SESSION 8 RECAP

In Stormpoint, Mara visits her mother and father to catch up. They are being well cared for by her master, Harald Khorien, supported by a popular shop they run in the city. They worry after her well-being, despite her protest and her status as a powerful mage.

When she leaves her parents’, Mara heads to Khorien’s palace. Within is a well-stocked library where she intends to research the information they uncovered at the ancient villa, and the history of house Fulcairn and the wizard Melehan.

Reynhild seeks out the nameless brothel where Lord Cullen’s assassin claimed to have received his original orders. She speaks with one of Leandra’s young cutpurses outside and pays her to watch for anyone entering or leaving the place. She speaks briefly with Dolan and Brigid about the best way forward, but in the end chooses to enter alone and speak with the House of Wind earnestly.

Mara’s research into House Fulcairn’s history finds it conspicuously sparse. Written records of the house’s holdings and titles only go back a few centuries. She finds no mention of Melehan, or of an imperial court wizard matching his description. She does uncover an ancient family tree detailing the names of the young woman, her husband, and children from the portrait in the villa’s main living chamber, but Melehan and the girl with him are absent. She also uncovers what she believes is an original copy of the blood agreement signed between the Yngvi and the Fulcairns. It is centuries old, at least, and represents some proof, however vague, that house Fulcairn was once much more influential; enough so to be at least the equal of the ruling clan of Hogunmark. She claims it, and decides to present it to Cathal as a gift upon her return.

Back in Fulcairn, Cathal’s days are filled with moderating disputes and grievances aired by Wilders in his hall. The work holds little excitement, but he takes to it dutifully, and truly cherishes the opportunity to help his people. He and Merrec find a rare opportunity to bond, despite their habit of disagreeing with each other. Cathal receives a letter from Count Richard Duene, who is incensed at Cathal and Reynhild’s crossing into Seamist without informing him. In Dolan’s absence, Cathal takes time to train with each of his armsfolk, particularly Finn, who relishes the opportunity.

Reynhild enters the brothel and shows the madam the defaced coin she claimed from Cullen’s assassin. She is guided to a windowless room somewhere in the back, where she is greeted by a severe woman dressed from the neck down in boiled leather armour, and armed to the teeth. She greets Reynhild coolly, but is not hostile, despite her appearance. Reynhild apologizes for dispatching the House’s agent, and mentions that she may be interested in doing business with the house in the future. Reynhild contemplates siccing the assassins on the Duene’s heir, who Adair claims was responsible for the death of Brinden, Cathal’s half-brother, but relents and receives a token from the House’s agent that she can use to contact them later.

Mara and Reynhild undertake the journey home to Fulcairn, where they are received by an unusually stern Cathal. Mara tells him what she found and gives him the Yngvi documents, which he thanks her for sincerely. Mara leaves and Cathal drops his lordly façade, moving to embrace Reynhild. He asks Reynhild how she fared in Stormpoint. Reynhild replies coyly, choosing not to divulge her contact with the House of the Wind. Cathal’s disposition cools again. He tells her he has to undertake his evening training, and leaves her in the hall.

In her chambers, Mara makes contact with her master, finally, after months of silence. Khorien informs her that with the death of the Imperial custodian, Caliedhe Dosiere, Prince Darien Avan is set to claim the Iron Throne and ascend to the position of Emperor of Anuire. Despite this, Avan still only bears the support of a relative handful of realms. Khorien asks Mara how she has fared, and the status of Lord Cathal and his house. Mara tells Khorien of their journey to the ancient villa and of Melehan. She asks him about the house’s absence from historical records and he has little to tell him.

Reynhild seeks out Cathal and tells him the truth of what she was doing in Stormpoint. Her honesty puts him at ease, and the two of them retire to the lord’s chamber for the night.

The next day, Cathal and Reynhild finally get the opportunity to seek out a woodsman from Forks who was recently put up in the castle-town after he and his companions were attacked by some minions of Ruobhe Manslayer in the Aelvinnwode. Upon meeting him, they find that the man is understandably unhinged. He claims his friends were all slaughtered by a spectre in bronze armor, some ten feet tall. He remembers little else about the incident, and his account does much to reignite Cathal’s desire to secure the Aelvinnwode for Wilder’s Gorge, and to someday see done with the threat of Ruobhe Manslayer.

Cathal and Reynhild return to the keep. Cathal holds court for some time, adjudicating the issues of his people. He calls a council later in the day, and they convene to discuss future plans. The first order is what to do with all of the relics they discovered in the villa. The council is almost unanimous, and Cathal orders that they be distributed to the houses from whence they came, so that Fulcairn can curry some much needed political favour.

Next, Merrec brings up the topic of holding a tournament of arms in the spring, urging Cathal to send invitations to noble houses throughout Taeghas and Anuire. Cathal is reluctant to spend coin, but flush with treasure from the imperial villa, decides that is a necessary frivolity, and will do even more to gain standing among the noble houses of Taeghas. Shortly thereafter, a message is brought in from Harald Khorien himself.

