Session 14.1: Steadfast

The muster is called. Anwen and Padrig review the troops. Vahid looks to the heavens.

Last episode was GM planning, and now we get back to the action. We ended Session 13 with our heroes musing on the possibility of a sortie against the hdour, and the subject of last episode’s poll was their decision:

Our heroes will hunker down, and prepare a taste of the Delve’s hospitality for the Stormcrows.

If I were running this at the table, and returning after a long hiatus, I wouldn’t want to start right in the thick of it — I’d want to re-establish the mood, the characters, and the stakes we’ve set. As such, I’ll use our GM prep from last episode and set a scene that slow-walks us back into our story. We’ll set the opening scene a few days before the hdour’s coming attack, in tense evenings before the rising of the twin full moons. Padrig and Anwen are the most grounded in the present moment¹, so we’ll start with them. Finally, back to the fiction:

Scene 1: The Swap

The sunset sky is red, and a dry, warm wind blows from the valley below, snapping the merchants’ awnings and the makeshift banners of the Delve militia. Forty of the militia are stationed here, anxiously awaiting the call of hunting horns from the goat trails above or the tolling of the brazen alarm bells of Sorrow’s Gate on the terrace below.

A red day, ere the sun rises. // Source: Midjourney

Anwen and Padrig walk among them. Their purpose is to review the militia and its readiness, but Pad has told her they’re here to be reviewed, too. The eve of a battle, the muster needs to see its captains — see that we’re not planning our escape, that we’re ready, and that we think they’re ready, too, the old bandit’s firm voice comes unbidden to mind. “If a man thinks you expect him to run, belike he won’t disappoint you.”

The old bandit is speaking to her — recounting the middling results of the day’s archery practice — but her attention is ever drawn to the faces of the Delve’s defenders as they pass by.

They are at ease, but with their arms at hand and armored with whatever they could find — cuirasses of boiled leather, thick wool robes, and makeshift shields. Waiting here, in the central market plaza, is a crew of Mutra’s miners, armed with picks and adze. Mutra’s right-hand bravo, Cerdic Snake-Eye, oversees them and bows his head to Anwen respectfully² as they pass. She returns the gesture. A few of the miners notice her and mimic Cerdic’s salute.

Anwen puts on a stern mask for them and touches her axehead to her heart. Inside, her heart pounds against her ribs. All these people, counting on us. On me. Tor, Thunderhead; Pad says you love lost causes. Please, love mine.

“…There are a few decent shots among the lot. But it won’t be much use unless Vahid can do something about this damned wind when the hour comes.”

“I believe in him,” Anwen says after a moment of silence as she rouses herself from her rumination. “He saw us through Odo’s lair.”

Pad’s face darkens at the memory of that grim place and what their friend had to do to bring Odo down³. “He did. So did you.”

Anwen gives him a gentle elbow in the ribs. “And you too, greybeard. No need to keep trying to put iron in my spine. I’m steadfast.”

They walk on. Knots of warriors await the call to arms. Further down the market street, the smell of whisky hangs in the air, and a crew of Smiling Ffransis’ toughs plays at knucklebones and bark insults. Across from them is one of the old tenement work gangs, now led by one of Jahalim’s bravos — a tall, slender Peaksman, head shorn and golden rings dangling from long earlobes. He and the miners kneel before a sun-priest of Helior, the setting sun bathing them in amber light. “O Unconquered Sun, our salvation and illumination, we pray that you cover our heads on the day of battle,” the priest’s sonorous voice intones. A polished quartz, held aloft in his hand, catches fire with the dying daylight. The scattered light dances across his flock’s upturned faces. “Let the light of truth reveal the doings of the wicked; let the fire of heavens fill our hearts as we overthrow their schemes against us. If we should fall, let us rise again at the foot of your golden throne.”

The shadows are just beginning to lengthen as Pad and Anwen reach the edge of the plaza. At the farthest edge fly bloodied white banners — once Odo’s colors, now Dawa Eyegouger’s⁴. She and her chosen fighters wait with an edged stillness, their gleaming yellow eyes gazing into their campfires or staring at the billowing clouds overhead. Young Brogan is among them, and the lad rises as they approach.

