Cathal's Journal - Day 7

We reached the castle shortly after mid-day. I expected my breath to catch in my chest at the sight of its towers cresting the horizon, but when they came into view, I felt no such wonder. It looked smaller than it had when last I spied it, as I rode away on a shaggy pony to the ship that would take me north. Returning as a man, atop a powerful hunter, having lived in the greatest long-halls of Hogunmark, and having seen the palace at Stormpoint, Castle Fulcairn looked a meager thing. The castle town is surrounded by a palisade wall built of wood from the fringes of the Aelvinnwode in the North, and the keep, raised of the very same timbers, sits atop an ancient, rocky hill at the town’s Northeast edge. It is surrounded by its own small palisade, strengthened at three points by round, wooden towers.

Yes, my ancestral hall is still constructed primarily of wood, while most of our peers have lived in stone for centuries. This is a point of pride rather than shame, for the hardwoods of Wilder’s Gorge are as sturdy as the stoutest granite, and far easier to work. We construct almost everything of that wood; our homes, our tables and chairs. Fulcairn bows throw arrows further than any in Anuire, perhaps all Cerilia. That is a challenge I would happily lay before any bowyer from any of this world’s far reaches. And so, Castle Fulcairn is one of wood, and woe be they who take that for a weakness. Still, it is a small fortress, with only its one wall and its masterfully wrought, yet stocky keep.

I stopped in the town square to make my return known to the populace, despite some grumbling from Finn. I mayhap should have listened to him, for few of my people deigned to stop to hear me. I offered greetings to those I could, and shared my bright hopes for our future, then climbed back atop my horse and rode for the keep.

I was filled with apprehension as I rode the winding path up the hill to the castle gatehouse. In mere moments I would see the father who had sent me away; not from lack of love, but from duty. Duty to honour a debt that has been paid every four generations for as long as written memory. The father who I had not seen for ten long years.

When I crossed through the gatehouse and into the courtyard, it was then that my breath chose to be stolen. It was not my father who had descended to greet me, but the most enthrallingly beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes upon. She appeared haughty, and stood nearly as tall as I, flanked by a sleek black cairnhound on one side and a red-cheeked lady in waiting on the other. She greeted me coolly, dressed in mourning, and it struck me then that this be Reynhild, my dead brother’s erstwhile wife. Knowing this, I strode to her, smiling, and knelt to kiss her hand, offering her greeting in her native Rjurik. My accent must be thickly salted with that of Hogunmark, for I noted an uneasy look upon her face. The armsmen had told me during our journey that she was from the southern shores of Rjurik, which I know breeds a more lilting dialect. Noting her severe expression, I let out a laugh and wrestled briefly with her hound, a happy fellow, before rising to my feet and wrapping her in as warm an embrace as I could muster. It had little effect on her disposition, however, and loath though I was to force more sorrow upon her, I asked that she take me to see the corse of my brother. She recommended that we first go to my father, but I insisted.

What a sad state he was in. His body and limbs rested upon a huge, carven table in the catacombs that wind through the castle hill; the great cairn from whence comes our name. His eyes were shut, his skin cold and pale where I remembered warm, sun-browned hands. He lay silent, where I recalled an infectious, forge-bright laugh. His hair was lank and thin on his scalp and his frame, once the envy of any warrior, had wilted and emptied like tree branches in winter. I held a short lament, then asked my frozen sister to guide me to my father’s side. When she turned away, I hid a trinket, a small thing with my brother. The image of a hawk flying across the face of the setting sun. A symbol of our house carved into a small piece of smooth whalebone. I had labored at its creation since leaving Freila’s hall, and had only managed to finish it in the failing hours of the previous night.

Reynhild led me to my father’s chamber, where he finally welcomed me. My father too was a changed man, in much the way of my brother, though he shared not his late son’s illness. He could hardly rise from his seat at first, but he pushed himself up to embrace me. My father had always been a busy man when I was a child, and had little time to indulge his second son, but I knew in that moment that he loved me, perhaps even as well Corrac, and my heart swelled. He commanded me to cut the hair I had grown to match my Rjurik peers, the braids and beard that mark a warrior of the clans. Thankfully, he did not mention the arm-ring given me by Jarl Freila, for I doubt I could bring myself to doff it even at his command. Oaths are a sacred thing to me, and I would feel the breaking of one as though it were a deadly wound.

