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


The Winter Revel

Those who sleep in Nocturne brace themselves against the whipping northern winds. The days are dangerously short, and the nights perilously long. For those who adhere to simple lives, the winter is a time to gather around a fire, and fortify against the deadly cold. For those who live somewhat more complexly, however, it is a time during which forgotten truths make themselves known.

Perhaps this old truism- light flickering on the darkest night of winter- explains the strange road that has appeared outside of Nocturne. Purplish candles, impervious to the biting gusts, form a trail that is miles upon miles long.

It seems to invite those of Nocturne to walk its length. Those rangers that know of such roads say that, if one were to follow it, it would eventually intersect with the Kerzenlicht, Kyrzenwold’s road of alchemical candles, just outside the town of Katzen. Were a traveler to begin their journey soon, they would be able to walk from Nocturne to Katzen; they would arrive in the bustling town just before the celebration of the Longest Night. The Temple of the Ever-Burning Font, the foremost church of the Woven Faith in Kyrzenwold, always has room for visitors and pilgrims.

“Why might someone follow such a road?” one might ask.
If it is an invitation, some might answer, it might be rude to ignore it.
If it is an invitation, others might venture, it is certainly a strange one.
In strangeness, still another might say, waits adventure.

For those curious about such an invitation, the Illuminarium, quite luckily, has archived material on both the Temple and the uniquely Kyrzenwold celebration.


In the town of Katzen, there is one of the few temples of the Woven Faith within Kyrzenwold. The temple provides religious service for the people who live in the town and surrounding areas. Given the nature of Kyrzenwold and religion, however, it is largely populated by visitors and pilgrims passing through. This is not surprising, as the temple itself is structured like a great inn of sprawling depth and ornate architecture. Because The Font is one of Kyrzenwold’s few temples, it has significant influence in matters of faith, and has one of the largest percentages of priests within a congregation in the world.

The Ever-Burning Font is a place of Creation and the arts. Tapestries, paintings, and stained glass of great beauty hang within the temple, attracting even those not of the faith to come and behold their artistry. Prayers and services focus on the Light of Creation, and how such light can protect those journeying in the sinister Kyrzenwold. Deep within the corridors and annexes of the temple, it is rumored, there is a lantern that gave the place its name. This lantern has an ever-burning font that was lit centuries ago; it is said to burn to this day, with no need for the oil to ever be refilled.

One of the striking features of the Font, is that it is a place of inter-faithful philosophy. All faiths and practitioners are welcome, and all are encouraged to participate in debates and discussions to develop a better Aerune. Even those who do not follow a particular religion visit the temple to meet with some of the sharpest and most brilliant religious thinkers in the world. Conversations, lit by the ever-burning candles of the temple, last long into the late hours of night.

The comforting sanctuary that the Font provides is unsurprising, given that it is tended by Aksel Reisinger. Despite his considerable prestige, Aksel would much prefer that those of the Woven Faith see him as little more than a common man, committed to the temple within Kyrzenwold. As both a Spidersilk Elf and a Tatterfolk more-or-less settled in Kyrzenwold, Aksel feels strongly that all who seek haven in his temple’s walls should be granted unquestioned hospitality: it is not uncommon, within the Temple of the Ever-Burning Font, to find Pale, Shamanic, and Celestial Court followers, most of whom are there for theological discussion, fine drink, and the world famous pastries of Katzen bakers. (Indeed, Aksel’s niece, Liza Reisinger- responsible for tending the Inn’s front desk and feeding the area’s numerous stray cats- is a prominent Pale follower.) Aksel, in all of his work, hopes to encourage conversations of the beauty and creativity of the world, and believes that welcoming all manner of conversation facilitates the truest paths of the Woven Faith.


The Longest Night

The Longest Night is a secular observance within Kyrzenwold. It is a time when Kyrzenwolders prepare for, perhaps obviously, the darkest, coldest, and longest night of the year. In Katzen, this event is celebrated at the Temple of the Ever-Burning Font. While the faithful are welcome to quietly meditate on their own worship, it is not celebrated as a religious devotion, but instead as a coming-together of community. Festivities begin at dark on The First Night with a ceremonial lighting, lead by visiting Vogels, of candles around the perimeter of the Temple. During this time, it is not uncommon for the creatures and beasts that stalk the woods to attempt to interrupt the Ceremony- the presence of skilled Vogels, therefore, is not merely for pomp and circumstance. After the lighting of the candles, the First Night is spent in storytelling and performances: skalds, bards, and Lyrikers tell folkloric stories, meant to scare and entertain, from their homelands.