Khorien writes of the plans to crown Darien Avan as emperor, and summons Cathal to court at Stormpoint in the spring. Merrec and Mara see the summons as a great opportunity. Lord Cathal surprisingly agrees; though he bears little love for Harald Khorien, he takes his responsibility to his liege-lord very seriously. Reynhild and Finn are wary, however, neither of them much for politics.

House Fulcairn thus prepares for the long slumber of winter, and whatever battles spring may bring to its threshold.

The Game Begins

*Merrec's handwriting, penned in flawless High Anuirean script, with the slightest shake*








My lord Cathal. With the Imperial Summons to the Taeghan court, I have taken the liberty to refresh your memory of the various noble houses of the kingd- ahem, of the Imperial Province. It is a monumental moment in Taeghan history. A new Anuirean Emperor, not seen in 500 years will journey at Stormpoint. What follows is a list of the heads of the various houses in our land.

- Branna Nentril, head of House Nentril, ruler of Bayside. A new noble house in Taeghas. Supporter of Harald Khorien during the war, a traditionalist, the daughter of a hero of the common folk and the greatest influence in the Taeghan military forces.

- Noelen Bhaine, head of House Bhaine, ruler of Bhaine. The Bhaines have always been a major mercantile power in Taeghas, with their guilds controlling several of the land and sea routes passing through the Province. Though not of a great lineage, their wealth grants them power and a voice in the court.

- Blaede Sloere, head of House Sloere, ruler of Brosien. Brosien used to be part of Brosengae until Toerlin's rebellion. Blaede is a fop, a disgrace of his family and wasting away his fortune in frivolous pursuits.

- Gaelin Isilvire, head of House Isilvire, ruler of Islien. The Isilvires are an ancient and powerful family, with a bloodline rivaling that of the greatest Anuirean families. They have wed into the Boeruines, the Avans, the Mhorieds and many more families throughout the Old Empire. Gaelin is a very educated man, a scholar, and a supporter of both Darien Avan and Harald Khorien.

- Geoffrey Khorien, technically next in line for House Khorien, ruler of Portage. After his father lost the War of Succession, Geoffrey had to contend with the burning shame of carrying his father's defeat on his shoulders.

- Richard Duene, head of House Duene, ruler of Seamist. Richard Duene is known as the Justicar among his people, for ruling with a fair and just hand; he controls the mines of the Seamist mountains and keeps the roads to Avanil open.

- Lorica Norvien, head of House Norvien, ruler of Seasdeep. Lorica is the intendant of the Taeghan seat. She is the administrator of Taeghas, loyal to Avan and Khorien, making sure that the court and noble houses adhere to the rules and traditions of the realm.

As always my lord, I am here to serve. I will be making preparations for your journey. Eyes Ever On Our Prey.

A Boy From Three Corners

The horizon burned as the sun got through with its daily dying. Haemic skulked in the hedge outside his house, in a shallow hole he had dug for precisely that moment. He told them what he wanted to do, but they had forbidden it. She would have laughed at them and gone anyway. Haemic was not that brave. But clever, he was clever. And quiet.

He watched as his mother ushered his little brother and two sisters inside for their supper. His father would already be at table, getting his fill of bread and stew. His father, the farrier, would have taken his seat still smelling of the stables. His mother would no doubt have chided him “Oh father, would that I’d known ye’d smell so bad as I married ye.” And she’d tut and shake her head and feed him anyway. The little ones would hop into their own seats and take to the meal like starving weasels. Always hungry, they were.

“Haemic?!” his mother called from the door of the house; a two-storey square of wattle and daub capped with a steep roof of thatch. The farrier’s home had been built on the edge of Three Corners, its foundations abutting a narrow stream that wound through the fields to the north. It was nestled in a small copse of poplars. The front yard was thick, green grass freckled with wildflowers. A young vine of honeysuckle crawled up a lattice his mother had built around the mortared chimney. “Where is that devil boy?” mother exclaimed before being called back inside by one of the girls. Haemic counted to a hundred before slinking out from under the hedge. He stayed low and ran down the street toward the town stables.

Three Corners was a town, little more than a village, really, of simple, square homes sprinkled over the rolling fields on the western border of Wilder’s Gorge. There was little logic to how the streets were arrayed, and there was space between each building such that there were no alleys. The stables were not far from Haemic’s house, not even half a mile. He kept to the shadows where he could, and kept his hood up. Any townsfolk who recognized him might drag him home to his mother. He would never hear the end of that. He had seen fourteen summers, had kissed his first girl not but a week ago. That had scared him more than this, the stakes being almost equal in his young mind. And two weeks before that, the word of his sister had arrived.

They had all been saddened, his father perhaps most, though his mother and the little ones had shown it more. His father had accepted the news, stern of face though his eyes were glass. Haemic had cried as the rest of them, but with the sadness had come pride. His sister had died a hero, had served their lord bravely, and with honor. Had she been born blooded she may have been a knight.

