Preregistered for June event

Here’s the current prereg list for the June event:

Character Name Team/Housing Group
Abraham Running Lost & Gr’maks
Alex Parliament
Ariana Windward
Avalon Parliament
Avi Misfit Menagerie
Azrael Crimson Krakens
Bartram Free Society
Brenna Seekers
Bridget Running Lost & Gr’maks
Brook Misfit Menagerie
Calavacte Parliament
Carraig Heathen’s Faith
Ceryn Running Lost & Gr’maks
Chelsea Misfit Menagerie
Copione Crimson Krakens
Corso Windward
Coto Misfit Menagerie
Crispin Free Society
Devon Heathen’s Faith
Dimentio Windward
Elentia Parliament
Eligos Heathen’s Faith
Eliza Free Society
Ellis Windward
Ephraim Parliament
Fenrick House Caradean
Gunnar Seven Sisters
Harper Fang, Horn, and Poppy
Hart Coven/Fang, Horn, Poppy
Holly House Caraidean
Horkos Free Society
Ignoratio Coven/Fang, Horn, Poppy
Kagg Free Society
Kira Seven Sisters
Kourash Free Society
Lady Charcoal Running Lost & Gr’maks
Larkspur Fang, Horn, and Poppy
Linly Running Lost & Gr’maks
Lisel Stillkarren
Lodern Gr’Mak and friends
Loredana Windward
Lorelei Brandrkind
Lucas Free Society
Luthor Stillkarren
Luxe Parliament
Malorie Running Lost & Gr’maks
Mans Seekers
Marc Running Lost & Gr’maks
Marcellus Windward
Markas Fate’s Chosen
Mordekai Seekers
Nev Seekers
Nezzetta Seven Sisters
One Eyed Jack Parliament
Ophelia Parliament
Rainiere Windward
Relkin Free Society
Rhiannon Coven/Fang, Horn, and Poppy
Rue The Unbroken Shield
Rydan Heathen’s Faith
Sayer Seekers
Sebastion Stillkarren
She Coven/Fang, Horn, and Poppy
Sifjar Tempest
Sitara Heathen’s Faith
Snow Shrike Heathen’s Faith
Sunrise Brandrkind
Sybille Sapphire Chalice
The Balmonious Bard Coven/Fang, Horn, and Poppy
Thrymr Iron Wrought
Torden Running Lost & Gr’maks
Torn Parliament
Tris Windward
Viciria Misfit Menagerie
Viera Parliament
Vivienne Seven Sisters
Willow Parliament
Zephyr Windward

Posted on a tree in Nocturne…

******Written on parchment tacked to a tree in Nocturne*******
Welcome all Shamans and Followers of the Spirits:
          Come join me in creating our circle in Nocturne at Noontime on the first full day of the gathering. So that each of us are represented please bring a token showing your connection to the spirits,animal or elemental, which will become a permanent part of the circle. To protect and anchor these tokens think of a story, or song that illustrates that connection. It can be about you, something you witnessed, or heard that inspires you. This ritual is open to anyone who follows the shamanic faith, be they Shaman or lay followers, and it will remain open for anyone who wants to join in the future.
Spirits guide and protect us,

Scarlet Scouts and Karma


We wanted to introduce the concept of Karma and talk about Scarlet Scout shifts!

Karma is an additional attribute whose sole purpose is to reward players who take extra time to add to the game. It is awarded for entirely out of game reasons; players who act as NPCs, or create in game areas that add to atmosphere, or do other things to add to the game community and immersion can be awarded Karma.

~ You may spend a point of Karma in place of a point of Air, Earth, Fire, or Water
~ You can have up to 3 Karma points. Extra points earned are lost so spend them!
~ You must precede any skill where you use Karma with “With Karma” so we know.

Scarlet Scouts
We are looking for players willing to take some time out of their weekend to leave game and help us run encounters by playing an NPC for a time. We set up shifts and players who sign up will help us keep up the pace and excitement of the game.

Players interested in a shift should send me an email – and should not reply to the list.

To facilitate this process we both arrange for sign ups so players can plan their contributions, and we sometimes come into game as a group called the Scarlet Scouts. This NPC group is well known to act as protectors of the farmers and commonfolk of the land. Players that go off to help the Scarlet Scouts should know, out of game, that we are enlisting players to spend some time as NPCs. It is also well known that most Scarlet Scout missions – even though they are considered important – are uneventful.

