If you spend too much time in the taverns, docksides and senatorial chambers of The Concord you will end up spending as much time debunking mysteries and foolishness as you do the task you went there to resolve, be it logistical or otherwise. But among a select few veins of mongered rumour and whispered tale, there are those that have a life of their own.
Fed by truth and fantasy, these happenings reach across The Concord in both travel and circumstance. Strange happenings in Bolsterlee are retold in Nazafeza, and dark tidings from Lerona Mere reach into Eisen.
What follows are some of this past winter’s more enduring gossip; some retelling strangeness that cannot be defined and others speaking of the very human stories recognisable to all.
Fold it Round Me and in Comfort Lie
It is a perfect winter evening. The moon rises over
the vineyard, being carried through
the sky as a parent carries a lantern for their
timid child.
Nature hums quietly as he sits in the field, the
melody nearly lulling him to sleep.
But he can’t sleep. The slightest unnecessary
tightness
in his chest,
like a spool of wool soon to be carefully unravelled,
holds him in wake.
He will be a father soon. Tomorrow, if the Menders are correct.
It is a heavy thought,
though not an uncomfortable one.
Heavy in the same way that a warm meal made by friends
is ladened with love,
and heavy in the same way that a hand-knitted blanket
is crafted with care.
The velvet of the night seems suspended:
a midnight cloak covering the entirety of Lerona Mere
in a comfortable depth, each star a carefully
stitched mote of light.
As he gazes up through lidded eyes,
lashes fluttering on his cheeks as gently
as the wind on the grass, he notices and remembers
something in the same instance.
His mother, wise woman
that she was, told him stories:
tales of stars shining
on those that knew and believed.
So when he sees one,
seem to grow before his tired eyes, glinting
out from the darkness, the tightness between
his ribs sinks like the setting sun
hours before.
His child, beautiful and bright, will be fine.
He has never known anything more certainly in his life.
—-------
It does not take long for news of an additional star in the night sky to spread through The Concord from the night owls to the morning jays. Some Concordians whisper of foul omens, of the ceasing of all things, of an endless night waiting to swallow the world.
But, as with all rumours based on half-formed gossip, these untruths are quickly abated by Priests of The Sphere of knowledge. There is a warmth that only absolute certainty can provide in their eyes and hearts when they correct the fear-mongers; a new star in the sky is no malevolent portent.
It is a clear sign that one entirely devoted to Stallia has been able to rest, their soul passing through The Sphere like a comet in the night sky, before returning on a new Journey.
Game Information
None.
On the Knowing of Devils
The front room of Urvik’s house is called ‘The Drinking Room’ nowadays. Ever since Beorn went to the Summit and didn’t come back, Strivington had struggled to find a new tavern equal in stature to the bridge-spanning alehouse that gave the town its name. Surem there were attempts to recapture The Striving and its grandeur, but people mostly kept to themselves, drinking at home or in places like Urvik’s.
Late into the night there were only two of them, Urvik and Dolan, illuminated by the simple glow of a lantern, casting shadows on their half-full tankards. It was a nice lantern, thought Dolan, curves of glass and a copper setting; someone had sprinkled copper flecks over the glass while it cooled, so the candlelight sparkled in a multitude of brilliant shards like a crackling flame frozen in time. It was new.
“Did you hear that Badrida is missing?” prompted Dolan, trying to fill the space with something. Urvik had been quiet since the rest of the night's companions had started filtering out some hours ago, just staring into his new lantern.
“They called her Badrida the mad for a reason. Probably wandering off looking for a cliff to throw herself off again,” chided Urvik, taking a deep pull from his tankard. He spoke true; Badrida did throw herself into the bay at least twice a year in pursuit of the gold her late husband had lost there. But she never drowned and always showed back up in Strivington a week or so later. That intimidating instability gave her the reputation she needed to keep a handle on her business, which was mostly intimidating people.
In the street outside, someone passed the window, their cloak pulled high and their breath curling from their mouth in the full moon. They were in a hurry. Dolan only noticed them when Urvik did, the other man turning his chair to notice so suddenly it scuffed the plank floor. A long dark cloak hung from the peg next to the door. Dolan glanced at the lantern again.
“Don’t go Urvik. You know it's an ill fate for you,” rumbled Dolan. He had meant it to come across with legitimate concern - he was worried about Urvik and his newfound interest - but giving guidance to other men when they weren’t shoulder-to-shoulder on the battlefield was always difficult for Dolan. It just came off as disinterested annoyance.
Urvik turned back, a shameful avarice playing out across his face. His mouth opened once, then twice, like a fish banished to the shore. He was still attempting to explain away his actions when he started to stand and move towards the door. Dolan threw his hands out in frustration, gesturing to the dark room around them.