Haemic reached the stables, passing a pair of hands as they left for the evening. They did not even spare him a glance. He was just another stable boy. He snuck around to the back of the long, cross-shaped building and scaled the wall. It was built of logs, the cracks between them stuffed with moss and mud. There were plenty of hand-holds, and he was a good climber. It helped that he’d made the climb every day for the past fortnight. In a small loft above the stable floor, amid square bales and discarded old tack and harness, he collected his things.

Two weeks he had been collecting the supplies for his journey. Hard tack and sausage, a heavy blanket and a folded sheet of canvas, some flint and a beat up old pot. A knife and a hatchet, and a hoof-knife just in case. A half-bag of apples, and his best set of clothes for when he got where he was going. A small box of tinder in case he found no dry wood for kindling. Autumn in Wilder’s Gorge was a time for rain, after all. All packed in a pair of saddlebags paired with a worn old halter and saddle. He had only found them a few days before; a saddle no one would miss that was still in good enough shape to bear him half the breadth of the barony. It had been buried up there under piles of old detritus. The metal was tarnished and pitted, and the straps were nigh on fraying, but he expected it would do. When he was done collecting his things. He threw the bags and saddle over his shoulder and descended a ladder to the stable floor. The smell of horse was mild, as the stables had only just been cleaned, and there were fresh rushes of hay on the floor. He kept low, more out of nerves now than anything, and went to find the horse.

The horse was one thing he knew would be missed, but it was the one thing perhaps he needed the most and he had the right one all picked out. She was a roan mare, a palfrey who belonged to the town magistrate, and was the finest riding horse in Three Corners by a very wide margin. Haemic had stolen moments here and there, while working with his father, to feed her apples so she would be accustomed to him when the time came. She was there, snorting and snuffing in her stall when he arrived. He set the saddle and bags on the ground outside and pulled an apple from the sack within to offer her. She munched on it happily and hardly blinked as he pulled the halter over her face and ears. He hoped the magistrate would forgive him. He would do all he could to see her returned when his journey was done.

He looked back on the fire-lights of Three-corners that glowed in the deepening dark as the roan clopped down the East Road to Fulcairn. His chest panged as he thought of the worry he would cause his mother, of his brother having no one to help him fish in the stream the next day. Of his father left to find another helper, of his sisters having no one to bear them on his shoulders so they could pretend at being giants. But, he had always worshipped Magda, and if she could no longer serve young Lord Fulcairn, then it fell to him to serve in her place. He would learn to fight and join the guard, and if he was strong and lucky enough he could be one of the baron’s armsmen. Perhaps, however unlikely, someday a knight. He turned back to face the road, and gave the mare his heels, grinning despite himself as she surged forward. The wind whipped his hair, the world stretched before him, his eyes on his prey.

An Excerpt from "A Treatise on Tracking Prey in Woodlands" by Caedmon Fulcairn

[This paragraph is carefully underlined in charcoal.]

In my travels, I once encountered a Khinasi priestess who told me that the prime tenet of her order's faith was this: that every being serves their god most faithfully when it is being true to its own nature. Long did I ponder on this as I stalked prey in the forests of Wilder's Gorge, for there in our pristine heartlands, barely touched by the civilizing (some might say corrupting) influence of man, where better to ponder the nature of things, where nature is at her most elemental? Aye, I thought, there was some wisdom in the priestess' words. A wolf clad in jewels and a Ciliene ballgown does not serve Eirik; a wolf tearing out the throat of a sick or lame elk, that the wolf pups might feed and the elk herd be strengthened, most assuredly does.

And yet, as I strove to better myself in all things--to be a better hunter, a better marksman, a better woodsman, a better baron, a better husband and father--I was forced to ask myself if such a deceptively simple philosophy could truly be said to encapsulate the experience of man, that most unnatural of creatures. Does a weak man best serve the gods by being weak? Does a cruel man best serve the gods by being cruel? What can truly be said to be the nature of a man? For I have seen the weak take up buckler and blunted blade and go to the training yard every day, for years, until they became strong. I have seen the cruel witness the repercussion of their own cruelty, fall to their knees and weep and beg forgiveness. Would these men have served their gods better had they remained weak and cruel?

Yet by the same token, I have seen disaster follow when men did not honour their own nature. I have seen good soldiers cut down in the hundreds because they were led by a man with the nature not of a general, but a velvet-handed fop with an important father. I have seen good wives' tears because a man with the nature of a whoring drunken cad, not a husband and father, married them.

If you are reading this, I assume it is because you wish to improve your skills, perhaps to attain the mastery of the woods that many claim I have achieved. By my troth I tell you this-- there are two halves to mastery. The first is to know your own nature and honour it always. If you are a wolf, do not wear ballgowns, but pursue your prey with ferocity; if you are instead a fine fat sheep with a thick fleece, then bless the farmer with the gift of your wool, and do not race after the elk herds with bared teeth.

The second is to find the weakness and unworthiness in yourself and cull it as ruthlessly as Eirik's wolves cull the old and sick from the elk herd.