We are looking for players to “take a shift” to NPC in the following slots:

Saturday, 11 am to 2 pm
You aren’t really a morning person, and would rather come and help us entertain players rather than get into full costume right off the bat. You can also take this time to help out Josh who runs morning modules if you prefer.

Saturday, 4 to 6 pm
Dinner is coming up, and players with lighter costuming requirements can take some time to help us run modules.

Saturday, 7 to 9 pm
Players have just finished dinner, and are willing to take an early evening shift to help modules run.

Saturday, 9 to 11 pm
This is a good time for players who like to fight a lot to come and help us rock the PCs.

Saturday, late night fight
This involves playing through the night until you see people gathering for what is likely to be a big fight, and then going to bolster the Scarlet Scouts so you can help us in the battle or battles to come.

Sunday, any time
Hate getting into costume on Sundays? Come to monster camp instead and help us run modules and fight the PCs!

If you are willing to take some time to help us out you will have our gratitude (and you will also get a piece of treasure and a point of Karma.)


Current prereg list for Event 4

Here’s the current prereg list for event 4, will be updating it periodically.  If you know you’re coming and haven’t preregged yet, please do.  If you see that your friend who is coming hasn’t preregged yet, please badger them to do so (I have a lot of instances where people told me to put them with X and Y friends, and neither X nor Y has preregged).

See you guys soon!

Character Name Team/Housing Group
Abbot Lucas Society for Exploration
Abraham Gr’macks & Friends
Adelaide Seekers
Alex Parliament
Almerrick Ruckerdemalion
Arianna Windward
Avalon Parliament
Avi Misfit Menagerie
Azrael Crimson Krakens
Ballast Fate’s Chosen
Belladona Heathen’s Faith
Briar Heathen’s Faith
Bridget Gr’macks & Friends
Brook Misfit Menagerie
Calavacte Parliament
Carraig Heathen’s Faith
Chalice Sapphire Chalice
Copione Crimson Krackens
Corso Windward
Coto Misfit Menagerie
Creak Windward
Crispin Society for Exploration
Dimentio Windward
Drogo Crimson Krakens
Elentia Parliament
Eligos Heathen’s Faith
Eliza Society for Exploration
Elli Misfit Menagerie
Ellis Windward
Elsbeth Lady’s Revenge
Ephraim Parliament
Eredin Seekers
Fenrick House Caraidean
Florian House Caraidean
Fordel Seven Sisters
Furantur Running Lost
Genny Running Lost
Gunnar Seven Sisters
Harper Fang, Horn, and Poppy
Hart Coven
Hjalmar Parliament
Hludana Fate’s Chosen
Holly House Caraidean
Horkos Society for Exploration
Ignoratio Fang, Horn, and Poppy
Jacen Society for Exploration
Jan Stillkaren
Jerikho Society for Exploration
Jodrick Parliament
Johann Stillkaren
Jorn Fate’s Chosen
Kagg Society for Exploration
Kelwyn Parliament
Kira Seven Sisters
Kiroan Ruckerdemalion
Kourash Society for Exploration
Kyroan Ruckerdemalion
Larkspur Ruckerdemalion
Linly Running Lost
Lisel Stillkarren
Liv Parliament
Loredana Windward
Lorelei Brandrkind
Luthor Stillkaren
Luxe Parliament
Luxiera Parliament
Madeline Parliament
Magnus Brandrkind
Malorie Gr’macks & Friends
Mans Seekers
Marc Running Lost
Marcellus Windward
Markas Fate’s Chosen
Marteen Fate’s Chosen
Maxwell Ruckerdemalion
new char (Caitlin M) The Unbroken Shield
Nezzetta Seven Sisters
Nico Lady’s Revenge
Night Arrow
Nuunsa Fate’s Chosen
one-eyed Jack Parliament
Ophelia Parliament
Osric Crows
Placeholder (Brian B) Ruckerdemalion
Placeholder (Jason B)
Rack Heathen’s Faith
Rainiere Windward
Rasvim Misfit Menagerie
Rhiannon Fang, Horn, and Poppy
Rook Parliament
Ruka Iron Wrought
Rydan Heathen’s Faith
Sadie w/ Stillkarren
Sam Parliament
Seeker Case Seekers
Siegwald Seven Sisters
Sifjar Tempest
Sitara Heathen’s Faith
Skeek Misfit Menagerie
Skjoldr Iron Wrought
Snow Shrike Heathen’s Faith
Solveig Seekers
Sunrise Brandrkind
Sybille Sapphire Chalice
TB Brandrkind
The Balmonious Bard Fang, Horn, and Poppy
Thrymr Iron Wrought
Tiel’d Society for Exploration
Torden Gr’macks & Friends
Torn Parliament
Tris Windward
Viera Parliament
Ylva Parliament
Zephyr Windward
Zodii Tempest

