THE CHRONICLES OF HOUSE NOCTURNE

"When Others Rest, We Watch."

CHAPTER I — The Beginning (1128–1163)

The oldest surviving reference to the Nocturne family appears in a tax register from the year 1128, in a small mountain settlement called Elderglen, where winters were long and daylight was often hidden by heavy cloud cover.

The record does not describe them as nobles, warriors, or wealthy merchants.

Instead, beside the family name was a simple occupation:

"Night Watchers."

At that time, villages depended on citizens taking turns guarding livestock, watching for fires, and warning of raids. Most people struggled to stay awake after midnight. The work was exhausting, dangerous, and unpopular.

The Nocturnes did not.

Generation after generation, members of the family naturally stayed awake through the night with little difficulty. They remained alert until sunrise and often slept only a few hours during the afternoon before returning to work.

Neighbors first believed the family relied on stimulants or secret rituals.

Nothing of the sort was ever found.

The First Recorded Incident (1137)

In the winter of 1137, a fire broke out inside Elderglen shortly after midnight.

The village church records note that while almost everyone slept through the smoke, Edric Nocturne, then twenty-three years old, noticed the unusual smell while walking the streets alone.

He rang the village bell before the flames spread beyond two houses.

Thirty-one families survived.

The priest who documented the event wrote:

"The man walks the darkness as though it belongs to him."

That sentence would later become attached to the family for centuries.

The Pattern Emerges (1145–1180)

As births accumulated over several generations, something unusual became impossible to ignore.

Nearly every direct descendant displayed similar traits:

They rarely required more than three or four hours of sleep.

Their concentration increased after sunset rather than during daylight.

Bright afternoon sunlight caused headaches.

They possessed exceptional hearing during quiet nights.

They remained calm in complete darkness while outsiders became anxious.

The local physicians had no explanation.

Many believed the trait to be hereditary long before the science of genetics existed.

Reputation Spreads

Travelers carried stories.

Some claimed the Nocturnes never slept.

Others insisted they disappeared during daylight.

Neither was true.

The family simply organized their lives differently.

Children attended lessons in the morning before sleeping through part of the afternoon.

Adults worked security, blacksmith forges, mills, and trade caravans during the night when roads were cooler and quieter.

Over time, neighboring towns began hiring members of House Nocturne whenever reliable night guards were needed.

Their reputation grew not because they were supernatural—

—but because they were dependable.

The Family Rule

Around 1160, the family adopted its first written household law.

It was carved above the entrance to their stone home.

"Night is not our curse. It is our responsibility."

Every child was taught that remaining awake while others slept was not a gift deserving pride.

It was a duty.

Someone always had to remain vigilant.

Someone always had to watch.

And in every generation...

that someone was a Nocturne.

This first chapter establishes the family in a grounded, historical way, where their mystery comes from an inherited trait and how society interpreted it—not from overt supernatural powers. As their history unfolds, myths, scientific speculation, political influence, and family conflicts can naturally develop over the centuries.

THE NOCTURNE FAMILY AND RESIDENCE

THE CHRONICLES OF HOUSE THORNVALE

"Every Remedy Bears a Thorn."

CHAPTER I — The Valley That Fed on Poison (1184–1226)

The earliest confirmed mention of House Thornvale appears in 1184, in the records of the Abbey of Saint Alder, where a small farming settlement named Bracken Hollow suffered repeated crop failures.

The valley was fertile, yet strangely feared.

Wild foxglove, hemlock, wolfsbane, belladonna, yew, and other poisonous plants covered the hillsides more densely than ordinary crops.

Livestock wandered into the fields and died.

Children were forbidden from entering the forests.

Travelers referred to the area simply as "The Poison Valley."

Most families abandoned it.

One family remained.

The First Thornvale

The settlement records mention a farmer and herbal gatherer named Rowan Thornvale.

Unlike everyone else, Rowan did not burn poisonous plants or cut them down.

He studied them.

He noticed that the same plants responsible for deaths could also relieve pain, stop bleeding, calm fevers, or induce sleep—if prepared correctly and given in precise amounts.

There were no written manuals.

Only years of observation.

Mistakes were costly.

Rowan buried his failures beside his successes.

Every grave became another lesson.

The Garden of Stones

By 1196, Rowan had transformed part of his farmland into a carefully organized botanical garden.

Every dangerous species was planted separately.

Each bed was marked with carved stone tablets instead of wooden signs, because wood decayed too quickly.

The stones recorded:

where each plant grew best,

which season it became most dangerous,

which parts were useful,

and which combinations proved fatal.

As decades passed, the garden expanded.

Visitors expected flowers.

Instead they found rows of plants capable of healing—or killing—with equal precision.

The Thornvales called it simply:

The Garden of Stones.

The Great Fever of 1208

In the spring of 1208, an unfamiliar fever spread through nearby villages.

The local physicians exhausted their supplies within weeks.

Many fled.

The Thornvales did not.

Using preparations refined over years of experimentation, they produced infusions that reduced pain, lowered fever, and eased breathing.

Not every patient survived.

Many did.

The abbey's records note that the family accepted no payment during the outbreak.

When asked why, Rowan's eldest daughter replied:

"A cure loses its worth the moment only the wealthy can afford it."