Pad’s eyes linger on the vial hanging around the boy’s neck, and his guts twist a bit. Vahid’s golden concoction⁵. Life and death in a bottle. Another turn of the knife in the lad, and all of Odo’s accursed family. If only we hadn’t left him behind. “Brogan,” he says softly, taking his young comrade’s hand in a soldierly grip. “How fare your people?”

“Steadfast, I think.” Despite the long years of Odo’s cruelty, the young bandit’s face is still soft, almost boyish. “Eager, even. They are ready for an end to this, one way or another.”

Pad searches Brogan’s face and sees that nervous eagerness in him, too. “Good. Tell them to stand fast and fight hard, and when this is over, we’ll find them a place where they can find some peace.”

Brogan’s golden eyes flash with bitterness. “Here? The Delvers look at us like we’re animals.”

“Fighting alongside a man for your home can put bad blood to rest. And if not, there’s a place in Stonetop. The lads would be eager to see you. Ozbeg, Hari, Hartig, Donal, and a few new brothers, besides.”

“Aled?”

Pad shakes his head ruefully. “I’m sorry, lad. He asked after you, too. But he died victorious, fighting alongside his comrades two summers ago⁶.”

Brogan looks up at the cloud-dark sky. “He was such a miserable cuss. I thought he’d never die.”

“Nor I. But he bought much for his fellows with his life. His sacrifice was what won us our place in Stonetop.”

“What’s it like? Is the crew fat and happy there?”

“We’re fed as well as any of the Stonefolk; we feast with them and suffer lean times, too. Most days, it’s like any place else; weal and woe. But some days, it seems like Ionas’ greener country⁷ .”

“Ionas. Haven’t thought of him in a long time. I wish he was here.”

“Aye.” Pad’s brow furrows. “Stay sharp, and keep your iron close at hand. Axel and Jens⁸ will be here to relieve you after the next bell.”

They make their salutes and farewells. Brogan returns to his crew by the fire. Anwen watches him go, wondering how many such reunions the morrow might steal away. She and Pad turn back toward the heart of the market, their path marked by cookfires being lit and torches being struck as shadows lengthen across the stones. The sounds of the Delve’s last peaceful evening surround them—leather creaking as men adjust unfamiliar armor and the rhythmic ring of blades being honed.

As they turn back up the market street to return to Madame Parvati’s, a familiar voice calls out, rising above the murmur of the restive militia.

“Anwen! Anwen, over here!”

She scans the crowd as she tries to place the voice — she does not recognize it, but the accent sounds like home. Her eyes alight on a pale, freckled face darkened with soot and framed by a short crop of dark hair. It is her friend, Rheisart, who stood with her on the day of their initiation into the village⁹.

Anwen barely recognizes him. Gone is the gangly apprentice who left Stonetop years ago — his face is weathered from the fire and smoke of the smithy, and his frame is corded with muscle earned with hammer and tongs. He approaches, followed by a small company of smiths. The smell of sweat and burnt charcoal clings to them like a fog.

“Rheisart! Look at you, you’re a man grown!”

“Look at me? Look at you, Anwen!” He bounds up to her and grasps her in a near-too-tight embrace. “All my brother smiths have been asking me if I know the woman from Stonetop who has the strength of five men, with the axe that can split stone.”

One of the smiths — an old, hard-bitten man with a grey, wiry beard and a face like a leather forge glove — limps forward on a club foot and intercedes. “Enough pleasantries, pup. To our business.”

“Raul the Limper,” Padrig murmurs to Anwen. “One of Jahalim’s right-hand men.”

“I remember you too, Padrig. Brennan’s hound. A new day, a new foe, and all is forgiven, eh?” the old man growls.

“So it goes, Raul. What’s your business with my chief?”

Raul grunts and reaches out to clasp Anwen’s hand. The skin of his palms feels like sun-warmed granite. “I wanted to shake the hand that slew Odo Thriceborn for good and all. The Delve smiths never forget a service done.” He gestures brusquely at one of his fellows, who approaches with a bundle wrapped in thick oilcloth.

Raul’s thick, calloused fingers move deftly to untie the cords that bind it and unfurl a coat of metal scales, grey iron mixed with shining bronze. His assistant holds the armor high, and Raul raises his voice, drawing looks from all corners of the plaza. “And we show our gratitude in hard iron, fired and well-forged! For you, champion. Wear it well, and send our foes to the Lady of Crows.”

Anwen bows low as Padrig takes the gift from Raul’s man. “Thank you. It will be an honor to wear it into battle.”

