20th Ches, 1493

Black Network Unmasked: Fighting Mongooses Expose Zhentarim Conspiracy in Tunlands

The violence that has plagued the Tunlands these past tendays was no simple land dispute. Garrison Oakfield’s Fighting Mongooses have uncovered evidence that agents of the Black Network—the infamous Zhentarim—were deliberately inflaming tensions between farmers and noble retainers, turning what should have been a manageable disagreement into open bloodshed.

“We knew something didn’t add up,” Oakfield reportedly told witnesses after the confrontation. “Accidents kept happening at exactly the wrong moments. Shipments of planting supplies sabotaged. Rumors that couldn’t be traced to anyone local. Someone wanted this powder keg to explode.”

The Mongooses traced a series of “accidents” and inflammatory incidents to their source: a cell of Zhentarim operatives who had embedded themselves among the frontier population. Several agents were captured in a daring night raid, while others fled into the wilderness rather than face the War Wizard apprentice and his formidable companions.

Among the evidence seized were forged correspondence bearing noble seals, ledgers documenting payments to troublemakers on both sides of the dispute, and maps marking key farms and trade routes. The implications are chilling: the Black Network was not merely profiting from chaos, but manufacturing it.

“They played us all for fools,” admitted one local farmer who had previously accused House Cormaeril of orchestrating the violence. “While we were fighting each other, these snakes were counting their coins.”

The revelation has prompted uncomfortable questions about how deeply foreign interests have infiltrated Cormyr’s frontier. The Tunlands, still recovering from the waters’ recession and the ensuing land rush, proved fertile ground for Zhentarim manipulation. How many other border regions might be similarly compromised?

For now, the Fighting Mongooses have earned themselves considerable gratitude from both farmers and nobles alike—a remarkable turnaround from the criticism they faced mere days ago. Garrison Oakfield, once accused of favoritism toward House Cormaeril, has proven himself a shrewd investigator as well as a capable mediator.

“The lad has his mentor’s eye for hidden threats,” remarked one Purple Dragon officer. “Ganrahast chose well.”

As the captured Zhentarim agents are transported to Suzail for interrogation, all of Cormyr waits to learn what secrets they might reveal. The Black Network’s reach is long, and the Tunlands may be only the beginning.

Tunlands Tranquility: Peace Takes Root as Planting Season Dawns

The fighting has stopped in the Tunlands, and the only thing being buried now is seed.

After weeks of escalating violence that left three dead and a dozen wounded, the disputed farmlands around Eagle Peak have fallen silent. The peace comes courtesy of the Fighting Mongooses, whose diplomatic efforts have at last borne fruit where earlier interventions stumbled.

Garrison Oakfield, the War Wizard apprentice who leads the adventuring company, spent the better part of a tenday shuttling between aggrieved farmers and House Cormaeril’s representatives. The result: a provisional agreement that allows homesteaders to work their established claims while noble surveyors complete a proper accounting of the region.

“He listened,” said Valerie Greenfields, widow of Jebediah, whose death sparked the worst of the violence. “That’s more than most folk in fancy robes bother to do. He sat at my table, drank my tea, and listened.”

House Cormaeril’s factor, Aldric Thornwood, offered more measured praise. “Young Oakfield has demonstrated that the Crown’s interests and our own need not conflict. We remain committed to developing the Tunlands in a manner that benefits all of Cormyr.”

The timing could not be better. With planting season upon them, farmers who had been sleeping with pitchforks by their beds can now turn their attention to the soil. The newly-dried Tunlands represent some of the most fertile ground in western Cormyr, and a missed planting could mean starvation come winter.

Not all are ready to celebrate. Some homesteaders remain skeptical that House Cormaeril will honor the agreement once the Mongooses depart. Others question whether provisional boundaries will become permanent ones.

But for now, the fields are quiet. And in the Tunlands, quiet is victory enough.

Stonelands Standoff: The Situation Worsens

The Purple Dragons’ grip on the Stonelands grows ever more tenuous as goblinoid forces continue to display tactical coordination that has left even veteran commanders shaken. What military officials once dismissed as “tribal squabbling with better organization” has revealed itself to be something far more sinister—a coordinated campaign that is claiming Cormyrian lives at an alarming rate.

Sources within the Purple Dragons paint a grim picture of the current situation. Supply lines through Gnoll Pass remain bitterly contested, with every provision wagon requiring armed escort and still arriving at reduced strength. “We lose men just keeping our soldiers fed,” admitted one quartermaster who declined to be named. “The goblins know our routes. They know our schedules. It’s as if they can see everything we do.”