A Tatterfolk on the path…

The Meeting of Ways, the Crossing of Paths

As was the way with many of the holidays celebrated by the Tatterfolk, the celebration of the turning of years was one met with quiet joy and deep contemplation. They had so many holidays for there was so much meaning to be had in all the world, on all the roads they traveled. The very difference between the paths all would walk in their lives was worth celebration.

Crossroads, though, were a special thing to the folk.

The Meeting of Ways, the Crossing of Paths was a holiday of the New Year and the crossroads beheld nothing but promise—to abandon what was behind them, with deliberation or with a fond wistfulness and to discover with joy or trepidation of what lay in the next step, in the next path to be taken.

This path, this night, brought Marianna into a dark wood and she mused that some never returned on this path that invited them in. Some paths were easy to walk and comfortable. Some seemed to speed the wanderer on their way even in the murk and cold of winter, crocuses and daffodils framing every step. Some, though, some were dark and foreboding, but this was the way of paths and the way of life.

Indigo dust slipped from her fingertips, touching the edges of the dark way.

There was something that was hunting her, prowling like liquid shadow that slipped through the edges of her vision. No matter how learned she was, how many secrets she knew, in the end she was still one of the Tatterfolk and the magic within her drew the hungry things of the world like a warm fire draws a traveler on a cold night.

Tonight, though, she walked the path that she laid, colored dust trailing behind her. The holiday would save her. When the thing came close enough to try and strike her she murmured words over the dust on her palm.

“The path turns away.”

With those words, by the time the dust fell to the ground  and the talons of the thing dug furrows in the earth, Marianna was gone.

A letter from Seanne of the Illuminarium

Hello Heroes from Nocturne,

I hope this missive finds you well. In Kryzenwold, the Festival of The Longest Night is quickly approaching. I hope that many of you will add to the important tales that are said to keep the wood’s haunts at bay. I’ve also read that it can be a night to remember why it is good to fear the dark which reminded me of an abandon Illuminarium Hall in the woods near Kryzen-licht. I believe this would be an excellent opportunity to get an artifact out of the defunct Illuminarium that you can use to help lessen the cost of getting information through the hall in Nocturne for a time. I, of course, understand if you’re not interested and would rather just pay the extra True Elements as this is a terribly dangerous mission. Either way, it’s a beautiful time in Kryzen-licht and an excellent chance to visit the Temple of Ever-Burning Font.

Oh, and well you are nearby, I hope to see you at the Raving Balladist. If you’ve never heard of it, it’s a real must-see. The Hall is the clever way Illuminary of Kryzenwold collect the stories of travelling Vogel’s and Lyrickers. I’ve never met a Lyricker that can resist the urge to pop in for a pint and a bite well spinning a good tale or two of their travels. Since it’s gained such popularity over the years, you’ll find stories from all sorts of folks there. I once met a bulking orc with tusks the size of an Umbrul that swung through simply because he heard a Khorosi had done it, and he “would not be out done by a cowering…” well the word he used next was a bit impolite, so I’ll leave it at that.

Well, I don’t wish to keep you all day.

Best Regards,

Seanne Weber

Of the First Order

Illuminary Keeper

The Song Her Mother Sang

A young skald sits at the edge of the fire. She holds, tentatively, her mother’s drum. Her fingers run around its edges: carefully,she warms the drum’s leather, which is brittle in the winter’s chill, with her own spit and sweat.

She thinks back on the stories her mother told her. As they huddled indoors, bracing against the deep winter snows, her mother taught the skald tales from centuries past. “Years and years ago,” her mother would murmur, “but still existing in the footsteps not yet tread.”

The skald, pulling her furs tightly around her broad shoulders, tries not to think back on the empty cave and the body. She tries not to think on the best thing to do with the remains of someone she loves. Loved. Loves.

And so, wrapping her fingers around the drum’s side, she begins to hum to herself. What can one do for a body that one cannot do for a spirit? And the spirit of her mother is in the old songs and stories.

