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Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

Hey, hi, hello. About time I stopped lurking in the Discord PMs and actually put something publicly here. Everything on the page is tentative and not final.

Okay, so, I originally was going to do something very different in Fellowship, based on a kid's book I wrote years ago called "Trent the Pragmatic Not-a-Knight; A Bedtime Story for Cynical Children", but that character interfered with what Thanquol wanted to do too much and I was more attached to their vision than my own.

Since then, though, an anthropologist I admired a lot died so I've been going back over their work. One bit that influenced me a lot, and that I'm coming back to here, is the fact that the errant knight mythology is a post-hoc way to localize the Middle Eastern "merchant adventurer" storytelling tradition, from which we even derive the word 'adventurer'. What's weird is that the "merchant adventurer" was explicitly a non-combatant, though, a change which makes the end result end up really similar to the archetypal ronin samurai story, and a lot of ronin stories could almost be considered errant knight stories told in reverse.

They're weirdly compatible, frankly, in a way that's been a lot of fun to work through. Bushido and chivalry, knights and samurai both being feudal-warrior-landed-gentry, there's a lot of overlap. And while samurai specifically are anachronistic to the Arthurian, they are contemporary to the time periods of their mythos - they both start as products of the 11th and 12th centuries.

Historically, as well, Roman coins from this time period were found in Japan, Korea and China. So, that's cool!

Then, in an uncharacteristic fit of better judgement, I thought a "ronin's" heir would better fit the story, and a group, than their parent would. It also shaves off a lot of the sharper edges of the concept, especially since it means I can focus on the part that interests me the most - where the concepts overlap and synthesize.

So. Hopefully this is actually a fun and interesting concept to play with. I know it sounds like it could be a bit of a joke, but I promise I don't intend to treat it as one.

Dark Age (playtest): The Lands of Pendragon

Tristan Kuwabatake-Fletcher
The Troll-Killer

Bold: +0
Good: -1
Strong: +1
Wary: +2
Weird: +1

Rights:

I have an enchanted weapon

When I encounter something unnatural, I have the right to roll Weird.
On 10+, I ask the MC 2 of the following. On 7–9, ask 1.
• Is this a thing of old ways, new ways, or ways unknown to me?
• What manner of person made this thing, or is it its own?
• For what does this thing hunger, or by what has it sated itself?
• What would this thing make the world into, if it only could?
On a miss, ask 1, but the thing may ask a question of you in return, from this list or of its own devising. Answer truthfully.

I have the right to slay whom I must for the protection of all

In single combat, I have the right to spend 1 more than my roll alone would allow

Who?
I am the son of an expert warrior who has trained me well, and an English bowyer. My father is part of a company of elite warriors who have been exiled from their homeland who travelled far, following the legends of Rome, in search of a new place of Lords to sell their swords and undertake new duties.

The chivalric code of conduct came naturally to many of the Exiles, who integrated it with their own. As the second generation, I have been taught this synthesis of chivalry and of my father’s strict martial traditions.

My father was also a deeply spiritual man, but not a Christian. It is both his spiritualism and the esoteric faiths of my mother’s England that I have been raised with, and that I also put a great importance in.

I am no longer a child, but I am still defined by being my father’s son. His reputation is fearsome, and his People, the Pilgrims in Exile, are my people as well - together they try to rebuild as much of their traditions as they can pass down to the next generation.

While I am inspired by their legacy, I am also an Englishman. I will build my own legacy, that of an English Knight, from the tools that my People have given me. This is why I have struck out on my own, out from under my People’s shadow.

I have no land, no titles, and as yet few deeds to my name. I carry my father’s bow and my mother’s arrows, my People’s knowledge, and a heart and mind uniquely my own.

Here is my vow: I will be Just, Courageous and Compassionate. In all things I will show Integrity, Honour and Loyalty. I must never strike in anger, and I will spill no unneeded blood. If blood need be spilled, I must cut decisively and with true intent. I seek honour in duty and I seek greatness through my service to all.

People: The Pilgrims in Exile, of which I am typical (of my generation)
They are bound by a single common experience
They are a warrior order, 16 souls in 16 households of 16 warriors
They are lean and tawny-brown
They mostly speak Latin with mixed fluencies, due to following the Pax Romana from their homeland

Stats: +1 War, +1 Rites, 0 Wealth
War: They are known for their physical prowess and their individual skill at arms
Rites: They are known for their fearlessness in the face of death and their patience in suffering
Wealth: They are known for their craft and skill

Household:
I have a humble place in another’s household
The household is an Inn at which I am hosted by the Innkeeper’s charity
Horse and stables
Tenants
A kitchen, pantry and buttery
Debts

Personal belongings:
Distinctive clothing of a sky-blue silk shirt, and black gambeson trousers.
An elaborate black quiver with blue silk thread stitching.
I am without ornament, though my hair is tied back in a distinctive tight bun
My drinking cup is lacquered wood of fine craft
My knife is of long cord-wrapped iron.

