The Shade of Attlemoore
Project Overview
The Shade of Attlemoore is an 8 episode full cast audio drama that has recently been successfully kickstarted!
It stars a silent ghost bound to an untrustworthy witch as part of her ancient vendetta against the moon. We aim to launch the podcast in early fall of 2026.
The Shade of Attlemoore is a work deeply inspired by FromSoft, Slay the Princess and Wraith the Oblivion.
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Feminine 19-25 voice, hushed, singsong.
The Handmaiden is a ghost who was the attendant to the lead character in ages past during a great reign of terror. The Handmaiden is supportive, and a little psychotic beneath the surface; she rather liked the reign of terror, in fact!
She has a few vocal ticks, like whispering rhymes mid sentence as though remembering a poem that never existed, or reverently chanting 'yes indeed' as more of a sentence break than actual agreement.
(871 words)
- female adult
(Airy and pleasant) Names, lovers, knick knacks and tears - my, don't we lose a few things over the years? Yes, indeed. Ah, but to be named. How important it is to the living - how romantic to have a word that is yours and yours alone? And how humblingly unimportant it feels to the dead.
(Pleasantly bloodthirsty) The living must be reconquered. Blades and armies trapped in mud. The lord darkling must know - it ends in blood.
Feminine voice, warm and inviting - your best friend in the whole world.
Dame Summer is one of the four seasons that act as the rightful gods of the setting. They are gods in the Greek sense however, and are thus quite flawed and eternally in toxic and jealous relationships with each other.
Dame Summer is a free-spirited 'gals-gal' who loves hyping people up and living in the moment. Unfortunately, she's also prone to living a little too much in the moment, and frequently makes cosmically bad choices based on little more than fleeting whims.
1109 Words
- female adult
(Affectionate) Ah, the season with a darling heart. Spring! Thou hast finally found me. I knew t'would be so. I needed only to call thee with Summer's song. A thousand years I've sang, but I so often lost myself in the light of mine court. A milennia gone. Frolicked away in waiting.
(Warm, adventurous) Thou shalt set out upon this journey with full intention of seeing it through. Draw upon thyself, thy wits, thy strength. Set forth as though thou shalt receive nothing from the fair Dame Summer. And yet, thou shalt, for we will both be freely generous to one another. This is the way of the warm months, of dances, festivals and the best memories of life.
(Shocked, dismayed and saddened) A-autumn, what's this? The vines in your court doth wither, the leaves crumble to dust. Oh, my love, the flowers!
Refined masculine, yet ratlike, and sadistic.
Fabian is an ancient upstart noble with a violent streak. Since the fall of Attlemoore he's become a cunning and cruel were-rat hiding out in the sewers. His ambitions have fled, now he simply delights in the kill.
276 words + Wererat noises
- male adult
(Gloating, delighting in the hunt) Look at you, the brittle maiden who snaps so easily. No ghost to save you? Ah, but he must have fled. Specters make poor fellows, in and out of existence. And now it's just you and I and, what is that? *sniffs* ah, terror. Abject terror.
(Nervous, terrified) A shade? Dead sun, Isadora, what have you- no- even you can't have fallen so far. A bluff! The creature is naught but smoke and false words.
Assorted were-rat noises.
Untrustworthy, any gender. Low class, an all-knowing schemer with an eternally parched throat.
The Vagrant is an undead wandering the ruins of Attlemoore. Don't be fooled though - he was also a wandering vagrant during the empire's golden age as well. He's a sinister seeming trickster character who shows up every now and then and clearly knows more about the supernatural goings on in the world than anyone else.
1052 words.
(untrustworthy, slightly taunting) Oh, you pull away. But what harm could I do her? She's already at death's door. You wonder at who I am? If you can trust me? Heh. Heh. Heh. Just a vagrant. Maybe the last one in Attlemoore. Now, show me your little broken bird.
(sinister, but speaking as though he's letting the listener in on a secret) Only thing is, Shade, a vagrant doesn't sleep 'neath a roof. I see the stars each night. All of 'em Tyrants of their own, the astronomers said, back when the living still bustled in this kingdom. Each and every night a Vagrant, yours truly, watched those stars afore he sleeps. And they go out, Shroudie. Aint that interesting?
(Mysterious and ominous) Just how it is - can't change it! Not unless… well, Lord Shroudie, not unless you could eat the moon. Heh heh heh.
Masculine, cunning, a little smug. Think Brynjolf of Skyrim. Scottish preferred, but not mandatory.
At first the simple old veteran turned Herald seems as nothing more than an old soldier spending his waning years announcing the nobility. The truth, however, is that the Herald is much more than that, he is an ancient and treacherous figure, deeply in the thrall of the Bad Moon.
1720 words
- male adult
(Amused) Ah, but my talk gets me nowhere - ye've caught me. Thought no one would notice if I filled my cup before I left my betters behind for the eve. How easily one falls from marshal to mere Herald, forced tae filch drinks beneath the gaze of the highlords. Will ye have better luck, I wonder?
(Harsh whispering) I've brought the knife, as requested, Marshal. I'm placing it in yer left jacket pocket. Laugh like I just told ye a dirty joke. Not too hard, lest ye seem uncouth. Keep it polite.
