolsterlee are not strangers to such modern strangeness.
Masks, coins and an exclusive festival of shrouded origins once again finds its place in Bolsterlee. Whispers of a place of calm lead many to Windholme, to a place of ever expanding influence. All of The Valley hear of the final echoes of a broken cult, as if carried by the strongest of gales.
Perhaps these happenings are little more than simple wonders, or perhaps they hide within them a deeper meaning yet to be unearthed and turned toward greater purpose. Regardless, there would be questions that need answers, and Heroes to seek them.
Any Sufficiently Advanced Superstition
Jaalstead, Strivington, Athermer’s Folly—all are treated well.
Nights among the blue lanterns, the rolling dulcet tones of far-off music, and choices best left unquestioned. The tavern doors stand quiet while the market sings beyond them, its revelry bleeding into the streets. From the Reeve to the worker, there is a place for all—a tankard waiting with their name upon it and a pair of light-catching eyes watching from the half-dark, knowing too much. The man in the bluesteel mask presides over it all, a welcoming hand and a friendlier heart. Coin flows freely, then in careful measures, then dwindles—until at last, it is no longer coin being wagered but something far more binding.
The Midnight Market, as it is known, first appeared outside Strivington in the spring of 224. Now, emboldened by the willful apathy of Concordian Heroes, this twilight cabal makes its way across Bolsterlee, stopping in every settlement large enough to be more than a pigsty. The pattern is always the same.
First, the outskirts glow with lantern-light, soft and inviting. Then the fliers, appearing overnight as if conjured from the restless hearts of the weary. And finally, the music—oh, the music—threading through the air like a mist. Before you know it, you are there, caught in the joyful throng. There are games of impossible color, libations from distant shores, and deals too tempting to refuse.
Too soon, dawn splits the sky like a dagger to the ribs. The revelers awaken to scattered trinkets, aching heads, and purses lighter than they remember. But the memories are golden, syrup-sweet. The laughter, the dancing, the painted faces and impossible merriment—perhaps this is exactly what the ragged edge of The Concord needs.
But every third night—though no one is ever sober enough to count—the air turns. The fiddle strings shriek instead of sing. The bluesteel man is still there, but his mask has twisted, its grin stretched too wide, its expression no longer kind. On these nights, the games demand more than coin. The promises are sealed in flesh. And when the house settles its debts, not everyone goes home. The next day, those who remain recall only fragments — half-remembered nightmares, whispering at the edges of waking. But the marks left behind are real. And the missing stay missing.
Now, as autumn wanes, the Market winds northward. Word spreads that its thirteenth third night will unfold in grand revelry at the foot of Deorlings Citadel. The call has gone out, drawing the desperate and the daring from both High and Low Valley. And on the Thirteenth Three, Bluesteel will be.
Game Information
The strange Midnight Market has continued its journey across Bolsterlee. While not not done with the explicit approval of the Concordian Heroes, it also wasn’t opposed.
The Market has brought great joy and trade to the region. The arcane trinkets that the market brings are sources of intrigue as well as gossip. Where have they come from? What could they mean?
Investments in Bolsterlee that have stayed behind in Bolsterlee this past season will receive additional information based on their experiences visiting the Midnight Market over the Summer.
All investments in Bolsterlee will receive a random assortment of resources, items, and other interesting effects from their interactions with the Midnight Market.
There will be decisions for the Reeves Council of Bolsterlee, the Reeves Council of Windholme, and the Senator of Bolsterlee.
To Spread Silence Amongst Rampaging Beasts
Windholme and The Iron Valley have seen much growth, physical and otherwise, in the past year: the Divine effects of The Wondrous Forests; the spread and subsequent defeats of The Bear and Boar alike; the chosen path of Bloodglass Inheritance, decisions of rage and war; and yet more but to name a few. As time continues to pass, The Valley continues to reclaim their heritage, ancestry and sense of self. The people and Heroes alike continue to spread their influence as if wings, and the day with which they take flight ever approaches.
Such musings are far easy to bring to words, when the mind is clear and the difficulties of life are set aside for a brief moment.
