The City of Brennan’s Keep sprawled across the northern reaches of Goranth. Its towering spires and weathered stone walls stood as testament to centuries of ambition, conflict, and creation. This city was not just homes and markets. It was a living monument to history. Echoes of past struggles met the hum of present progress within its walls. Once independent, its banners flew alone. Later, after Goranth’s victory over Breakaway, Brennan’s Keep joined the kingdom and shaped its own fate.
History of Goranth and Brennans Keep
Goranth and Brennan’s Keep, ancient twin settlements, share a deep history. While Goranth’s harbor and southern trade routes drove its rise, Brennan’s Keep faded in commerce and size, setting the stage for their future divergence.
As Goranth's merchant fleets multiplied, Brennan’s Keep's influence waned. Facing vulnerability, the city's rulers pivoted toward scholarship and artifice, building on their established reputation as suppliers of rare magical components and herbs.
This shift led the visionary Caesar Brennan to dedicate vast tracts of land and treasury to establish the Great Library. Around this monument to knowledge rose the Houses of Magi, each dedicated to a distinct magical discipline. This cultural renaissance nearly bankrupted the ruling house, draining its coffers and political capital.
Despite initial hardships, the gamble paid dividends when the Magi's unprecedented discoveries catapulted Brennan’s Keep beyond its contemporaries in arcane understanding. Armed with this knowledge, Caroline Brennan reclaimed her city's prominence.
Her authority, strengthened by technological innovations pioneered by her forebears, transformed the modest city-state. Though small in physical size, Brennan's Keep's formidable magical and technological might deterred would-be conquerors. This convergence of power and arcane mastery fashioned it into one of the world's most splendid and formidable city-states.
With their new might, competition gave way to cooperation: Goranth and Brennan’s Keep forged deeper bonds through marriage between their noble houses. When Justin O'Malley sought Robert Dormer's aid against Breakaway, the alliance proved decisive.
Recognizing the shifting political landscape, Justin and Robert formalized their partnership. Robert, whose passion lay in preserving the Great Library's legacy, willingly accepted the role of junior partner in the nascent kingdom.
His advisors had murmured among themselves, some nodding in agreement while others bristled at the perceived surrender. One elder councilman, his face lined with years of battles both political and literal, stepped forward. “And what terms would those be, Caesar? How do we ensure our legacy survives this union?”
Caesar’s gaze swept the room. "Knowledge," he declared. "Our swords and walls will be forgotten, but our legacy, what we build, learn, and teach, will define us." He framed the city’s pursuit of knowledge as its true power, anchoring the city’s purpose.
It was this vision, making knowledge the city’s beating heart, that gave Brennan’s Keep its regional significance. The Great Library stood as a fortress of wisdom, not war. Inside, ink, parchment, and cedar mingled, embodying Brennan’s Keep’s pursuit of progress. Scholars and scribes navigated the library’s corridors with reverence, each step a reaffirmation of the city’s belief in understanding above all else.
“Do you see it?” Caesar had once asked his young daughter, Elira, as they stood on the steps of the library during its grand opening. His voice held a rare softness, a glimpse of the man beneath the ruler. Elira, barely ten years old but already sharp-eyed and curious, tilted her head. “See what?” He gestured broadly at the throngs of people gathered below, the artisans who had carved the library’s columns, the scholars eager to fill its shelves with knowledge, the citizens who looked up at it with awe-struck wonder. “This is more than a building,” he explained. “It is a promise that we will always strive to understand, to grow.”
But Caesar Brennan’s vision extended beyond even this monumental achievement. Around the library sprang up the Houses of the Magi, each devoted to mastering a distinct branch of magic. Their stone facades bore intricate carvings that represented their disciplines: flames twisting into runes for elemental magic, geometric patterns for spatial manipulation, and shimmering mosaics for enchantment. These houses buzzed with energy, both literal and figurative, as apprentices honed their craft under the watchful eyes of seasoned mages.
One such mage, an elderly woman named Maris Eldwyn with hair like spun silver and eyes sharp as a hawk’s, often paused during her lectures to remind her students of their responsibility. “Magic is not power for power’s sake,” she would say, her voice firm yet kind. “It is a tool, a means to better our world. Forget that, and you risk falling into ruin.”
Over time, these houses evolved into manufactories. Magic met machinery in unprecedented ways. Artificers crafted tools that revolutionized agriculture. Engineers designed constructs. Some patrolled city streets; others assisted in construction. The city became a hub of innovation. Imagination knew no bounds here.
But with progress came conflict, as guilds arose to balance commerce and creation, sparking the so-called Guild Wars. The battle for dominance, most notably against the grasping Merchant Guild, tested the city’s devotion to creation over mere power. Rylan’s outcry, echoed in his peers' resolve, showed how the city’s identity and legacy were forged through resistance as well as innovation.