Raul nods gruffly. “Aye. Now deliver us victory.” As the old smith turns to leave, Rheisart tarries a moment longer. Anwen thinks of his mother, Bathhilde, and father, Martyn, back in Stonetop. They had asked Anwen to look in on their son, so far from home, and sent along a roughspun woolen cap as a token of their love, but it was left behind on the Flats in the emigre’s desperate flight from the Stormcrows.

“Keep yourself safe, Rheisart. There are a lot of people waiting for you back in Stonetop.”

“Don’t worry about us. Jahalim’s keeping us from the front lines — we’re too valuable, Raul says. All the smiths and our assistants have been pressed into a fire brigade in case the enemy manages to put torch to the town.”

As Rheisart speaks, the wind begins to bluster and blow. A warm, dry breeze comes from the bottom of the valley, whipping their hair and cloaks around them and stirring up dust from the plaza. Padrig and Anwen exchange grim looks — Vahid has told them that changes in the wind are a likely sign that their enemy is moving.

“We’d better make for Jahalim’s and meet with the Bosses, chief,” Pad says. “They’ll be waiting on us.”

Anwen gives Rheisart’s hand one last squeeze. “I’ll see you when the battle is won.”

Rheisart smiles, clearly heartened by Anwen’s certainty. “It’ll be a victory worthy of the Chronicle¹⁰.” With that, he turns and rejoins his fellow smiths, already heading for the grand stairs at the top of the plaza, and to the terraces beyond.

Scene Breakdown

This is not a very mechanically intensive scene, but there are a few things happening here worth discussing. Mechanically, this is more-or-less a Keep Company move — Anwen and Padrig have spent a stretch of time together, and this scene is set to answer questions like “How do we pass the time?” (We review the militia’s readiness, and make sure to be seen to help the troops hold fast) “Who or what seems to be on your mind?” (Brogan and Rheisart, plus all the Delvers who are counting on them).

Anwen receiving the armor from the smiths stems from one of Apocalypse World’s GM principles — “Respond with fuckery and intermittent rewards.” Which essentially means that while you should respect the plans and preparations your PCs make, they shouldn’t always unfold exactly as the players imagine they will — Vince Baker uses the phrase ‘give them what they worked for, but not really what they hoped for.’ And, in turn, you should also provide intermittent rewards — just like things sometimes go wrong in unexpected ways, sometimes things should go right in unexpected ways, too. You can read a bit about how Vince Baker thinks about this principle on his blog, here.

The coming battle will very likely involve some fuckery — the hdour has powers that it will be tough for the PCs to answer, and he has advantages and inroads they are unaware of. So, on the eve of battle, it seemed like a good time to hand out a reward that, while earned, was not necessarily sought out. At the table, this can (but doesn’t always) head off feelings of unfairness when things take a nasty turn.

Now back to the action, at Jahalim’s manor:

Scene 2: Jahalim’s Manor

Padrig and Anwen ascend to the fourth terrace, where Jahalim’s manor looms at the top of the terrace stair. Delve folk scurry around them, veiling themselves against the dusty wind that rushes through the cramped streets.

A crowd has gathered in front of the gates of Jahalim’s manor, held at bay by Demetra¹¹ and a few stern-looking bravos with iron-shod cudgels. The assembly is mostly gentlefolk: old men with gnarled hands, mothers clutching children, the injured and infirm—those who cannot fight but still seek protection. At their center stands a haggard man with a shock of black hair streaked with grey — Padrig recognizes the unfortunate from the depths of Odo’s dungeons.

The crier’s hoarse voice carries over the whipping wind. “I saw it with my own eyes in the depths of Odo’s lair! Thunder is the magus’ shield; lightning his sword! Let the winds blow, let the clouds let loose their fury, let the Hillfolk come, for the Stormcatcher will preserve us! Raise your voices in prayer to Tor! The crowd responds with scattered, uneven shouts—some calling Vahid’s name, others crying out to Tor, their voices blending into a discordant chorus of fear and hope.

Pad and Anwen exchange worried looks as they begin to shoulder their way through the crowd. The preacher spots them, and continues his sermon. “Lo! Here are the magus’ champions, who fought at his side to deliver us from Odo’s nightmare! Stormcatcher’s chosen!”