On the First Day, bread is broken with strangers, and pleasantries are exchanged. Throughout the First Day, Kyrzenwolders maintain lights and brace themselves for the Second Night- also known as the Eve of Nightmares. During the Eve, the ancient Nightmare Fae of the Winter Table- Gryla, Papa Schlacter, Mama Perchta, Belsvinter, and the Slecthekat- make themselves known. On the darkest night of the year, it is said, the Fae come to, once more, teach the people how to be scared of the winter dark. It is a time to fear, and a time in which lost knowledge makes itself, once more, known.

The Winter Revel will take place on February 17-19, 2017. The in-game location will be at the Temple of the Ever-Burning Font (Katzen, Kyrzenwold), on The First Night.

(Teaser by Zoe)

The Harrowing of the Foul

This text has begun to appear around the area of Nocturne. Some have heard it from spirits while doing seances. Some have dreamt of strange entities whispering the words to them. Others have seen ghostly text appear on documents they are writing late at night, only to have it fade away with the dawn. Some have even waken from a restless sleep, finding the text written on parchment in their own hand.

The Harrowing of the Foul

When summer’s warmth is left behind

And winter’s threat is not so kind

The darkest time in all the year

Falls after harvest fields are clear

When the Harrowing times arrive


The time the Foul does cloak the Earth

Each year, these nights, its dark rebirth

And those that serve will drink and feast

What meal, not fit for man nor beast?

Best shunned by those alive


And though the living face this dread

The greater threat is to the dead

The Foul does claw each resting place

To stave off torment that they face

Each grave this night a threat


The Foul brings with it bitter spite

Undead grow stronger Thirteenth Night

Beware the dead, those touched by Foul

The ghasts and haunt these nights do prowl

The dead must pay their debt


With undead strong and ghouls about

Too strong, the Foul, to be locked out

No sanctuary this night remains

To bring folk rest nor ease their pains

No safe place will protect


In ancient times the House of Weald

Brought magicks strong in woods and field

To circles full of leering faces

That grew outside in darkest places

No soul would they neglect


In these dark times when blood is spilled

The Foul’s dark hate is never filled

It gnaws at flesh and eats at life

And claims all souls who fall from strife

Those downed have fragile fates


If battle comes when darkness falls

Let healers heed the battle calls

Each wounded friend in dire need

For allies fall and always bleed

Too slow, the Reaper waits


At Harrowing Time the earth is churned

The undead claw to freedoms earned

Though corpses lurch and bones do rise

Worse still the ghosts with seeking eyes

That do not find remains


These spectral dead are stronger still

With anger comes the urge to kill

When Malediction feeds despair

These ghosts possess each soul they tear

Each spirit it profanes


With living spirit ripped away

The haunting ghost comes forth to stay

Where once stood ally stout and true

The hungry ghost will seek its due

Until the Harrowing wanes



Out of Game

The Harrowing Nights last from Friday until dawn on Sunday.

  • During the Harrowing Nights, the typical sanctuaries are ruined. Players cannot take long rests in their hearths, or in the tavern, or even in their holy places as normal. In most of the lands, people lock themselves away. Around Nocturne, however, mysterious circles of Jack O’ Lanterns are said appear. Players may take long rests at these circles, exposed to those that might attack them. Those resting at a circle take all the power of one of the Jack O’ Lanterns while they rest. That is to say, if someone is already using a Jack o’ Lantern to rest you cannot use it until they are done. The circles start out small, with few Jack o’ Lanterns. Players can bolster the power of these circles, however. If you bring you own Jack O’ Lantern and place it at one of the circles, and keep it lit at night, the circles grow in power. More players can rest at one time. In addition, it is rumored that circles bolstered with more Jack o’ Lanterns can contribute more power to those that might use them to aid travelers, and perhaps other boons can be drawn from circles that grow in number if the Jack o’ Lanterns are carved with care or skill.


  • During the Harrowing, Malediction weakens all living and Gifted things. Players who fall from damage always fall unstable, even if they fall from uncalled damage. Whenever someone falls from damage or takes damage when they have no Vitality they are unstable from the damage. Characters can be Stabilized normally, but further damage will make them become unstable.


  • During the Harrowing, undead are more powerful and can be more resistant to some effects, particularly Death effect.


  • Vampyr Undying gain an additional Void during the Harrowing. Unfortunately, feeding is almost impossible during the Harrowing without exposing oneself to Malediction. In game, Vampyr Undying can feel the Foul in the air around them during this time and avoid feeding during the Harrowing of the Foul.


