Conquest of Albion: Rumors from Oxford 1068 AD Game

In-Game Date: Two Days After the Events of June, 1068 A.D. Posted for the Citizens of Albion

An NPC Tells a Tale at the Oxtail Tavern

Two nights after the recent events that unfolded during our July 18, 2026, game session (late June, 1068 A.D. in-game), travelers passing through Oxford found an unusual crowd gathered inside the Oxtail Tavern.

A Norman city guard, known more for his reliability than his imagination, had spent the evening nursing a mug of ale while looking thoroughly exhausted. Before long, someone asked what had happened to him.

Setting down his drink, he rubbed at his temples and began to speak.

"I'll tell you why I look so miserable. I've never had a dream strike me like that one. By Christ's wounds, I woke with such a pounding in my head I slept through half my watch the next day. The sergeant nearly skinned me for it."

The table laughed, but the guard did not.

"I swear before God, it felt more real than waking."

He paused for another drink before continuing.

"In the dream, I walked the streets of Oxford as I always do, though the city was far too quiet. Not empty... just waiting. Then six strangers rode in from the London road after sunset. Their horses were fine, their cloaks expensive, but every dog hid from them, and every horse shied away."

The tavern grew quieter.

"They weren't common travelers."

According to the guard's dream, the strangers separated once they entered the city.

Two made their way toward the scholars of Oxford, quietly questioning them about something oddly specific—a wagon carrying lavender. They spoke of who had purchased it, where it had traveled, and where it had disappeared.

"Didn't make a lick of sense to me," the guard admitted.

The remaining four entered the Oxtail Tavern.

They ordered drink after drink, spoke very little, laughed even less, and seemed more interested in watching those around them than enjoying the ale before them.

"I somehow knew they'd come from London," he said.

"And I somehow knew they were Baobhan-sìth."

By then, no one in the tavern was laughing.

The guard lowered his voice.

"That's when the dream became stranger still."

Without warning, another company entered the tavern.

Not companions.

Not friends.

Strangers.

The first was a woman dressed in rich silks, unlike anything seen in England. Her dark complexion and foreign manner marked her as someone from the distant lands of the Fatimid Caliphate.

Two Italians followed her. One appeared every bit the wealthy merchant, adorned with velvet and jeweled rings. The other wore the scarlet sash of a Cardinal of the Holy Church.

"Yet when he smiled," the guard whispered, "I felt colder than standing naked in winter rain."

The last arrival dwarfed the others.

A broad warrior wrapped in furs and lamellar armor, carrying a curved bow across his back. The dream named him as one of the Cuman riders from the eastern steppes.

Curiously, the newcomers paid no attention to the four Kindred from London.

Instead, they argued among themselves.

One name surfaced repeatedly.

Montagu.

Again.

And again.

And again.

"They wanted him," the guard recalled.

"Not because London hunted him... but because London had begun the hunt before they could."

For what seemed like hours, bargains were struck.

Gold crossed the table.

Promises were exchanged.

Threats were spoken so quietly they were all the more terrifying.

The Cardinal rarely spoke, but every time he did, the others fell silent.

The woman from the south named her price.

The merchant offered more.

The Cuman simply nodded.

Finally...

An agreement was reached.

The strangers raised their cups together.

Every candle in the tavern went dark.

The guard struck his mug against the table.

"That was when I woke."

"My head felt like a blacksmith had spent the night driving nails through my skull. Couldn't see straight until nearly noon."

For a long moment, no one spoke.

At last, one patron crossed himself.

Another muttered that dreams often carried messages from God.

A third spat into the rushes beneath the benches before quietly replying,

"Or perhaps... by something that walks only after sunset."

No one laughed after that.

From the Storyteller Notes

Was it merely a nightmare brought on by too much ale?

A warning from Heaven?

Or did some unseen power allow a simple Oxford guard to glimpse events unfolding far beyond mortal understanding?

Only those who walk the Long Night may ever know.

The hunt for Lord Rupert Montagu has only just begun, and it seems more than one faction now seeks to find him.

Who reaches him first may change the fate of Albion.