Summons to the Council of Hommlet

As you cross back into Hommlet, the heavy scent of woodsmoke, damp earth, and fresh mortar rides the breeze. Ahead, movement flickers atop Burne’s Tower, the 55-foot bastion that marks the eastern rise of the village. Gleaming in the late sun, the tower stands tall and complete, ringed by a growing ambition: Doomwatch Keep.

Around the base of the tower, trenches ten feet deep cut harsh lines into the soil, marking where bastions, towers, and walls will soon rise. Masons in linen smocks hunch over stone blocks, tapping and turning them, the sharp clink of chisel and hammer ringing through the haze of dust. Laborers haul timber toward scaffolding rising like ribs around the footprint of a future gatehouse.

The site is alive with motion—until you appear.

As your party crests the ridge along the Long Road, the workers pause. Some rest their hands on shovel hilts or lean on wheelbarrows. A few wipe sweat from their brows. Their gazes track your every step. Not with malice—but with something more cautious, more curious. The Badgers atop the tower track you silently, one guard nudging the other.

These are folk who’ve seen strangers bring trouble. And strangers followed by Burne's Badgers usually mean things are about to change. But no one steps forward. No challenge. Just stares.

Council at the Inn

The Inn of the Welcome Wench is as warm and familiar as the first time you passed through its threshold—though the fire seems smaller, and the shadows deeper now. The scent of ale and stew wafts from the kitchen, and Elmo, already deep into his second mug, slaps the table as he spots you and speaks with a grin.

“Well look who crawled out of the swamps, the Heroes of Verbobonc return. Ale’s still cold, and I’ll wager your heads are hotter than ever.”

You settle in. The inn’s bustle closes around you like a blanket, and for a brief time, the road is far away. You speak in hushed tones. Rumors of Lareth. Signs of the Temple. Whispers of gold-masked monks. The fire crackles as you weigh what’s truth and what’s madness. Somewhere outside, a dog barks.

Then the doors swing open. Six Burne’s Badgers enter, bootheels striking the floor in unison. Their captain, Lieutenant Markan, steps forward, crisp in his blue-and-yellow tabard.

“Do I address the Heroes of Verbobonc—adventurer (pc) of House Asbury—and his company?”

He offers a scroll bound in black ribbon, wax-sealed with the sigil of Hommlet.

“You are hereby summoned to appear before the Council of Hommlet. I am instructed to escort you at once.”

The tavern quiets. Elmo narrows his eyes. Gundigoot wipes his hands on his apron and slips out the back door.

The Council Hall

Flanked by half-a-dozen Badgers, you’re marched past the Inn of the Welcome Wench, where Gloria Gundigoot eyes you through the window while wiping a mug that hasn’t needed cleaning in ten minutes. The folk on the green keep their distance.

The guard leads you to a newly built hall, timber still pale with fresh sawdust and scaffolding scraps lingering nearby. It stands beside the inn—strategic, central, watchful.

Markan looks over his shoulder at you and states, “This hall was raised for the council, to govern the realm’s growth... and its defense.”

The wooden doors creak open. Inside: bare stone floors, a large, rough-hewn table, a few benches and stools. On the back wall hangs a simple tapestry: a green field, two acorns, and a sheaf of grain.

Hommlet Bannor by 3orcs

At the table sit six figures, all already watching you.

Lord Rufus, lean and stern in his dented plate
Lord Burne, robes lined with protective sigils, faint light pulsing beneath his collar
Jaroo Ashstaff, the druid, hunched and quiet, fingers tapping a carved toadstone
Canon Terjon, stern-faced and upright in the colors of St. Cuthbert
Gundigoot, his apron replaced by a council tabard
And at the head, the elder Elder Kenter Sr., eyes cloudy but voice strong

Burne stands as you approach, motioning with an open hand.

At the center sits Lord Burne, the mage of Hommlet, his green robes etched with protective sigils. To his left, Lord Rufus—all armor and no ceremony. Jaroo Ashstaff, druid of the Old Faith, leans on a staff of carved ash, eyes half-lidded with scrutiny. Canon Terjon, high priest of St. Cuthbert, wears his devotion like a blade, polished and cold. Gundigoot, still with flour on his sleeves, represents the people. At the head of the table, the aged Kenter, Village Elder and Justice of the Peace, pours drinks with a slow, deliberate hand.

