Thok's journal I
First day of Winter

Bombeziux Glooms Journal #2
4th of the Knot, 3164

Bombeziux Glooms Journal #1
18th of the Moth, 3164

A writ, a charter, a mandate
And so it began

The charter was clear. The orders plain. The plan simple. The context widely known.

Bandits had long infested the contested wilderness south of Brevoy and east of the River Kingdoms. This posed a challenge to Brevoy's expansionist ambitions, and a quiet call was circulated among the mercenaries and speakeasies of the frontier that arms and woodcraft were sought to rid the lands of this nuisance. Those brave or foolish enough to sign on for the task were given full legal authority to slay bandits and explore… though the nobles were scrupulously avoiding claims of ownership or intention. At least in public.

Better to have the fish in hand before hawking it to passersby.

A Surtovan marquis by name of Niccolo Embrechant was given the task of seeing to it:

Be it so known that the bearer of this charter has been charged by the Marquis Niccolo Embrechant, acting upon the greater good and authority vested within him by the office of the Regent of the Dragonscale Throne, granting the right of exploration and travel within the wilderness region known as the Greenbelt.

Exploration should be limited to an area no further than thirty-six miles east and west and sixty miles south of Oleg's Trading Post.

The bearer of this charter should also strive against banditry and other unlawful behavior to be encountered. The punishment for unrepentant banditry remains, as always, execution by sword or rope.

So witnessed on this 15th day of the Henge, under watchful eye of the Lordship of Restov and authority granted by Lord Noleski Surtova, current Regent of the Dragonscale Throne,

Marquis Niccolo Embrechant

Grants hereby this mandate

A chill morning mist settles
The scent of damp earth is rich here

An old woman huddles in a caravan near the modest stove. Wafting notes of her herbal tea lilt through the air to stain the morning dew. She pauses a moment, as though listening, and smiles as she raises a pipe to her withered lip. Outside, the gusts of a stormfront sweep the dried leaves of fall and rattle the black bones of the trees which scratch upward like fingers clawing at the grey precipice of a chill sky.

A visitor is coming. And his children are Night’s own.


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