[A note is jotted in the margins: "I am a wolf and I hate wearing damned ballgowns. --R"]

SESSION SEVEN

Mara decides to return the villa to explore the mysterious draw of magical power she sensed from beneath it. She, Dolan, and several men-at-arms venture beneath the villa and discover a gated passageway. Within it, they find hidden rooms, some filled with relics and artifacts, some with treasure. Mara also discovers a magically sealed room with the inscription "For the Disciples of the Blood Magus". She cuts her hand and manages to open the handprint seal. Within, she finds a ritual room with four obelisks around a central point with a floating magical book. She learns that they represent sites of magical power centered around a nexus of magical energy, evidently beneath Fulcairn Keep. She decides to take the book and leave, but discovers to her horror that she has disrupted some sort of ancient ritual of binding and is about to unleash the demon Eblitris to devour the realm magic, and eventually the realm itself. She frantically taps into the mysterious source of power to beg its aid. It commands her to rewrite the broken spells of binding. She expends all her magical energy and is unable to do so, then begins to cannibalize her own body to gain more spellcasting power. The demon makes reference to a pact going unfulfilled, and she glimpses a vision of a horrifyingly malevolent black city behind a sandstorm. Just as the demon nearly breaks free to annihilate the world, she manages to contain it, but at horrific cost to herself. She collapses, her bodyweight nearly halved, blinded, her hair falling out, and her unseeing eyes weeping golden-black tears.

Back at Castle Fulcairn, a package arrives for Reynhild. Its resemblance to the package (containing Adair's head) that she received in the Shadow Realm unnerves her; Cathal attempts to shield her from seeing its contents. But it contains not Adair's head but a hand and a message from Adair, stating that he caught one of the brigands who killed Cathal's half-brother Brinden, and he was in pursuit of more.

Cathal and Reynhild resume their tour of the barony, for one last stop in Forks. Cathal offers to wrestle the townfolk, and they meet and recruit a burly and jovial woodcutter, Thaddeus, for the men-at-arms, as well as his wife. Later, Cathal takes Reynhild to a ramshackle cottage where his family used to visit, and shows her a tree where the family (Cullan, Cathal's mother Catriona, and the three brothers) all carved their names. She hesitates, but on his urging, carves her name on the tree. They decide to restore the cottage when time permits.

They are greeted by the novice ranger Telfirth on their return, bearing news that the caravan with Mara is returning, but Mara has been horribly wounded. Immediately Cathal and Reynhild leave to intercept it. They find her in a terrible state, unconscious, burned, ravaged and blind. No conventional means of healing help her, and out of desperation, they decide to ride to the nearest temple of Haelyn-- in Seamist.

They decide to travel incognito for the sake of haste, rather than with an entourage. A comical incident transpires at the gate, in which Reynhild pretends to be a haughty Rjurikan tradeswoman and Cathal her long-suffering servant. They enter the town without incident, though they do glimpse the youngest Duene son, who has caused them so much trouble. The temple of Haelyn offers them precious little aid, claiming they need to contact the temple at Stormpoint for a matter as dire as Khorien's apprentice being near death and in need of healing. However, they suggest Cathal and Reynhild take a visitor with him-- a mysterious warrior named Varyan Goeryne. The man scrutinizes Reynhild and Cathal oddly. He claims to be an itinerant warrior and protector of the people, and offers to ride north to aid them.

As they travel, he asks for a few moments of privacy every evening. They respect it, but the ever-vigilant Reynhild follows him one night, watching from the shadows. She witnesses him perform some sort of mystical purification ritual or prayer; it strikes her as harmless enough, and she lets him be.

They reach Castle Fulcairn. Varyan locks himself in with Mara and requests to not be disturbed. They can hear him through the door beseeching the gods and the land itself. Several days pass, and the chanting continues; Cathal and Reynhild are exhausted and bewildered at the process. Finally Callum draws Reynhild's attention to the door; she enters to discover Mara looking healed and Varyan evidently having absorbed her condition into himself. Cathal and Reynhild immediately have Varyan tended to and put to bed, but there is little they can do for him. Eventually he recovers enough to speak, though he is still blind. He requests nothing save a little honey mead; they drink and share Rjurikan songs and stories with him, which he relishes. Both Cathal and Reynhild are drawn to his selfless, self-effacing heroism and the aura of peace and goodness he emanates.

Mara arrives to thank him, and rather than chastising her for her recklessness, he merely says she was well worth saving.

One night, Callum awakes Reynhild, and she finds Varyan's guest quarters empty. She finds him in the stables with his beautiful mare, Temperance; his eyes are healed and he is about to leave. She thanks him for his aid and states he will always be welcomed as family at Fulcairn Keep. He says he must leave to pursue penance, and gives her a cryptic warning from his visions-- that "blood is not everything". Then before he departs, he tells her she is loved in this world, and the next.

The next day, the ranger Adair returns, limping. He states that it was the younger Duene who ordered Brinden killed, but he has no proof. Reynhild thanks him profusely for his service, and begins to ponder what to do to avenge Brinden.