The skald begins to intone, in a rich, slow chant, the song her mother sang. It does not rhyme, as some of the children’s poems do, but instead sprawls slowly in its own brutal lyricism.

Here begins the song her mother sang.

On the frigid plains of our lands

On the fresh snow walked by the spirits

I was hunting.

I was hunting over the ice fields, looking for the skinny hare and wild Ptarmigan.

I was hunting for my daughter and for my mother’s spirit.

As I was walking, the frozen earth creaking beneath my feet, I heard a screech.

Skreeeeethuck, skreeeethuck.

The sounds of a hungry animal, bellowing starvation as it breaks bones.

When I heard this sound, the evil that sleeps in all Beasts’ hearts swelled in my own.

Skreeeeethuck, skreeeeethuck.

The sound of feasting in famine.

Skreeeeethuck, skreeeeethuck.

The fox within me yelped and snarled.

The sound called to her even more deeply than it muttered to me.

Over these snows.

Over these icy fields of rock and waste.

Away from the huts and fires of my kin.

I bounded and howled.

I ran with the fleet lightness of the fox within me.

I barked with the gamboling pleasure of the free animal.

I ran until I reached the river.

The river along whose banks I had scattered the ashes of my father and my mother’s mother.

I stared into the waters of the river, and saw that they ran treacherously red.

Red with the blood of a Beast, and the call to violence that hunts the fox within me.

My hairs bristled, and I hummed a song of my mother’s sister.

Reflected in the water, I saw it.

White feathers, and silvery, daggerlike beak.

Eyes too intelligent for most birds.


It called. A warning.


It sang. A welcome.

I looked to the banks of the river,

and saw that the White Crow of my mother’s mother’s stories was rooting around in the dirt.

Rooting around like the boar.

Rooting around like the dogs.

Rooting around like the corpse-eating animals.

“Beast of Famine!” I hissed, suddenly scared. “Eater of Ashes!”

For it was, the White Crow.

Blooded of the Prince of Beasts.

Bird that digs through the scattered dust of those no longer living.

Scavenger that devours the ashes.

Carrion beast that gorges itself on the spirits of those best left to the world of spirits.


It answered, inviting the fox within me to frenzy and feast.

The fox within me growled.

I would not fatten myself on the long dead fire of my own kin.

The fox within me shrieked.

“Run!” It barked. “Run!”

And I ran, though this beast wanted nothing of my living form.

It wanted only to capture the animal within.

I ran over snow.

Over ice.

Back to the huts and fires.

Blood running from the soles of my feet.

Blood running from the contours of my heels.

Blood leading through the snow fields, back to the place where we the living kept watch over the ashes of the dead.

I called to my kin, both those living and those dead.

“Khorosi!” I cried, “Light fires! Sing the songs of the living! Tell the tales of life! Do not let the White Crow feast on the ashes of those dead! Do not let it know that this is a place where the spirits are welcomed!”

And so we sang all day and all night.

To the crystal cold of winter, we spoke of life and birth.

We hid and protected the spirits, and told them, if only for a day and night, to pretend that they were not so dead.

And the White Crow flew over our encampment.

But it did not land.

I collapsed with exhaustion.

A secret laugh bubbled up with inside me.

And for years to come, on those longest and coldest of nights, we sang the songs of the living.

We sang then, and we sing now, so that the White Crow does not steal from us the power of our dead.

And even though I would not die a good death, I sang this story for my children’s children.

And even though I knew one of the Beasts would claim me, I taught them this tale.

And even though, in my dreams, I had seen the crimson red of evil water, I spoke these words.

For if my children’s children sing this song…

The White Crow will not land at the Red Fox’s Grave.

Here ends the song her mother sang.*

The skald finishes the song, and, slowly, begins to cry. Without her mother, what use is a song to keep out the darkest of nights?

She finishes the last beats of her mother’s song, and, into the center of the drum, whispers the closing taught to her by her mother’s mother.

“I sing these words to you, so that they may return to me on the lips of another.”

She will survive the night.


Meister Lyriker Benedikt sleeps lightly, her head folded over sheaves of unfinished reports. In her cloistered office, she dreams. The office is tidily stacked with books, tonics, and appointments; it hints only lightly of the deep and reaching dreams of the Meister Lyriker.