Even beneath threat of invasion, there are comforting places to be found across The Valley - places that ease hardships and encourage peace. The homes of family, friends and loved ones. The peaks of mountains and the crenellations of Deorlings, both with breathtaking views in the summer. The fields of Brakkenloh, or even the backrooms of local taverns where the hum of life can be quietly heard through thick wooden walls. Even beneath the shade of tall firs, whereupon one can lean against their trunks and doze the day away.
The latter would become all too easy for those people living near The Vale of Stags, in no small part due to the echoing dreams of peace and pacificity, rumoured to now have turned to the faintest of whispers in the awoken. Slight whispers that tickle the edge of perception, almost as if calling for one to step closer, to visit, to stay. Reportedly, there is no force, no urge to never leave, but certainly the faintest of pressures, the faintest of knowing that here there is true peace.
The Vale is growing in its influence, both in its ephemeral calling and physical size. Perhaps due to the aftereffects of the great Ceremony cast but a season ago, or perhaps due to some unknown force, the forest of firs has noticeably expanded from its once never-changing bounds. Where before its borders were clear and defined, now it ekes out and over them, ignoring the very laws of time in the sudden appearance of new and fully grown trees.
The interested few have tried to map its growth, but it does not seem to be doing so in a well-defined pattern. Sometimes this way, sometimes that way. Sometimes in one direction, other times in many. The growth appears almost random, at least to those who have tried to record it.
Within The Vale itself, calm and peace appear as prevalent as the season before. Whatever effect, magical or divine, that lays over the forest continues to hold strong, preventing even the most daring and intent from violence and conflict. There are few in its vicinity who consider this a concern, as a place of enforced peace seems a blessing in times of conflict, but while the origin of such an effect remains unknown there are those who echo caution. Particularly to those who hear the faint whispers that draw one towards The Vale.
And yet, despite The Vale’s growth in both size and visitors, still none have seen the marble-eyed stag.
Game Information
The Vale of Stags remains a sudden and curious mystery, particularly as it begins to physically expand in ways that defy common sense. While such growth is not consistent, reports of dreams turn to reports of whispers, as the forest clearly draws people towards it with echoes of peace, calm and pacificity.
With the impending invasion of The Severed Lords, there is rumour that the effect of The Vale is to be put to use in the defense of Eastern Windholme, but it remains to be seen whether its effect extends to those outside of The Iron Valley. There will be a Strategic Conflux against The Severed Lords this Summit where The Vale may play a key part.
There will be information regarding The Vale of Stags for The Senator of Windholme this Summit.
From Beasts to Bedtime Stories
“Come on! We’re gunna miss it! Come oonnnnn!” Willow’s voice rang out, excitement bleeding into petulance as she pulled on her older brother’s hand, as willful as she was loud.
The two of them ran through the cobbled streets of Rumwold, not unlike two tornadoes in miniature, sweeping up other children on the way to the performance.
“I heard they got a real bear this time!” one said, as the group wound their way through the maze of grown-ups surrounding the stage, quickly getting swat in the back of the head by another.
“Course they didn’t - they would’ve told me if they did,” said the swatter, chest puffed in self-importance as they all joined the other children nestled at the front.
As the group sat down, legs crossed and mouths attempting to whisper as they waited, their eyes flitted across the stage - propped up panels of wood now manifested a cave deep in The Steinvaults, a backdrop made-real the starlit sky beyond, and bards readied to become the rest of the world.
Willow didn’t care if they got a real bear this time - nothing could make the story more important than it already was.
The whispering voices of both children and grown-ups alike hushed as the narrator stepped onto the stage, smiling wide, then face forming into faux seriousness.
“It was a cold summer’s night,” she began, gaze and voice directed at the vibrating figures sat cross-legged in front of her. “The wind howled through the peaks of The Steinvaults as the stars twinkled above.”
The whistling of a woodwind instrument began to build in the space, and the children leaned forward, entranced.
“The Heroes of The Valley had been marching for what felt like forever - their feet hurt, and their eyes stung, but their hearts were beating strong as they reached the final landing.”
A cheer echoed from the crowd as the ‘Heroes’ trudged on from stage-right, weapons slung over their shoulders, limping with exaggerated discomfort. They looked around searchingly, moving between the set-pieces of rock from one side of the stage to the other and back.
“They were here to defeat the last of the Rotted Pelt,” the narrator stated, pausing as the children booed enthusiastically at the mention of the first villains of the performance. “And they would see it done, no matter what stood in their way.”
