Clarifications in the marginalia are certainly welcome.

First, the PCs would like to make it clear that they were *not* arrested. They simply went to the guardhouse to make a complaint about being viciously attacked by uncontrolled monkeys. Nonetheless, everyone--all PCs and Helix's soi-disant husband--ended up at the port guardhouse, where statements were collected. Ivor Fletcher was carted off to take a message from the College, and His Eminence Sagbata i Vardall was buttonholed and extensively placated.

Just as the guards were failing to recognize Helix, a young individual came up with a box of charming dockside pastries, handed them to the guards who went on coffee break (because really, they *were* done taking statements), and dragged Our Heroes around a corner and into a hallway for a brief explanation.

Short version: "Why yes, you *did* marry him when you threw the locket with your picture into the pot after he threw in the ring, and then won the pot. (Wait, are you saying that you were gambling with someone you weren't willing to marry? Sanchi manta, you people are lunatics.)"

The individual--Qwaterhall--suggested a lovely unmarriage gift and a very sincere speech about how duty sadly demanded that Helix fulfill the demanding calling of being a Verkadian Associate and so could not possibly accept marriage to Vardall, and then shoehorned all three of them out the back of the guardhouse.

Figuring that shopping could wait, the group set out to try and track down Quendlebar Kay. They got the name of the rooming house he'd been staying at, and someone remembered seeing him heading down to the medical quarter that afternoon, and they also found out he'd been staying at Stross's Rooming House. Checking out the rooming house, they found a metal badge embossed with a three-armed symbol hidden in the mattress, and a small bagful of glass beads hidden under the floorboards.

Moving down to the medical quarter, they found the shop where Qundelbar was supposed to have met someone. It'd been abandoned for about a month, and was unremarkable, except that the symbol on the metal badge had been carved over one of the windows. Syrnan climbed in through the window, struck a light, and was promptly swarmed by the better part of eight demon monkeys, rather larger and stronger than the ones from the dockside attack. Two of them lunged out the window and attacked Ash.

A short and brutal fight later, all but one of the monkeys had been dispatched (and the remaining one had been beaten into unconsciousness), and Our Heroes stopped by an apothecary shop down the street to patch up. They returned to search the abandoned shop and found the cloaked and hooded figure that Helix and Ash had met below Barrowlux.

There was a tense and polite exchange of information. The figure--introducing itself as the Suitor when Helix asked its name--explained that it was waiting in the shop in the hopes that the other (unworthy) devotees of the Lady would come back. It confirmed that there was one other shard of the mirror in Seaport, and that ideally, it wanted the mirror back together and the Lady to stay inside it, so it could gaze upon Her forever and She could never leave.

Feeling slightly creeped out by this example of loving devotion, the group decided there was no reason to blast the Suitor into ashes and left. They dropped the unconscious monkey at a guardhouse (leaving the guards to argue over whether or not it was a person), stopped by an inn to arrange rooms for the night, and then headed on to the Feather and Silk to try and find Barsumus Quinn.

While they were unwinding and waiting for Quinn to show up, Helix's husband came in. Ash and Helix tried to duck out the back way, and were promptly shot at. Helix got a quick disguise, while Ash headed back to the front. She and Syrnan buttonholed Quinn, who had just come in. Syrnan went out to solve the problem of the sniper/assassin, while Ash and Helix (now disguised) brought Quinn up to speed.

Taking the group upstairs to discuss things in private, Quinn explained that while he'd encountered a devotee of the Lady before, and though he and his partner[1] had defeated them, his partner had died in the attempt. When the College hadn't taken Quinn's passionate (if unsubstantiated) warnings of a terrible conspiracy seriously, he'd left the Verkadian Associates. When he heard that Our Heroes were hoping to prevent the mirror from being reassembled, re-break the mirror, expose the conspiracy, and generally save the world, he gave them his shard of the mirror and asked to be left alone.

And that was when the screaming started downstairs.
---
[1] The father of the noble Parian that Syrnan had failed to protect from assassination.b

The Ashewoods are an interesting case.