(Panicked, desperate) No! It doesn't make sense! Light breaks dark! It always breaks dark! Ye are shade! Unless - oh, by the silver widow, Isadora, get away from that creature! I know whose ghost this is.
Masculine, exaggerated and theatrical knight
'Matt Berry' type performance.
Margrave Spring is one of the
four seasons that act as the
rightful gods of the setting.
They are gods in the Greek sense
however, and are thus quite flawed
and eternally in toxic and jealous
relationships with each other.
The Margrave of Spring acts like an
archetypal knight, though he's quite
over the top.
He's defined by his melodramatic
struggles, torn between his love
of both Winter and Summer.
970 Words
- male adult
(Confiding a guilt that's been eating him up) I… was not faithful to the Marquess Winter. I have dallied, and done so often. 'Tis my great regret that I cannot resist Summer's flame.
(Theatrical display of affection.) Could it be? My winter flower? My arctic rose? A millennia it's been since last I looked upon her cold radiance. May I kiss your pure hand, Marquess? My lips would remember the gentle taste of frostbite once more.
(hyping up the protagonist) This is Lord Shade of Attlemoore. The Lord Knight. The strongest blade to have graced these halls. A jilted lover, a vengeful ghost, and one who would retake a throne - stolen in love's name - and soon restored by it.
Refined masculine, yet ratlike, and sadistic.
Fabian is an ancient upstart noble with a violent streak. Since the fall of Attlemoore he's become a cunning and cruel were-rat hiding out in the sewers. His ambitions have fled, now he simply delights in the kill.
276 words + Wererat noises
- male adult
(Gloating, delighting in the hunt) Look at you, the brittle maiden who snaps so easily. No ghost to save you? Ah, but he must have fled. Specters make poor fellows, in and out of existence. And now it's just you and I and, what is that? *sniffs* ah, terror. Abject terror.
(Nervous, terrified) A shade? Dead sun, Isadora, what have you- no- even you can't have fallen so far. A bluff! The creature is naught but smoke and false words.
Assorted were-rat noises.
Untrustworthy, any gender. Low class, an all-knowing schemer with an eternally parched throat.
The Vagrant is an undead wandering the ruins of Attlemoore. Don't be fooled though - he was also a wandering vagrant during the empire's golden age as well. He's a sinister seeming trickster character who shows up every now and then and clearly knows more about the supernatural goings on in the world than anyone else.
1052 words.
(untrustworthy, slightly taunting) Oh, you pull away. But what harm could I do her? She's already at death's door. You wonder at who I am? If you can trust me? Heh. Heh. Heh. Just a vagrant. Maybe the last one in Attlemoore. Now, show me your little broken bird.
(sinister, but speaking as though he's letting the listener in on a secret) Only thing is, Shade, a vagrant doesn't sleep 'neath a roof. I see the stars each night. All of 'em Tyrants of their own, the astronomers said, back when the living still bustled in this kingdom. Each and every night a Vagrant, yours truly, watched those stars afore he sleeps. And they go out, Shroudie. Aint that interesting?
(Mysterious and ominous) Just how it is - can't change it! Not unless… well, Lord Shroudie, not unless you could eat the moon. Heh heh heh.
Masculine, cunning, a little smug. Think Brynjolf of Skyrim. Scottish preferred, but not mandatory.
At first the simple old veteran turned Herald seems as nothing more than an old soldier spending his waning years announcing the nobility. The truth, however, is that the Herald is much more than that, he is an ancient and treacherous figure, deeply in the thrall of the Bad Moon.
1720 words
- male adult
(Amused) Ah, but my talk gets me nowhere - ye've caught me. Thought no one would notice if I filled my cup before I left my betters behind for the eve. How easily one falls from marshal to mere Herald, forced tae filch drinks beneath the gaze of the highlords. Will ye have better luck, I wonder?
(Harsh whispering) I've brought the knife, as requested, Marshal. I'm placing it in yer left jacket pocket. Laugh like I just told ye a dirty joke. Not too hard, lest ye seem uncouth. Keep it polite.
(Panicked, desperate) No! It doesn't make sense! Light breaks dark! It always breaks dark! Ye are shade! Unless - oh, by the silver widow, Isadora, get away from that creature! I know whose ghost this is.
Masculine, exaggerated and theatrical knight 'Matt Berry' type performance.
Margrave Spring is one of the four seasons that act as the rightful gods of the setting.
They are gods in the Greek sense however, and are thus quite flawed and eternally in toxic and jealous relationships with each other.
The Margrave of Spring acts like an archetypal knight, though he's quite over the top.
He's defined by his melodramatic struggles, torn between his love of both Winter and Summer.
970 Words
(Confiding a guilt that's been eating him up) I… was not faithful to the Marquess Winter. I have dallied, and done so often. 'Tis my great regret that I cannot resist Summer's flame.
(Theatrical display of affection.) Could it be? My winter flower? My arctic rose? A millennia it's been since last I looked upon her cold radiance. May I kiss your pure hand, Marquess? My lips would remember the gentle taste of frostbite once more.
(hyping up the protagonist) This is Lord Shade of Attlemoore. The Lord Knight. The strongest blade to have graced these halls. A jilted lover, a vengeful ghost, and one who would retake a throne - stolen in love's name - and soon restored by it.
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