Traceroo
Rogue
Spring dawned early over New Acarthia with green shoots of new life, and early-blooming flowers popping up everywhere in great abundance this year. Bunnies, prairie dogs, chipmunks, and small life basked in the new sunshine, eager to stretch their legs and feed their many newborn young. Dryads from the Annex organized themselves and neighbors from the nearby Acarthian settlement into volunteer groups to tend the burgeoning new greenery, nurturing this gift of unusual spring liveliness, and using all their alchemical, gardening, and horticultural skill to help the land and its denizens growth strong and healthy. It started out as a good spring, a happy season.
But then The Host came….
On Friday night, the 30th of March, far earlier in the spring thaw than usually anything exciting happens in New Acarthia, the falsetto cries of two young boys pierced the quiet in the Merchants District after dinner. William and David, boys who lived outside of town at the Navigo Vineyards, known to many in town and often seen at the market with their mother Angeline, ran at top speed into Deepjugs Tavern, panicked, and lines of tears streaking their dusty faces.
“UNDEAD!” They cried! “An undead army!”
“How many?” Gwen from the Captain’s Log asked them, thinking of her own family’s safety and wondering how much time they had.
“Uh… all of them, I think?” David sniffled, rubbing his sleeve over his face.
There was barely enough time for the few assembled in Deepjugs Tavern over a springtime night to collect themselves, wrap on a cloak, grab weapons. The Host was already here. None could recall seeing so many, not even in recent memory when the joined forces of The Huntsman and Anarchy ravaged New Acarthia in November, causing so many to resurrect (but at least they could!). As far down the road as any could see into the shadows toward the Ducal Manor, and in the other direction past the gates on the road to the old Citadel neighborhood, and further into the Greenwood, undead milled and shuffled. Here and there, glowing balefire of the eyes of intelligent, greater undead pierced the blackness with their unblinking stare toward the tavern. Their rasping voices barked crisp orders for their minions out there, somewhere, waiting.
The fighting lasted throughout the night until the new Acarthian defenders were forced to retreat into circles or behind Wards further out of the city. They could hear the rampaging continue at the top of the hill in the central district, closer to the tavern. The quick thinking were able to escape down that dreaded staircase and into now the all too appropriately named Lucky Circle neighborhood. The Host didn’t seem to care much for their presence here. They had juicier targets as the huddled and fearful heard the screams and clash of steel coming from the Ducal Manor… and then only silence.
Sunrise on Saturday restored some hope, perhaps some of the undead couldn’t travel out in the light of day? Squire Alissayre, a cheerful figure from the Ducal Court, recognizable in her strange mode of dress in grey habit and long sleeves, managed to slip out shortly after midnight, bringing word that the Ducal Manor had fallen, and everyone inside, whether common or noble, warrior or servant, was now part of The Host. She was an early riser by nature, and quietly tip-toed around the small cabin where she huddled with refugees from the tent camps and commoner neighborhoods of Acarthia.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said in soft but full voice, waking the others hiding with her. “It’s just that… the sun didn’t rise today. I thought you should know.”
There are some phrases that just manage to wake you up quickly in a way that nothing else will….
They rose from their sleeping mats if they had them, or dusted themselves off the floor, and rushed to the windows, still dark from what should’ve been fleeting night. It was pre-dawn gloom, grey, murky, but there was a burgeoning light low on the eastern horizon where it should be. Silly squire!
“It’s just that…” she continued with trepidation, “It’s nearly 8 bells.”
A blanket of shadow covered the heavens, blotting out the very light of the sun itself.
Adventurers, commoners, servants, courtesans, merchants, families – whoever was left free and alive in New Acarthia before its market season opened gathered together quietly on the backroads, and in their known havens of safety. Leaders emerged, some natural, and some however unlikely, but the time had come for their help and bravery, to raise their voices and make a plan – any plan!
They ventured up the hill toward the main city to find it a changed place: shadowed, dark, thickly patrolled by the unsleeping undead on the roads, at intersections, and certainly in the known buildings. Long black banners with a crest of a twisted and thorned rose hung from the trees and the eaves of building, proclaiming new leadership in the Duchess’ city… but whose?