“And what should I do? This is your house Urvik! Should I just close for you? Feed the hens and tell Helga how good she looks?!” Dolan pointed over his shoulder with an angry thumb to where the crude shrine to Urvik’s late wife would be, cowering in the darkness like a bad memory. He was hoping to get a rise out of the old carpenter; if he couldn’t show concern he could damn well get his attention. But Urvik was already at the door, shrugging on his cloak and fastening it around his shoulders.
“A---aye, that’d be grand Dolan,” mumbled Urvik, the last words barely audible as he stepped out into the cold-near midnight. Dolan was alone in the room, just himself, the tankard, and the lantern with its copper sparkles.
It was new.
-
For the people of Strivington, this is all too familiar. A spate of disappearances, strange happenings at night, rumours of magical influence - it isn’t hard to recall the memory of the cult that had, until very recently, torn The Iron Valley apart. The pessimists among their number ready themselves for Concordian Heroes in the night, the wailing of travelling preachers and the general discord that a resurgence in some foolish heretical god would bring. Surely this is proof that the Heroes of The Valley had failed and those that held the Old Gods too close had escaped their cordon to the north.
But much to their surprise, there are no sigils of bears or midnight pleadings with wolves. Instead, those that went missing, stay missing. Their absence is seldom concerning given that they were – one and all – difficult local figures prone to violence and skullduggery. Each of these figures was last seen attending an odd new curiosity occurring on the township's outskirts.
On seemingly random nights, weeks apart, a market opens on the far north side of Strivington after midnight: masked figures in colourful attire sell all sorts of strange goods ranging from Andashi glassware, to unknown alchemical tinctures, through to Bordevarian ale. There are small and foreign games of chance and skill, and there is music from somewhere and nowhere. All of this is overseen by ‘The Benefactor’, an elusive man with a mask of blue metal.
Those that attend this ‘Midnight Market’ often attempt to return to it again and again, causing word of its unheralded arrival to spread across the township like a wildfire. Sure enough, every time the umbral commerce opens its doors, they have found themselves turning back interested parties at the rope; “Sorry, we’re at capacity this evening. Try your luck next time.”
Rumours of this odd occurrence have spread across The Concord and commonfolk of nearby Lerona Mere, Windholme, and beyond are growing curious. Is this some arcane interference? A Divine portent in a strange masquerade? Espionage by a foreign power? Or commerce with a pleasing mystery? It is likely that these matters will be decided by the two most potent powers in the land: time and Concordian influence.
Game Information
The arrival of the Midnight Market in Strivington is little more than an idle curiosity for most, but time will tell what it may bring to Bolsterlee. There will be additional information regarding the Market, its attendees, and its wares for the Senator of Bolsterlee.
Characters with investments in Bolsterlee can contact the Concord team before the 13th of September by email at [email protected]. Doing so reflects your character attempting to attend the Midnight Market during the Winter Season. Doing so will reduce the production of your investment but may result in the purchase of strange items, magical goods or other curiosities, in addition to a brief description of your experience at the strange trading place.
Investments in Strivington will find that they have produced slightly more this past season as local criminals and ne-er do wells go missing, making business easier to conduct overall.
There will not be a chance to attend the Midnight Market this Summit; it appears that the group conducting the enterprise will be dormant during this time. But who knows what the future holds?
We Think the World is Ours Forever, But We Are Little More than Squatters
For the people of Carningsfield, cleaning the shores of Lake Ladure is a task of little note, most of the time. A rare algae bloom here, a drowned Greenwealder covered in lamprey lacerations there. Very little to write home about.
But this past winter has had a stranger result. All across Lake Ladure, on both the Bordevarian east and Greenwealder west there are corpses. Barely more than three dozen, but enough to be notable in the rumourmill.
And these are not human corpses, but those of the illusive ‘fae’. A strange human creation of nomenclature, bundling a diverse assortment of curses, meddling beasties and dangerous hunters into a single group. The fae are most common in the Sableheart, where the magic runs as deep as oak roots, and the thick canopy shields these malicious creatures from the harsh glare of Houndspriests and the sun alike.
These corpses are varied, with plenty of Boghoffens found among their number, but there are stranger things beyond the well-known ‘Little Artebazzani’. A centipede the size of a hound with hundreds of human hands instead of feet is found curled into a death rictus north of Carningsfield; a miniature ballerina with the head of an ox rests unmoving in the shores to the south; and a badger with a fox skin hat decomposes near the Eisen River. The folk of a nearby Haven were not entirely sure if this qualified as a fae or simply good fashion sense.
