Tales of the Isles

We release little snippets of story, points of view and in-character notices inbetween events. The below is a collection of some of these posts.

A proclamation of law

Notice
Published May 2025

Plain text version: A proclamation of law.

By order of Eorl Bananson, all those who now breach the peace of the Hearthfire will have their hands branded on the first offence. Those who commit a second offence will be executed.

The brand shall be marked upon their hand, and must be displayed for all to see.

Those who attempt to have these brands removed will be seen to have committed a second offence under this law.

This proclamation is issued by Eorl Bananson in the name of King Edgar.

A proclamation of banishment

Notice
Published April 2025

Plain text version: A proclamation of banishment. By Eorl Caerwyn of St Justine Pentith.

Let it be known and heard throughout all the lands of St Justine Pentith:

By the will of Caerwyn, Eorl and Protector of these blessed lands, under the sight of the saints and by the sacred Reliquary of Saint Justine herself, I do hereby declare:

The followers of the old ways, the Druids, whose rites and whisperings court the wild and the unclean, are forthwith outlawed within my hold; Too long have their hidden councils and tagled rites, born of root and stone and blood, brought disorder and dark fortune. In these days when aur King wanes and monsters stalk the woods, it is not the light of the Saints nor the wisdom of honest folk that the Druids call upon, but the fickle and periloud spirits that once brought the Sundering upon our forebears.

Their counsel is poison. Their rituals sow madness and misrule. Their allegiance lies not with the Witan nor with the peace of this realm, but with wild and reckless powers beyond the ken of men.

• No Druid  may dwell within the bounds of St Justine-Pentith.

• No Druid may trade, speak in council, or seek refuge within my walls.

• Any found performing rites, raising stones, or gathering in circles within my domain shall be taken and judges by fire and sword, as traitors.

Let the people be vigilant, and trust not on those who wear leaves and antlered crowns. Those who shelter Druid shall share in their doom.

The Hearthfire's glow

Short story
Published April 2025

They say the hearthfire warms more than the flesh.

At Welton, as the chill crept in and the unquiet dead stirred, it was the hearthfire that kept the night at bay. Not merely flame and fuel, but something older. Something sacred.

The sundering continues to ripple around the world, and the magic ebbs and swells. New rumours abound in the land: Wounds closed by the warmth of the hearthfire. Sleep that  came easier under its watchful glow.

Some followers of the hearthman, those hearth guard swear they saw a man near-dead rise, breath returning with the kindling spark.

There are whispers now… not just of healing, but of resurrection. That in the right hands, with the right rite, even death might be turned aside.

Then a troubling whisper - the flames burning with an unnatural shade, a stable boy hidden, and wrent flesh.

Could these hearthfires, be a conduit to somewhere else? To something else? Are they the beacons of safety we believe them to be?

Not all flames burn the same. Not all embers fade.

Gather close. The fire remembers.

Observations of St Justine-Pentith

Short story
Published February 2025

The bells of St Justine’s Cathedral tolled, to welcome in the dawn. The sound was deep and rolling, echoing off the stone walls of the walled city, calling the faithful to prayer.

Inside his chamber, Eorl Caerwyn was already awake. He had not slept long. He rarely did.

Kneeling before his reliquary, his head bowed, he whispered the morning canticle.

The candlelight flickered against his scarred face, the hollowness of his left eye socket cast in shifting shadow.

"St Justine, guide my sword. St Justine, Burn away the corruption of the faithless. St Justine strengthen my body to do your will."

His fingers traced the iron circlet upon his brow, the shape of a sunburst wrought into the metal.

Faith’s light against the darkness. He let his hand rest there for a moment, as if the warmth of his devotion alone could drive out the chill of the Sundering’s curse upon this land.

By the time the city stirred, the Eorl was walking the perimeter of the walls. St Justine-Pentith had survived the Sundering while the rest of Cornwall fractured, drowned, and fell. Some said it was the will of the Saint, others whispered it was something darker.

Caerwyn did not care for their whispers. He cared only for truth.

Descending into the lower quarter, he passed the penitent as they worked. Their voices rose in prayer even as their hands darted out of the sackcloth penitent robes, and shoveled mud and rubble to reinforce the stone foundations of the city.

Service to the faith was the most pure of action

A huscarl, bearing the black and red sash of his justicars placed a hand upon his elbow, pulling his attention away from the musing. “Eorl Caerwyn, the prisoners await judgment.”

They were heretics. The last dregs of a cult that had claimed the Sundering was divine retribution, that the land itself had turned against mankind. They claimed we caused this, and for that heresy their leader had died screaming on the pyre. Divine Justice.