Throughout the day, the survivors pursued adventures, first trying to get to each other, small groups merging into larger ones. They secured better lodgings, food, fresh water for themselves. Then they set their sights on more luxurious supplies: the arms locker for the Town Guard, their supplies left in the Watchtower. They tried to reach The Annex, thinking perhaps in this moment of need they might temporarily ally with the monster tribes there. They found some success, and more Sark, answering that idea….
When the sun truly set, the patrols began in earnest, moving door to door through any building left standing. Those with Wards were first targeted, with wizards sparing no expense or hassle to encircle the hovels and destroy those few, dwindling protections the New Acarthians had left. Those huddling behind the safety of magical protections were pulled by their arms into the thick of The Host, dragged away to unknown fate at best, and many cut down where they stood, to be raised anew as one of the unliving. Fewer protectors one by one, and a stronger army against them with every attack.
By the second “dawn,” such as it was, lightless and without warmth, not a Ward of Acarthian creation remained standing anywhere within sight. The undead were simply everywhere. The thorned rose banners twisted in the cold springtime wind at every turn, reminding that this had quickly become a new city, someone else’s city.
At high noon, the few who’d been lucky enough to be imprisoned, and maybe a few pairs of eyes peeking from the treetops and hillsides, lucky enough still to have remained free, watched with dwindling hope as the New Court of The Host presided in the center of town. A tall and imposing figure strode with purpose out of the building once claimed as the New Acarthia Healers Guild, his dark green cloak billowing lightly in the wind. This new leader took his time with a slow and deliberate stride, approaching the gold throne placed on a finely woven rug in the dust in the central square in front of the tavern. When his assistants gently drew back his hood, revealing the desiccated and drawn features, the baleful glowing green eyes, and the twisted black crown that could only be a liche, the one last question everyone had was answered:
Dreadrot.
“Behold, ‘Acarthia,’” it pronounced with a slight lilt of humor, its voice carrying with unnatural volume through the trees and hills, spreading to all quarters of the city, heard clearly…
“I am Dreadrot… your king. Bow before me. You will serve.”
He gestured, and a pair of skeletons brought with them Khar, the kindly tavern wench whom so many knew well and relied on in Deepjugs Tavern for her care. The human woman struggled and objected, but the skeletons only lifted Khar off her feet, and brought her to face the liche nevertheless.
“You will serve,” Dreadrot pronounced.
“Never! I won’t serve you!” Khar objected, fiery to the last, but obviously shaking in her terror.
“That wasn’t a question,” Dreadrot reminded. He gestured.
Wizards – revenants by the look of them – stepped forward with a black cloak stretched between their arms. They wrapped it around Khar, who doubled over, perhaps in pain or weakness. When the wizards removed the cloak from her shoulders, any nearby could see that her features had paled, her eyes had sunken, her once delicate hands had twisted into monstrous, sharp claws.
“I serve, my king,” Khar said with an oddly human curtsy, and turned to find her place among the gathered Host.
“This day, the first of April, marks the start of my reign in these lands! All shall serve!” Dreadrot announced. “I will require your help – first to defend against the others who will come to challenge me, because they will certainly come. Gather first the whitebelts and bring them to kneel before this throne. Then their ‘healers,’ for I have need of their magic.
“One year from this day, when spring dawns after Year One of my reign, I will need the aid of every caster in my realm to break an ancient spell of binding. One year from this day, we free the dragons! They, too, shall kneel before the Throne of Dreadrot!!”
-------------------------------------
Welcome to the start of your 2018 New Acarthia play season!
The April 13-15, 2018 event will begin with the Challenge Against Dreadrot. Players may choose their starting location from among the following:
Your choice of faction will determine much in the way of flavor for the events of the April, and perhaps beyond as this event will surely explain the OOG change in campsites facing us….
Oh, one last thing… spellcasters will be restricted to their choice of starting spells on Friday night for the whole event. There is no secure method of rememorizing spells known to the Acarthians unless discovered during the course of events during the weekend.