All the Houses are interesting cases, of course, and all have their claims to uniqueness. Perhaps it might be better to say that the Ashewoods are an unsettling case. Part of it is their Hearth; what is now called Barrowlux was once a necropolis filled with the entombed ranks of the dead, catacombs beneath a long-fallen city. Part of it is their lineage, and what they bred with down in the dark.

The Ashewoods are part ghoul.

According to their history, when the Darkness fell, a few survivors sought shelter deep in the catacombs. Over the years, the descendants of those survivors adapted to their environment. As the city above Barrowlux was razed, the survivors moved deeper, scavenging for survival. Presumably the incursions from Neverborn above led to the first uneasy alliances between human and ghoul; the details remain unrecorded. Over the years, the deeper parts of the catacombs were turned into a refuge, secured as best as possible by the traps and the great doors left above.

Barrowlux sits at the far northeastern edge of the House's lands, and is the farthest city of any note--beyond it, there are a few scattered hamlets, and the sparsely-mapped stretch of the wilderness. Buildings are being constructed aboveground--low, square, and wide-roofed, walls plastered smooth with mud or daub when stone is beyond the means or the reach of the builder. With the disappearance of the Darkness, the eating of the dead among the Ashewoods has become largely ceremonial, though it still deeply marks their culture. Their physics are a particularly striking example--nowhere else is the study of medicine so deeply entwined with the study of cooking (on the theory that really, it's all a matter of caring for and preparing the body).

Ashewoods tend towards the wiry and pale, with dark hair, strong jawlines, and a good sense of smell. Brown eyes are most common, although green or red are occasionally seen. Occasionally the jawline will be prominent enough to be described as a muzzle, and the brown of the eyes light enough to be more reasonably described as "ochre" or "yellow". They are generally soft-spoken, reserved (although visitors to Barrowlux report a more relaxed attitude towards guests), and quite cautious in matters of physical security.

There is no way on god's green earth that I am going to be able to run a game this weekend. Next weekend, however, should be good.

How does Sunday the 17th, noon to 5:00, work for people?

As Kin Ryke had not returned from his expedition out into the northern wilds, a trio of untried Verkadian Associates were sent out with a pack pony, his planned route, and instructions to bring back either (1) him or (2) his remains and as many of his notes as possible. A fortnight out, they came upon the remnants of his campfire (not unusual, as they were following his path) and his coat, which had been taken off, wrapped neatly around his notes, and tucked out of the weather (unusual).

Ryke's papers contained his map to that point, and two brief notes--one regarding a quick side trip he'd taken earlier to confirm that bogies weren't present in a particular area, and one suggesting something odd about the bogies and terrain around the river to the northwest (past the earthworks). Quite politely, he'd also added a boxed phrase containing his apology for being late (should anyone find his notes) and explaining he was going to head northwest to investigate.

Inspecting the area and climbing a tree, they found no further traces of Kin Ryke, but spotted a large earthwork to the north-west, just over a day's travel towards the river and apparently quite recently made. Packing up the notes, they headed off towards it.

Night fell, camp was made, midnight came, and our brave companions' rest was interrupted by the sudden invasion of bogies, outnumbering them three to one. Fighting valiantly, they dispatched all but two of the cowardly beasts (those two fleeing in terror), handily besting the overwhelming numbers and filthy magics at their enemies' disposal. Examining the bodies yielded evidence that the bogeys had encountered Kin Ryke (a well-woven pouch, containing sweetbark), and medallions crudely carved to resemble the earthworks they were travelling towards.

The rest of the night was uneventful.

On the following morn, the trio and their pack pony--recently named Mr. Fluffy--continued on, through vegetation that grew steadily sparser as they travelled, and passing the occasional tracks of large snakes, small rabbits, and bogeys. They arrived at noon, finding that the earthworks was a circle fully two miles in diameter, of smoothly-dug edges and base, the only variation being in the height of its walls (and that due to the rise and fall of the ground surrounding it).

Circumscribing the circle, they came upon the traces of feet--some booted, most bare, some clawed--heading into the circle, but noted that these traces faded and disappeared before arriving at the earthworks' edge. While examining the traces, and discovering that gouges in the earth slowly filled themselves back in, they noticed a cat looking over the edge of the circle at them.

