The Moorcrown

The Moorcrown is a powerful artifact recovered from the Fomorian Citadel of the same name.

Previously owned by King Ninlith, it granted the Fomorian powerful spellcasting abilities. After the Last Stand at Velenthir Estate against the Weald Witch, it vapourised, seemingly to move away from the battle with its own sentience.

## Description

This crown is carved from black iron and obsidian, with sharp points like daggers set with pale blue gemstones. Upon closer examination, an eye seems to shift and turn beneath each, glancing erratically in all direction. To attune to this item, you must wear it on your head for the entire attunement period, during which the crown binds to your flesh. After this time, the user can will the Moorcrown to transform its appearance during a short or long rest, although it must retain a continuous band that encircles the crown of the head.

## Powers

*Wondrous Item, legendary (requires attunement)*

This crown is carved from black iron and obsidian, with sharp points like daggers set with pale blue gemstones. Upon closer examination, an eye seems to shift and turn beneath each, glancing erratically in all direction. To attune to this item, you must wear it on your head for the entire attunement period, during which the crown binds to your flesh. After this time, the user can will the Moorcrown to transform its appearance during a short or long rest, although it must retain a continuous band that encircles the crown of the head.

While wearing the crown, you can see normally in darkness, both magical and nonmagical, to a distance of 120 feet.

***Spells.*** The crown has 10 charges. While wearing it, you can use an action to expend some of its charges to cast one of the following spells from it (spell save DC 16): charm person (1 charge), disintegrate (6 charges), fear (3 charges), finger of death (7 charges), flesh to stone (6 charges), hold person (2 charges), ray of enfeeblement (2 charges), sleep (1 charge), slow (3 charges), telekinesis (5 charges).

The crown regains 1d6 + 3 expended charges daily at dawn.

## Research

### Completed by Hassk

*Sparks throw shadows across the darkened forge, heat steady but from which no light pours. A basin of coagulated gore bubbles violently as the dark metal form is quenched within, hissing with blackened acrid steam. Shrouded in cloak of shadow, the blacksmith traces long nails of iron across the band, incising hooks and thorns as per their will. The iron nails turns inwards, reaching beneath a cowl of gloom, a quiet dampness seeping along gaunt fingers as they claw deeply through skin, fascia and muscle - the bloodied eye claimed set in place, the process repeated twice, then thrice, then twice, then thrice again, an incantation repeated between each.*

*Ruin and toil, befoul and fall.*

*Soft carmine silks trace wistfully across a marble floor polished to a glimmering sheen, the scattering of red stars glowing faintly with the passage of souls atop. The crown, resting atop a brocaded satin cushion of emerald and amber thread catches the desert sunlight streaming from a clear bright sky above, carving rainbow cascades upon the walls. Austere and opulent both, the figure atop the throne of patinated bronze set with dozens of gemstones, but yet his gaze grows lustful for the stones set within the gift presented by figure cloaked. An inquisitive eyebrow rises from the robed mage at his right, her mantle of brown and grey drab in comparison to the chromatic motley of the Emperor's kaftan. Fingers of teak-tan grasp with greed at the edges, shying away for but a moment as the rough-forged edges cut flesh to expose a splash of vermillion. A chuckle, a nod of approval, the crown now bound metal to bone transforms to a interwoven mesh of silver and gold, emeralds, garnets and citrine dotted through the band resting upon a brow of bronze-brown. Above, a comet arcs through the daylight sky, trailing flame.*

*Ruin and toil, befoul and fall.*

*Dirtied fingers rake through the dirt and dust, prying the jagged form free with curiosity. Sun-weared skin, thrown into folds of wrinkles across brow, cheek and neck. Rough-spun hemp sleeves brush away the grim, and yet the metal remains stained and smeared nonetheless. Thinking little of it, they glance with caution around them - their prize unseen by those milling the fields around them, and so the figure places it within a bag, gemstones pressed against seed of barley and buckwheat. They make their excuses, skipping with pace home to a wooden hut to squirrel such a find away. Daydreams of wealth and power spawn mutterings of excitement, broken only by the clamour of a distant horn - cruel and resonate, spurning fear. Rafters thrown open briefly reveal a cloud of dust, the sound of combat and countless banners marked with a black sigil. The farmer scrambles for a pitchfork, barricading the door with an upturned table.*

*Ruin and toil, befoul and fall.*

*Iron grates against stone as the gaoler drives the door back into its fittings, a cold and crude key sparking in the lock with the careless ferosity of rotation. A family dishevelled cowers before them, wide eyes dilating against the flame of the torch in the turnkey's hand. The crown now sits at the centre of the cell, cruel points glistening in amber glow. Each in turn the gemstones start to drink greedily at the light, eyes shifting beneath growing increasingly bloodshot, phosphorescent in the gloom, torch now drained of its warmth. Focus comes, each eye set on one of the souls locked in place with it - man, woman and child shrinking back into the corners of the space but unable to escape the gaze. Yet escape they cannot, for rope coarse binds them ankle to ankle, metal manacles hold them wrist to wrist. No scream, no cry, a mere whimper, the light fades in their gaze and they grow still. At direction from a broad-chested form, the gaoler unlocks the cell door once more, snatches up the crown, and drives the door home once more.*

*Ruin and toil, befoul and fall.*

*The ritual has begun, as was decided by the ashen one. The arrival is willing, though fleeting of mind and memory - although both soon will change, restored to those before. A renewal not without sacrifice, the demise of strength and spirit, life and legacy. Ancient halls break asunder with the utterance of the words, rivers defiled and unpredictable in course. Into the home of the ancestors they have come, and in servitude they have been welcomed. Watching, always, peering through the might of the king. A chill starts to settle, the breath of bheur crystallising ice across sheer stone. Chains of flesh are lifted skyward, the conclusion draws near.*

*Ruin and toil, befoul and fall.*