Arms and Armor:
A dagger (2 harm)
A bardiche (3 harm)
Hide armor (1 armor)
A leather helmet (1 armor)
An enchanted bow of ancient yew (4 harm at range, can harm non-flesh creatures)

Has a bounty of fur and a bounty of meat

Fellowship: The Heart

"I understand." He did. "I think we're done here. Just mix these together and I'll fetch the mugs. So you're aware, I made it strong." Whether that was warning or encouragement was up to Jackdaw. "Grand-mère would be mad if she found out I made it any other way."

Best not to risk it: Grand-mère was going outlive them all, yet, and time had only sharpened her tongue...

Fellowship: The Heart

"I'd say take as much time as you need," Lucien works the custard, almost finished now, "but I don't know how much we have, down here. It's why I think you could stop now, maybe become a teacher, or start an orphanage. Something with a lower mortality rate." Lucien looks up, sucks air through his teeth. "How strange, I live in a glass house and all I ever seem to do in it is throw stones."

Fellowship: The Heart

Lucien reads, then shakes his head. "These were plans to help you remember, Jackdaw." Reassurance that the signed name was hers, just in case. "You wrote down what you needed to know to trust other people, in case you forgot them. My guess is, it's a list of the people who could help you."

Another thought hits him. He breathes in as he wonders if he should say it or not, and decides on honesty here. "Another possibilty to consider. If you don't remember who you are, you have a chance on starting from scratch - on making yourself again." He shakes his head. "I thought about it, with the Flood. I'd lose a lot of awful memories, and everything I learned from them. Either way, I think..."

He takes the pen used to write grocery lists, and writes in;
Jackdaw: Worries about a lot of things, but her friends will do anything to help and protect her. Worries a lot about what others might think, because she cares very deeply. Good listener.

"Some of the best parts of who we are come of the worst things that happen to us, I think, as much as we hate them being a part of us. The sand cuts the oyster for a long time before it can become a pearl - if it ever does - but it's the only way to make them I know of. For all it took to make her, Jackdaw is someone worth remembering."

Fellowship: The Heart

Jackdaw opened her eyes, and chewed her spoon thoughtfully. “...I could use a refresher on the eggs.” She admitted.

"That's fine, the next bit's more important anyway." This bit's easier to do than to teach. Crack with one hand, throw and catch the yolk between the two halves of shell until all the whites are in one bowl, all the yolks in another.

“...Lucien? Can you keep a secret?”

Lucien doubles over laughing so hard his ribs hurt. He wipes the tears out of his eyes, straightens himself. Fiddles with his collar as he clears his throat. "Yes. Yes, I can keep a secret. I had friends who used to call it 'defusing ticking blackmail'. Here," Pass the whites and the whisk to Jackdaw, "Beat these until your arms are about to fall off, and while you do, tell me what's on your mind, so you don't have to worry about me finding out." The reassuring smile he gives is effortless, because it's sincere.

Here's the other thing about raw eggnog - the superior eggnog - as a choice of recipe. Once the eggs are seperated there's no skill to it, no noises to raise your voice over, nothing to concentrate on. Just lots and lots of repetitive motions. Nothing to get in the way of talking.

Fellowship: The Heart

Lucien passes the bowl to Coleman, and hesitates. He looks back towards the kitchen.

"Actually, I should probably help Jackdaw with... dessert. Yes. This is going to take a while."

He takes his bowl back with him, swearing to himself. Where's he going to pull a bloody dessert from? Almost everything nicer than a cornflour custard is made of perishables, which-

Lucien smiles to himself. Eggnog. Sugar, eggs, rum (or brandy or both) to flavour and disinfect, and the closest to heavy cream you can get from boiled nuts and cornflour.

And, of course, whipping and mixing until your arms are about ready to fall off. If anyone tries to bother them again, he can threaten them with meringue duty...

When he's back in the kitchen, Jackdaw's just kind of being very still with half the spoon stuck in her mouth. First thing's first, then, ladle her second helping into her bowl without asking.

"We could stop here, you know. Or... maybe not here, but somewhere. Somewhere more peaceful, in the up-ahead. If you wanted to, I'd be happy to stop with you. Just as if you want to keep going, I'll keep going with you." Lucien rubs his jaw, and frowns when his fingertips scrape stubble. An annoying symptom of a too-long day. "No matter what you decide. Either way, how good are you at seperating eggs?"

