🗳️ Session 14.7: Escape (Part 1)

Anwen and Pad save a few more souls. Vahid awakens. .

Recap

Last episode, Anwen and Padrig navigated the burning town, trying their best to pull some good folk from the wreckage. On the upper terraces, Anwen carved through Stormcrow raiders to save a work gang of blacksmiths and apprentices, including Rheisart, a young man of Stonetop come to Gordin’s Delve to learn the trade. Meanwhile, Padrig was swept up in the rout from Sorrow's Gate a tide of panicked militia harrowed by pack drakes and veteran Stormcrows. Padrig witnessed Vahid's sorcererous duel with the hdour—and saw his friend's lightning strikes rain down indiscriminately on Delver and Stormcrow alike. With Pad was Young Brogan, a former member of Pad’s old crew, now struggling to control the Howling Curse. Padrig and his young chanrge made their way across Gordin's Delve's rooftops to avoid the gangs of deserters and opportunists already carving up the dying city.

The two heroes converged at Jahalim's Manor, only to find it ransacked and abandoned. There, Dawa Eyegouger delivered grim news: Bravos loyal to Honest Draigh, the boss who betrayed his fellow defenders, had come and taken the fallen Vahid as a prisoner to his own manor. With the Foundry's final battle raging nearby and their friend in the hands of a desperate traitor, Anwen faced a choice between duty to the Delve and loyalty to Vahid. Let’s see what you all chose for her:

Well, not every vote can be a nail-biter! There’s not a moment of hesitation — Anwen and Padrig will go after Vahid. Back to the action, at Jahalim’s Manor:

Scene 12: Jahalim’s Manor, cont’d

Anwen looks from Padrig to the apprentices, then back to Dawa’s bloodied form. The warhorns sound again, and warcries drift from the lower terraces on the wind. “Pad, if the hdour gets his hands on Vahid, or the staff, who knows what he might be able to do? We have to go, Pad.”

Padrig nods — she can see in his eyes that he believes she’s right, no matter what may happen when the Stormcrows take the Foundry. “Aye, Marshal. Brogan,” he calls to the young bandit, who still looks pale and haunted. “I need you to take Dawa to the brothel in the Swap — Parvati’s place. She’ll hide you until we return. Can you do that?”

Brogan’s gaze hasn’t left Dawa — his pale yellow eyes study her pale blue ones, and he clutches the golden elixir hanging around his neck. He straightens, and some strength seems to return to his body. “I can, chief. What about you?”

“We’re going to fetch our friend from Honest Draigh,” Anwen says, hefting Maël’s spear. She turns to Rheisart and the two apprentices who remained with her. “You two should go with Brogan — it’ll be safer than where we’re going.”

But Rheisart shakes his head, gripping his captured hatchet tightly. “Where you go, we all go. You saved us all from the Stormcrows—we owe you that much.” The other apprentices murmur agreement, though Anwen can see the fear in their eyes.

They catch their breath and prepare to move. Brogan helps Dawa to her feet, and Pad picks through the looters’ leavings and finds a notched iron sword, which he tosses to one of Rheisart’s fellow apprentices. The boy catches it and takes a few halting, experimental swings.

“Let’s move,” Padrig says. “No lanterns, no torches. It’ll be first light soon, and it’ll be best if we’re not seen by Stormcrows and Delvers alike.”

They fall in behind the old bandit and set out into the pre-dawn darkness, leaving the devastated manor behind. The Delve they move through now bears little resemblance to the bustling mining town they fought to defend. Smoke hangs thick in the air, and the streets echo with distant shouts and the sound of metal on metal, or splintering wood. And, ever-present above, is the great, looming storm. The clouds are dark, nearly black, but they stubbornly refuse to surrender their life-giving rain to the burning town below. Instead, cruel gashes of white lightning fall like an executioner’s blade, lighting more fires where they strike on the upper terraces, and the storm’s wind stokes the blaze like a Tor’s own bellows.