Burne gesturing to the empty chairs across the council table. “Thank you for coming, Please—join us. We’ve waited long enough to speak plainly.”

You take your seats as Burne turns, gesturing to each council member in turn.

“Rufus you know. Jaroo of the Gnarley. Canon Terjon, spiritual voice of St. Cuthbert. Gundigoot, keeper of the Wench, and finally, Kenter—our Elder and voice of law.”

Kenter inclines his head, eyes creased from both age and doubt.

Adventurers Report

Before more can be said, Terjon speaks. “Now then, before we drown you in old ghosts and ancient cults, I’d hear it straight from your own mouths.”

The room stills. His voice is calm but carries weight.

“You’ve seen the Moathouse. Walked its halls. Stared down its master. What was there? Was it some stray sorcerer holed up with a few rabid thugs, or something deeper? Something darker?”

He lets the question hang before continuing.

“And these raids—along the High Road to Cienega, in the wilds near the riverbanks, even past the old Emridy paths. Organized, armed, strategic. Who’s behind them, in your judgment? What did you see that might shed light on their source?”

He folds his hands, waiting. Terjon, frowning, opens his mouth to speak—only to glance at Kenter and hold his tongue for the moment. Kenter’s gaze lingers on each of you in turn.

“This council is sworn to protect the realm—but we are not omniscient. We rely on eyes sharper and younger than our own.”

His voice hardens, if only a little. “So tell us what you saw. Leave nothing out. These lands are your home now, too—or soon will be, if you keep walking this road.”

Furnok'a Report

“Furnok has informed us of your exploits at the Moathouse,” he says with a flat expression. “Including your encounter with the so-called ‘Lareth the Beautiful.’ He claims your company took the lead in his defeat, and that his own part was… minimal.”

From his place in the corner, Furnok shrugs and smiles. “What can I say? I was the humble blade in a storm of steel.”

Terjon snorts, unimpressed.

Kenter waves the moment aside. “Furnok’s tales matter little. What matters is what you’ve seen. What you’ve done. But before we ask more of you… you deserve the truth.”

He gestures to a tray of bread, apples, and white cheese. “Eat, if you’ve the appetite. The truth’s easier to stomach on a full belly.”

Once food and drink are served, the old man leans forward.

The Truth of the Cult

Kenter begins, “The Cult of Elemental Evil, was founded on the belief that the primal forces of this world—fire, water, earth, air—are not neutral, but Evil. That they exist to tear down what we build, and that we should worship them as destroyers, not deny their chaos.”

Jaroo snorts softly. “An opinion that defies the Old Faith and reason. The elements give life as much as they take it.”

Terjon growls, “You’d let wolves raise our children, if it suited the Circle. Don’t speak of reason to me, druid.”

Burne chuckles low in his throat, lifting his goblet. “Ah, the usual cordiality.”

Kenter clears his throat. Silence returns.

“The Temple took root near Nulb. From it, bands of brigands, assassins, and heretics swept the countryside. They offered the foulest of followers safety and wealth. In return, they tithed in blood and gold—taken from the innocent.”

He pauses. No one speaks.

“Children were sacrificed to fire. Men drowned for water. Women given to something… blacker than either. A force that claimed to be air and earth combined. An absence. A devourer.”

Burne nods. “The Elder Eye.”

Kenter continues.

“The Temple built deep, not just upward. Its upper halls held madmen. But the dungeons below? No maps remain. No man who entered returned sane. There are whispers of demons in those black halls. Or worse.”

Rufus says, cracking his knuckles, “Until we stormed the place, The Host of Good—men from Veluna, Verbobonc, Furyondy. We struck at Emridy Meadows. Broke their spine. Then marched on the Temple.”

Burne adds. “We sealed it, we could not destroy it.”

Kenter takes a long drink before speaking again.