My father led us back out into the courtyard, where he formally introduced me back to the household, and spoke of the plans for my brother’s funeral feast two days hence. His voice strengthened with every word, his limbs regained old, lost iron. The man he was is still there, buried behind a shroud of loss and age. We each departed upon the close, my father to his rest, I to see to my appearance and take up my new apartments, and Reynhild, to the running of the house. She is a formidable woman, though there is a sadness within her so deep and so heavy that I fear it would shatter my spine were it mine to bear. It is my utmost wish that I could drain it away. She must have loved Corrac deeply. I know he loved her well, from the words of my armsmen, and the loyalty of the hound I’m sure she got from him. I need naught else to call her family.

I sit now in my rooms in the north tower of the keep, at a polished wooden desk. I have been bathed and shorn and shaven and fed a supper of roast venison and tubers, steamed and buttered. The sky is tawny with the setting sun, tawny is the cloth of my fine new doublet. I am finally home after ten long years, the hound and the hawks and the stone and the burning sky of Fulcairn once again adorn my heart.

Cathal's Journal - Day 6

Today we finally crossed into Wilder’s Gorge. We entered the Cradle, the agricultural heart of my homeland, and the only part of it to resemble the rest of Taeghas. Fields of grain and vegetables checker the loamy, rolling hills between the greater and lesser Bowstrings, two rivers that feed the life’s blood of my people into the fertile soil. Orchards full of trees spotted with apples and citrus fruit cluster around ponds and streams. When last I had lain eyes upon it, the Cradle shone gold and green in the autumn sun, ripe for harvest. Now, with mere weeks remaining until that same season, the fields grow lank with rot, and half the trees are bare.

My companions remain steady. Their loyalty was clearly a factor in my father’s choice of them. I have made a daily ritual of our training sessions, and another of them, an armswoman named Magda, has shown a deceptive skill belying her size and jovial temperament. She is also a fine storyteller, and had the whole lot of us roaring with laughter over tales of her fool brother, Maddis. I would like to meet Maddis, someday, if his blunders don’t get him killed first.

We rode through a number of hamlets on our way, and I stopped as often as I felt possible to give praise to the farmers for their crops and the health of their families. Wilder’s Gorge breeds a sturdy people, and though the land suffers, not one of them offered a word of complaint. Nor did they particularly welcome me, however; some outright locked themselves away in their homes as we passed them by. I suppose I must look a fierce northern raider to these folk. Upon reaching Fulcairn I shall engage the services of a barber.

We camp now beside a fast-running stream we shall follow in the morn all the way to the walls of Castle Fulcairn. We should arrive sometime in the afternoon if we make our usual pace. My guards are anxious to return home, but none so anxious as I. I rush to meet a father I have not known for a decade, whose health is by all accounts ailing, and see the corpse of my beloved brother. One spot of daylight will be the opportunity to meet Reynhild, a Rjurikan lady who is, or was, my brother’s wife. It will be good to have someone to speak with who knows the north as I do, and does not look at me as though I am always moments away from savaging their arm or pissing on a stump. I grow weary.

Until I again lift my quill, farewell.

SESSION TWO

Chaos ensues in the hall at Castle Fulcairn as Cathal, Reynhild, Mara, and Lord Cullan double over from the poisoned wine. Reynhild and Cullan collapse, vomiting blood; despite Cathal's best efforts, his father dies in his arms. Mara and Cathal manage to struggle to their feet, and Cathal frantically calls a healer to try and save Reynhild. Cathal immediately orders the keep locked down and its gates barred and manned; he charges the man-at-arms Dolan with rounding up all the household personnel.