Welcome to the Kingdom of Dreadrot campaign, founded 1 April 418!
Trace Moriarty
Campaign Director
Kingdom of Dreadrot
But then The Host came….
On Friday night, the 30th of March, far earlier in the spring thaw than usually anything exciting happens in New Acarthia, the falsetto cries of two young boys pierced the quiet in the Merchants District after dinner. William and David, boys who lived outside of town at the Navigo Vineyards, known to many in town and often seen at the market with their mother Angeline, ran at top speed into Deepjugs Tavern, panicked, and lines of tears streaking their dusty faces.
“UNDEAD!” They cried! “An undead army!”
“How many?” Gwen from the Captain’s Log asked them, thinking of her own family’s safety and wondering how much time they had.
“Uh… all of them, I think?” David sniffled, rubbing his sleeve over his face.
There was barely enough time for the few assembled in Deepjugs Tavern over a springtime night to collect themselves, wrap on a cloak, grab weapons. The Host was already here. None could recall seeing so many, not even in recent memory when the joined forces of The Huntsman and Anarchy ravaged New Acarthia in November, causing so many to resurrect (but at least they could!). As far down the road as any could see into the shadows toward the Ducal Manor, and in the other direction past the gates on the road to the old Citadel neighborhood, and further into the Greenwood, undead milled and shuffled. Here and there, glowing balefire of the eyes of intelligent, greater undead pierced the blackness with their unblinking stare toward the tavern. Their rasping voices barked crisp orders for their minions out there, somewhere, waiting.
The fighting lasted throughout the night until the new Acarthian defenders were forced to retreat into circles or behind Wards further out of the city. They could hear the rampaging continue at the top of the hill in the central district, closer to the tavern. The quick thinking were able to escape down that dreaded staircase and into now the all too appropriately named Lucky Circle neighborhood. The Host didn’t seem to care much for their presence here. They had juicier targets as the huddled and fearful heard the screams and clash of steel coming from the Ducal Manor… and then only silence.
Sunrise on Saturday restored some hope, perhaps some of the undead couldn’t travel out in the light of day? Squire Alissayre, a cheerful figure from the Ducal Court, recognizable in her strange mode of dress in grey habit and long sleeves, managed to slip out shortly after midnight, bringing word that the Ducal Manor had fallen, and everyone inside, whether common or noble, warrior or servant, was now part of The Host. She was an early riser by nature, and quietly tip-toed around the small cabin where she huddled with refugees from the tent camps and commoner neighborhoods of Acarthia.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said in soft but full voice, waking the others hiding with her. “It’s just that… the sun didn’t rise today. I thought you should know.”
There are some phrases that just manage to wake you up quickly in a way that nothing else will….
They rose from their sleeping mats if they had them, or dusted themselves off the floor, and rushed to the windows, still dark from what should’ve been fleeting night. It was pre-dawn gloom, grey, murky, but there was a burgeoning light low on the eastern horizon where it should be. Silly squire!
“It’s just that…” she continued with trepidation, “It’s nearly 8 bells.”
A blanket of shadow covered the heavens, blotting out the very light of the sun itself.
Adventurers, commoners, servants, courtesans, merchants, families – whoever was left free and alive in New Acarthia before its market season opened gathered together quietly on the backroads, and in their known havens of safety. Leaders emerged, some natural, and some however unlikely, but the time had come for their help and bravery, to raise their voices and make a plan – any plan!
They ventured up the hill toward the main city to find it a changed place: shadowed, dark, thickly patrolled by the unsleeping undead on the roads, at intersections, and certainly in the known buildings. Long black banners with a crest of a twisted and thorned rose hung from the trees and the eaves of building, proclaiming new leadership in the Duchess’ city… but whose?
Throughout the day, the survivors pursued adventures, first trying to get to each other, small groups merging into larger ones. They secured better lodgings, food, fresh water for themselves. Then they set their sights on more luxurious supplies: the arms locker for the Town Guard, their supplies left in the Watchtower. They tried to reach The Annex, thinking perhaps in this moment of need they might temporarily ally with the monster tribes there. They found some success, and more Sark, answering that idea….
