Session 1
It had been a full tenday since the Queen’s edict, once tucked under the arm of the Lord-Knight at Tejarn Gate, spread across Brost County like wildfire. Though a rumor initially spread from Swamprise that a group of “wandering swords” had carried news to them beforehand, the Knights of Agis loudly proclaimed that they alone were chosen to deliver the Queen’s word.
Meanwhile, along the Tethir Road and in the shadows of the Duskwood, peasants began to whisper of the dead rising more frequently and shambling further than before. A caravan was torn apart by ghouls and woodcutters returned to Brost swearing that they saw crimson flares deep within the black trees; sorcery, they said, though none agree on what kind.
The Knights of Agis grew bolder; their purple cloaks and silver trim a common sight across the county. Farmers grumbled that agitators who resisted the tithes were arrested and dragged to the Tejarn Gate to face justice…Yet their families have sworn that any taken prisoner never arrived. In Brost, the mood was taut. Merchants spoke of new opportunities, but overall there was a feeling of foreboding, a worry that these measures will only lead to more blood.
On this backdrop, startling news seemed to arrive from a familiar group of “wandering swords” about their encounter along the Lockwood Tradeway. The spoke of a scene of horror, five bodies laid out alongside a message left to be delivered to the Village of Brost. Though they did not, the letter appeared on the board in the dead of night seemingly form nowhere.
To the good folk of Brost County,
Do not be alarmed! The missing caravans, the vanishing peasants, and the whispers of crimson fire are all part of my perfectly reasonable plan. I assure you, the sacrifices were entirely voluntary (though some required…spirited encouragement).
Continue your plowing, praying, and paying of tithes – your humble Scion has everything well in hand. Should any of you feel bold enough to seek me out, by all means, join the queue of knights and sellswords that have already “slain me.” It does wonders for morale when my obituary is written yet again.
With sincere insincerity,
The Scion of Cyric
(PS: Still not dead, still not sorry.)“