Reinforcements destined for Castle Crag have been delayed repeatedly, leaving the fortress garrison stretched dangerously thin. Official reports cite “logistical challenges,” but soldiers returning from the front tell of ambushes with military precision, coordinated strikes from multiple directions, and retreat routes that seem to have been anticipated hours in advance.

“These aren’t goblins as we know them,” insisted First Sword Varek Stonehelm, a twenty-year veteran of Stonelands patrol. “Goblins fight. They raid. They scatter when pressed. These ones hold formation. They have signal horns. They have strategy.”

The question of who—or what—might be orchestrating this unprecedented unity remains unanswered. The War Wizards, predictably, have offered nothing of substance.

In a curious development, a small company of adventurers was observed departing Slingdyke fortress three days past, riding north into Gnoll Pass with the kind of determination usually reserved for those who don’t expect to return. Their identities remain unknown, though witnesses describe a mix of nobility and more seasoned sword-hands.

“Brave or stupid, hard to say which,” remarked one Purple Dragon watching them go. “That pass has eaten better men than them this month alone.”

Whether these adventurers ride on some secret mission from the Crown or simply possess more courage than sense, their odds remain unfavorable. The Stonelands have become a graveyard for heroes and soldiers alike.

As casualties mount and victories grow increasingly Pyrrhic, one must wonder: how much longer can Cormyr sustain this bleeding wound along its northern border? And who will answer for the lives already lost to whatever darkness now commands the goblinoid horde?

Arabel’s Deliverance: Spectral Siege Ends as Adventurers Clean Up War Wizards’ Mess

For nearly a month, the citizens of Arabel have slept with one eye open, candles burning through the night, prayers on their lips. Spectral apparitions haunted the streets after dark, rising from graveyards to drift through walls and terrorize the living. The city’s temples worked themselves to exhaustion. The Purple Dragons patrolled with weapons that could not harm the dead. And the War Wizards? Conspicuously absent, as has become their habit of late.

The haunting has ended. Good. The adventuring company “Much Obliged”—yes, the same ones from the Thunderstone business—traced the disturbances to a forgotten shrine beneath the city and performed some manner of ritual cleansing. Lord Mayor Tyrian Dauntinghorn has publicly commended them for their “swift and decisive action.” Bully for them.

Now, about those War Wizards.

How does a shrine of ancient malevolence fester beneath a major Cormyrian city for what appears to be decades, if not centuries, without the Royal Magician’s vaunted protectors noticing? Where were the wards? The divinations? The routine arcane surveys that our taxes supposedly fund? A gravedigger named Bram Coalsworth could feel the spirits “pressing at the edges of things,” but Cormyr’s elite magical defenders couldn’t be bothered to investigate until adventurers did their job for them?

The relief among Arabel’s population is palpable. Shops have reopened. Children play in the streets again. Lady Elowen Huntcrown is still dead, of course—her heart stopped during a particularly violent manifestation, according to servants at the estate. She was sixty-three, and she might still be alive if someone with a staff and a royal charter had done their duty before the situation grew desperate.

Much Obliged has solved the immediate problem. Fine. But the larger question remains: what other forgotten horrors slumber beneath Cormyr’s cobblestones while the War Wizards busy themselves with whatever it is they actually do? When adventurers must repeatedly clean up messes the Crown’s own agents should have prevented, one begins to wonder if the Royal Magician’s office has become little more than an expensive social club.

Arabel sleeps peacefully tonight. No thanks to those who should have been watching.

Teziir’s Terror: Sea Claims Three More as Fishing Industry Faces Collapse

The waters off Teziir continue their grim harvest. Three more fishermen have vanished in the past tenday alone, bringing the total number of the missing to at least forty souls. The sea, it seems, has developed an insatiable appetite.

The latest victims include brothers Toram and Alder Wavebreaker, third-generation fishermen whose family had worked these waters since before their grandfather’s grandfather first cast a net. Their boat was found drifting two miles offshore, nets still in the water, catch still fresh in the hold. Of the brothers themselves, not a trace remained save for a single boot wedged beneath the gunwale.

“They knew every current, every sandbar, every treacherous rock from here to Westgate,” said their sister, Nessa Wavebreaker, her voice hollow. “The sea didn’t take them. Something in the sea took them.”