“Since then, Nulb has festered. A village of shadows, pirates, and smugglers. And lately—stranger things. Travelers whisper of wolves with glowing eyes, cultists in gold masks, storm-fires on cloudless nights. Of sacrifices in the marshes. Of magic gone wrong.”

Jaroo murmurs, “We’ve agents in Nulb. They’ve gone silent.”

Burne leans forward, eyes bright. “That’s where you come in.”

The Council's Charge

Canon Terjon stands. “The Temple stirs. We have ears in Nulb. What we don’t have is anyone willing to walk the last miles to that cursed stone.”

Kenter nods. “We need eyes on the Temple ruins. Not just gossip or tavern tales. We need truth. You’ve proven yourselves. And frankly—there’s no one else to send.”

Canon Terjon rises first, voice clipped, posture stiff.

“The Temple stirs. We have ears in Nulb. What we don’t have,” he says with a meaningful glance toward the door, “is anyone willing to walk the last miles to that cursed stone.”

Burne strokes his beard, eyes glinting beneath his brows.

“Do this, and you will have our backing. Our coin. And our silence, if that’s what you prefer.”

Jaroo shifts, the leather of his weathercloak creaking as he raises one gnarled finger. “The Gnarley Circle has an agent in place.”

Rufus turns to him sharply. “First I’ve heard of it. What’s the latest from your shadow-dweller?”

Jaroo’s lips twist with discomfort. “It has been… a month. Perhaps more.”

Burne exhales a thin sigh. “A pity, we hoped we were not alone in this. Yet here we are—rooting through the stumps, looking for snakes.”

Kenter clears his throat. “As you’ve already guessed, young heroes—” He touches the side of his nose and tilts his hand toward the druid. Furnok chuckles behind his mug. “—we want you to confirm whether this cult is truly dead, or simply buried in shallow soil.”

Jaroo nods gravely. “The priest you slew at the Moathouse—he served the Elder Elemental God. That symbol was not conjured by accident. The danger is not passed.”

Kenter’s voice lowers. “What’s worse… reports from the High Road to Cienega speak of raids—bandits, gnolls, orcs, and masked cultists. Some wear gold masks. Others, armor that looks like living stone. There may be more bases—camps, hideouts—we’ve yet to uncover.”

Rufus leans in. “These aren’t just bandits scraping for coin. They’re organized. Coordinated.”

Terjon’s voice is hard. “You seem capable enough. It is our hope that you are suitable for the task.”

Burne looks at you across the flickering light of the council chamber. “And if you’re not—well, then at least you’ll stir up the hornet’s nest.”

Jaroo folds his arms, the tone in his voice shifting just slightly.

“Anything you discover, you will report to this council.”

He pauses. The other councilors give him a sideways glance. His next words come a touch softer.

“If you please. We may have resources… allies… that could aid you. And your knowledge will serve us all.”

You glance among your companions. The air is heavy. The food untouched. And beyond the hall, thunder murmurs on a windless night.

Kenter grins, the lines in his face deepening like old roads.

“That is our need. What say the rest of you?”

Jaroo adds, “And if you die, may the worms dine well. The Gnarley always reclaims its own.”

Rufus grins. “That’s Jaroo for good luck.”

You glance among your companions. The food sits untouched. The fire crackles in the hearth. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolls. But the sky is clear.

Rumors and Warnings – Kenter’s Council Address

As the conversation around the council table begins to settle, Elder Kenter clears his throat, signaling he’s not yet finished. He leans forward once more, voice low, words steady and grim.

“There’s more stirring than just cultists and carrion in the wilds. I’d be doing you a disservice if I didn’t speak plainly.”

He glances around the table, gauging whether the others will interrupt. None do.

“There’s been talk—more than talk, really. Reports from travelers, refugees, even a few half-mad trappers making for the northern roads.” He takes a sip of ale, then sets the mug down with care.

“Skyriders,” he says flatly. “Five warriors in sky-blue armor and white cloaks, mounted on great vultures—gods-damned things big enough to carry two men apiece. A merchant out of Ostverk swears they struck at caravans near the Kron Hills. Dropped down from the clouds like ghosts with blades. Burned out three farmsteads and vanished south with the smoke still curling behind them.”