For most of the Lakefolk, regardless of realm, this is a nuisance at best and a foul omen at worst. This malady of the waters has had no effect on any Concordian citizen (as far as can be noticed) and for some it has even proven a boon as these magical cadavers can often be a lucky source of crystal mana. But questions abound. Why? How? Who? What? All are valid in times such as these.
Perched atop it all is the sleepy river island of Rickon’s Tier, which has done a bumper harvest of medicinal herbs this past season, much to the joy of its current Groundskeeper. Be this because meddlesome fae are giving the lake a wide berth or for some other reason, it is surely nothing to be concerned with.
Game Information
Something in or around Lake Ladure has caused a mass dieoff of fae-creatures. While the corruption has saved the eastern Sableheart from the predation of Boghoffens, it is more than a little concerning.
Characters from Everguarde or the Sableheart could have stories of coming across strange mismatched fae creatures dead on the waters edge or in the eves of the woods, sickness clear in their bodies.
Characters from Everguarde or the Sableheart may find a small amount of Crystal Mana in their character packs, the bounty of the Lake’s detritus.
Rickon’s Tier has had increased production this past season, and this will be reflected in its bounty, given to the Groundskeeper of Rickon’s Tier.
There will be decisions relating to the fae dieoff for the Groundskeeper of Rickon’s Tier, The Sage Superior of the Broken Vale, The Chapter-Kaptain of the Old Krezenberg Abbey, and the Ducal Council.
Where Peace Hides in Shame
Southern Esterra is a land of violence and conflict, a result of the Nations that would claim it as their home or necessary conquest. Realms battle amongst themselves to see their conflicts resolved at the cost of another’s becoming worse. Soldiers kill to see another tomorrow, hoping that their blade swings under the facade of a future peace. Caring parents weep for their children that may never smile again, their homes ruined with not so much as an afterthought by the very voices that promised to protect them. Beasts kill and are hunted in the same pursuit of survival as their murderers.
Southern Esterra is a land of violence and conflict, but even still there shines a glimmer of hope and safety for those that choose to seek it. Realms gather together to help each other despite the dangers and costs that would otherwise separate them. Soldiers are given the chance to protect their homes rather than helplessly watch them fall to an uncaring foe. Communities gather together to piece together a life under the guiding hand of people who can make a difference. Hunters see dangerous creatures headed off to better hunting grounds, allowing nature to take its course where it can.
One just has to choose how they see the problems that plague the people of Southern Esterra, and simply dream of a better tomorrow where they cannot see one.
It is these dreams that seem to be most felt by the people of Heinsgraf and Brakkenloh in the valleys of Windholme in recent months. Many boroughs find themselves abuzz with tales of dreams of a peaceful future, a rare occurrence but one that has brought with it warm feelings in cold times. These dreams are said to take many forms, starting as a vague feeling of restfulness and relaxation that quickly disappears after waking. Some even say that a vague image of a forest appeared during their dreams, but perhaps it was a vague recollection of trees instead. No matter, the feeling of calm and peace remains, a feeling well received and jealousy sought.
These strange happenings all came to a head not long before the Summit, as a simple Priest of Cervitas began telling tales of their venture into the Vale of Stags.
The tale tells of a simple journey to pray somewhere holy, to seek closure on a matter of faith and discussion amongst their congregation and return with thoughts composed. Upon entering the border of firs, the Priest felt a wave of tranquillity wash over them, a feeling they described as not unnatural or forced but simply natural, almost as if it was meant to be. This feeling got stronger the further into the Vale they travelled, pulling from them every tense fibre of their body until they felt truly comfortable, as if there existed no trouble anywhere in the world that could touch them.
The Priest had a favoured spot in the Vale, a clearing that opened up onto a sheer cliff face of the Steinvaults, littered with boulders and large rocks that have been worn by rain and time to become perfect seats. This was, as they would tell it, a perfect place to consider their teachings and seek wisdom. Yet this time where normally would wait nothing but a passing traveller, skittish beast or quiet contemplation, instead stood a great stag grazing amongst the tall grass. The stag was said to simply raise its great head and regard the Priest with eyes described as marble-white flecked with gold before returning to its meal.
The Priest tells of how stunned they were, for it was not rare to see a stag in the Vale at a distance, but almost unheard of for them to let their guard down around the people that move about and within it. The recollection continues, telling of how the Priest sat still overcome by a feeling of peace now mixed with genuine awe. To sit in the presence of such a regal and inspiring beast was a blessing in and of itself, and so the Priest allowed themselves to be swept up in the tranquillity of the moment, feeling not a single part of themselves able to bear any thought that was not of a good nature.