Teziir’s famous fishing fleet, once numbering over two hundred vessels, now sits idle. Fewer than a dozen captains still dare the waters, and those only in groups of three or more, never venturing beyond sight of shore. The Fisherman’s Guild hall, once ringing with barter and boast, echoes with the footsteps of desperate men seeking work inland.

“We’ve become a port with no ships,” says Gormund Saltbeard, Guild head, who has aged visibly since our last report. “My own boat hasn’t left harbor in two tendays. I’d rather starve on land than feed whatever’s down there.”

But it is the accounts of those who have glimpsed the threat and survived that chill the blood most deeply.

“Lights,” whispers Corwin Brackwater, a veteran captain who barely escaped with his crew last tenday. “Pale blue lights, deep beneath the hull. Moving in patterns. Following us.” He pauses, hands trembling around his tankard. “And the whispers. Sweet Umberlee preserve me, the whispers. Coming up from the water itself. Words I couldn’t understand but somehow knew were meant for me. Telling me to come closer. To look over the side. To just… let go.”

The Purple Dragons maintain their patrols, though to what end remains unclear. Ornrion Elira Skatterhawk, when pressed for updates, would say only that “investigations continue” and that citizens should “report any unusual phenomena.” The War Wizards, typically quick to take credit for solving magical mysteries, have been conspicuously silent on the matter.

As fear grips the coast, one thing is clear: the future of Teziir and its proud maritime tradition hangs in the balance. Forty souls have vanished into waters that their ancestors have fished for centuries. The lights continue to dance beneath the waves. The whispers continue to call from the deep.

And somewhere out there, in the cold darkness of the sea, something is waiting.

The Hound of Arabel: Canine Constable Captures Fleeing Foreigner

Something distinctly strange occurred at Arabel’s eastern gate at the stroke of midnight last tenday, and the city’s dogs have been catching suspicious glances ever since.

Witnesses report that a Sembian merchant—one Dathan Goldgleam, by some accounts, though details remain murky—was attempting to flee the city under cover of darkness when he was apprehended in spectacular fashion. Not by the Purple Dragons on duty, mind you, but by a spaniel.

Yes, a spaniel.

According to baffled guardsmen, the small dog rose onto two legs, bones cracking and fur receding, until a Purple Dragon knight stood where a lapdog had been moments before. The merchant was promptly arrested, though his alleged crimes have not been disclosed.

“I’ve seen some things in my years on night watch,” one guard confided, still visibly shaken. “But I’ve never seen a dog read a man his rights.”

Witnesses disagree on nearly every detail—some claim the spaniel was brown, others insist it was spotted, and at least one drunk insists it was actually a terrier—but all agree on the fundamental strangeness of the evening’s events.

The Crown has offered no comment on the incident, nor on whether shapeshifting knights regularly patrol Arabel’s streets in animal form. The merchant remains in custody, his crimes undisclosed, his dignity presumably in tatters.

In the meantime, the dogs of Arabel have found themselves regarded with new and uncomfortable scrutiny. Several residents report speaking more carefully around their pets, just in case.

Re: “The Fading Crown: Is Queen Raedra’s Reluctance to Name an Heir Endangering Cormyr’s Future?”

Dear Editor,

I read C. Steelpen’s recent opinion with growing dismay—not because the question of succession is unimportant, but because the piece so thoroughly misunderstands what it means to respect the Crown.

Her Majesty Queen Raedra is not “reluctant” to address the succession. She is exercising her sovereign prerogative to do so in her own time and manner, as is her right as monarch. The suggestion that this constitutes cowardice or selfishness reveals a troubling ignorance of both law and tradition.

More troubling still is the piece’s breathless attention to young Celthric Obarskyr, whose “political maneuvering” and “search for a suitable bride” Steelpen treats as though they were matters of national importance. I must remind your readers that Cormyr already has a line of succession. It includes Her Majesty’s brother Prince Baerovus and, after him, my nephew Aubrin—both of uncontested legitimate descent.

Young Celthric is charming, I am sure. But charm is not lineage, and attending council meetings is not a claim to the throne. Those who find his recent visibility “intriguing” might ask themselves why a young man whose father’s very name was questioned for decades now conducts himself as though the Purple Dragon were already his to inherit.

The Queen will name an heir when she is ready, and it will be the right choice for Cormyr. Until then, I suggest certain ambitious families remember that the line of succession is not a queue one can charm one’s way to the front of.