Mara, shaky and nauseous but alive, disappears to her chambers to contact her master Harald Khorien through their enchanted amulet. She informs Khorien of the attempt on the lives of House Fulcairn and asks for help and guidance. Cathal consults with the healer and is relieved to learn Reynhild is likely to survive, then leaves to check on Mara, only to hear her conversing with Khorien's ghostly voice from the hallway. He bursts in and demands to know who she was speaking to. A clash of magical power ensues, as Cathal's divine birthright compells Mara to answer, but he is denied as her spectacular wizard's power turns it aside. They face off tensely, Mara insisting she was summoning help and that the less he knows of some of her arcane doings, the safer the House is, Cathal unconvinced but left with few options. Finally, they reach an uneasy truce and grudgingly agree they have no choice but to trust each other.

Cathal allows the funeral guests to return home, asks Merrec to arrange funeral rites for Cullan, and has Dolan secure the shards of the poisoned wine jug.

The following morning, physically and mentally exhausted and reeling from the deaths of his father and brother, Cathal breaks down in the solitude of his chamber, but steels himself and prepares for the day. First, he and Mara check on Reynhild, who has regained consciousness. Barely able to speak, she has her hound sniff the wine jug fragments and sends him after the scent. She gravely apologizes to Mara and vows vengeance on any who would assault a guest under Fulcairn protection.

Callum, Reynhild's Cairnhound.

The hound trails the scent back to an alcove; remains and stains within suggest it was used for alchemical preparation.

Cathal summons the gathered household staff and men-at-arms in the great hall, and Reynhild, still barely able to stand, vows that all loyal to Fulcairn would be rewarded, and all disloyal would pay the most terrible of costs. Reynhild and Dolan urge Cathal to extreme measures of interrogation, but he refuses to torture any member of the House. The questioning of the staff proves fruitless, though Cathal's divine powers reveal a strong sense that the culprit is yet among them.

The healer assigned to investigate the poison discovers it is black briar flower, a highly expensive and exotic preparation prepared by expert alchemists.

After the staff is dismissed, Reynhild summon Cathal and Mara for a private discussion. She suggests they try and determine who the target of the assassination attempt was. Reynhild considers herself unlikely; Mara points out that she is also unlikely, as the poison would have taken time to prepare and the assassin would have had to begin before anyone, including herself, knew she was headed to Fulcairn.

Cathal leaves to dine with the newly-arrived priests of Haelyn and discusses the construction of a shrine to Haelyn in Wilder's Gorge, and Reynhild leaves to aimlessly stalk the halls of the keep, futilely seeking more clues.

That night, Mara is plagued by a strange dream-- great tendrils of magical golden energy, unlike anything she has experienced before, are emanating from the catacombs beneath the keep. A door barring her path begins illuminating with mysterious letters, but the power begins to kill her, sending blood streaming from her nose and eyes the longer she tries to stay and decipher them. She awakes to find someone-- herself?--has scratched indistinguishable letters into the headboard of her bed. Khorien contacts her via the amulet and tells her that there is a mighty power beneath the keep of Fulcairn and that it is vital to the survival of all that the Fulcairns remain in control of the land. Mara discloses her dream; Khorien responds with an odd edge of urgency and perhaps even hostility in his voice, though she can reveal nothing further.

The following day, Merrec discusses with Cathal the day-to-day matters of running the Barony, including the windmills in disrepair, and the abandoned fort and copper mine. Cathal broaches the topic of the elven ruins in the woods and the rumoured Imperial summer home in the mountains, but
Merrec cautions him away from them. Cathal orders the windmills refurbished and begins to plan for a tour of the barony as befits its new ruler.

Cathal holds a council meeting with the closest of the household staff. They discuss their plans going forward for the House. All present urge Cathal to marry, though he seems reluctant, and Reynhild, despite being the first to suggest it, seems oddly conflicted. Cathal informs the priests of Haelyn they will be staying for the night until the Keep is officially reopened.

Mara goes to inspect the catacombs by daylight, but finds nothing.

Lord Cullan's funeral is a brief and somber affair, with only the family, close household members, and Mara in attendance, as all are worn by the shock of recent events and still grieving Corrac.

The following morning, the locked-down Keep is officially opened, though as per their discussion while attempting to uncover the assassin, only one gate is opened. Cathal tells the priests of Haelyn that in exchange for a donation to the house, they will plan for a temple of Haelyn to be constructed in Wilder's Gorge. He then bids them farewell.