Caerwyn did not delay. He made his way to the crowded square, and stood before them, hands folded, his voice ringing out. “You say the Sundering is righteous. That it was some divine mandate? You dare think that St Justine would see us crumble? You mock the sacrifices of the faithful, the strength of the saints.”

One of them, a woman with hollowed cheeks and eyes too wide to be sane, spat at his feet. “You refuse the truth. The land was meant to drown. You fight the tide.”

Caerwyn’s lip curled in disgust. “The faith fights always. It does not kneel before the storm. No flood will extinguish the fire of our faith”

Without another word, he drew his sword and let justice fall.

The work was done before the sun reached its highest point.

Midday in St Justine-Pentith was loud, filled with the clang of the smithies, the calls of traders in the market, and the ceaseless murmuring of prayers carried on the wind. In the great hall, Caerwyn sat with his advisors. Priests, huscarls and scholars. The high table was not for feasting, but for war.

“Word from Brycgstow,” one of the couriers said, laying a sealed letter before the Eorl. “The strange goods appearing in their market—some claim they are stolen relics. Others say they are things that should not be sold at all.”

Caerwyn did not reply immediately. He lifted the parchment, scanning its contents. Finally, he spoke. “Send riders. If the goods are relics, they will be returned to the faith. If they are unclean, they will be burned. See to it at once.”

The matter was settled. The next was more pressing.

A Huscarl spoke. “The Witan has been called again. The King’s curse lingers. The druids meddle in it.

Reports from Eorl Bannanson that one of the faithful has fallen, and the sundering prevents saints from rising.” His expression was cautious. “Will you attend?”

Caerwyn’s fingers drummed once against the table.

“The first Witan stumbled forward without me. These druids, they called upon things they do not understand.”

His voice darkened. “I will not make that mistake again.”

His advisors nodded, though some with unease.

The druids were dangerous. Their rites skirted the edge of heresy, of worshipping the beings called by the sundering. Their reverence for the natural world was a poor shield against corruption. If the King was to be saved, it would not be through them.

After all, Only the light of the Saints has the power to stand against the abyss.

A Hearth's Glow at Scardeburgh 

Short story
Published December 2024 

The rain fell softly on Scardeburgh, and for a moment, all was silent and still.

Inside the Eorl’s great hall, warmth radiated from the roaring hearthfire, its sacred glow warding against evil, and against the encroaching cold.

It was the third day of Geol, and Eorl Bananson sat at the head of a long oak table, his sword—a grim reminder of duty—resting nearby. Beside him, Ruadhán muttered softly, arranging holly and ivy in an intricate pattern on the table.

“You druids and your symbols,” Bananson remarked with a wry grin. “Are you warding off Ylfe or summoning some ancient spirit to bless the mead? This isn't something Hyge like I hope, as I didn't bring my Hyge sticks to the feast.”

Ru chuckled, his eyes reflecting the flicker of the firelight. “Neither, my lord. It is tradition, simple as that—a reminder of life’s endurance, even in the harshest of winters.”

The hall began to fill with the scent of mulled cider and roasted boar. Villagers and warriors alike filtered in, faces flushed with the cold, laughter spilling into the room to be greeted by Aoife with a blessing of the saints. The Yule feast was a rare reprieve in troubled times, and Bananson intended to see his people take what joy they could, before his journey to Tig Gucobac.

A bard struck up a song of ancient kings, his voice weaving tales of bravery and sorrow as he named the saints. Ru leaned closer to Bananson, speaking low. “This was a grand idea, and the folk need this, my lord. Let them sing, drink, and believe in brighter days. With the will of the land, even the darkest nights pass.”

Bananson nodded, his gaze falling on the hearthfire, flames dancing like spirits. “Aye, Ru. But do not think I’ve forgotten the Ylfe, nor the king’s plight, nor your unique problems. Even now, I feel the weight of his sword at my side.”

The druid smiled faintly, placing a sprig of holly above the fire. Aoife spoke up; “The Weaver spins her threads, Eorl. Tonight, though, let us be part of the weave, not its burden. Let us give thanks to the saints who's deeds gave us this safety, and honour the gods and spirits of the wild”

And so, beneath the watchful glow of the hearthfire, Scardeburgh celebrated. For the 12 nights, curses and wars gave way to fellowship, and even Bananson allowed himself a quiet toast at the table, sat between Ruadhan and Aoife. “To bright hearth fires, brighter days, and stronger threads."