Fellowship: The Heart

In a blink, he takes their last breadroll, cuts the top off, and digs some of the stale innards out with a spoon. He ladels hot soup into the rest of it, and holds it out the kitchen door for Ailee. A traditional way to serve it, with an emphasis on giving her something chewy.

"Coleman can have his in a bowl in a second. This was the last bit of bread." He closes the door again, plates Coleman's next to his own bowl. Then, to Jackdaw; "I'd best take these out, then. Enjoy the quiet while you can."

Time to see what all the excitement was about, then.

Fellowship: The Heart

Lucien draws a ladle of it himself, making sure to sip slowly. He keeps his mouth full while Jackdaw tries to find words - so as not to pressure her any more than what she provides for herself.

"I'm very glad you're still with us too." Another long sip, and a mischevious twinkle in his eye. "I should probably tell the others that supper's ready... but it'll keep warm. What say we enjoy the quiet for another, ooh. Minute or so? All good things come to those who make others wait, so take as much time as you like."

In his mind's eye, he sees Jackdaw feeling guilty at first for eating slower than everyone else, then later for not spending more time savouring it. And he's just happy for the quiet, for the moment - too much trying to negotiate hostile audiences today. The soup's helping him get the taste of his foot and Flood out of his mouth, first.

Fellowship: The Heart

"Tourist" isn't a new affectation. Lucien's a culinary geek with a globe-spanning record. Personal hobbies include recreating dishes from far-flung corners from memory, instinct, and inspecting what he can nick from well-stocked spice cabinets. (Kitchen staff have a high turnover rate, and most of his targets never look twice at service. More importantly, if you're good enough at it, none of the other staff are going to call you out. Not until end-of-shift.)

That means a lot of gutter food and traditions too. He's well-versed in soup kitchens and the perpetual stews of Jackdaw's youth, a comfort food for a friend in dire need of comfort. He's not going to recreate it as it was, but as it's remembered.

Tonight, he's Lucien Roux.

Three whole pouches of three kinds of dried beans in a big pot of water to soak. The starch will be vital. Normally he'd add some fermented sauces to it - soy, worcestshire, etc - but those are a distant memory at this point. He's lucky to have as much as he does.

A big pot, low heat until the solid knob of tallow melts like a candle and covers the bottom of the pot. Diced onion and garlic in first, while he dices the carrot and celery into cubes as fine as the desert sand. In the pot, encouraging Jackdaw to keep stirring quickly to prevent the fat from burning.

A battered tin of dehydrated vegetable salts, his last jar of minced surface mushrooms - not truffles, but he could never stand the things anyway. Keep stirring. A half-cup of molasses only when he's sure Jackdaw isn't looking. Black pepper and a hit of rosemary and sage - forget parsley and thyme, only ever pick two of four, no matter what the bards sing. Scrape the fond and deglaze with brandy, don't tell Ailee that's where it went. Our secret. Throw the rind of some parmesan in - he thinks this is parmesan, anyway. Break a nibble off - it was, thank goodness.

No fresh tomatoes, not for a long time. A mason jar of sun-dried paste, a holy relic - he's willing to sacrifice two tablespoons of it for the cause, but he winces as he tastes what's there so far and realizes he needs to commit to adding a third. He does.

Keep the cheese aside and ask Jackdaw to smell. Good? Keep stirring. You can switch to cheese grating duty in a second. The grating's not important - Jackdaw having something to hide the shaking of her hands is though.

In goes the water and the beans and a cheerful glug of red wine vinegar - bought as wine for a special occassion that never came, but had a resoundingly successful trial the other day in a vinaigrette. Don't tell Jackdaw that, though.

Normally the molasses would have been a whole pumpkin. The tomatoes whole and fresh, and the umami from the paste would have been brought with something richer like a soy sauce or kombu. What ingredients he did have weren't farm fresh, to say the least. He'd used far too much of a treasured reserve that was irreplacable, down here.

Even so; it's salty, and sweet, and warm, and rich, and drapes the back of a spoon with a black-flecked red coat. A bisque on the tongue and a stew in the stomach. It's one of the only recipes he's ever considered writing down - the closest he's ever gotten to something that tastes how a warm hug from your grandparents feels. Like a fondly remembered winter from childhood, whether or not a fond childhood memory exists. Like getting healthy from sickness.

It is without exaggeration the best he could possibly do.

"I made more than we can eat, but it'll keep in the jars we have - it'll taste better the longer you leave it, up to a point. So no worrying about running out, and no worrying about wasting any. There's enough for ten servings here, and I'm making sure you take at least two of them - and the first one."