Kyrzenwold has been, until recently, unseasonably warm. The Meister Lyriker thought, at one point, that there wouldn’t be any snow for the festivities. For this reason, she today left the window open. On this same day, however, winter has finally arrived, and a sudden gust of snowy wind wakes her.

She sits upright immediately. She can’t tell if she has had a dream or a nightmare. In it, however, she heard songs of Old Khoros, sung by an orphaned skald and ruddy fox. In it, she saw the figure of the White Crow, its beak gritty with ash and dust.

A knock comes from the doorway. With Meister Lyriker Benedikt’s curt welcome, a young Lyriker shuffles in.

“Meister Lyriker,” he says shyly, “Meister Vogel Edselhardt reports that a strange creature has been sighted in the Woods.”

She narrows her eyes, and straightens the cuffs of her blouse. “Don’t tell me,” she replies with a bit too much acidity, “a giant crow of singular melanistic quality.”

“Um,” the Lyriker stammers, “a rather large white crow, Meister.”

She exhales sharply.

From outside the window, a chorus of unfamiliar crows hollers and shrieks. Their voices, raging and hungry, confirm that the Blooded of the Wyrlok have returned to the Woods.


*Out of Game Note: The poem presented above is influenced by the epic poetry style of several different historical and contemporary circumpolar Indigenous groups.

SNOW for Revel

Hello All!

General update/expectation for snow. There will be snow and ice at site, so everyone will need to be extra cautious and wear the proper foot wear.

We would appreciate if you try and be parked farther up the road, since we will sometimes be using the road to walk from Roskin to the Tavern/main town area. Due to weather this may not be possible, so we’ll just have to ignore them. However, it is difficult with snow to get “off” the road so please just be extra mindful of being as far over as you reasonably can. If you need help knowing where to park, just ask.

The site is general good about cleaning up pathways and access to heated spaces (of which we have a good number); however, there are non-heated areas/access that we need to have. This is where you come in.

We would like anyone able to bring a shovel just in case to do so. If you do please tell us (by us I don’t mean Rob, he won’t remember and is busy doing other things) at monster camp with shovel in hand and ready to go help. We will direct you to the necessary areas. This will result in setup CP as well as a bonus amount.

If you are staying in a non-heated cabin (because you are a polar bear or a brave brave soul),  you will (possibly) have to shovel your way in before putting your stuff down. Please tell us (again not Rob) both at site as soon as you can, and in your PEL.

Anyone (shovel or not) can arrive as early as 2pm. Most of staff will be there between 4-6 though, so don’t be surprised if you can’t find us at that time.

Thank you,

Madrigal 3 Staff

Madrigal Winter Revel: The Old Stories

In the woods called the Kyrzenwold, the pangs of hunger tread through the deep, deep snows. The Longest Night approaches, and the lonely Vogel work diligently to set the farthest candles. The searing shriek of the winter wind, as though mocking the frailty of mortal homes, tears through otherwise silent midnights. The people of Kyrzenwold, no strangers to winter and danger, huddle around their hearths, coddling their children and their lovers– this is like any other winter in the woods, they whisper. It is a time to truly fear the things that creep in the dark.

As people watch for the bloody arrow of the Hunter, so too do they hold warmth in their hearts. They have known freezing winters, and they have known bitter nights. They gather their families and friends around hearths, and place candles in the windows. “Even in the deepest hunger of winter,” they quietly intone, “Light the way for those lost in the silence.” And the candles, flickering in the panes, bound and sway gracefully over the snowfall.

And, on those lonely nights, the people of Kyrzenwold tell their children the old stories. As unruly girls squirm in their laps, parents admonish and delight them with tales of the ancient and ugly nightmares that roam the land, and, on these coldest of nights, prowl the frigid turf.


In a small cottage…

…a woman curls up with her two children. She pulls her oldest, a girl thin from too little food, against her chest, and, smiling, kisses her temple. A little boy, his once rosy cheeks now wan and flat, wraps his arms around his sister. The wind, fierce and freezing, rips at the barred shutters. The little girl, clutching around her mother’s neck, shrieks.

“Quiet now, Esfir. It’s time to sleep,” the woman strokes her daughter’s forehead, but the girl pouts, and shakes her head petulantly. The woman, despite herself, smiles, and, once more kissing her daughter, says, “Don’t you know what happens to little girls who don’t go to sleep?”