They keep to the rooftops as they descend towards the first terrace. Their path to Draigh’s leads through the Bloody Grin, Smiling Ffransis’ old haunt and whiskysink. The ramshackle wooden tower leans against the first terrace wall, built around a three-story bronze statue of a long-forgotten Maker lord, its features worn smooth by age, save for a savage gash through its face, marked with chipped red paint.

“Careful and quiet now,” Pad whispers. Their party has gathered at the edge of the second terrace, ready to descend to the tower’s roof. “Besides the great stair, this is the best path up from the first terrace. If we run into trouble, it’ll be here.”

One by one, the company climbs the rough ladder that leads down to the Grin’s rooftop. From the edge of the Bloody Grin’s uneven timbers, Pad can see Draigh’s manor, a high-walled compound pressed against the valley’s granite wall at the very western edge of the terrace, like a man hiding from the law. Close enough to Sorrow’s Gate for an easy getaway, Pad notes silently. Pray that thrice-damned schemer is still grasping for all he can take before he makes his escape.

Pad leads the way in through an open trap door and another precarious ladder. The interior of the Grin is cavernous, an open common room overlooked by three stacked balconies with a single staircase twisting down the middle from top to bottom. Once inside, he can hear quiet muttering and low, choked sobs. He makes his way, low and slow, to the edge of the balcony and peeks over, motioning for the others to wait.

Pad triggers Seek Insight: 5+3+2 Wisdom = 10, Strong Hit

Pad’s three questions are “Who is in control here?” “What is about to happen?” and “What should I be on the lookout for?” and receives a bunch of information about the geography and current inhabitants of the Bloody Grin. He also triggers Read the Land, and asks “What is the best way out, in, or through?” All of this information can be used to generate Advantage on subsequent rolls.

The last time they visited the Bloody Grin, there was a terrific brawl, and by the looks of the common room below, there has been another. Tables and chairs have been smashed to kindling, whiskey barrels split open and emptied, shattered pithoi with only a few scattered grains of rice left among the potsherds.

A dozen or so Delvers are huddled among the looters’ leavings, lit by only a few lanterns. Straining to see, Pad marks a few as militia, still carrying their hastily given spears and shields. A few others are bravos, with finer blades and armor, though they have shed the sashes and scarves of their allegiance. The rest are not fighters — a few older men, but mostly women and girl children, looking uncertain and frightened.

A face surfaces in the dim light: pale, scarred, unbeautiful. It is Ollem the Stone, lieutenant to the fallen boss Mutra. He speaks in quiet tones to the man with him — his back is to Pad, but the way the man stands and moves is familiar, Pad can’t place him, until he too turns towards the light: Jens, the caravan guard who also braved Odo’s lair.

Anwen creeps up beside Padrig and looks down at the scene below, her face drawn with worry. Pad pulls her away from the edge and quietly unlimbers his bow. A pair of lonely arrows wait in his quiver. “We can’t wait for them to leave, but we can’t be sure what Ollem’s about,” he breathes, barely a whisper. With a quick, silent yank, he strings his bow. “Wait till there’s a noise from outside, then move down, quiet as you can, and wait by the stairs. I’ll give you a twenty-count, and I’ll call down to him, and we’ll see where he stands tonight.”

For this moment, I chose to use “Struggle as One” the group version of Defy Danger. Anwen has a +0 Dexterity bonus, making stealth not her strong suit, while Pad is rolling Wisdom instead (since his approach is more about observation and planning). Pad gets advantage because of his earlier Seek Insight roll.

Anwen triggers Struggle as One: 4+1+0 Dexterity = 5, Miss
Padrig triggers Struggle as One: 5+2+5+2 Wisdom = 12, Strong Hit

and scores a Strong Hit. Anwen scores a Miss, but Struggle as One allows Pad’s strong hit to negate a miss, so they get into position with no fuss.

Anwen nods and creeps towards the stairs. Soon enough, there is a peal of thunder and a flash of lightning from outside. Ollem and his fighters move to the windows, and Anwen makes her move. Before the tumult outside calms, she has reached the ground floor of the Bloody Grin, crouched in the shadows behind a disemboweled pithos.