The Fulcairns, now with Mara on her way to recovery, discuss their next steps. They decide to keep the gold from the villa, but to redistribute the relics, and host a tournament to increase their prestige and fame. Cathal decides to remain in Wilder's Gorge at attend to business there; Reynhild and Mara decide to travel to Stormpoint.

Reynhild speaks to both Brigid and Dolan about building a shadow network to keep ahead of the House's enemies. Both have differing ideas; Reynhild is satisfied by neither, but Dolan does suggest a contact he knows in Stormpoint named Leandra.

The night before Reynhild and Mara leave for Stormpoint, Reynhild and Cathal go for a ride in the countryside; unable to contain their feelings for each other any longer, they make love amidst the falling leaves of autumn. Cathal says they should marry on her return from Stormpoint, as the House needs heirs; Reynhild's reaction is (as usual) inscrutable.

Reynhild and Mara ride for Stormpoint. Mara is joyfully reunited with her parents, proprietors of a shop called The Silver Lock. Reynhild and Dolan meet Leandra; Reynhild attempts to be subtle about her goals, but nearly loses Leandra's interest, and only retains it when she, on Dolan's suggestion, reveals she too is of a rather rough-and-tumble origin. Leandra strongly advises Reynhild against dealing with the House of Wind. They warily strike a deal; Reynhild fronts her some gold and asks her to learn more about the youngest Duene, specifically what he cares about the most.

A Change of Heart

"Know that you are loved, in this world and the next."

Reynhild downed the wooden flagon of cheap ale in a single pull. She partook of spirits very rarely-- she did not relish the feeling of dulled reflexes and numbed wits-- but at the moment she needed something, anything, to chase Sir Varyan's voice out of her head. His last words had haunted her since the night he left.

The inn's common room was near empty at this hour. The few stragglers and drunks paid her little heed. Brigid was upstairs, watching Mara as she slept; the wizard, somewhat more subdued since she had nearly perished at the villa, had agreed to stay near Reynhild in town, rather than at the ornate, gilded townhouse--a veritable beacon for thieves!-- where her parents lived. Reynhild's stomach clenched at the thought of how close they'd come to losing her. Little foolhardy idiot. Both my little foolhardy idiots. But I love them. I no longer know what I'd do, or who I'd be, without them both. 

But it wasn't her constant vigilance or arrows that had saved Mara. It was Varyan.

"Know that you are loved, in this world and the next."

Unable to bear it, she rose from the table, left a handful of bent coppers, and headed for the door.

Reynhild did not much like Stormpoint. The stench of human misery swirled amid the gardens and fountains and frescoes. People were packed so densely here it was a wonder anyone could breathe. There was human prey aplenty-- the cutpurse she'd been in another life would have salivated at the thought-- but there was nowhere to flee, nowhere to hide, nowhere to range, only more walls, cobbles, the crush of unwashed bodies.

The cutpurse I'd been in another life.

She knew, from the second she met Varyan's gaze, that he knew she wasn't who she pretended to be. He saw through her facade without effort. Those twilight-blue eyes saw the dirty, ugly, shameful, brutal truth at the core of her being. He knew every purse she'd cut, every throat she'd slashed, every time she'd eaten garbage rather than starve. But what she saw reflecting back was not disgust or judgment... but mercy, grace, acceptance, an endless well of compassion that sought to bear all the world's pain and ask nothing back for itself.

I don't deserve it.

She stopped in the midst of the Street of Tanners and furiously wiped her suddenly tear-filled eyes with the back of her gauntlet.

He knew who she was, and he deemed her worthy of love regardless. That was more than Corrac, and now Cathal, could do... the woman they claimed to love didn't exist, or at least, was a veneer on something profoundly vile.

Gods damn you, Varyan. You changed everything. You changed me. You are the only one who has ever made me feel like I could truly be something different. Like I could be redeemed.

So far, the trip to Stormpoint had been an utter failure. Her plan to infiltrate the House of Wind, to use it for her own purposes, was at a dead end, and all Dolan had managed to find her was some back-alley tough who he claimed was a cut above the rest.

But maybe there is a new path through this particular thicket. One I almost walked right past, but Varyan pointed out to me. 

Maybe I can be worthy of Corrac's love, of Cathal's, of whatever Varyan sees in me. 

Maybe there is another way.

"Alms, milady? Alms for a poor lame beggar?"

Reynhild glanced over; a pair of bright eyes peered up from a stinking bundle of rags crouched by the side of the cobblestone street. Immediately she recognized her. She was one of Leandra's. Possibly she'd been following her since she left the inn, and Reynhild had been too ale-addled and heartsick to notice.

"I have a message for your mistress." She proffered a half-silver piece.
"Aye, milady?"
"She told me she would return any part of my gift she did not require. Tell her to keep it. Tell her to use it to put a hot meal in the belly of you and anyone else in her care. Tell her that when I came to her, I wanted her help destroying... but now I want her help protecting and rebuilding both her people, and mine. Tell her... I've had a change of heart."

Know that you are loved, in this world and the next.