Reynhild, who has been closely watching the opened gate with arrow on string, suddenly realizes that two acolytes of Haelyn arrived, and three are leaving. She rushes them, screaming for the guardsmen to stop the priests. The third acolyte-- who is in fact one of the servants-- flees back into the Keep, Reynhild and her hound Callum in pursuit but unable to get a clear shot with her bow. She chases him into an upper hallway of the keep, but he is armed and clearly martially trained. He warns her to back off, as he doesn't want to harm her and she has always treated him well. She replies that she will make him beg her for death days before she grants it to him, and attacks with her shortsword and hound. He gravely wounds Callum and tries to flee again. They spar; he lands a blow on her, but she wounds him seriously. He makes one last desperate attempt to flee toward a window. Cathal arrives with the guards, and between the two of them, they finally subdue the assassin.

Cathal's Journal - Day 3

We made good time yesterday. My men-at-arms are a hardy bunch; as tough as the huscarls of the Yngvi. We were caught in a downpour a few hours after mid-day, but they rode on without complaint, following their lord’s fool of an heir through the cold, sputtering hell. I could fight alongside these men and women.

We stopped early in the evening in a mile-house at the edge of a small village the locals called Geddern. Their few rooms were full, so we contented ourselves with the stable-loft. Most southern noblemen, I suspect, would balk at such ill-favoured lodgings, but it was warm and free of pests and the hay-bales made for snug sleeping. A warrior could content themselves with far less, on the road.

Before taking our rest I asked that one of the men-at-arms to regale me with a tale of their exploits in Wilder’s Gorge. It is customary in Rjurik to end each day with a story of some kind. These are meant to inspire future virtue in the listener, and curtail the repetition of past misdeeds. Ecgraf and Lucan taught me to value such things, each in his way, and to value knowledge even though I’ve never had much of a mind for facts or histories.

A man named Finn was the one who first broke his silence, and did so with confidence, for I had known him in my past life as a boy child of Taeghas and Anuire. He spoke, albeit briefly; of how he used to help me sneak sweets from the kitchens, and look the other way when I played pranks on Daffyd, the kennel master. He joked of how he had seen me take my first bruises from the quintain and had picked me up out of the dust to hoist me back into the saddle. I felt my eyes threaten to brim as he spoke, as I had quite forgotten the shadows of my childhood in favor of the chill-winds of the north. I thanked him for his words, for they bound him to me by more than simple oaths, and strengthened those bonds for the rest of the armsmen and women. I shall have to endeavour to teach these folk to tell a proper story, though. Finn seemed to lack the flair for honest embellishment that the skalds of the Yngvi had.

Today was a much brighter day, in juxtaposition of the weather. We rode through a stretch of almost empty countryside for a time, keeping an eye for outlaws, though their presence in so peaceful a place would have come as a surprise. I caught the occasional scent of orchards, and though tempted to depart the road for a taste of fresh picked apples, we continued on. The need for my presence in Castle Fulcairn is dire enough to brook no needless delay. I write this not from a grandiose sense, but from under the burden of my name and new position, and the strain of my brother’s loss. I write little of that, I know, but it is of little importance. Brothers and fathers and mothers and sisters die in this world every day. My grief is but a mote of brine in a dark and churning sea. Though I do love my brother, it is duty to which my mind must fold.

I called a halt to pitch our camp shortly after the day’s 18^th hour, and once our tents stood, I arranged the men to drill at the sword for two hours before retiring. I fell in among them and so came to gauge their skill at arms. They are none of them without ability, though most of them lack the technical command that only comes about with time and training. Finn stood out, and though he shares his peers’ workmanlike approach to fighting, he is a cagey veteran, and a deceitful swordsman. A man some few years older than myself named Dolan has a natural talent for the sword. He is probably the worst rider among them, however. Those two will make for good bodyguards I expect, should I need such.

I lie next to the fire now, scratching my mind onto this page, nursing a few new bruises. I am ready to enter Ruornil’s misty realm for the night, and suspect I’ll dream of apples.