The crowd closes in. Their hands reach out to touch Anwen’s grey cloak¹² or Padrig’s blade at his hip as they pass, seeking some blessing, or merely reassurance. Demetra’s voice rises to cut through the murmurs of the crowd. “Make way! Let them through!” Her bravos push open a path, and Demetra takes Pad by the arm and pulls him close to whisper.

“Now? Has our enemy come?”

“No sightings yet, but this wind might be the first sign. How goes it within?”

“All is well. Draigh has laid on extra supplies, and by Jahalim’s order, your Seeker is the most guarded man in the Delve. Come.”

Demetra puts her fingers to her teeth and whistles, and her men on the inside put their shoulders against the mighty bronze gates, pushing them a crack open and permitting them to enter, while her bravos hold the pressing crowd back.

Jahalim’s courtyard is crowded with fighters — many of his own yellow-clad bravos, sharpening their blades and speaking in hushed tones, joined by blue-scarved members of Draigh’s retinue, stacking sealed barrels of rainwater and small beer in the empty stables. Honest Draigh himself is nowhere to be seen. Pad grimaces. Draigh — eager to lend his support, but far from the fight.

Demetra leads them through the crush to the manor house. The facade — as stately as can be managed in the rough surroundings of the Delve — has been reinforced by wooden barricades across the ground floor windows. The sentry at the door — Jahalim’s towering Manmarcher, a thick wooden caber bound with spiked iron bands slung over his shoulder — salutes as they pass freely.

As they enter the torchlit hall, the sounds from the courtyard fade, replaced by the quiet bustle of servants moving to and fro. This part of the manor has been transformed into a makeshift infirmary, with rows of straw mattresses and stacks of linen bandages made ready to receive the wounded.

Waiting at the bottom of the main stairs is another familiar face. Anwen cannot look at Elder Kirs without seeing his son — the same sharp, handsome features, the same blue-grey eyes, though both are weathered by age and grief.

“Sir,” Anwen bows her head respectfully. “I did not think to find you here.”

“My place is with the Seeker until the battle is done.”

Padrig nods. “You think the hdour will come for him.”

“Yes — the Seeker alone can restrain his power, and sorcerers abhor that which binds them. I do not fight for the Delve; let this thrice-cursed place burn to ash for all I care. But this hdour killed my son, and I will have him under my knife tonight.”

Pad replies with a warrior’s salute, and Demetra leads them to Jahalim’s chambers, where Jahalim awaits them.

The chieftain of the Delve is attended by his once-prisoner, Abrim the Judge. The priest of Aratis still wears the chains that bound him around his neck as his sign of office and stands at Jahalim’s right hand as they hear reports from messengers from Sorrow’s Gate and the trailheads. As Padrig and Anwen enter, all attention turns to them.

“Where is the Seeker?” Anwen asks, seeing Vahid absent.

“I could ask you the same question. He has been absent from my council chamber all day.” Jahalim snaps.

“He is in seclusion, preparing for the battle to come,”¹³ Abrim replies shortly. “A chieftain should respect the rites and privacies of his councilors, so the Lawkeeper admonishes.”

Padrig sees Jahalim tense, and his eyes flash with anger, but to his credit, the chieftain of the Delve does not gainsay his Judge-priest.

“The wind grows stronger. Was it not Vahid himself who told us this was a herald of the enemy’s coming? How fare our reserves in the Swap?” Jahalim instead demands.

“Well,” Padrig replies. “They are ready — two dozen armed and armored, and the same again waiting in their quarters for the call. What news from Ffrancis and Mutra?”

“No sign of the enemy, neither from Sorrow’s Gate nor the trailheads. The Smiler has lookouts on the tops of the ruined towers, but they’ve seen no sign, and one of Draigh’s smugglers has led hunters up the goat trails, but the nomads aren’t using any of the usual hideaways.”

“Belike they will move in tonight,” Padrig says. “Maybe they’ll wait til first light to attack, maybe not — the nomads train to fight in the dark, and how to signal one another during a night attack.”

Anwen’s brow furrows. “Every time we’ve faced the Stormcrows, it has been at night.”

Vahid’s quiet, urbane voice cuts into the silence. “It will be tonight.” All eyes turn to the entryway, where the Seeker enters in a swirl of sky-blue cloak. The hood is drawn up, covering his missing eye in shadow while his remaining eye softly glows azure. “The stormclouds overhead are in his thrall; I can feel his hand stirring their wroth.”