Further examination revealed it to be a new and strange beast, with the head of a cat and a long (perhaps four or five feet) snakelike body, with a pelt of patchy grey fur. It was determined to be carnivorous, probably not poisonous, capable of purring and unhinging its jaw to swallow prey, and possessed of a long tongue split in two (or possibly two thin tongues placed side-by-side). It was promptly adopted by Ash.

Eventually, come noon, the trio reached the point where the trench of the earthworks began, and noted that its construction matched that of the circle. Spotting a glint in the centre of the circle, they decided to take a new tack. Gunter would stay with the pack pony and prepare lunch, while Ash and Helix hiked off into the middle of the circle to examine the strange glint they had spotted.

Ash and Helix reached the centre of the circle at noon, to discover a hard column of some clear and crystalline substance, perhaps a foot tall, standing in its centre. Ash touched it.

The grains of earth around the column began swirling counterclockwise, an effect which rapidly spread outwards. Ash found the ground growing intangible under her feet, and rapidly began sinking through a golden and gritty whirling mist; despite her best efforts to reach the edge of the circle, Helix met the same fate, and they descended through the ground into new and currently unknown circumstances.

Gunter, looking up from his dough (which simply was not rising properly) around noon, realized that both Helix and Ash had disappeared. He promptly sat down to summarize his observations to date, packed up his notes with the notes of Kin Ryke, and began hiking back the way they had come, intending to leave the information stored for future Verkadian Associates to find and then return to rescue his travelling companions.

Seaport is unique among the cities of Bretae. While Astorhall is shared territory, representing the carefully balanced alliance of the Pentarch Houses, Seaport exists outside the territory of any of the Pentarch Houses. It sits on the southern shore of Bretae where the Simovan river feeds into the sea--while the Parian House could certainly have made a good argument for claiming it, extended debates in Astorhall and the input of the Salthouse resulted in Seaport's independence--and visiting it is an experience unto itself. While some cities or towns in Bretae will transport their goods to Seaport by boat (more often along the Simovan or another river than by sea), most of the trading done in Seaport involves other lands and folk.

In the space of a week, I saw folk with skins all the colours of tea; the blind (or at least blindfolded) striding confidently down the street; a retinue of six half-height masked men escorting a near-giant, all in brilliant silver silk scales; the indigo cords and brass pins of the Seaport peacebindings at one hand, hip, or shoulder out of three; oddly befeathered women who I'm still not sure were human; tanned Ashewoods, weaponless Zaharans, and bookless scholars; strange beasts, both caged and leashed; the veiled, the near-naked, the cloaked and hooded, and the tattooed; armless jugglers; piles of seaborne muck (they're constantly excavating to maintain and deepen the harbour) being dragged up the northern shore; more dice games than I could count; built shops, travelling carts, and peddlars with no more than a blanket; and the inside of six pawnshops of varying reputability, one of them three times (fortunately, I retrieved my cloakpin each time).

Most Bretae folk travelling to Seaport are traders by profession (usually Parians), though there's an influx of landholders in the fall. And you can usually find a double handful of Verkadian Associates stopping in to drink up, sell off, or brag about their adventures and prizes. Most of those who actually live in Seaport work the docks or dockyard--a good dozen ships come in from or set out to foreign ports in a week, in addition to the traders coming downriver or by road--with merchants tending to the needs of travellers a close second and employees of the Customs Council a more removed and secure third.

Most of the traders sailing to Bretae come from lands further to the south--apparently there's something of a current, which is what resulted in the first ship arriving here. (There are some from lands further to the north, though the sailing is apparently harder going; at any rate, it took longer for them to reach our shores.) The turnover isn't nearly as fast for them as it is for the Bretaen traders; most stay for close to a fortnight, which I suppose is understandable given how long they've been at sea. Most of what's traded is light and relatively imperishable--spices, skins, small amounts of metal, oils, dyes, beans.

