Warmth descends over Mardrun and the planting season begins in earnest. The fields fill with local and migrant labor forces and the mixing of people allows for the ease of travel for news and rumors. During the day laborers exchange stories from their corners of Mardrun and in the evening those same rumors are shared with traveling merchants in the taverns and meadhalls that pepper the continent. As is often the case a few stories end up being shared more than others.
People tell stories of a violent raid on the village of Brattsholt. It seems that no one really knows what caused this raid, but the story circulates like wildfire. Many people denounce what they call senseless violence, but there are still those, mostly younger Ulven, who talk about these raids as if they were a return to traditional Ulven raiding culture. Some of these young upstarts even seem to be eyeing up the idea of joining these clanless raiders themselves. It seems the tenuous peace between the peoples of Mardrun coupled with the relative security of the Shield of Mardrun is placing a yoke on the rowdy nature of some Ulven and as the seasons pass some may be looking for ways to shed that burden.
In the meadhalls of Clan Goldenfield a bizarre story seems to have taken root. Over ale and liquors people drunkenly tell the story of a young man named Thackery Crowsbane. Thackery earned his name by profession as many do. As an inexperienced young man with not much in the way of marketable skills he was hired, at first by joke, to act as a scarecrow in a large barley field. Soon, however, the farmers found that Thackery proved to be an actual asset. Armed with nothing but a large stick, Thackery took well to his position. He would charge across the field and wallop any crows he caught and each night he ate well of stewed crow and ramps he foraged in the nearby woods. The crows, though numerous, were no match for the lightning quick rod of Thackery Crowsbane.
One evening as Thackery was gathering ramps for his stew he heard a strained scream from over the hills. He armed himself with his stick and charged ahead to find the source of the sound. When he crested the hill he saw, in the darkening twilight, a small man dragging what appeared to be a blonde woman by a rope around her neck. Thackery set upon the man immediately and began to beat him with his mighty stick while shouting at the man to let her go. The man sputtered and cursed and screamed that she was his property. Thackery steeled his resolve and continued to batter the man until he dropped his rope and tore off and away over the hills.
Thackery took a deep breath and turned to introduce himself to his damsel in distress, but he was not prepared for what he saw. The damsel was in fact not a woman at all, but a tightly shorn sheep, its lips coloured with red stain and its face partially obscured by a braided blonde wig. Thackery shuddered at the sight and untied the rope from the animal’s neck. He watched his damsel trot off into the night and immediately went to town to drink and forget what he’d experienced. Unfortunately for himself his drinking loosened his tongue and before long all had heard the story of Thackery Crowsbane, Rescuer of Damsels.
Rumors continue to spread that some unknown group in the colonial lands have developed a new technique to create objects imbued with magical properties. At this time no one can be certain how true these rumors are, but that hasn’t stopped them from being spread with fervor. At this time it seems people are more interested in sharing the rumor rather than getting to the bottom of it.