A roar rolled over the room, causing several of those watching to jump, as the Hero bedecked in a raven shawl pointed to stage-left. At her gesture, two figures burst onto the stage, wearing bear pelts and wielding great claws. The ‘Turned’ roared again, then charged at the Heroes.
The groups fought, axes ‘clashing’ with claws as the bards mimicked the sounds of battle, until finally, the last Turned was cut down by a horned Hero. The crowd jeered and whooped as the body slumped down, not to move again.
“They had defeated the Turned, but that was not all they had to do. The Heroes of The Valley had to destroy the source of this evil for once and for all,” The narrator called from the side of the stage, distracting the children as the setpieces changed, the dead Turned now replaced with a great urn.
The Heroes walked forward cautiously, looking backwards and forwards around the space. As they got closer to the urn, a figure appeared suddenly from off stage, wrapped in a white pelt, arms raised above them.
The Heroes stopped in defensive stances, the one in front pointing his sword at the ‘Spirit’.
The woodwind instrument grew louder as the Spirit pointed back, and all of the Heroes suddenly began to struggle against a false-blizzard.
“The urn was the source of the rot; the host of the evil spirit,” the narrator called out as the Heroes continued to eke forward, desperately pushing their way across the stage. “But what could they possibly do to end its terrible evil?”
“Break it!” Willow’s voice cried out in chorus with those of the other children around her, tightly gripping her brother’s hand, eyes wide as she watched the Heroes’ efforts to get close.
The scarlet-painted Hero, draped in the Bloodglass Stag, did as commanded, raising his weapon to ‘strike’ the urn. The crowd cheered again, shouting encouragement as the Spirit wailed out, arms pressed more ardently towards the Heroes.
“Again, again!” the audience yelled, as the Hero ‘hit’ the urn once more, their voices growing more insistent.
The Spirit wailed one last time as the Hero ‘struck’, falling to his knees as the pelt-clad figure slumped to cover the urn, turning away and off stage, revealing the broken remains. The children hollered, clapping and whooping as the Rotted Pelt was destroyed by the Heroes, once and for all.
The narrator raised a finger to her lips, quieting the children, as the other Heroes helped the urn-breaker to his feet.
“The Heroes had done what they needed to, but there was one last sacrifice to make,” she faux-whispered, ignoring the pointing of the children as figures with boar-emblazoned shields snuck onto the stage. The Heroes turned to face ‘The Boar Clan,’ then turned to each other in panic, three of them ‘arguing’ with each other as the narrator spoke again.
“One of them had to stay, a bargain with The Boar Clan, for the others to get home,” the narrator paused as the children cried out in grievance.
The three Heroes continued to argue, pointing at themselves insistently, as the fourth shook his head sadly, blue hood heavy on his shoulders.
“They tried to come up with a plan, an alternative, a different way. But there wasn’t one.”
The fourth Hero stepped in front of the others, stopping their argument. He pointed to The Boar Clan figures, then to himself, holding up a hand to stop any opposition.
“To save his friends, Rahgret of The Steinvaults gave himself to The Boar Clan, to certain death.”
The Heroes on stage clenched their fists at their hearts, the children watching doing the same, as the fourth Hero walked to meet The Boar Clan, disappearing off stage with them.
“And so The Rotted Pelt was defeated, and the other Heroes returned home, ready again to keep us safe, whatever it took.”
The remaining Heroes turned to the audience, clasping hands as they bowed before them, met with a great cheer. Willow clapped her tiny hands ever louder when the fourth actor returned to the stage, hand clasped to his heart, in remembrance of a man now lost.
Game Information
The Rotted Pelt, The Bear Cult of The Steinvault Mountains, is defeated, with all remnants of its following utterly destroyed by Heroes of The Iron Valley.
The final blow against the heretical cult is a tale spread across The Valley and beyond, with many Sagites, actors, and bards paying tribute to the great deeds and sacrifices needed for them to be vanquished. These tales have inspired the people of Windholme in particular, having been directly impacted by the Rotted Pelt’s malevolence in seasons passed.
Any characters from Windholme may take the following roleplay prompt:
“I know that our future is bright, and will let no one darken it with sharp blades or false beliefs. I shall protect my people and their souls, whatever means necessary.”
Further reading at Winds of the World - Autumn 225