Seaport is governed by the Head Office of the Customs Council; while the Dockside and Landside offices concern themselves with what (or who) is arriving or leaving, the Cityside office is responsible for maintaining order within the boundaries of Seaport itself. Cityside also deals with the Salthouse, and given the strength of the Salthouse fleet and the sheer resilience that must be inferred in any group that survived the darkness by taking to the sea, that's as good a recommendation of its negotiating skills as anyone could ask for. (I saw a Salthouse delegation in passing when I was in Seaport, skin weathered to leather and hair encrusted with salt and odd, tiny bones. I slept badly that night, dreaming uneasily of the Ashewoods and the Zaharans.)

Assaults on Seaport officials are met with a complete lack of humour, although retribution usually begins with imprisonment so that everyone at least has a chance to try to sort out small cultural misunderstandings. (This remarkably enlightened view is generally traced back to a misunderstanding with a gentleman who did not pay for his goods, had several rings summarily confiscated as a result, and returned to Seaport five months later with seven ships and a holdful of upset... well... wyverns more than anything else. Unfortunately, the best efforts of the College failed to secure one for examination, although we're still getting offers of "absolutely guaranteed genuine" specimens. Some of them even don't look like reconstituted cats.)

I'd like to do character creation and start on an adventure for the Dekalyptos setting. (I'm figuring on a short one-shot; we'll see how it works out afterwards, where it goes from there, etcetera.)

Ideally, I'd like to do this on Sunday, from something-like-noonish until something-like-fiveish. I am flexible. (Saturday may also work, same timeslot, but it's been a stressy week and I think the extra day between "escaped cubicle hell" and "created characters/ran game" would benefit everyone, at least for this weekend.) Please let me know if you can make it?

Some things about the setting:

First, this is going to be high fantasy. Magic is known to exist, monsters (not necessarily all evil, but certainly not human) are around, and given that Noble Astor cast back the darkness a scant forty-three years ago, there are huge blank spaces upon the map. Stories speak of ancient secrets, strange wonders, and myffic events. There is plenty of farming and construction going on, but this is neither the game's focus nor yours. You have crumbling ruins, hideous bogeys, and terrible villains to contend with. Carry on.

Second, this requires heroic characters. You may not need to take the Hindrance "Heroic"[1], but you cannot behave in a worse fashion than Jack Sparrow (what he did, not what he might've liked to do) and you cannot spot someone dangling off the top of a cliff and shrug it off with a "Hey, I wonder how high he'll bounce!"

Third, despite being heroic and the focus of the story, you are not incredibly well-trained and successful protagonists yet. Please do not go charging into the seething army of slavering bogeys armed only with a rusty breadknife, expecting them to fall over in awe of your stunning reputation and astounding valour. It worked for James T. Kirk, but only because he hacked the computer running the simulation. (Charging the nestful of slavering bogeys while armed with a decent sword and covering each other's backs, OTOH, you should be golden.)

Fourth, yes, you do work together; and yes, you are Verkadian Associates of the Dekalyptein College.

I realize I still need to get many details down (and yes, posts on the Ashewoods and on Seaport are coming). If there's anything in particular that interests you, please let me know? I'll at least kick the idea around, and will try to have something at http://dekalyptos.livejournal.com/ by Sunday.
---
[1] It's in the book. Relax, you'll get a chance to take a look.

Alright. Alright.

You know, every branch of the College has a library. Every member tills a field of study. We're the neutral arbiters of the political landscape, the codifiers of kinemancy. Our work in husbandry and architecture and agriculture and history has done so much to reestablish Bretae that it's literally incalculable. Or it would be incalculable if we didn't have records and training and people who actually could do the calculations if we weren't working on more immediately important things.

And what impresses people? The Verkadian Associates.

Kin Verkade was... very brave. While Noble Astor had rolled back the darkness, folk had just begun to venture out from the enclaves and build new cities. With the land so badly damaged and so many years of hiding, it was understandable that come night or noon, folk would barricade themselves inside their homes, and all too often those who had struck out would falter and turn back. Outside the enclave walls, fear and rumour could too easily turn a mere monster into a neverborn still incarnate.