  • During the Harrowing, any of the Gifted that are inflicted by the Foul with a Haunting – “Inflict Haunting Trait” – are drawn into the Gloaming, and a corrupt spirit takes their place in the waking world to destroy any Gifted beings it finds.
    As a corrupt spirit, you lose all abilities, armor and traits of your player character. Boons are suppressed. You become a spectral mockery of your Gifted character. You have only three Vitality, have the Undead, Malediction, and Haunting traits, and will strike uncalled with whatever weapons you carry.

    Corrupted spirits do not speak or respond in a intelligible manner; their speech is limited to dark whispering of their terrible dreams, or soft cries of anguish. It should be obvious to any player who tries to communicate with you that something, by your whispers, is very wrong.

    This effect lasts until you are defeated or cured – “Cure Haunting Trait.” If defeated you fall down and 10 seconds later your player character returns with whatever Vitality and Armor you had when you were inflicted. If you fell down unstable then you are stable when you reappear; this is an exception to always falling unstable rule of the Harrowing.

    As bad as that is, there are corrupted areas of the Foul that can be much worse. If you are permanently inflicted by the Foul – “Permanent Inflict Haunting Trait” – the effect will not end when you fall. Instead the effect will last until you receive a “Cure Haunting trait” effect. If you are taken down then after ten seconds you will rise as a spirit and slink off into some dark place, only to slowly reform and come forth again to slay the living. You will try to reform just out of sight from the living; if you are forced by the area to reform within sight of those who are not corrupted your dark whispers or soft cries of anguish should be used to warn others that soon you will active once more.

    If the attack is delivered as a Gesture or By My Voice attack then you will turn to a non-combat spirit first, walk out to the horrible thing inflicting you, and then become combat active – when you are no longer in the middle of the ranks of your one time friends who would otherwise beat you into submission before you took two steps.

    Undying, Demonbound, and Grotesque player characters are particularly susceptible to these effects, but this corruption of the Foul can strike anyone.

    Other Details:
    Sometimes your spirit will glow with corruption during this time. You will put on a necklace with a soft light to indicate you are a corrupted spirit. This glow does not always occur.

    ~ It would be helpful to us if players who don’t normally carry weapons might hold an extra one at night. If you find your self inflicted without a weapon we will often have extras nearby.

    ~ Players who are non-combat or have some other medical reason to have a special combat status should contact plot if they should be immune to this effect.

    ~ In heavily corrupted areas, players who are drawn into the Gloaming and become corrupted spirits rely on living allies in the area to retain their lifeforce. If all of their Gifted allies are killed then they too might be killed.

    ~ We intend this to be fun and we expect players to be fair and fun to other players in all types of game situations. That said, players who would rather take a death or have some other detrimental effect rather than participate in this manner can drop me a line before the event.

    To summarize:“Inflict Haunting trait” means you become a corrupted spirit once.

    When you are dropped, you will be a spirit for 10 seconds and then you will become your character again in whatever state you left. If you were unstable you are instead stable.

    “Permanent Inflict Haunting trait” means you become a corrupted spirit until you receive a “Cure Haunting trait” effect, and each time you are destroyed you will, after ten seconds, reform and “recycle” in some dark place and attack again.

    If you go to reform, try to be in some dark place away from the players. If you must form near active players, take 10 seconds and use whispering and soft cries of anguish to warn them you are reforming.

    If the attack is delivered as a Gesture or a My My Voice then you will turn to a non-combat spirit first, walk out to the horrible thing inflicting you, and then turn into a combat active corrupted spirit.

    As a corrupted spirit:

    ~ All armor, abilities, skills, and boons are suppressed. Your actual body is trapped deep in the Gloaming.

    ~ You have 3 Vitality points.

    ~ You have the traits Haunting, Undead, and Malediction.

    ~ You have the ability to fight with whatever weapons you can find.

    ~ There will sometimes be extra weapons in the area you might be directed to if you have none.

Prereg list Nov 2016 (updated)

(last updated 24Oct2016)

Rather than continue to flood the blog with prereg lists, just going to update this one entry for this event.

Here is a list of people that at some point registered for the event but are now showing as cancelled.  If you’re on this list and shouldn’t be, contact me at

Adaea, Caradoc, Dominique, (Andrew M), Briar Rose

Current list of preregs, along with housing requests if I have them:

Character Name Team Name
Abaddon Seekers of the Shining Way
Abbot Lucas The Free Society for Exploration and Research adjunct
Adelaide Seekers of the Shining Way
Aki Tempest
Almerrick von Engel Ruckerdemalion
Altair Fate’s Chosen
Amity Misfit Menagerie
Anastara Seekers of the Shining Way
Arcs/Wailin’ Rassi Coven
Arianna Windward
Asia-esque Seekers of the Shining Way
Avi Misfit Menagerie
Baader The Free Society for Exploration and Research
Baptiste Seekers of the Shining Way
Brandigeid “Bran” Herebjorn Crows
Captain Cor’delia Windward
Carraig Omen
Cassandra Seekers of the Shining Way
Cornelius Crows
Corso Windward
Coto Mozar Misfit Menagerie
Creak Windward
Crispin Ostanes The Free Society for Exploration and Research
Dag Crows
Davin Omen
Dimentio Windward
Draven Coven
Dresden Sapphire Chalice
Drifter  tenting
Elani Sapphire Chalice
Elekrai’n Seekers of the Shining Way
Elentia Omen
Elli Misfit Menagerie
Ellion the Fatherless Seekers of the Shining Way
Ellis Windward
Elsbeth de Luna Lady’s Revenge
Ephraim Omen
Erhard of Ashveil
Escanor Ruckerdemalion
Eve House Caraidean
Fartface McGee Seekers of the Shining Way
Fenrick House Caraidean
Florian Parliment
Fordel Seven Sisters (tenting)
Frost Seekers of the Shining Way
Gideon Omen
Greta Lady’s Revenge
Gunnar Seven Sisters
Gustav Augustus II Misfit Menagerie
Hart Coven
Henry Ar’Vesta House Caraidean
Hjalmar Spoiled Picklers
Holly House Caraidean
impydog Seekers of the Shining Way
Isaac The Free Society for Exploration and Research adjunct
Jodrik Spoiled Picklers
Johann Geistbrenner Stillkaren
Johnathan Brandrkind
Jorn Adalhelm Fate’s chosen
Josselyn Tempest
Kas Fate’s Chosen
Kastrid Darkbloom Death’s Bane
Kazimir Forsythe Ruckerdemalion
Khalul Spoiled Picklers
Kira Magus Seven Sisters
Kiroan Ruckerdemalion
Kourash The Free Society for Exploration and Research
Kulbert Omen
Kurt Lowenthal
Kyroan Veros Farlost Ruckerdemalion
Lady Ophelia Renfrow Parliament
Lana the Balmonious Bard Fate’s Chosen
Larkspur Frobisher Ruckerdemalion
Lilith Seven Sisters
Linly Tsol Running Lost
Lisel Stillkarren
Lord Balthazar The Free Society for Exploration and Research adjunct
Loredana Windward
Lorelei Brandrkind
Louie  tenting
Luthor Soren Stillkaren
Luxe Parliament
Magnus Brandrkind
Makoce Ba’Cho
Mal Seekers of the Shining Way
Mans Seekers of the Shining Way
Marc Henry Running Lost
Marius Fate’s Chosen
Marteen “The Sea Wolf” Urquell Fate’s Chosen
Mordekai Seekers of the Shining Way
Muninn Tempest
Nahdir  tenting
Nathan Omen
Nev Sapphire Chalice
NewCharacterChangeName (Raymond N) Seekers of the Shining Way
Nezzetta Aurora Darklis Seven Sisters
Nico Lady’s Revenge
Nicole’s Mad3 PC Tempest
Nox Parliament
Nuunsa Fate’s Chosen
one eyed jack Parliament
Osric Crows
Placeholder (Dave K) Lady’s Revenge
Placeholder (Lori C) Lady’s Revenge
Placeholder (Pat W) Parliament
Placeholder (Patrick L)
Placeholder (Wesley M) The Free Society for Exploration and Research adjunct
Rainiere Windward
Rasvim Misfit Menagerie
Ratty Stillkaren
Raven Crows
Rhiannon Fate’s Chosen
Ricardo Lady’s Revenge
Ruka Iron Wrought
Rydan Omen
Sadie Grey Brandrkind adjunct
Senior Calvacte the NightWatchMan Parliament
Shadrach Brandrkind
Shavnah Fate’s Chosen
She Coven
Siegwald Seven Sisters
Sifjar Tempest
Sikka Tempest
Sitara Omen
Skeek Misfit Menagerie (tenting)
Skjoldr or ForgeCrow Iron Wrought
Suffolk Fate’s Chosen
Sunara Crows
Sunrise Brandrkind
Sybille Sapphire Chalice
T.B. Brandrkind
Tamsin Omen
Tassilo Fate’s Chosen
The Wolfhound Brandrkind
Thranaq Iron Wrought
Thrymr  tenting
Thugruk Iron Wrought
Tjalf Seekers of the Shining Way
Tris Windward
Ultuar The Free Society for Exploration and Research
Veren Spoiled Picklers
Viciria Misfit Menagerie
Viera Parliament
Viktor Vatra  tenting
Vivienne Seven Sisters (tenting)
Ylva Spoiled Picklers
Zamir Zamir Seekers of the Shining Way
Zephyr Windward