Solitude

When he wakes in the morning, the mattress beside him is cold. The scent of her on his pillows, cloves and honeysuckle, fades with each breath he takes from them. For a moment he feels her soft arms around his, feels her feet entwined with his. Her warm breath on his face and her great, gleaming eyes staring into his. His heart twists with longing.

He rises, dons gambeson, breeches, and boots, and makes his way down to the yard. A man at arms is there, filling in for Dolan, and taking more than the absent mercenary’s share in lumps. The sword feels heavy in his hands. He cuts clumsily, guards absentmindedly, moves indecisively, and is bested, though he should never have been touched by the opponent’s blade. The grey autumn sky opens above him, letting through some small shreds of light. He tiredly hangs his head and looks not upon it.

He speaks with the old seneschal, who provides notes and papers on stiff, brown leaf. The arches of the great hall bow around him, a bright fire crackling in the hearth on the north wall. He hears petitions from his people and sifts through orders and ledgers he has made or has yet to. His mind threatens to float above, aloof and unfocused, and he forces it back down to the scratches and notes on the table before him. He breaks for a meal; a warm plate of roast venison with root vegetables and onions in a thick gravy. He eats some, sprinkles it with salt, tastes naught.

More petitioners, more sheafs of scribbles, then he sits to discuss the day’s proceedings and future plans with those few souls who remain with him. All is recorded by the scribe. He calls for his horse to be prepared for his evening exercise, and orders the cook to prepare a barley gruel for his supper. Why waste good meat and roughage when his tongue is numb to their flavours?

He rides for over an hour, though usually it is two, and strikes his mark with lance only thrice. His horse feels unruly, his saddle loose, his vision untrue. His grip feels weak as if with sleep. He dismounts, frustration overtaking him. He leads his courser back to stable and brushes her down himself, ordering the stable hands away and basking in the solitude.

He retires early to his chambers, his supper brought to him in a plain wooden bowl, which he leaves untouched on a small side table. He sits upon his balcony and watches the sun go down, then counts the stars in the black when the dark night comes. He picks out the constellations in his mind, telling each of their stories to her, as though she were there next to him. She would know the lot of them, he expects, better even than he, and he smiles in melancholy. He looks to the bed in its corner of the room, dark and un-made, ready to receive him to the gentle crush of its grip for another passing of the moon. He disrobes and climbs under the blankets, the mattress cold where she once lay, the pillows ever less touched with her scent, and he drifts away into deep slumber. And, even in his dreams, his heart twists with longing

SESSION SEVEN ART RECAP

Know that you are loved, in this world and the next.

"She Rides With Haelyn"

On My Beloved (by the Khinasi poet Tashairah)

Merely by his shadow on the bazaar's cobblestones
I recognize him
and next to its sublime shape
The white minarets of Ariya are humbled

And the orchards of the east, trembling in their dew,
have borne nothing sweeter
than the sweat my tongue traces
From the hollow beneath his throat

As the high tides thunder toward the bay
inexorable, urgent,
the red cliffs gleaming in their spray
So he rushes in to fill me

We drink of each other till dawn
till the lines between us dissipate
like the upward spiral of incense smoke
And the gods see not two souls

But one 

SESSION SIX

Weeks after their excursion to the lost Imperial villa, Mara, Reynhild, Cathal, and Dolan are safe in Castle Fulcairn. A caravan of workers and soldiers, led by Finn, have been sent to the villa to retrieve the artifacts within it. Cathal and his counsellors meet in the great hall to discuss further business.

A messenger arrives in the hall, bearing a large, fragrant bundle and sets it upon the main table. Cathal uncovers it, to find the head of Reynhild’s ranger, Adair, who had been investigating the Duene family. The head is impaled upon a new-forged blade bearing Duene markings, and is caked in herbs to hide the sent of its decay. Merrec, caught in an uncharacteristic wave of vitriol, launches into a tirade against Cathal, telling him he has failed Wilder’s Gorge and is destroying his house. Cathal is confused, and attempts to calm the seneschal, but Merrec’s furor continues unabated. Overwhelmed by the stress of his anger, Merrec’s heart gives out, and he collapses. Cathal rushes to his side, but to no avail. The ancient, loyal servant has died. Seeing her master’s demise, the scribe Medwyn decries House Fulcairn as lost, and chooses to leave.

Mara and Reynhild go to search the seneschal’s rooms, and those of his scribe, to see if they can uncover any evidence as to what triggered the outburst. Cathal asks Dolan to move Merrec’s body to the family catacombs, and prepare a place of honour for him there. He then summons the healer, Leech, to inspect Adair’s severed head. Alone in the hall, Cathal removes the Duene blade from the ranger’s head to reveal a dark, viscous substance on the blade and within Adair's skull. He rushes to find Mara to see if the mage, with her arcane knowledge, can identify it.

Mara and Reynhild can find nothing to give evidence of why Merrec turned on Cathal. When Cathal arrives with the blade, Mara tries to identify the substance, but can discover nothing. Cathal shows it to Leech when he arrives, but the healer knows little more than the wizard. Cathal and Dolan rush to find Medwyn, to ask her of Merrec’s state of mind. She is still angry, and offers little help. On their way back to the Castle, Cathal and Dolan are stopped when one of the Fulcairn soldiers who was at the villa is brought to them, heavily wounded. He tells Cathal that Finn’s party has been ambushed by orogs, and Finn has been killed. Cathal, growing suspicious of the drear turn all things have taken, rushes to find Mara and Reynhild again.