The girl’s eyes widen in mock terror– she knows these fairy stories, and, giddy with fear, she stares at her mother.

“Well, when little girls don’t get to sleep,” the woman murmurs in a low voice, “then Gryla gets them!”

The girl inhales sharply and whispers, “Not Gryla.

“And you know what Gryla does with the bad little children?” the woman grimaces in feigned disgust. The girl says nothing, and cuddles into her younger brother. “When Gryla gets the bad little children, she puts them in her oven, and bakes them until they’re golden brown!”

The girl giggles and welps, pounding her small fists against her mother. “Does she eat them, Mama?” she asks breathlessly.

“Well, of course she does!” the woman answers, kissing both her children’s heads. “No sense in wasting perfectly roasted children!” Demy, the younger boy, cackles– like any good Kyrzenwolder child, he has heard this story many times. “So you ought to be good, and not naughty!” The little girl rolls her eyes at the warning. “Demy,” the woman asks her son, “do you know what we do to trick Gryla?”

Demy nods, and his sister, bubbling, cuts him off, “We bake cookies!”

“We do! Since all little children are sometimes wicked, we have to distract Gryla from stealing away our children,” the woman pauses for a moment, “so we bake that evil fairy cookies! We decorate the cookies like wicked people, and leave them out for her to find– then she takes them away, and eats them. Afterward, she thinks she has had her fill of naughty children.” Both children giggle, though Demy has started to drift into sleep.

After a moment, the little girl looks out the window. In the distance, she sees the candlelight and profile of a Vogel. The Vogel walks to the edge of their property, and, catching the girl’s gaze, salutes. The Vogel places a candle in the snow, and, after a moment, retreats to the depths of the woods.


In a cozy Katzen townhouse,

…a grandfather huddles with his only surviving grandchild– the little boy, seven years old, can already wield a sword, but still cannot read the old stories. He relies on his grandfather, a man who has always been a quiet man of learning. In his youth, the old man says, he even studied with Old Fritzie Diedrich.

“Pity you can’t read, Gim,” the old man says, though not without a hint of fondness.

Gim says nothing. He has been scared of books ever since he heard of haunted tomes in old estates.

“The old stories of Kyrzenwold,” the grandfather continues, stoking the hearth, “they’re really something.” He feels his grandson’s attention sharpen, and, quietly, the old man smiles to himself. “One of my favorites was about Papa Schlacter and Mama Perchta. Two old nightmares, or fairies… or maybe both– who knows? They were married– long, long ago. But they were both such awful people, they couldn’t stand to be together.”

Gim smiles. He has heard this story many times.

“Papa Schlacter was a terrifying creature– teeth like knives, and hands the size of ham hocks. He prowled the forests, they say, with meat cleavers and a butcher’s apron.”

Gim continues the story, “And Mama Perchta lived far away from people– she had no love for any of the human folk, claiming the animals of the woods as her children. However, she had a duty. On the longest night of the year, she would stalk the villages, peering at the windows– searching for naughty children whose hearts were full of wickedness.”

“Ah, you remember,” the old man grins, and picks up where the boy left off. “And Papa Schlacter followed behind her, looking for the children whose minds were full of hatred. He found them, after his wife had passed them over, and stored them in his meat cellar. He butchered them, casting their wicked flesh to hungry wolves.”

“And Mama Perchta found the hard-hearted children, and, stealing them away, punished them. She ripped out their wicked hearts, and stuffed the holes with ice, until they were frozen just like her,” Gim laughs– still a boy, the gory bits cling to his memory.

“‘This ice,’ she would whisper, ‘is worth more than your wicked heart!’” the old man crescendos into a bellow. “And what’s the way, Gim, to let Mama Perchta know your heart is full of love?”

“My mother always used to say that I should cut out a paper heart–”

“–and write the name of someone you love on it.”

Gim grunts, “Seems stupid.”

“Well, the old stories always seem stupid, Gim. Stupid until you meet one of those old beasts, may the Hunter spare you.” The old man coughs drily, and wrap his furs around himself. Through the window of his Katzen home, he sees a lone Vogel approach- her face and frame is lean, and she braces herself against the wind. She leaves a candle outside his doorway and, quickly, departs.


Around a roaring fire, in a Cornynshire farmhouse…

an older girl grins perniciously at her younger sister. “What do you mean you’ve never heard the story of Belsvinter?”