Even amidst these struggles for power and purpose, another force emerged: faith. The temples within Brennan’s Keep did not remain idle observers; they too sought to shape society through their unique lens, one focused on introspection rather than invention. The Temple of Odin stood as their crowning achievement, a vast edifice rivaling even the Great Library in grandeur but differing greatly in purpose. Its halls were lined with tapestries depicting stories from ages long past: Odin hanging upon Yggdrasil in search of wisdom; Thor defending mankind against chaos; Freyja guiding souls through life’s mysteries.
Within these hallowed walls, High Priestess Yrsa Valdriksson addressed her audience: "Knowledge without wisdom," she warned, looking from scholars to clerics, "is an empty pursuit." Her words crystallized the city’s ongoing struggle to balance innovation, wisdom, and power.
Jacksons Affliction
The crafted brain parasite inside Jackson’s mind fed on his thoughts like a leech. Each day, it drained his mental energy. This was more than vague fatigue. His very essence, the sharp edge of his intellect, dulled by an invisible hand. Every attempt to focus felt like wading through fog. Thick, viscous fog. His hands trembled when he held a pen. His signature, once bold and precise, now faltered, uneven. The parasite was relentless. Whispering static thoughts that weren’t his into the corners of his mind. Yet, beneath the haze, one conviction burned: Orion Malaver had done this to him.
Jackson’s jaw tightened. His memory replayed the fateful night he’d last confronted Orion Malaver. Orion had once been more than a guild brother—he’d been a friend. The two had sat across from each other in the dimly lit meeting chamber within Brennan’s Keep. Shelves of ancient tomes and maps lined the walls, relics of the guild’s long history. But that night, they offered no comfort. The air was thick with unspoken accusations.
“You’re questioning my decisions?” Orion had asked, his voice low and steady but carrying an edge sharp enough to cut. His icy blue eyes bore into Jackson’s, demanding submission. “I’m questioning your motives,” Jackson had replied, his own tone firm despite the undercurrent of unease twisting in his gut. He leaned forward, resting both hands on the polished oak table between them. “The trade routes you’ve rerouted, those don’t protect us. They leave us exposed. The alliances you’re dissolving? They weaken us at every turn.”
Orion had leaned back in his chair then, folding his arms across his chest. A slow smile crept across his face, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “You think I’m sabotaging the guild?” “I think you’re playing a game none of us understand,” Jackson fired back. “And I’ll be damned if I let you drag us all down with you.” For a moment, there had been silence between them, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth. Then Orion stood abruptly, smoothing down the front of his midnight-blue tunic embroidered with the sigil of House Malaver, a coiled serpent encircling a dagger. “You should be careful where you tread, Jackson,” he said softly, almost too softly. “Not all battles are fought with swords.”
It wasn’t until days later that Jackson began to feel the first symptoms: a persistent headache that no tincture could ease, fleeting moments of confusion where he lost track of time or place. By then, it was too late.
When Malaver perished mere weeks later under circumstances that raised more questions than answers, Jackson’s suspicion deepened into certainty. The official report claimed it was an accident, a fall from the cliffs overlooking the eastern river, but Jackson knew better. Orion Malaver didn’t make mistakes like that. Someone had wanted him silenced.
The demise of House Malaver was swift and brutal. Once one of the most powerful families in Brennan’s Keep, their influence evaporated almost overnight. Servants abandoned their posts; allies distanced themselves with alarming speed. Even the banners bearing their sigil were torn down from the great hall as if erasing their existence would cleanse whatever stain they had left behind.
And yet none of it brought Jackson any peace. If anything, it only fueled his unease.
Most disturbing of all were the changes he’d begun to notice within himself—the way the parasite operated beyond anything he could have imagined. At first, he’d dismissed it as paranoia brought on by exhaustion. But then he saw them: tiny motes of light flickering at the edges of his vision whenever he closed his eyes for too long or stared into shadowed corners for too long to be a coincidence.
One night, unable to sleep and desperate for answers, he sat alone in his quarters with nothing but a single candle casting its flickering light across the room. He stared into the darkened glass of a mirror mounted on the far wall, watching as those motes gathered in clusters behind him, a swarm of glowing pinpricks moving with purpose. They weren’t random; they were forming patterns, shifting shapes as though communicating in some language he couldn’t decipher. “What do you want from me?” he whispered hoarsely into the silence, his reflection pale and haggard.
The motes pulsed faintly in response before dispersing like smoke caught in a sudden breeze. Jackson slammed a fist onto the desk beside him, sending papers and ink bottles tumbling to the floor. “Damn you,” he growled through gritted teeth. “If you’re going to destroy me, at least have the decency to show yourself.”