After he counts twenty heartbeats, he rises, standing at the balcony’s edge, and calls down. “Ho, Ollem. Where away?” Ollem and his fighters snap to attention, looking up at Padrig. The refugees around him withdraw from the lanternlight, huddling in the shadows, while one bravo keeps a careful eye on them.

Ho, Ollem. // Source: Midjourney

“Hound,” Ollem calls back quietly. He doesn’t dare to shout. “I saw the rout take you. Thought you were with the Lady by now.”

“We’ll see.” Pad’s eyes flick over to meet Jens’s. The caravan guard looks up at him with awe, to see him still alive. He gives the man a sturdy nod, and Jens sketches a quick salute behind Ollem’s back.

“There’s a bounty on his head, Stone. Fifty silver bezants!” one of the bravos hisses.

“No one in this town has fifty bezants anymore!” another hisses back.

“Then where did it all go, clod?”

“Quiet, all of you,” Ollem barks, before turning back to look up at Pad. “I’ve got no quarrel with you, Hound.”

“That’s not my name,” Pad replies coolly.

“There’s no reason we can’t share this hide until there’s a chance to get away,” Ollem continues. “If you’re headed for the gate, so are we. Might be the smart move to go together.”

“We’re not bound for the gate. We’re headed to Draigh’s. Seen him?”

“Not since before the battle. What’s that shady dealer got that you want?”

“He betrayed us. Betrayed the Delve, betrayed Mutra, and all of you, to our deaths. To save his own hide. I mean to make sure he sees a bit of justice on this side of the Last Door. You want a piece?”

“Mutra’s dead? You saw her fall?”

“I did.” Anwen rises from her hiding place. A stir goes through the Delvers, bravos, and refugees alike. “Draigh’s man led us into a trap on the high path, and then left us there to die. Only a few got out.”

“If Mutra’s dead, the Delve died with her, says I,” the big man growls. “We’re taking these folk out of here to greener country.” Pad tenses. He’s taking them as thralls. There’s no chance Anwen lets this pass.

Anwen pauses, taking in the huddled refugees — the fear, uncertainty, and hope in their eyes. Padrig watches her, his hand slowly moving to brush the feathers of an arrow in his quiver.

“Are these folk going with you willingly, Ollem?” Anwen asks, her voice deceptively quiet. She holds Maël’s spear loosely at her side, but to Pad’s eyes, she looks ragged, maybe unready for a hard fight. Pad can sense Ollem sizing her up. You saw her fight in Odo’s lair, Ollem. Don’t be a fool.

“They’ll die if they stay here. The Stormcrows’ll open their throats, they’ll burn, or they’ll starve. If they come with me, they’ll live. I know jarls in the Manmarches who hold fast to the thrall-right. They will be treated well.”

Anwen raises her voice. “Any one of you who doesn’t wish to go with Ollem, stand with me.”

A few refugees begin to rise, but Ollem’s bravos are there, baring iron and shouting at them to get back down. Anwen roars back: “Stand down, you dogs!” Above, Padrig nocks an arrow, his arm screaming in painful protest already, and motions for Rheisart and his fellows to go to Anwen’s side.

“You can’t win this fight, Ollem!” Pad calls down. “You have the supplies you need to leave. Let these folk go.”

Anwen triggers Persuade here, with Pad aiding. She already has advantage from her Speak Truth to Power move, but the Aid move also can allow characters to accomplish more than they could alone which I think can apply here, persuading the whole of Ollem’s gang to stand down.

Anwen triggers Persuade w/ Advantage: 6+6+1+1 Charisma = 12, Strong Hit

Ollem doesn’t like his odds, and folds like a tea-towel.

Ollem glances uncertainly between Anwen, with Rheisart and the smiths gathering behind her and ready to go to war, Padrig, with his commanding view of the field, and his hastily-recruited gang of bravos, tense and eager to cut whatever they can off the Delve’s carcass. His shoulders slump as the fight goes out of him. “Stand down, lads. Let them go.”