In this time of trembling uncertainty, Kin Verkade recruited a few assistants--the Houses easily convinced to promise lands and marriages conditional on a successful return to people that no-one expected to ever see again--and struck out to the east. It was little remarked on save by the inhabitants of Carterston, the farming community they set out from.

Four months later, a lone assistant returned on one of the pack ponies. Although injured (a wound to the leg), he carried news that he was not the sole survivor but rather the one who'd been unable to travel on into the rocky foothills the rest of the expedition was heading into. He brought back letters from Verkade, an account of the exploration to date, an odd wooden carving (now ensconced in the town hall; the locals suspect it's responsible for the area's consistently abundant crops), and enough beautifully worked jewelry that Carterston was able to send a representative to the Ashewood Hearth and eventually became the first town to be a landbuyer.

News spread rather quickly after that. The assistant left as soon as he was healed up, and later accounts indicate that he did manage to catch up with the expedition, although he had a couple of unfortunate incidents along the way.

Over the next decade, Verkade continued her exploration. Her infrequent returns to Bretae were the focus of attention for months (initial excitement being sustained by the slower spreading of technological developments that came from studying the artifacts she retrieved, and by the influx of people who wanted to join her expedition to whatever town she was staying in). While some of the more impressive artifacts she brought back have remained induplicable despite the best efforts of the Tolmen and the College--the Vocagraphic Press springs immediately to mind--others are slowly working their way into daily life.

Noting the incredible success of Kin Verkade's expedition, the College founded the Order of Verkadian Associates.

I cannot deny that the research they do--while certainly not so glamourous as Kin Verkade's early adventures--has been incredibly useful in allowing us to reconstruct our past history and provide constant assistance in our reseach and study. A working Verkadian Associate is an important and useful figure in the efforts of the College.

And every winterfall it seems like we're flooded with everyone in leagues who thinks that the farm they were born on, the family business, or the expectations of their house is too much like boring work so they'd much rather swagger off into the wastelands, poke a sword at a few bogies that will obligingly fall over, trip over a beautifully preserved and utterly safe building that no-one's found to date, crack it open with a prybar, and come back with so much jewelry, history, finework, and tools that their biggest concern will be which bathhouse to soothe their aching muscles in.

It gets a little frustrating.

If they last the winter (and it's depressing how many folk with grand dreams of being the next Verkade will throw down their broom, knife, or bucket after several weeks on grandiose, dignified, glorious kitchen duty), they're sent on to the Carterston Abbey, where the Preceptors will weed through them and try and make sure they know how to find north and avoid eating barute seeds. From around spring to midspring, as well, is when Carterston gets the meaningful communications about how so-and-so really really couldn't spend the winter at a College faculty but doubtless they'll be an incredible asset anyway, and since they're now here anyway would you please--

--yes. Well.

And come summer, they set out, and while the ratio's gotten better over the years, a good quarter still never comes back.

It would be less upsetting, I think, if I thought they were all idiots out for glory and fame. But I've seen one class swear its affiliation, and there's more to it than that. I'm not saying that the prestige (and the College's practice of buying artifacts from the Associates who retrieve them) isn't an attractive incentive. But so many of them seem to understand that what they're doing matters, that they might make a difference.

Apologies for the delay. Kitchen duties took longer than expected. As far as we can tell from reconstructing, a dragon got into the pantry where the flour is stored. Something startled it. Possibly a rat.

Fortunately, the walls are stone, the door can be rebuilt, and Kin Gossian assures me that the burns will heal and the hair grow back. She was saying this to everyone. I imagine the stress of having so many to care for (at least, compared to her usual duties) at once was rather telling on her; though she handled it admirably, I can't help but feel that she was suppressing a mild case of hysteria. At that, there were only four of us in the infirmary.

I am rambling.

The Pentarch Houses.

The Union reforged Bretae--while the Carta united the most basic laws of the land--it also solemnized the essential truth that each House was lord over its own lands. No House could have survived, let alone been enough of a resource to assist Noble Astor, without a brutally strong grip on its territory. It is true that these territories expanded immensely when the darkness was rolled back and folk were no longer constrained to the brutal realities of an existence mere steps above subsistence. And while we have done our best to bury old grudges, it cannot be denied that harsh dealings were something of a way of life. And yet, even as folk flow onwards to clear new land and raise greater cities, the territories are still clearly defined, and the Houses regarded with anything from grumbling loyalty to almost filial affection.

