Shadowbrook

Back at the Blackstar the band had focused their attention on their equipment before cleaning themselves. Now, they made their way down to eat; drink and converse on the deeds done and the adversaries they had faced.

They took a corner afterwards for more ale and to relax.

"Well, that's that then. Where are we off to now" said Gideon.

Everyone looked to Caleb for the answer.

"We stay" he said. " What is clear is this place has many troubles and horrors. If we left now we would surely leave these people in a plight beyond their means to counter"

That was enough. They talked of other things.

It was an uneventful month that followed. 

They circulated in the area gathering information but nothing was ever evidence. No strange happenings occurred.

Zachariah had returned after delivering the girl to a safe haven. Time would tell if she would return. The miller had been told of her delivery to a safe haven and was grateful if sad at the prospect of not seeing his daughter for a long time, if ever.

But Shadowbrook was never meant for a peaceful existence.

Was it the place? The people? Or both together?

The mayor came to them one day and spoke of troubling signs in the Old Wood. Few people ventured there as it was long thought to be a haven for witches and dark forces. But someone had and recounted a tale of finding evidence of a sacrifice to the Old Gods.

Caleb said they would investigate.

Poem's for Wargamers 13

 The Roman Centurion's Song

By Rudyard Kipling

Legate, I had the news last night–my cohort ordered home
By ships to Portus Itius and thence by road to Rome.
I've marched the companies aboard, the arms are stowed below:
Now let another take my sword. Command me not to go!
2 
I've served in Britain forty years, from Vectis to the Wall,
I have none other home than this, nor any life at all.
Last night I did not understand, but, now the hour draws near 
That calls me to my native land, I feel that land is here.
3 
Here where men say my name was made, here where my work was done;
Here where my dearest dead are laid–my wife–my wife and son;
Here where time, custom, grief and toil, age, memory, service, love,
Have rooted me in British soil. Ah, how can I remove?
4 
For me this land, that sea, these airs, those folk and fields suffice.
What purple Southern pomp can match our changeful Northern skies,
Black with December snows unshed or pearled with August haze–
The clanging arch of steel-grey March, or June's long-lighted days? 
5 
You'll follow widening Rhodanus till vine and olive lean
Aslant before the sunny breeze that sweeps Nemausus clean
To Arelate's triple gate; but let me linger on,
Here where our stiff-necked British oaks confront Euroclydon!
6 
You'll take the old Aurelian Road through shore-descending pines
Where, blue as any peacock's neck, the Tyrrhene Ocean shines.
You'll go where laurel crowns are won, but–will you e'er forget
The scent of hawthorn in the sun, or bracken in the wet?
7 
Let me work here for Britain's sake–at any task you will–
A marsh to drain, a road to make or native troops to drill.
Some Western camp (I know the Pict) or granite Border keep,
Mid seas of heather derelict, where our old messmates sleep.
8 
Legate, I come to you in tears–My cohort ordered home!
I've served in Britain forty years. What should I do in Rome?
Here is my heart, my soul, my mind–the only life I know.
I cannot leave it all behind. Command me not to go!