Most of Ollem’s men step back — a slow, shuffling obedience that betrays their reluctance to give up their prizes. One of them — a reedy Lygosi with a drooping moustache — decides to try his luck and draw iron on his chief. “Fuck that, Ollem,” he hisses, brandishing a curved kopis. “I didn’t join up with you to go to the Manmarches as a pauper. These…”

Ollem doesn’t let him finish the thought, folding him in half with a serpent-swift blow to the gut. The man slumps to the ground, and Ollem kicks the kopis out of his reach as he gasps for air. Then, he gathers up his bravos by eye, and calmly, as though he was stamping out a campfire, he cracks the Lygosi’s neck with his boot heel.

“In case any of you dogs thought I was going soft. Get ready to move, the lot of you.”

Ollem’s men cast wary glances at the Lygosi’s twisted body on the floor, and they get about it. All save Jens¹, who exchanges uncertain glances with Anwen and Pad before staying behind as Ollem’s crew departs.

“Good to see you still alive, chief,” he says, his voice tinged with apology. “Ollem told us all you had fallen at the gate.”

“Never mind that, man,” Pad says, clapping the caravan guard on the shoulder. “You have the stomach for one more damn fool job?”

“Need another blade at Draigh’s?” he replies, a bit shakily.

“Wouldn’t hurt. But these folk need a place to hide until we can get them to safety.”

Jens nods, his shoulders slumping with relief. “Where?”

“Madame Parvati’s — wait there, and when we return, we’ll all make for Stonetop together, or go our separate ways.”

“Right, chief. How long should we wait?”

Pad grimaces. “Not long. We’re running out of time — Vahid told us that once the sorcerer gains the Foundry, he’ll undo the Maker-magic there, and the town will burn.”

They part ways at the foot of the stairs — Jens leading the refugees up toward the trap door while Pad and Anwen gather Rheisart and his fellows to head back into the street. As the refugees file past in the dim lanternlight, Anwen catches sight of a pale, thin face she remembers: the young, brown-eyed girl from the emigre caravan², whom Anwen carried across the Flats in their mad flight from the Stormcrows on the road to the Delve. Their eyes meet for just a moment, and then she’s swept along with the others up the stairs, disappearing into the shadows like a ghost.

Pad leads them out through the Grin’s main doors and into the narrow streets of the first terrace. Here, the smoke is thinner, and the din of battle is faint. They move in single file along the base of the terrace wall, keeping to the shadows cast by the overhanging buildings. Ahead, the walls of Draigh’s manor loom against the granite cliff face, its timber gates sealed tight.

As Anwen and Padrig approach Draigh’s manor, we’ll check in with Vahid, who has been unconscious since Cirl-of-the-Storms cast him down from the skies above the Delve. First things first, we have to know what state Vahid is in with a Death’s Door roll:

Vahid triggers Death’s Door: 3+4+Nothing = 7, Weak Hit

It is not yet Vahid’s time — though even if it was, he probably wouldn’t accept it. The Death’s Door move says that you glimpse the Last Door and the Lady of Crows — so far, we have only seen the goddess of death through Anwen’s eyes, and now we see her through Vahid’s.

Scene 13: A Dark Place

It is night when Vahid awakens. The sweet, prickling smell of incense coaxes him from his dreamless slumber, mingled with the familiar scent of paper and drying ink. He knows what he will see before he opens his eyes — the cavernous vulgarium of the Lycaeum of Lygos, the only part of the great academy where the unlettered public is permitted.

Vahid sits at one of the long tables that line the hall, scattered with detritus of a festival day — overturned glasses, empty flagons, snuffed candles, and plates with picked-clean bones and breadcrumbs. The echo of laughter sounds in Vahid’s ears, as though he feasted with the revelers, but it is fading from his mind. At the far end of the hall, the great bronze double doors of the Lycaeum — commissioned by the First Despot and finally paid for by the sixth — stand open. The hall beyond is in shadow, but Vahid feels beckoned to come and see what truths wait beyond.