But there was no answer, only that same oppressive silence pressing down on him like an unseen weight.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever intelligence guided these motes was watching him closely now, studying him as one might study an insect trapped under glass. And while he didn’t yet understand its purpose or its endgame, one thing was clear: this parasite wasn’t just feeding off him, it was learning from him. The realization sent a chill down his spine, unlike anything he’d ever felt before. If this thing could think and adapt, then defeating it might require more than strength or cunning. It might require sacrifices Jackson wasn’t sure he was prepared to make.
But what choice did he have?
As dawn broke over Brennan’s Keep and sunlight streamed through Jackson’s windows, but alas he did not awaken.
Lord Jacksons Intrigues
The unlikely alliance between Lilith Hauntwood, a member of the Spicy Travellers, and Lord Jackson had grown from cautious meetings into something resembling trust. What had begun as measured exchanges, each word weighed and tested for underlying motives, had now softened into evenings spent discussing matters of import under the warm glow of firelight. The air between them, once taut with suspicion, now carried an ease that neither fully acknowledged aloud.
Over goblets of spiced wine in his study, a grand chamber dominated by towering bookshelves and the scent of aged parchment. She leaned back in one of Jackson’s high-backed leather chairs, the firelight catching the silver threads in her dark braid as she swirled her wine absentmindedly. Her tone was measured but laced with an edge of frustration.
“They’re playing a dangerous game,” she said, her gaze fixed on the flickering flames in the hearth. “Taren Lightfellow, especially, his charm is a weapon sharper than any blade. He’s twisted their loyalty, Jackson. They believe you’re the Magpie.”
Jackson, seated across from her with his hands steepled under his chin, raised an eyebrow but said nothing at first. The sharp lines of his face remained unreadable, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of irritation at the mention of the Magpie, a moniker whispered through Brennan’s Keep like a curse.
“And you’re certain,” he finally said, his voice low and deliberate, “that this... misunderstanding wasn’t encouraged by someone closer to home? Someone with a vested interest in seeing my name sullied?” Lilith’s lips curved into a faint smile. not one of humor, but of bitter understanding. “You mean Bartholomew,” she said, her voice soft but weighted with meaning. “I wouldn’t put it past him. But this isn’t just politics anymore, Jackson.
Jackson reached for his goblet and took a slow sip, his piercing gaze never leaving hers. “And what would you have me do, Lilith? Confront them outright? Or perhaps feed them truths so carefully laced with lies that they choke on their own doubts?”
Lilith tilted her head thoughtfully, her expression inscrutable. “Neither,” she said after a moment. “You can’t fight shadows with swords or words. You outmaneuver them.” She leaned forward then, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that seemed to draw the room itself closer around them. “But first we need to uncover what Bartholomew is hiding, and why he’s so invested in keeping you painted as the villain.”
Meanwhile, evidence of halfling involvement in Brennan's Keep's criminal enterprises had begun to mount, a revelation that tugged at the edges of the city’s already frayed sense of order. Ledgers recovered from a hidden compartment in the Thieves Guild hall were spread across Jackson’s desk that evening, illuminated by the golden glow of an oil lamp. The pages were filled with neat rows of coded transactions, each entry marked by symbols that at first glance seemed innocuous: a wheat sheaf here, a crescent moon there. But as Lilith traced her gloved finger down one particularly damning column, her sharp intake of breath broke the silence.
“This,” she murmured, tapping a symbol that looked like an intricate knotwork design. “This is Bartholomew’s crest, disguised, yes, but unmistakable once you know what to look for.” Jackson leaned over her shoulder to examine the page, his brow furrowing deeply. “So he’s more than just funding them,” he said grimly. “He’s coordinating with them.”
Lilith nodded slowly, her eyes narrowing as she pieced together the implications. “And not just for profit,” she added. “These arrangements, look at the dates, they coincide too perfectly with certain ... incidents around the Keep.” Her voice was tight with barely restrained anger now. “The fires in the artisan district last month. That ambush on your shipment near the docks.”
The room fell silent for a long moment as they both stared at the ledger, its unassuming pages now heavy with damning evidence. Jackson broke the silence first, his voice quiet but resolute. “He’s been playing us all for fools.”
As their investigation deepened into Bartholomew's shadowy dealings, Jackson’s recruitment efforts among Brennan’s Keep’s downtrodden began bearing unexpected fruit, a fact that did not go unnoticed by Lilith during her frequent visits to his estate. One afternoon, as she walked through one of the bustling workshops on her way to meet him, she paused to observe a group of workers assembling delicate glass vials for alchemical use.