Pad can feel the room’s gravity shift in Vahid’s presence. Jahalim draws himself up and leans forward, his attention rapt. The Judge looks to the Seeker with eager, hungry eyes. He has true believers in the manor as well as at the gates.

“Seeker,” Jahalim says impatiently. “As you say, the storm gathers. This blasted sirocco has turned the town into a tinderbox. What can you do to protect my people?”

Vahid moves to join his comrades. “No doubt the enemy intends to harrow us with storms of wind, lightning, and dust when the battle is joined. I will stay here, and call upon the power of the Azure Hand to still the stormclouds. As long as my will holds, one of his strongest weapons will be blunted.” He taps the heavy Aetherium shod of his staff onto the stone floor.

“And what of his other weapons? These storm-marked warriors?” Jahalim asks.

“They are not invincible. They can be slain: Anwen has proven it,” Vahid replies, gesturing with the Azure Hand to Stonetop’s champion.

“Is this so, Padrig? Can our people stand against these… things?”

“There’s no way to know,” Padrig says matter-of-factly. “Most of these men have never thrust a spear in anger. But we’ve done everything we can — they know what they’re facing, so at least they won’t be taken by surprise. But it’s one thing to hear stories of a man who bellows like thunder and moves like lightning, and another thing to see it with your own eyes.”

“When they appear, I’ll be there,” Anwen says firmly. “Every one of the militia knows when they see one of the storm-marked to sound the alarm — three bells at Sorrow’s Gate, three hunting horns at the trail heads.”

“Good.” Jahalim leans back in his high-backed ebony chair, absently fiddling with the hastily-forged iron armlet that marks him as the Delve’s hastily-forged chieftain. “Then what remains to do?”

“What of Vahid’s safety?” Anwen presses. “The assassin who attacked us on the road here is still free, somewhere in the down.”

“Draigh’s lanternmen are out in force searching for him. They know all the boltholes — he cannot hide forever.”

“He doesn’t need to. Only long enough to strike here,” Pad says.

“My sworn blade and wife, Demetra, leads his bodyguard. She has hand-picked four of my bravos, who will be with him every moment until the battle is done. Then there is your Hillfolk savage and your tame monster, Dawa Eyegouger.”

Anwen looks to Pad, who looks like he’s swallowing a bitter pill. “It will have to be enough. We cannot spare more skilled fighters.”

They deliberate a while longer as the sun dips below the horizon. Overhead, thunder begins to roll, and, as though in reply, a booming, brazen toll sounds in the warm night air. Enemy sighted at Sorrow’s Gate. Everyone falls silent as they wait anxiously for a second toll, signaling an imminent attack. But no such alarm comes.

All wait on Jahalim’s word. The slender Lygosi rises to his full height — he has donned a shining bronze breastplate, chased with the worn symbols of some forgotten great house, a lion and a serpent locked in combat. “Let us to our posts. The Delve will stand.”

The company rises as one, and they follow Jahalim to the courtyard. There, the forces divide — Jahalim and Abrim lead their company towards the Foundry, the last bastion, where they will muster if all is lost. Pad collects a dozen militia stationed outside Jahalim’s manor and leads them down the terrace stairs toward Sorrow’s Gate.

Anwen watches them go from the courtyard, with Vahid at her side. The Seeker’s motley crew of bodyguards watch them from a respectful distance. Demetra and a handful of Jahalim’s most trusted killers, alongside the Elder Kirs, sitting alone and sharpening his curved shortblade on a leather strap, and the yellow-eyed Dawa, who circles the courtyard lighting the braziers as the shadows lengthen.

“What will you do if the hdour comes here?” Anwen asks in a quiet voice. “Will you become the storm again? Use his dark magic against him?”

“We must hold nothing back, if the Delve is to stand,” Vahid replies cooly.

Anwen nods. “I thought so. Are you afraid? To use that power again?”

Vahid feels a flush of anger warm his cheeks. Afraid? What has the storm to fear? The Seeker takes a deep breath, trying to will himself to calm. The thoughts and feelings of the storm spirit, His-Laughter-is-the-Thunder, swirl in his mind, and feel ever more like his own.

He looks into Anwen’s eyes, and sees her concern. Only then does he feel his own fear — the tightness in his chest, his breaths coming swiftly. The physical sensation of fear floods him with a strange relief. I am but a man, not a lord of the sky, he tells himself. Remember that.