Part of it is habit; in the darkness, traditions were inculcated and while they are no longer necessary, even those scattered boltholes which emerged from the darkness to fall under the auspice of a House have adopted them. There is a sense of community that comes from one Ashewood knowing that another understands the profound courtesy of offering salt with a meal, or a Tolman knowing that his iron will be accorded as much recognition and courtesy as his hand. Part of it arises from our duties; the hearths of the Houses were fairly distant, and travel is often a rare thing when so much of the land and home immediately around each person requires care. Part--perhaps the most profound part--of it is that even the least documented Houses are known to stretch back for generations, and with so much lost and so much still unknown, the touchstone of history leaves us with a context, a place to stand as we reach forward and upward into the dawning light.

Besides their standing as living memorials to the endurance of humanity, the Houses also represent an accessible prestige. Marriage (or, more rarely, adoption) into a landowning House is granted to the exemplary and the powerful among the landholders, and prestige, potential power, wealth, and chance to offer one's children a longer and fuller lineage are powerful incentives. When so many dream of one day attaining the status of landowner, the supremacy of that class is assured.

The thirty-four members of the Sovereign Council are all from the Pentarch Houses, whether by birth, adoption, or marriage (while one who is member of a House by oath may hold the position of Councilman, it was always rare, and last happened, briefly, under the reign of Cadassan Sunstone). The aides, assistants, researchers, spies, servants, staff, notaries, secretaries, diplomats, messengers, bastards, and hangers-on need not be. Spouses, legitimate children, and guards are naturally members of a House. If everyone who lived in Astorhall because of their connection to the Council tried to fit into the Councilhouse at the same time, I expect people would be standing on each others' shoulders and falling out the windows.

We know that much of the land that is now wilderness was settled before the darkness, when folk fled south and west. Dozens of tiny bands must have sprung up, collections of refugees that mostly died out. The hunting would have forced constant migration, made it nearly impossible to establish any kind of stable home.

This, understandably, makes the success of the Pentarch Houses all the more impressive. Through force of arms, force of will, fortunate selection of a refuge, undeniable luck--and, at least in the case of the Ashewoods, sheer bloody-mindedness--scattered enclaves were eventually carved out in the darkness. Their size at the time of Astor would seem pitiful now, and their provenance was unfortunately unrecorded (history being a faint concern, and literacy scarce at best), but they nonetheless provided the foundation for our society as it stands.

(Completeness compels me to note that enclaves other than those of the Pentarch families survived the darkness; the Butterstone Abbey comes immediately to mind. However, they were in the enviable if unhelpful position of being near-completely lost to the knowledge of unborn and mortal alike.)

Charity suggests that the Houses saw a chance to rebuild, reforging Bretae into a new and living nation; cynicism that they seized the chance to go from petty despots to landholding lords. In either event, when the Darkness passed, the Houses established the Pentarch Union, claiming the lands around their enclaves, and scribing the Magna Carta. The Houses composed the Sovereign Council, and the Monarch is selected from their number.

[to be elaborated on, after kitchen duties are completed]

I don't generally hold with the College, you understand. Bunch of soft-handed booklovers, can't see a damn thing in front of their noses if it isn't written down. Tacking fancy names on things so basic we never forgot them, even in the dark times. Oak for strength, riverstone for calm. My granddam knew that, and hers before her, and so on and back.

(Of course I don't mean I know my ancestry that far back. Hand-family, not blood-family.)

But the last one, Kin Glenman, to be poking around seemed polite, at least. Talked down a little, but never seemed that he meant to, which is like to be the most I can hope for in these times. Asked to make notes and sketches about my home, how long it'd been there and how long the hearth'd been burning and who built it. Came around several times. Reminded me of my little Arben, went into the army when he had to and never made it back out. Always listening.

(Arben? Highwaymen. Bit of bad luck, and the arrow-wound went green as spring, and nothing anyone could do. It still happens.)