Your Faithful Reader,

Lady Margara Crownsilver

Well, well, well. The claws come out at House Crownsilver!

Lady Margara makes several excellent points about sovereignty, tradition, and the importance of legitimate descent—though one can’t help noticing how many of those points happen to benefit her own nephew’s position. Purely coincidental, I’m sure.

As for young Celthric, this Tressym takes no position on his ambitions. We merely report what we observe: a charming young man making friends at court. Whether that constitutes “unseemly ambition” or simply good manners, we leave to our readers’ judgment.

Though I do appreciate Lady Margara’s implication that the Gazette should be more skeptical of rising political figures. We shall endeavor to apply that standard… evenly.

— Inkwell, Editor-in-Chief

Opinion: The Realm of Freelancers

By J.T. Featherquill

My dear readers, permit me a moment of celebration.

This tenday, the ghost plague that terrorized Arabel has been cleansed. The Tunlands violence has ceased. Zhentarim agents have been routed from our frontier. Surely these are victories worth raising a glass to?

And yet, as I review the particulars, a curious pattern emerges. Who solved the Arabel haunting? Not the Royal Magician’s office—they were, as ever, otherwise occupied. No, it was “Much Obliged,” an adventuring company. Who brokered peace in the Tunlands and exposed the Black Network’s meddling? The Fighting Mongooses, another adventuring company. Who rides into Gnoll Pass as our military situation grows ever more desperate? Adventurers, their names unknown, their odds unfavorable.

One begins to notice a theme.

Now, the observant reader might note that both Much Obliged and the Mongooses count War Wizards among their number. Young Garrison Oakfield is Ganrahast’s own apprentice, after all, and I’m told Much Obliged boasts similar arcane credentials. Surely this reflects well on the institution?

I would argue the opposite.

These War Wizards accomplish great things—when roaming the countryside with sellswords. When freed from whatever occupies their colleagues in the towers of Suzail, they prove remarkably effective. One almost wonders what might happen if the entire order tried actually doing things rather than attending meetings and writing reports.

The Royal Magician’s office could not detect a shrine of ancient evil beneath a major city. They offered nothing of substance regarding the Stonelands’ unprecedented goblinoid coordination. They have been “conspicuously silent” on the Teziir disappearances. And yet individual War Wizards, operating as freelance adventurers, solve crisis after crisis.

The institution fails. The freelancers succeed. Draw your own conclusions, my dear readers.

Perhaps young Garrison has the right idea. Perhaps the future of magical defense lies not in towers and titles, but in adventuring charters and good boots. At least the boots go somewhere.

Just a thought. Just a thought.

Obituaries

A Lady’s Light Extinguished

Lady Elowen Huntcrown, beloved matriarch of the Arabeilan branch of House Huntcrown, has passed at the age of sixty-three. Her death came during the spectral plague that terrorized the city for nearly a month—a particularly violent manifestation, servants report, that left her ladyship’s heart simply stopped.

Lady Elowen was known for her charitable works, her sharp wit at social gatherings, and her legendary rose gardens, which she personally tended until her final days. She served as patron to several Arabeilan artists and was instrumental in funding the reconstruction of the Temple of Lathander’s eastern wing after the fire of 1487.

“She had opinions about everything and wasn’t shy about sharing them,” remarked one longtime acquaintance. “Arabel is quieter without her. Not better—just quieter.”

She is survived by her son Lord Merik Huntcrown, her daughter Lady Thessaly, and four grandchildren. A private ceremony will be held at the family estate, with a public memorial to follow at the Temple of Lathander.

No Farewell for the Saltmarsh Boy

Pip Saltmarsh, aged fifteen, has been declared lost at sea following his disappearance from the fishing vessel Sunrise Maiden earlier this tenday. He is the fortieth soul claimed by whatever haunts the waters off Teziir.

Pip was a deckhand on his first season, having begged Captain Aldric Fenwater for a position after his father’s fishing boat was sold to pay debts. Witnesses say he was coiling rope at the stern one moment; the next, the rope lay abandoned, still swaying. The captain’s back had been turned for mere moments.

“He wanted to be a captain someday,” said his mother, Mira Saltmarsh, clutching a worn cap that was all that remained of her son’s belongings aboard. “He said he’d buy back his father’s boat. He said he’d make us proud.”

No body has been recovered. No body is expected.

A memorial stone will be placed at Teziir’s Fisherman’s Rest, alongside the growing row of markers for those the sea has taken and refuses to return.