Burne raises an eyebrow. Jaroo frowns.

“Vultures don’t fly in formation,” Rufus mutters.

Kenter replies. “These did, and they flew straight over the high road toward the hills south of Nulb.”

He lets that settle before continuing.

“And there’s more.” His gaze darkens.

“A stable boy at the Wench spotted a strange fellow—monk robes, golden mask, watching merchants a little too closely. Disappeared just before the caravan left. Two nights later, the stone-masked ones were spotted again. Watching from the fields. No one’s sure how many. Maybe two, maybe ten. Shadows don’t give you head counts.”

Jaroo scowls. “The forest has no patience for silent men who walk like specters.”

“Nor do I,” mutters Rufus, tightening his fists.

Kenter nods. “There’s more still.”

He pulls a folded parchment from inside his cloak and sets it gently on the table.

he says slowly, “Up in the Etters, they say there’s a gathering of druids—big, even by Old Faith standards. The keep there’s cursed, but they’re calling it the site of the ‘Rite of the Wicker Giant.’”

Jaroo’s head snaps up. “Who dares—”

Kenter says, meeting the druid’s eye, “Elizar, calls himself a Brother of the Scarlet Moon. Claims he can restore balance to the land. Folk say he’s drawing in young druids from every grove and hedge circle within fifty leagues. Says he’ll teach them the rite. Most believe him. Some are packing up and heading there already.”

Jaroo mutters under his breath, clearly unsettled.

“And if that weren’t enough…” Kenter sighs.

“Lord Simon Milinous is leaning heavy on the Viscount—wants to be named Knight Commander of the Borderers. He’s mobilizing men. Meanwhile, rumors of war with the Kron Hills spread like swamp fever. Families along the southern trails are abandoning their farms, heading north. We’re seeing whole hamlets move out in the night, wagons stacked with everything they own.”

Burne folds his arms. “We’re sitting on tinder. One wrong spark and the whole frontier goes up.”

Kenter turns his gaze back to you.

“So you see, friends. The Temple may be the source of the rot, but the fruit’s falling everywhere. We need eyes, ears—and swords—on the ground.”

He leans forward one last time.

Viscounty Politics

Kenter leans back in his chair for a moment, letting the room breathe. Then, almost as an afterthought—but spoken with deliberate weight—he continues:

“And now the worst of it.” His tone grows colder. “The Viscount has pulled back the Mounted Borderers from patrolling the Kron Hills. Official reason? Consolidation of forces. But the truth on the road is simpler: they’re stretched thin, and someone doesn’t want them in the way.”

Burne’s eyes flash. “They’ve left the Greenway Valley undefended?”

Kenter nods grimly. “Aye. The gnome clans who live beyond Kron Fortress have been left to fend for themselves. Bandits aren’t just hitting human caravans anymore. Gnome traders—coming out of the fortress, passing through Sheernobb on the way to Verbobonc—have been attacked, robbed, and left for dead.”

Jaroo slams his palm on the table. “Sheernobb’s folk are kin to the Gnarley. They defend the forest as fiercely as any druid. This cannot stand.”

Kenter replies. “It may not for much longer, word is the gnomes are threatening to divert their trade. Take their silver and gems west—to Ulek, or gods help us, to Dyvers.”

Burne exhales slowly, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. “If the gnomes break with the Viscounty, we lose the southern stone routes. That’s more than just trade—it’s influence.”

“It’s control,” mutters Rufus.

Kenter gestures again toward you.

“This is the state of things. Borderers retreating. Cults rising. Forests stirring with strange rites. Gnomes turning their backs on us. And in the middle of it all—masked monks, sky riders, and that cursed ruin down the road we still can’t see the bottom of.”

He fixes you with that same steady look.

“This isn’t just about Nulb or the Moathouse anymore. The whole frontier is shifting.”

He leans forward one final time.

“So I ask again, adventurers. What’s your judgment? And what path will you walk from here?”