It was good to have him around. I'll talk to a cat if it comes around, and there're always dragons, but I'm not so old I've forgotten that they don't care what I say and don't make sense of anything more than "dinner" and "eggs". It was good to have someone listen again, even if they didn't necessarily have the sense to believe. I'm sure he made his little notes, and perhaps someone will get some use out of them--families and deaths and winters and plants, and all the things that make up a life.

(Of course you listen. But we've got nothing to teach each other that we don't already know.)

He's gone on now, so you and yours can come around. I've heard the same stories you have, but if there's truth to them, I don't think he'd have believed it. It's the unborn he flinches at the mention of, not the things that creep in forests and live in leaves. I can't imagine that he'd see you hauled off to be cut apart for their studies instead of sitting down and pestering you with questions right through until morning.

Tea?

No, of course it's not from anyone you know.

I'm really feeling quite ...diverted at the moment.

Yes, I understand that the Pentarch families are important; and yes, the personal history of any family is probably very interesting to that family. And actually having one has a certain cachet. And it's very practical for the families to maintain their cachet, since on a bad day the bond with the outlying settlements consists of spit and weeds. So while the knowledge doesn't keep body and soul together, it certainly helps to direct attention in useful ways.

I can't undervalue this.

At the same time, the referents I'm finding to deliberately uprooting or destroying crops are nagging at me, and I suspect that the answer might--might--provide some kind of tangible benefit to people.

It was probably just a sacrifice to something, as a covenant rather than a deal--we're sure that at least some folk worshipped teratageists before the darkness. But I'd want to see something different about some of the tools, or some glorification of the covenant--some indication that the destruction was portentious--before I was sure. The teratageists seem to have been fond of the portentious, not to mention the pretentious. That should eventually turn up, of course, but if it doesn't...

But if it was a way to curb a blight, or destroy an infestation? If that's the case, what kind? How serious was it, that folk were willing to sacrifice fields full of food to avoid it? Can we expect it to come again? Or, on a brighter note, was it some kind of tribute not to a teratageist but to a lord or landholder? Or even bragging, ostentation for the sake of proving affluence? And if it was that, good golden, how did they get such an abundance of food that they could afford to do this?

It fascinates me. I'm curious, I'm intrigued--it holds my interest, and I can see it having such potential for making a difference.

Unfortunately, it holds my interest while I'm trying to preserve and decipher what might be someone's tombroll lineage, and that's quite distracting.

Our history once teemed with the neverborn. Unseen beings reached out to humanity, pulling themselves through to the world with one hand and holding out riches and power with all the others. Oaths were sworn and promises made, terrifying wonders worked, and men and women battled each other with the awesome powers of the beings they channeled. The world was malleable as unbaked clay, and cities and lives alike blossomed or vanished like quickspring flowers.

We are grateful that those times are over and done with.

The darkness swallowed most of our records, and little enough many have been known to begin with. Were there warning signs? Conspirators? Was it a single deliberate act that struck the final blow, or the building effect of their constant harsh passage to our world?

In any case: One noon, the skin of the world was ripped away, and the neverborn rushed in as swift and unstoppable as blood from a flayed arm. No longer needing consent from man to touch our world, they eschewed trickery or bribery, and ravaged our world like wildcats in a chicken coop.

We do not know how long the darkness lasted.

Noble Astor led us from the darkness, drove them back, staunched the bleeding and let the skin of the world scar over. We have rebuilt in the generations years since, raised farm and city from the torn earth with our hands and our minds. The Pentarch Houses conduct their balanced rule and we of the Dekalyptein College study in accordance with the Golden Medium, peeling back the shadows that still cling to ruins and lost history. We have learned kinemancy, shaping the powers within the form and substance of the world. Fair Bretae will flourish again, and rise as tall as our stories claim she did before the darkness, and this time it will be by the works of man and not the poisoned gifts of the neverborn.

History remains undiscovered, ruins unmapped, monsters and lands that we once spoke with unknown or lost or gone into the darkness never to return. We will seek, and we will find, and we will learn.

Fiat gnosis; fiat crestotes; fiat lux.