Love Poem of the Rjurik Skald Hrotti Olafson

Avani cloaks her hoard of gold
Bemantl'd is the sky
Atop the fjord, alone I sit
Thoughts ever plagued by thee

No solace found in hunt or hearth
No flagon's depths will ease
The aching edge lodged in my flesh
The sharpest yet I've seen

I've bested foes with iron thews
Decked halls with fierce prey's glow'r
Yet 'tis this wound unseen that lays
This fearsome warrior low.

Reynhild: The Night Before the Funeral

The wind howled westward as though it fled screaming from the lands of the Manslayer, lashing the towers of Castle Fulcairn. In its wake, the shutters clanged open and shut again, and intermittent stripes of silver moonlight danced across the bed, large and draped luxuriously with wolfskins and linens, but empty, destined to be half empty forever now.

She sat on the edge of the bed and watched the moon through the clanging shutters. Nearly full now, it bathed the curves of the hillsides in pale light and turned the Bowstring into a gleaming ribbon winding through them. It was easier to look out than around, for everything in the room was just as he had left it. The battered boots he only wore when attending to the horses and hounds sat in a dried smear of mud by the door. The cairnhound he was attempting to whittle for her from a chunk of yew-wood lay in a pile of chips and shavings on his writing-desk; she had laughed at him as his attempts mostly consisted of nicking his fingers with the carving tools, and had produced a result that looked more like an ailing duck than a majestic warhound.

She thought about the events of the day, about the young man who had brashly stormed into the keep, secure in his claim to it despite being absent half his life, who looked enough like Corrac to rend her heart into quivering pieces, but acted nothing like him, was nothing like him.

She raised the letter to the moonlight in trembling hands. Part of her wished to cast it into the hearth, cast it from the window, tear it to pieces. For she had moved beyond grief, beyond the agonizing but ultimately human pain of loss, into an obliterated place, a void where there was nothing, merely a great emptiness from which she observed an automaton who vaguely resembled her, walking the castle halls, greeting guests, sending correspondences, giving orders. This piece of parchment, penned in his careful script, had the power to drag her back, back to the pain.

Was it not better, surely, to dwell in the void? She was no stranger to it. She had spent the first twenty-four years of her life there. No joy, no sorrow, no purpose, just emptiness, and the senseless, mindless instinct to keep going.

She reached across the bed and stroked the groove his body had worn in it. It was still there.

She sobbed, a ragged and hopeless sound, just once. Callum, who had been dozing by the fireplace, lifted his great black and tan head and trotted over to her.

Her belt knife glinted in the moonlight, and it sliced through the red wax seal on the letter, stamped with the crest of the Fulcairns.

Cathal's Journal - Day 1

Fulgrim and I sailed the Howl of War, with its 80 oarsmen, into the port of Stormpoint this morn. The warm air welcomed me as I danced the oars and jeered at passing merchantmen. I love the cold wilds of Hogunmark well, but it is the verdant breezes of Taeghas to which I was born. I stepped onto the docks to little greeting aside from my father’s seneschal, Merrec and a retinue of Fulcairn men-at-arms. It is as much, even a mite more than I expected, yet I cannot help but feel some disappointment at my father’s absence. Fulgrim and I said our goodbyes, and despite the loss I feel in being parted from him, who is as true a brother as he whose blood I share, I cheered him home lightly. I wish him well, and hope to someday see him again.

Before departing for home, I sat with Merrec for a while at an inn within the city. It was as much a garden as a sleeping hall, and smelled too sweetly for my tastes. The city folk pranced among flowers in pointless frippery, engaging in whatever tripe they deem to call conversation. I thank Haelyn I was born a Fulcairn, to hounds and hawks and spears for the boar.

Merrec told me of the state of our land, and of my house. It seems the stains of Boeruine’s coup have never left our banners. With the passing of my gallant brother, what hope our people had for a bright future has waned. The fields wilt and the mills and farms fall into disrepair; the land is tied to its regent, and thus I fear for my father. Merrec, the man himself, is drawn and wasted; a tapestry stretched on too broad a loom. I called for meat and drink and left him to feast, expecting that he would travel home at a pace more suited to his constitution.