A young boy, no older than ten, was carefully fitting stoppers onto each vial under the watchful eye of an older woman who guided him with patient instruction. His small hands moved deftly despite their calloused appearance, and there was a lightness in his expression that spoke of newfound purpose. “Hard to believe some of these people were living in gutters just months ago,” Jackson’s voice came from behind her, startling her slightly. She turned to find him standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, watching the scene with an expression that was equal parts pride and weariness. “You’ve given them more than work,” Lilith said softly. “You’ve given them dignity.”
Jackson shrugged as if brushing off her praise, but there was no mistaking the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. “Not all of them will stay on this path,” he said bluntly. “Some will slip back into old habits, or worse.” He glanced at her then, his gaze searching. “But it’s better than leaving them to rot in alleyways while men like Bartholomew profit from their despair.” Lilith studied him for a moment before replying. “Perhaps,” she said carefully. “But be careful not to let your... unconventional methods give your enemies more ammunition against you.” Jackson smirked faintly at that but didn’t respond directly. Instead, he gestured toward the workshop door. “Come on,” he said lightly. “If we’re going to take down Bartholomew and clear my name in one fell swoop, we’ve got work to do.”
And as they left the workshop behind, its sounds of industry fading into the background, they both knew that their unlikely partnership was no longer just about survival or convenience. It was about justice, for Brennan's Keep and for themselves.
The Hand of Prugru
Cutting through the waters of the Gulf of Goranth and the seas around Breakaway, the Hand of Purgru presents a deceptive silhouette, sleek as a merchant vessel but bristling with weaponry that betrays more sinister purposes. Green-skinned goblins scurry across her decks, their captain barking orders in their harsh native tongue.
Harbor officials have noted suspicious alterations to the vessel's identity. Fresh paint barely conceals the ship's former name, Turen, or perhaps Tauren or Tarus, now christened after Purgru, the goblin deity whose followers celebrate mayhem and ruin. This dedication to the chaos goddess sends ripples of unease through maritime authorities. Recent weeks have also seen the ship docked for what the goblins claimed were routine repairs, yet dockworkers report the installation of additional ballistas, reinforced hull plating, and other modifications inconsistent with legitimate trade.
The Fall of Magpie
Beneath the mask of Lord Bartholomew, the Dragonkin operative known as Magpie had hidden in plain sight. When the illusion shattered, Orison Norixious stood revealed, scales gleaming where human skin had seemed to be moments before.
The Spicy Travellers' raid on the manor came at terrible cost. Blood pooled beneath Lord Garren Brightward's still form while his companions fought on, their victory hollow without him. Still, they succeeded where Brightward had failed. Orison Norixious now sprawled in a heap bleeding across the fall
Throughout the manor grounds, evidence of Orison's true passion stood sentinel. Half-finished golems with lifeless eyes awaited animation in his workshop, while completed constructs patrolled the grounds alongside cruder gargoyles. Simple warming plinths, magical stones that radiated heat, dotted the pathways, each creation revealing the hierarchy of the craftsman's attention and skill.
Orison's Correspondence
Orison’s files include correspondence with several regional operatives:
1. A letter from Taren Lightfellow, explicitly agreeing to the terms of an undisclosed transaction.
2. Multiple letters from Havilar Norixious.
a) The northern lab may have been compromised, so he will relocate his research to the island now that stage two construction is complete, this also accelerates stage two’s timeline.
b) The new quarters are satisfactory, but the waterfall concealing the entrance needs widening and a reduced flow; its current force hampers cargo transfers.
c) A sea-person of importance, likely the Princess, has been captured. Several rescue attempts failed, and the survivors have been added to our stock.
d) The island’s fish-like inhabitants proved unsuitable for stock. A standoff exists: they leave us alone, and we do not attack.
e) The giant octopus, as suggested, has been highly successful, four ships sunk so far, so Brennan’s Keep should soon notice diminished trade.
f) Scouts report sighting someone they believe to be Airgid Drage, suggesting he may be meddling again.
g) A quotation from the Hands of Death regarding suppression of the group known as the Spicy Travellers.
3. Several letters involving “Puddles” (possibly another operative):
h) A draft letter to Puddles outlining the collapse of Havilar’s operation and a suspension of creature procurements for the foreseeable future.
i) An unopened letter from Puddles criticizing Orison for allowing the Princess to escape.
j) A request from Puddles for additional creatures to support piracy operations.
k) A report from Puddles noting that trade in and out of Goranth has been compromised by rising piracy, some unrelated to our own activities.
4. A letter from Rocky reporting that Airgid Drage was seen conferring with Dain Stenhammer, requesting the Dwarves’ assistance to open a tunnel north of Dwarvenhelm.