That statement would later become one of the family's guiding principles.

The Birth of Suspicion

Success brought attention.

Attention brought fear.

If the Thornvales knew how to cure poison...

surely they also knew how to make it.

Whenever a noble died unexpectedly, whispers followed.

Whenever livestock perished, villagers looked toward Bracken Hollow.

No accusation was ever proven.

Yet the family slowly became isolated.

Children from neighboring villages stopped visiting.

Merchants avoided shaking their hands.

People accepted medicine from the Thornvales—

but rarely accepted invitations into their home.

The Family Tradition

Every child born into House Thornvale received a small patch of soil on their seventh birthday.

Nothing was planted for them.

Instead, each child spent years choosing a single plant to cultivate and study.

Some chose lavender.

Others chose foxglove.

Some chose roses.

A few chose deadly nightshade.

The choice was permanent.

Throughout life, that plant became the symbol of the individual's character and expertise.

When a Thornvale died, the plant was transplanted into the family's ancestral garden, where it continued growing among those of generations before.

No statues marked the dead.

Only living plants.

To outsiders, the garden looked beautiful.

To the Thornvales, it was their family history written in roots, leaves, flowers, and thorns.

Thus, House Thornvale earned its enduring reputation—not as sorcerers or poisoners, but as botanists, healers, and toxicologists centuries ahead of their time. Their greatest burden was that the same knowledge that saved countless lives also ensured they would forever be viewed with suspicion.

THEIR RESIDENCE

THE CHRONICLES OF HOUSE ASHCROFT

"To Every Ending, We Give Thanks."

CHAPTER I — The Plague Bells (1249–1291)

The first unquestionable record of House Ashcroft appears during the winter of 1249, in the market town of Greyhaven.

The town had become overwhelmed by disease.

Every day the church bells rang.

Every day another procession carried the dead beyond the walls.

Grief settled over Greyhaven like a permanent fog.

Merchants stopped trading.

Children stopped playing.

Even the priests struggled to comfort the living.

It was during these months that one family began behaving in a way no one could understand.

While others walked behind coffins in silence...

the Ashcrofts sang.

Not loudly.

Not mockingly.

Softly.

Old songs celebrating harvests, births, and changing seasons.

To outsiders, it appeared horrifying.

Many believed the family had lost their sanity.

The Funeral of Eleanor Ashcroft (1253)

The event that forever shaped the family's reputation occurred four years later.

Eleanor Ashcroft, aged sixty-eight, died peacefully after a long illness.

Nearly the entire town attended her funeral—not to mourn, but to witness what strange custom the family would perform next.

Instead of wearing black, every member of the household wore clothes dyed in warm autumn colors.

Instead of covering mirrors, they opened every window.

Instead of crying, they shared stories that made one another laugh.

Children played in the fields nearby.

Bread and wine were served to anyone who came.

No one left hungry.

When questioned by the parish priest, Eleanor's eldest son answered simply:

"She spent her whole life fearing that we would remember only her death. We refused to grant that wish."

The priest recorded the event in the parish register, calling it:

"The most unsettling funeral I have ever witnessed... and perhaps the kindest."

A Different Philosophy

As decades passed, scholars who visited Greyhaven came to understand that the Ashcrofts were not celebrating death itself.

They were celebrating lives that had been fully lived.

To them, grief was natural.

Despair was not.

Every funeral required three things:

A shared meal.

Stories of the deceased's greatest mistakes as well as achievements.

Music played before sunset.

No Ashcroft was permitted to speak only of sorrow.

Every memory had to remind the living that a person had once laughed.

The Wedding Rule

If funerals confused outsiders...

Ashcroft weddings disturbed them even more.

Marriage, according to family tradition, was life's greatest uncertainty.

Two people promised to share burdens they could not yet imagine.

During every wedding ceremony, both families openly discussed the hardships that surely lay ahead.

Parents cried.

Grandparents cried.

Sometimes even the bride and groom cried.

Not because they regretted marrying...

but because they understood the weight of the promise they were making.

Only after those tears were shed would the celebration begin.

Visitors often remarked that Ashcroft weddings felt like funerals...

and Ashcroft funerals felt like festivals.

The family saw no contradiction.

Life demanded courage before it deserved celebration.

The Fire of 1278

In the summer of 1278, a fire swept through Greyhaven, destroying nearly a third of the town.

House Ashcroft opened its estate to every displaced family, regardless of wealth or status.

For almost eight months, over one hundred people lived under their roof.

When rebuilding finally began, the Ashcrofts refused repayment.

Instead, they asked each family to plant a fruit tree somewhere in Greyhaven.

Within a generation, the once-blackened streets had become lined with apple, pear, plum, and cherry trees.

Travelers began calling Greyhaven:

"The Orchard Town."

Many never learned the tradition had begun with a family whose funerals frightened them.

The Origin of Their Motto

By the early 1300s, House Ashcroft had adopted the words that would define them for centuries:

"Do not fear the final page. Fear leaving the story unread."

To strangers, they remained unsettling.

To those who truly knew them, they were often the first to arrive in times of tragedy—and the last to leave before the work of rebuilding was done.

ASHCROFT'S