When the sun truly set, the patrols began in earnest, moving door to door through any building left standing. Those with Wards were first targeted, with wizards sparing no expense or hassle to encircle the hovels and destroy those few, dwindling protections the New Acarthians had left. Those huddling behind the safety of magical protections were pulled by their arms into the thick of The Host, dragged away to unknown fate at best, and many cut down where they stood, to be raised anew as one of the unliving. Fewer protectors one by one, and a stronger army against them with every attack.
By the second “dawn,” such as it was, lightless and without warmth, not a Ward of Acarthian creation remained standing anywhere within sight. The undead were simply everywhere. The thorned rose banners twisted in the cold springtime wind at every turn, reminding that this had quickly become a new city, someone else’s city.
At high noon, the few who’d been lucky enough to be imprisoned, and maybe a few pairs of eyes peeking from the treetops and hillsides, lucky enough still to have remained free, watched with dwindling hope as the New Court of The Host presided in the center of town. A tall and imposing figure strode with purpose out of the building once claimed as the New Acarthia Healers Guild, his dark green cloak billowing lightly in the wind. This new leader took his time with a slow and deliberate stride, approaching the gold throne placed on a finely woven rug in the dust in the central square in front of the tavern. When his assistants gently drew back his hood, revealing the desiccated and drawn features, the baleful glowing green eyes, and the twisted black crown that could only be a liche, the one last question everyone had was answered:
Dreadrot.
“Behold, ‘Acarthia,’” it pronounced with a slight lilt of humor, its voice carrying with unnatural volume through the trees and hills, spreading to all quarters of the city, heard clearly…
“I am Dreadrot… your king. Bow before me. You will serve.”
He gestured, and a pair of skeletons brought with them Khar, the kindly tavern wench whom so many knew well and relied on in Deepjugs Tavern for her care. The human woman struggled and objected, but the skeletons only lifted Khar off her feet, and brought her to face the liche nevertheless.
“You will serve,” Dreadrot pronounced.
“Never! I won’t serve you!” Khar objected, fiery to the last, but obviously shaking in her terror.
“That wasn’t a question,” Dreadrot reminded. He gestured.
Wizards – revenants by the look of them – stepped forward with a black cloak stretched between their arms. They wrapped it around Khar, who doubled over, perhaps in pain or weakness. When the wizards removed the cloak from her shoulders, any nearby could see that her features had paled, her eyes had sunken, her once delicate hands had twisted into monstrous, sharp claws.
“I serve, my king,” Khar said with an oddly human curtsy, and turned to find her place among the gathered Host.
“This day, the first of April, marks the start of my reign in these lands! All shall serve!” Dreadrot announced. “I will require your help – first to defend against the others who will come to challenge me, because they will certainly come. Gather first the whitebelts and bring them to kneel before this throne. Then their ‘healers,’ for I have need of their magic.
“One year from this day, when spring dawns after Year One of my reign, I will need the aid of every caster in my realm to break an ancient spell of binding. One year from this day, we free the dragons! They, too, shall kneel before the Throne of Dreadrot!!”
-------------------------------------
Welcome to the start of your 2018 New Acarthia play season!
The April 13-15, 2018 event will begin with the Challenge Against Dreadrot. Players may choose their starting location from among the following:
- Formalized military forces led by Acarthian nobility
- Guerilla fighting forces, led by surviving captains of the New Acarthia Town Guard
- Captured but alive Acarthian survivors in Dreadrot’s jails (this is the non-combat option)
- Freedom fighters tacitly allied with monster tribes of the Howling Woods from the Annex
Your choice of faction will determine much in the way of flavor for the events of the April, and perhaps beyond as this event will surely explain the OOG change in campsites facing us….
Oh, one last thing… spellcasters will be restricted to their choice of starting spells on Friday night for the whole event. There is no secure method of rememorizing spells known to the Acarthians unless discovered during the course of events during the weekend.
Welcome to the Kingdom of Dreadrot campaign, founded 1 April 418!
Trace Moriarty
Campaign Director
Kingdom of Dreadrot
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