“Vahid?” The silence between them has drawn out, as the Seeker was lost in thought.

He clears his throat. “Yes, Anwen. I am afraid. Allowing the storm spirit to possess me was necessary but dangerous. I am just beginning to understand what marks it has left upon me. But what other choice do we have?”

Anwen nods sadly. “I must go to my post at the trailheads. Pad and I are with you, Vahid. To whatever end.”

“Thank you, Anwen. For everything.” The champion of Stonetop clasps Vahid’s hand in hers before departing, leaving the Seeker in the courtyard, surrounded by his guards. Above, the clouds grow black, and lightning flashes and thunder booms a ruinous promise. And beneath it all, Vahid can hear the whispered voice of Cirl-of-the-Storms, urging on his spirit-thralls.

Vahid comes to the courtyard’s center and raises the Azure Hand aloft. So it begins.

We’ll close out there! Next episode, we’ll see how Vahid fares in a duel of wills against the hdour, and based on that outcome, we’ll see what Anwen and Padrig face at their posts. — it was challenging getting back on top of all these PCs and NPCs, but it was a lot of fun coming home to this world.

The next episode will drop on April 7 at the latest. As with this episode, I will try to get it in early on the 31st, but as with this episode, I will most likely fail.

As always, thanks so much for reading. If you’re a Proper Villains reader who’s getting into PTFO:Stonetop for the first time, I hope this deluge of NPCs didn’t dissuade you — I promise they’re all given their due introduction in the first 13 Sessions. And if you’re a longtime reader of the Stonetop campaign, welcome back — I hope our first episode back delivered!

1. Vahid’s head is, somewhat literally, in the clouds right now, preparing to match magic with the hdour.

2. Cerdic is one of the Bravos who went down into Odo’s lair with Anwen and Vahid, and so has seen her battlefield prowess firsthand.

3. Recall that Vahid had to make his body a vessel for his cloak’s storm spirit back in Session 13.7, essentially performing the same corruptive magic as the hdour.

4. As established in Session 13.8, Dawa Eyegouger leads the remnants of Odo’s cult, who surrendered once their master was slain. Many of them are infected with the Howling Curse. They are pariahs within Gordin’s Delve but hope valorous conduct in the coming battle might restore their status in the community.

5. This is the mithridate potion of gold and orichalcum that Vahid found the formula for among the records of the Forge Lords in Odo’s Lair. While it does cure all manner of poison and corruption, including the Howling Curse, it was made for Forge Lord physiology and inflicts burning agony on humans who imbibe it. In Session 13.8, he brewed a supply of it, and now Odo’s former cultists wear vials of it around their necks in case they feel the Howling Curse taking hold of them. Some have chosen to drink it to silence the whispers, and not all have survived the cure.

6. Aled was the first of Pad’s crew to die, facing the Stormdrake in Session 5.2. Before the party went to Marshedge, Aled asked Pad to seek news of Young Brogan, but the reason for his particular concern was never revealed.

7. Ionas was Padrig’s close friend who died during their fight in Gordin’s Delve. Way back in Session 3.2, Pad has a vision of Ionas, where they refer briefly to a ‘greener country’ they were both searching for.

8. Axel and Jens are two veterans from the battle in Odo’s Lair. Axel was one of the prisoners in Odo’s pits whom Padrig recruited to help fight their way to freedom, and Jens was a caravan guard who Padrig recruited into their service on the road to Gordin’s Delve.

9. We introduced Rheisart in Session 5.6 as a childhood friend of Anwen’s who often dreamed of the world beyond Stonetop. He traveled to Gordin’s Delve to apprentice under a master smith (with the intention of bringing those much-needed skills back to Stonetop)

10. Rheisart is referring to the Chronicle of Stonetop, maintained by the Judge of Aratis, Garet, back home. It’s a humble tome, mostly full of births, deaths, and harvest tallies, but it’s the most important record Rheisart knows about.

11. Demetra is Jahalim’s senior wife and personal bodyguard.

12. This is one of the items from Anwen’s starting kit — a grey Fenwalker’s cloak, woven by her mother for her father.

13. Mechanically, Vahid is spending this time doing the necessary meditation and preparation to trigger his Safety First move, which gives him 2 Hold that he can expend to halve the damage or effects of hostile magic. Useful!