The younger girl, recently turned six, sticks out her lower lip defiantly. “Mama didn’t believe in the old stories. She said they were just stupid fairy stories to scare children.”

The older girl rolls her eyes, and, exasperated, retorts, “So you never asked Baba about them?” Her sister says nothing, and, so, the girl continues, “Well, of all of those old nightmare fairies, Belsvinter is most reasonable.” She pokes at the fire delicately. “Belsvinter comes out on the stormiest and coldest week of the year– remember what Baba used to say? When the winds were iciest, she would say to watch out for Belsvinter’s switch.”

“What’s a switch?” the youngest girl asks.

“Something you hit naughty children with,” the oldest answers with a meaningful glance. “Belsvinter comes out during the winter, offering either switches or treats. Smart, talented, good children get treats. Stupid, clumsy, naughty children get switches.”

The younger girl flinches slightly “How does he know if they’re stupid?”

“Well, he tests them first. He asks them a question, and they have to provide a smart answer.” She thinks for a second, and then says, “For example, ‘At night I come without being fetched, and by day I’m lost without being stolen. What am I?”

The youngest girl has a sudden pang in her chest, thinking of star-gazing with her father- a Lyriker long lost to the depths of the woods. “A star,” she answers in a small voice. The older girl touches the younger one’s shoulder. The younger one then, too quickly, asks, “How does he know if they’re clumsy?”

“Well, he has them do a test of skill. Sometimes he makes the children fight one another, and sometimes he makes them sing songs– he rewards the most talented with treats.” The younger girl remembers the pretty Lyriker siblings, with their sad songs and wide eyes- shadows of exhaustion dancing over their faces. She remembers how, emphatically, they told her why it is perfectly reasonable to be scared of the dark. She remembers the unflinching glance of the Vogel behind them- silent as he kept his eyes on the woodline.

“And how does he know if you’re naughty?” the youngest one asks.

The oldest one thinks again. “I’m not really sure– remember what Mama always said about good Corbynshire girls?”

The youngest one nods, a little sadly, and answers, “Good Corbynshire girls should be smart, strong, skillful, and dutiful.”

“And clean.”

“I never understood the clean part,” the youngest one admits.

“Baba told me that if you wear dirty clothes, then– do you remember the story of Gryla?” The youngest nods. “Well, Baba always said Gryla had a fairy cat, named Slecthekat, and during the winter Slecthekat would find all the children in dirty clothes.”

“What would he do when he found them?”

“Eat them, I guess. I never really understood that story, but Baba told me that I should always wash my face and clothes, otherwise the Slechtekat would eat me.”

The little girl shudders, and mumbles, “I never liked fairies.”


Deep in the woods of Kyrzenwold…

“Try it again, Lada” the huntsman chides the small girl. “Imagine that you’re aiming straight between its eyes.”

The tiny girl sighs, and, once more, aims the bow at the target her father has painted on a pine tree. She pulls back on the bowstring, and, with a persistent twang, the arrow hits just off-center of the target.

“Better,” her father answers gruffly, “but you have a lot of work to do.” He looks at her arms, and chews the inside of his cheek. “You’re going to need to build up your arms, or they’re going to keep shaking like that.” The girl doesn’t respond, but shuffles on her feet. They’ve been practicing for three hours now.

“Alright,” he says, noticing her attention is fading, “lunch.” He sets out his pack, and, a bit guiltily, scrounges up a meager serving of dried venison and hardtack. The life of a hunter is, he admits to himself, a tidily scarce one. “Set to making a fire, Lada. I want to see if you can do it by yourself.”

Lada nods, and, from her own pack, pulls some dry kindling.

“No, Lada,” he corrects gently, “there’s some drybrush here. Only use that when the snow is wet and heavy, or you can’t find anything suitable.”

She nods again, though says nothing. He knows she’s hungry, and, despite himself, grunts, “Alright, I’ll do it this time. You sit down.”

In a short time, there is a small wood fire. The huntsman boils snow in a small pan, and crumbles his portion of the hardtack and jerky into it. It bubbles into a stale, murky porridge. The hunter takes a third for himself, and gives the rest to his daughter. He tells her to save her hard tack for later in the day, but to eat her venison now. As they eat their meal, the girl, uncharacteristically, breaks the silence.

“What was that old woman talking about in the village?”

The huntsman pauses, and looks up from his porridge. His weathered, thin face has a hawk-like hardness to it. “You mean about Belsvinter and Gryla and all that?”