The Final Bow of Lysara Vane

Lysara Vane, celebrated actress and lead of the Marsember Players’ recent production of Shadowmasters’ Symphony, was found dead in her dressing room three days past. She was thirty-one.

The circumstances of her death remain unexplained. Miss Vane was discovered by her understudy, Catarina Bell, who reported that the dressing room was locked from the inside, with no signs of forced entry. A half-empty glass of wine sat untouched on the vanity. The mirror had been covered with a black cloth—though no one can say who placed it there.

“She was in perfect health,” insisted director Aldric Moonshaw. “She’d just finished the most acclaimed run of her career. She had no enemies. She had no reason to—” He declined to finish the sentence.

The Purple Dragons have declared her death “under investigation.” The Marsember Players, however, will continue their spring tour as scheduled, with Miss Bell assuming the role of the Shadow Queen.

“Lysara would have wanted the show to go on,” Miss Bell told reporters, still visibly shaken. “I only hope I can do her memory justice.”

Miss Vane was known for her luminous stage presence and her ability to disappear so thoroughly into roles that audiences sometimes forgot they were watching a performance. She is survived by her mother, who has requested privacy, and her cat, Soot, who was found sitting vigil outside the locked dressing room door.

Arts & Society: “Whispers Behind the Mask” Sets Suzail Ablaze

A new exhibition at the Velvet Gallery has scandalized Suzail’s elite—and proven impossible to ignore.

Sembian painter Aldous Greymantle’s Whispers Behind the Mask presents a series of intimate, technically masterful paintings depicting masked nobles in passionate embraces with unmasked commoners. A masked lord—identifiable only by a very distinctive signet ring—clutches a fisherman on moonlit rocks. A woman whose masked profile bears a suspicious resemblance to a certain duchess swoons in the arms of a muscular blacksmith. A masked man who wears a very distinctive pendant—one any courtier would recognize—shares wine with a laughing barmaid, their fingers intertwined.

The faces of the nobility are hidden. The faces of the commoners are not.

“It’s allegory,” Greymantle insists with a perfectly straight face. “A meditation on desire and station. The masks represent the constraints of noble obligation. The common folk represent freedom, passion, authentic connection. I’ve depicted no one in particular.”

No one believes him.

“That is clearly meant to be—” began Lady Helene Rowanmantle at the opening, before catching herself. “Someone. It’s clearly meant to be someone. And it’s outrageous.”

The exhibition has become the most-discussed event of the season, with nobles arriving in droves—ostensibly to express their disapproval, though many linger far longer than outrage would require. Several have been observed returning multiple times, studying particular paintings with intense focus.

“The gentleman was very interested in the fourth painting,” noted one gallery attendant. “The one with the adventuress and the masked lord in the garden. He stood there for an hour. Came back the next day with his wife. She did not seem pleased.”

Greymantle has declined to confirm or deny any resemblances, noting only that “the guilty eye finds guilt everywhere, and the innocent have nothing to fear.”

Whispers Behind the Mask runs through Tarsakh. Admission is three silver falcons—recently raised from two due to demand.

Tenday Forecast

Spring has well and truly arrived across Cormyr, with the Claw of Sunsets living up to its name in spectacular fashion. Here’s what to expect in the coming tenday:

Suzail and Central Cormyr: Warm days and cool nights, with temperatures climbing steadily. Expect clear skies through mid-tenday, followed by gentle spring showers toward the end. Excellent conditions for garden parties—the roses are already budding.

Storm Horns and Northern Reaches: The mountain passes remain treacherous, with late-season snowmelt making roads muddy and streams swollen. Travelers should exercise caution. Lower elevations will see pleasant days, but nights remain cold enough for frost.

Hullack Forest and Eastern Cormyr: Mild and damp, with morning mists lingering until midday. The forest is coming alive with new growth. Farmers report excellent conditions for early planting.

Marsember and Coastal Regions: Unseasonably warm, with sea breezes keeping temperatures comfortable. A brief squall is expected around the 25th, but nothing severe. Fishermen report calm seas—for those brave enough to fish them.

Western Reaches and Tunlands: Clear skies and warming temperatures. The newly-dried lands are firming up nicely, and planting season is in full swing. Light winds from the west may carry dust; keep windows shuttered if you’re particular about your furnishings.

Note: This forecast serves as a guide and may not reflect actual conditions. Always be prepared for Cormyr’s famously unpredictable weather.