I challenged the men my father sent me to a race at the city gates and bolted before they could disagree. I paced them well over a quarter mile or so. Perhaps I had the finer horse, for I held quite a convincing lead, or perhaps they let their young lord win. I would never wish that! What weak lordling would ever desire such callow warriors? They held their seats well, nonetheless. Especially well, being men not born to the saddle. I shall challenge them further as we make our way home. These are men I may have to send to die someday, and I owe at least to know them. Some sport should serve to lift spirits as well, a task I plan to bend to tenaciously.

SESSION ONE

The stoic and hardy warriors and woodsmen of House Fulcairn have long presided over Wilder's Gorge, a lush and beautiful but dangerous province bordered by the previously hostile land of Boeruine to the north, and Rhuobhe Manslayer's genocidal elves to the northeast. A mysterious illness has recently claimed Corrac Fulcairn, the house's beloved golden warrior heir. Corrac's younger brother Cathal (played by Ryan) is summoned from the remote northern land of the Rjurik, where he's being fostered, to take his place as the house's heir.

Wilder's Gorge and the Elfwash River

In Fulcairn Keep, Lord Cullan Fulcairn (father of Corrac and Cathal) summons Corrac's widow Reynhild (played by Trez). The grief of Corrac's death has devastated both of them; the elderly Cullan's health has deteriorated consequently, leaving Reynhild with most of the day-to-day operations of the keep. Cullan gives Reynhild a letter from Corrac, which she declines to read at the moment, as she needs full command of her faculties for the difficult days ahead. Then Cullan tells her he knows her secret-- she has never been who she claims to be (and he is correct; she is a common brigand who murdered the Rjurik noblewoman Reynhild Andersdottir enroute to marry Corrac three years earlier, acquired her noble bloodline's mystic power, and stole her identity) but he loves her, considers her his daughter and a Fulcairn, and in fact he made efforts to aid her deception. The usual aloof and inscrutable Reynhild is moved to tears.

The Cradle, fertile heartlands of Wilder's Gorge

Elsewhere, Count Harald Khorien, wizard ruler of Taeghas (the land in which Wilder's Gorge is situated) takes his young apprentice, the disturbingly powerful Mara (played by Thuy Linh Tran) to meet Darien Avan, lord of the neighbouring country of Avanil, the real power behind Taeghas, and soon-to-be emperor of the entire realm. Darien assesses Mara, trying to determine her allegiance and true objectives. She tries to deflect, but eventually reveals her obsession with the pursuit of arcane knowledge, particularly elven-- her previous mentor's dying gift to her was a mysterious message written in Elvish. She is sent to Wilder's Gorge at Khorien and Avan's behest, ostensibly to pay respects to the passing of Corrac Fulcairn, but her true motives are unknown.

Cathal arrives at Fulcairn Keep and is greeted by Reynhild and Cullan; Reynhild is disturbed by his resemblance to her late husband. Later, Reynhild and Cullan greet Mara on her arrival with the proper ceremony due a prestigious wizard's apprentice, but Cathal, brash from his time with the barbarian Rjurik and resentful of the foreign influence on Taeghas, refers to her as one of "Khorien's weasels". Reynhild and Cullan attempt to smooth things over, but Mara subtly bespells Cathal, rather than the servant, into fetching her water. Reynhild and Cullan both politely inquire as to how they can assist her, trying to determine why she was sent to Wilder's Gorge; she responds only that her master wished to assist the region in the days to come. Reynhild later takes Cathal aside and tries to tell him that if he is to rule Fulcairn, he must learn to dance with the many hostile powers at their doorstep, rather than antagonize them.

Our forest is awesome AF

Corrac's funeral proceeds the next day. Cathal leads the assembled guests in the song of House Fulcairn, and Reynhild delivers a speech, reminding the guests of Corrac's profound love for the land and its people, vowing to defend it to her dying breath, and swearing her support and allegiance to Cathal as rightful heir. A feast is held in Corrac's honour. Wine is poured, and Cathal, Cullan, Reynhild and Mara toast to Corrac. Moments later, they fall to the floor in the grips of a powerful poison. Cathal has only a few moments to bid farewell to his dying father before blackness descends on everyone.