Upon arrival, Mara reveals that she is having much the same suspicions, and believes that the magic at the Imperial Villa has somehow ensorcelled them into some dark reality. Mara moves to the family catacombs, where she had once dreamed the tendrils of golden magical energy, to see if she can use the power there to counteract the enchantment.

Unable to access the mysterious power while waking, Mara returns to her chambers to replicate the conditions of her original exposure to it. Guarded closely by Reynhild, Cathal, and a very confused Dolan, Mara falls fast asleep…

… and awakes alone in her chamber, utterly alone, but for the spectre of Harald Khorien, projected from the Mara’s enchanted amulet. Khorien asks Mara for her report, and Mara informs him of the veins of divine energy coursing through Wilder’s Gorge, and her use of it to protect Cathal and his soldiers. Khorien is furious, and declares that Mara does not have the wisdom to use the energy properly. He orders her to relinquish her control of it, and begins to take it upon himself.

Cathal himself awakes in a space devoid of all light, having only the feeling of old, mortared stone under his boots. He gropes in the dark to find a wall, and his hands close on the cold stone face of one of Fulcairn’s ancient lords. Cathal spends what feels like hours in the dark, making a map with his hands and memory, and then starts moving toward what he can only guess is an exit.

Mara, the power of the golden web being drained from her, tries to speak with Khorien, to reason with him. She says she has only ever used the power to carry out her duty, and that in taking it from her, Khorien is jeopardizing the safety of Taeghas, perhaps Anuire itself. Khorien is unphased. He berates her again for her senseless pursuit of power, and tells her she would have been nothing without his patronage and tutelage. Mara finally has enough, and chooses to defend herself. She taps into the energy of the land once again, and prepares to strike at her master.

Reynhild awakes in the past. She is in the bed she and Corrac once shared, the figure of her late husband filling the frame of their chamber window. Corrac speaks to Reynhild tenderly, but pointedly, asking her why she has not fulfilled the promises she made to him while he still lived. He says she promised to be happy, and to be faithful to the house. She has done neither, he says, and his calm, tender visage quickly twists to scorn…

Cathal ascends a series of stairs and comes to an empty, torch lit chamber, surrounded by the dead faces of his ancestors. In the midst of the room stands the apparition of his father, Cullen Fulcairn. Cathal is put on his back foot when, much like his isolated companions, the ghost of his past begins chastising him for his missteps, first accusing Cathal of petty bitterness for speaking ill of his father’s decisions. Cathal attempts to assuage Cullen, embracing him, and reassuring him that he understands and respects the decisions his father chose to make.

Cullen is relentless though, and accuses his son of being reckless, and risking the destruction of not just their house, but the lives of all their people. Cathal loses his temper, and responds in kind, saying his father’s anemic rule led to the slow decay of their land. Cathal tells him to rot in his grave and long for the past, while Cathal and his comrades build a future for the living. Cullen’s ghost disappears with a last, limp snarl of derision, and Cathal moves into the light beyond the Catacombs.

Meanwhile, Corrac attacks Reynhild, accusing her for the feelings she bears for Cathal, of her being unfaithful to him and his memory. Reynhild, knowing that this is not the Corrac she loved, and overwhelmed by her guilt and yearning for happiness, lashes out at Corrac. Her blade finds his chest, but does him no harm. His face becomes monstrous, and he moves to attack her. Reynhild flees as swiftly as she can, running through the halls of the keep and out into the yard. She is stopped there by a mysterious knight, who opens his visor to show an unfamiliar face. The knight sees Corrac rushing after and urges her to flee, moving to engage the fiend. Reynhild, her instincts taking hold, turns and flees, and does not look back.

Mara unleashes her magic on Khorien, weathering a mental assault from him to smash into his defenses with vicious, eldritch rays. To her surprise, she has her master on the back foot. A dark voice urges her to channel more of the great stream of energy beneath Fulcairn Keep. She embraces it, and fashions it into seeking tendrils of death that shatter Khorien’s barriers and rend the master diviner to his very soul. Mara releases the energy and collapses in exhaustion, though a tinge of something dark remains.

All four, including Dolan, come to on their feet in the ballroom of the villa’s first floor. They been transported by the Villa’s magic into the Shadow Realm, a dark mirror to the waking world of Aebrynys. They search for an exit, but find none, and are drawn to the top the floor by an eerie singing. Cathal draws his sword and leads the group back up the villa’s stairs to come face to face with the ghastly form of Magda. Once young and vibrant, the swordswoman’s colour has drained, her hair dry and stringy. Reynhild alone is unstricken by her appearance, but determined to suffer no further harm from this place, she nocks and loses an arrow into the undead creature. Magda wails in pain, her voice tearing at the souls of her once companions. The shriek jars Cathal from his paralysis, and he waves Reynhild back. The Lord of Fulcairn drops his blade and moves toward Magda, imploring her to recognize him, to come back to herself. He clasps her arms, gently, and asks her to rest. Magda’s features soften, and her wispy form dissipates into nothing. Cathal, having touched Magda’s necrotic form, is drained unto the brink of death, and collapses to the floor. Reynhild rushes to Cathal’s side and revives him, and the four descend from the second-floor balcony to escape the villa.

