The Fall of Dingaford
An insider's account to the fall of Dingaford and the Chaplain's rebellion
By William Bregan, 1007 AE
As I write this account, I note that random speculation abounds as to the circumstances of the destruction of my home, even among the academic community and individuals who should know better than to engage in unsubstantiated gossip. My father has been accused of being an agent of Hell, the Abyss, the Fae, the Illithid, and everything in between. And I myself? Well, most will not believe my story, and that won’t change even once they’ve read what I have to say on the matter, yet it will somehow be clearly evident to such sceptics that – and there is no evidence of this – that I am cursed, or an agent of the Shadow, or a harbinger of the end times or some rubbish.
Be that as it may. Even I cannot control the blind prejudice of others. I can only control my own, and hope that these words are read by wiser minds than that of the local barkeeps. But to be clear, I was but one spectator to the events of the Chaplains Rebellion, and I do not claim to know the full truth of all that occurred and certainly don’t claim to know my father’s mind. I can only record what I remember.
My father, Jessep, lived as a noble on my mother’s land of Dingaford on Braeland’s northern border. Dingaford had always been seen as something of an anomaly in the Kingdom, an odd spot on the northern tip of its borders, tagged onto the far edge of the Pizol mountains like some out-of-place mole or boil on a chin. Father and the Braeland royalty never saw eye to eye, but Father persisted in courting the King’s good graces and seeing his will done across his lands. Thus Jessep’s claim he was betrayed by those he served holds some merit. You see, my father was descended from old King Garic the Ageless, who ruled for close to a century. Garic would sire only daughters from his first wife, and his second died without producing an heir, so succession passed to his firstborn son of his third wife - Restor - when he was found after a long and suspicious absence. By this time my father, Garic’s eldest grandson, had been educated and trained to be Braeland’s crown prince for all of his life.
It is not correct to say that Father accepted his change in fortune and King Restor’s rule with good graces, but not correct to say he flew into some mad rage either. I remember he took the news of the twenty-year-old Restor’s discovery quite stoically. When news arrived from the capital of Starport that Restor had ascended to the throne, he accepted it with a pained, but dignified silence.
Of course, I could have missed some details in Jessep’s demeanour. I was six. And this was 400 years ago.
I do clearly remember the arrival of Mordoft, for it was he who broke the news to my father that then Crown Prince Restor had been discovered and the Bregans were no longer in the line of succession. Much speculation surrounds the role of Terand Mordoft in Father’s decision to break oath with the crown, and it is true that Father spent an unusual amount of time alone with the priest in the years that followed. But he did not become aloof, and he certainly never neglected myself or my sister Claire as some reports suggest. He was always frank with us children, stern and severe but never cruel, and he rarely lost is temper, except when we frightened him by risking our lives and limbs as only children and fool adventurers know how to do. He told us, with Mordoft beside him, that we would be staying in Dingaford longer than expected. I didn’t know what to make of the news, given I had been born there and the keep was the only home I had known.
I heard that father proclaimed himself ruler of Dingaford by some divine decree, but I must admit never understanding a word of it. He certainly never displayed any sign of a ‘God complex’ to me.
And thus began what should have been the final two years of my life. Claire was much older than myself, and was married and moved away, but returned alone just before the end to plead with my father to negotiate with Starport. In the meantime I studied music, mostly, and art, and learned to ride a horse and fight with a rapier. I vaguely remember learning to read and write, and I was fascinated with history, but maths and finance I had no patience for. I remember Father receiving word that the Braeland army was crossing the mountain passes, to which he reacted as usual, with a calm severity. Watching the calamity unfold, both in my father’s face and on the small maps he used to draw - it was like watching a blizzard in the far north from very far away.
Then, when I was eight years old, the blizzard struck in the form of five thousand knights and countless men at arms. I honestly never figured out why General Holst thought that many men were necessary. They didn’t do much except stand near the catapults as they began raining fire on the manor.
I was singing at the time, a short concert for some of our family’s allies. Claire was in attendance, but not Jessep. I believe he was within earshot upstairs though. I just remember looking up in horror as the theatre roof was engulfed in flames. Then there was a crash, and my sister’s loge crumpled and crashed to the floor below the stage. There was a large flaming piece of timber pinning her body to the ground. I tried to move it, but I was eight. And then there was another crash.
How, why, when exactly did Jessep Bregan bind his entire household to serve him in undeath? I don’t recall, I’m not sure I ever knew. All I knew was pain, and frustration, and a deep unending fatigue. I was told by Rhillaine I existed in that state for close to a hundred years before she slew Jessep and broke me free. I must take her at her word, for all I remember is I died an eight year old boy – and then I was a hundred-year-old half-elf. So clearly my living body, if you can call it that, somehow aged during my undeath. Or maybe I had a job to do and was behind schedule, and the gods weren’t prepared to allow me the luxury of a childhood.
I do remember Rhillaine being highly frustrated at the state of affairs in Dingaford and at being unable to locate the Rail of Dread Command, a black rod that used to be carried by Terand Mordoft at all times and was somehow related to my father’s persisting existence. Eventually my friend Breac and I would return to the area 20 years ago, but we never found Mordoft or any sign of his tools that Rhillaine described. We put stakes in Jessep’s chest and sealed him within his coffin several times, but he would always break free. Dingaford would remain forever after my ‘unfinished business’. Despite no longer being a ghost, I must confess I continue to identify with them very closely.
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