The girl nods.

“Fairy stories,” he responds gruffly, and goes back to his food. “What did your mother tell you, Lada? Pull your hair back when you eat.”

The girl pushes her chestnut-colored ringlets, half-heartedly, out of her face, and responds, “So they’re not real then? Those stories?”

Her father laughs, a bit too meanly. “Stupid people don’t believe in fairies, Lada. Those stories may not be completely truthful, but they’re certainly real.”

“What are real?”

“I’ve told you about the Hunter of Consequences? The Rye Mother? The Lady of the Fallow Field? The Frozen Queen?”

She nods.

“Well, not all fairies are beautiful and stately. They’re like people. Some are violent, ugly, and nasty.”

The girl thinks of her mother, who knew the stories of the ancient fairies. “Like the nightmares Mama used to tell me about?”

The huntsman nods. “Wolves and bandits aren’t the only thing you need to worry about in the woods, Lada. You know that.”

Looking into her porridge, cupping the wooden bowl nervously, Lada asks, “Papa… will you tell me the story Mama used to tell me?”

He frowns, pain registering in his jaw and at the corners of his eyes. “Of course,” he finally says, and tentatively, he starts. He has never been good at telling her stories.

“Long, long ago, there were wicked fae. They were the stuff of nightmares, and, because they were so wicked, they were locked deep away…”


Long, long ago, there were wicked fae. They were the stuff of nightmares, and, because they were so wicked, they were locked deep away– they were locked deep away so that they would never hurt anyone.

At least, those are the stories of the ancient times.

Those of the woods know better. They know of the magic underneath their feet, and the terrible truth of waking dreams. The know that the fae of dreams and nightmares exist everywhere, not just in the woods… though, for whatever reason, the woods calls to them.

We know winter, the old people warn, and we know that the old ones still live. Covered by the silence of winter, they stalk hungry through forests, and, looking for the lights in cottages, they punish the wicked. Only by the grace of goodness, can you evade them. But the old ones still live.

The stories say there were those ancient fae, the nightmare dwellers and child snatchers, who escaped the lock-and-key. They say there are those of the Frozen Heart and Bloody Knives that found their own power and meaning. Such fae fled, and hid themselves away. They hid for thousands of years, and waited. Waited for the way things are now. The visages of these creatures have filled the terrible dreams of those wise to the darkest nights of winter.

And one of these creatures, one who calls herself both ruler and servant, waits by the light of the candles, and readies herself for her audience.

Prereg and heated housing

Here’s the list of people who requested heated housing and got in:

Character Name Team
(Raymond N) Seekers
Abbot Lucas Free Society
Altair Fate’s Chosen
Arianna Windward
Balthazar Omen
Belladonna Omen
Bran Crows
Caladon The Iron Wrought
Calliope Brandrkind
Captain Cor’delia Windward
Carraig Omen
Corso Windward
Dimentio Windward
Elentia Omen
Fenrick House Caraidean
Frost Seekers
Johann Stillkaren
Jonathan Brandrkind
Kastrid Fate’s Chosen
Kiroan Ruckerdemalion
Kulbert Omen
Kyroan Ruckerdemalion
Larkspur Ruckerdemalion
Lisel Stillkarren
Loredana Windward
Luthor Stillkaren
Luxiera Parliament
Marcellus Windward
Marius Fate’s Chosen
Nev Sapphire Chalice
Nezzetta Seven Sisters
Nico Lady’s Revenge
Nox Parliament
One-Eyed Jack Parliament
Osric Crows
Rhiannon Fate’s Chosen
Rydan Omen
Saile House Caraidean
Shavnah Fate’s Chosen
Sifjar Tempest
Sitara Omen
Suffolk Fate’s Chosen
Sunrise Brandrkind
TB Brandrkind
Tris Windward
Valfred Fate’s Chosen
Yngvarr Ruckerdemalion
Zephyr Windward
Zodii Tempest

And people currently requested it but are on waitlist for heated housing (still preregged for the event:

Other people preregged: Ballast, Calavacte, Crispin, Drifter, Elli, Furantur, Gunnar, Gunther, Gwendolyn, Harper, Hart, Iccauos, Jodrick, Kagg, Kurt, Linly, Mans, Marc, Nuunsa, Rapp, Ruka, Samson, Skeek, Skjoldr, The Balmonious Bard, Thrymyr, Viera