On their return to Castle Fulcairn, they are overjoyed to see Merrec alive and well, if not spry, and Medwyn close by his side. They celebrate their return with solemn joy, each of them completely exhausted. Late that night, when the keep is quiet, Lady Reynhild goes to Cathal in his chamber, and opens up to him, telling him that her biggest fear, having lost everything and everyone else in her life, is that she may lose him. Cathal consoles her, saying that no matter what happens, he will always be with her. They kiss, and fall to slumber in each other’s arms.

House Fulcairn, 705 Haelyn's Count

SESSION FIVE

Cathal knocks upon the villa door and it opens, though by no one’s hand as the portal beyond is empty. He and Mara lead the others inside. It first seems to them that they’ve stepped into some kind of ball, and follow the sound of music, laughter, and dancing to a large room at the end of the main hall. Cathal attempts to speak with some of the people, but they seem completely oblivious to his presence, and one of the servants simply passes completely through Mara.

Reynhild nervously stays near Cathal, unsettled by the magic of the place and determined to protect him. Mara and Dolan inspect some of the rooms off of the large room and main hall, but find little other than two noblemen who’ve stepped aside to have an innocuous conversation. Having found nothing of note, they ascend a grand, circling stair case to the upper floor of the Villa.

Mara, guarded by Dolan, breaks off from the group in an attempt to inspect the rooms within the villa, her curiosity more than peaked. Cathal, flanked by Magda and Reynhild, heads brazenly toward a vast, open balcony occupying almost half of the upper floor. Cathal notices the livery of several noble houses, including Clan Yngvi, the Rjurikan noble house he fostered with in Hogunmark. He eventually spots a man dressed in the traditional garb of the Emperor of Anuire, a title that has gone unclaimed for at least five hundred years.

Mara eventually stumbles into what she surmises is the chamber of the Villa’s master, and is surprised to see it bears the marks of a scion of house Fulcairn. A large painting occupies one of the walls, which shows a small extended family; a man and a woman, with two children, all bearing the angular, wolfish and sandy hair of Cathal and his late brother. To their side stands another man, taller and broader, in a set of heavy, elaborate robes. A wizard, Mara suspects, who also bears the Fulcairn features but is darker of hair and complexion. His hands are upon the shoulders of a young girl who stands before him, and from their resemblance must be his daughter.

Cathal moves closer to the Emperor to listen to the conversation he is having with a tall, powerful looking man in richly-made robes. From their discussion, Cathal discerns that the Emperor is one who ruled Anuire some seven hundred-fifty years ago, and the man the Emperor was speaking with was Melehan Fulcairn, Imperial Court Wizard and commander of the empire’s magical sources.

Reynhild notices that Magda has wandered off, and is nowhere to be seen. Her unease intensifies.

Mara rejoins her friends on the balcony and recognizes Melehan from the painting in the master’s chamber. He is the one who owns the villa, and has offered it to the Emperor to use whenever he visits Taeghas. Melehan also assures the Emperor that he has used the unusually strong magical energy in Wilder’s Gorge, a small Taeghean barony, to create some kind of defense against the magical incursions one “Raesene”, and Ruobhe Manslayer.

Having learned all that they expected to, the living Fulcairns begin to take their leave, but are stopped by Melehan, who, unlike any of the other apparitions at the ball, have noticed them. He challenges their presence, calling them intruders, and freezes Cathal and Reynhild in place.

Mara tries to convince him that they are all his kin, and that they seek only to save the house and the land of Wilder’s Gorge, but he does not believe her. Mara allows him to draw her blood to check her bloodline, as she suspects she may bear some distant, lost relation to the Fulcairns through Melehan. Afterward he seems somewhat appeased, though still suspicious. He reveals to Mara the nature of the magical force she has been tapping into, and that it is not the Mebhaigl (Meh-VALE), the source of realm magic, but the raw stuff of divine energy, and that what she has been doing is dangerous.

Melehan then releases Cathal and Reynhild, and though they have questions of their own, he answers no more. The mighty wizard warns them to leave immediately, lest they be stuck within the magical pocket of time forever. Reynhild, needing no more warning, grabs Cathal by the arm and pulls him after her from the balcony, but before they make it to the stair, Mara calls out, for she has found Magda. The armswoman is enraptured in the music, and has succumbed to the magic of the vision. Though Mara wants to try to save Magda, Reynhild and Cathal, both feeling the eerie pull of the place, tell her that it is too late. With reluctance, Reynhild, Cathal, Dolan, and Mara flee down the great staircase, and bolt for the villa’s door.

Melehan