Since this tale has spread through the people of Windholme, many others have travelled to the Vale and found themselves in similar situations. Though none have since seen the stag of marbled eyes, the creatures of the Vale have shown to be as tranquil as the people who enter the boundary of firs. Perhaps, despite the conflicts that plague the lands around it, there remains at least one place where one can be at peace for at least a short while.
Game Information
Dreams of calm and relaxation echo through the towns and people of Heinsgraf and Brakkenloh, while a Priest tells of a great change within the Vale of Stags. While no cause has made itself known, any who enter the Vale of Stags find themselves feeling tranquil and peaceful no matter what state they were in before entering. Even the creatures of the Vale seem to share this overcoming feeling of peace, tending to not run at first sight as they would normally tend to do.
Hunters who have tried to take advantage of this find themselves unable to bring themselves to hurt the beasts of the Vale, no matter how mentally prepared they believed themselves to be. While they find it impossible to hunt actively, searching for the results of the natural cycle of life becomes far easier, if not harder to do in great quantities.
Wildernesses within the Vale of Stags that produce Beastbone or Shimmering Scales will find that they have produced half the expected resources as hunting becomes impossible. Wildernesses within the Vale of Stags that produce Hartwood or Black Sap will find that they have functioned as if they were 1 Tier higher as gathering becomes easier.
Through the Eyes of the Mindless
An unnatural howl echoed through the scrublands, piquing the ears of the lion as it feasted upon its prey. Its snout, normally a dark brown but now glistening with the deep red of life, raises in the air in preparation for a response, but hesitates. A tilting of the head and shifting of paws moves the beast from its hard-earned meal, listening for a repeat of the call that sounded so wrong. A few moments and no noise later sees the lion huff annoyedly and return to its meal, simply satisfied in its solitary life.
—---------
A small lake, an ageing remnant of an empty natural spring doomed to disappear as time marches on, visited only by those that would only take from it. Its still, blue waters discoloured by the bloody snout of an aged lion, a common visitor after many years. Perhaps, should a lake be able to feel and speak, it would wish to make friends with the lone beast that seeks it out. But the lake says nothing, and the lion responds in kind. Perhaps if the lake could speak, it could warn the lion of the horrific creature that became its most recent visitor.
—---------
The crunch of snapped bone within the maw of a creature that does not belong. The glare of the sun reflecting off the black chitinous shell of a lion's murderer. A creature made for the darkness of a forest suffering in a heat it chose to chase, faltering despite its full belly. A lake, dyed deep red from the torn apart form of what could have perhaps been its friend, should the world have allowed it to hold emotion rather than blood. A dying creature, polluting the waters with its fallen form and needless kill.
—---------
Soulless eyes staring at the sky, unable to seek a future among the stars. Soulless eyes staring back, sent by the stars to show the present to those that seek it. The silent flap of nearly visible wings, the sway of a barely tangible body, and a direction given by the unfeeling Divine. A blessed witness to an act unknowable, fleeting in the moment and gone but a few later, its purpose elsewhere. Perhaps, if it could feel, it would lament the things it had seen. But it was not given the right to feel, and so its task remains and its feelings absent.
—---------
It stands, unfeeling, soulless. Built for a purpose perhaps now moot. Perhaps now more important than ever. It does not know because it was not blessed with the ability to know. It simply stands, protecting itself from the dangers of those that seek it. It lacks in power now, drained in its efforts to remain hidden, trying to prevail. It is failing. If it could know this, it would. Within it, something stirs, something capable of feeling what it cannot. If it could feel relief, it would.
Game Information
A Blessed Falcon seeks the Tower of The True Wilds, utilising the power of the Sphere of Stallia to discover the location of that which Concordians have lost. The Falcon will be a target for scrying Ceremonies at the coming Summit, perhaps able to finally reveal the location of the Tower to those that seek it. But despite this, the Tower itself has become impossible to find for any searching by foot, even if they had once known its location. The Tower even seems to be vanishing from the minds of those who do not know of its existence, and if given much more time perhaps may vanish forever.
Those characters that wish to care about the Tower in the Wilds may find themselves significantly disadvantaged by a generalised inability to remember it as it becomes less prominent. To represent this, ANY character whose first or last names begin with M through Z are unable to recall information or conversations regarding the Tower in the Wilds after more than an hour of being informed about it. Please note that these letters have no relevance to the Tower, it's just a method for the game to represent its unique arcane nature. This replaces the effect from the previous Winds entry regarding this content, titled “You Cannot Reason With Silent Fools”.