But something keeps him. On the table before him is a checkered board, and carved pieces of ivory and obsidian, their faces as familiar to Vahid as his own reflection — the elephant and the horsemen, the dragon and the sorcerer-king. Diamachia, the game of black and white.

Vahid surveys his grim position on the board — the ivory sorcerer-king is beset on all sides, threatened by obsidian horsemen and the looming wings of the black dragon. His eyes narrow, searching for the move that might give some narrow path to victory, but his reverie is broken by a cool, calm voice.

Say the word, and the game will be done // Source: Midjourney

“You need not continue.” At his side is a tall, pale woman in white scribe’s robes, the sleeves darkened by black ink stains. Vahid dares not look upon her face. She places a slender, delicate finger on the very tip of the king’s crown. “Say the word, and the game will be done.”

Vahid does not take his eyes from the board. “There is still a chance.”

She laughs, a sound like temple chimes. Her hand moves with slow, easy grace to the far corner of the board, and she gives it a gentle push. The board revolves slowly on a hidden axis, turning to bring Vahid to the victorious side, then turning again, bringing him back to defeat. “It is a game for children, my son. A delight to play once, or twice. But again and again, forever?”³

Vahid knows that if he looks up — if he gazes upon the Lady’s face, or looks beyond the Last Door, that he may never wish to return. So instead, he places his hand on the sorcerer-king. The yellowed ivory feels warm and alive.

There is still a chance.

“Draigh! He’s awake!”

Vahid gasps himself alive, into the world of flesh and blood, and pain. The rising and falling of his chest brings agony; his head swims with it. His vision is dimmed, his eye straining to focus, but he can make out shapes moving around him with deliberate purpose.

His hands are bound in front of him in rough hempen rope, and his feet are manacled. A gag muffles his first groan. He finds himself lying on the soft earthen ground of Draigh’s courtyard. Around him, Draigh’s bravos make ready to move — loading supplies into saddlebags and seeing to their mounts and packmules.

Heavy footfalls approach, and then Draigh’s sour-looking, flabby face swims into view. “The great magus. If I let you speak, will you enspell me? I think not, your staff is locked away safe.” His thick, sausage fingers reach up and pull the stained cloth from Vahid’s mouth.

Vahid coughs. His throat is parched. Draigh holds out an insistent hand to one of his men, and is given a waterskin, which he puts to Vahid’s lips. “There. Never say Honest Draigh gave you nothing, Lygosi.” He smiles with mock-magnanimity.

Vahid drinks desparately, but his throat burns with every swallow. Soon he cannot endure the pain, coughing and sputtering, and Draigh’s face twists with distaste, as he wipes the spatter of water from his face.

“Why, Draigh? Why betray your own people?”

He snorts. “The Delver are no people of mine. They’ve always hated me — hated the man who brought food to their tables. As for why — well, Seeker, you said it yourself: The Delve is finished. Without the magic of the Makers’ Road⁴, it’s only a matter of time before some marcher Jarl, or the Despot himself, claims it for his own. Why wait to cut bait, eh?”

“You are a fool, Draigh. Cirl-of-the-Storms cannot be bargained with. Anything he has told you is a lie.”

Draigh chuckles — a deep, jowly sound that sets Vahid’s teeth on edge. His hand goes to his belt, and from a pouch he produces a weathered golden coin, the ancient king on its face worn smooth by age. “So far, his word is good as gold. I wonder how much more your fine scepter might be worth to him?”

Vahid rises to his knees, grimacing in pain as he forces himself to move. “I know he would not hesitate to kill you for it. Think carefully, Draigh. You have turned loose a great evil. Even if you flee as far as Lygos, he might knock on the Scion’s Gate next.” As Vahid speaks, his eye, finally focused and clear, takes in his surroundings.

Vahid triggers Seek Insight: 2+4+1 Wisdom = 7, Weak Hit.

Vahid gets one question, and asks “What here is useful or valuable to me.” He is also able to ask “What here is magical?” thanks to his storm-marked eye (the result of one of the Azure Hand’s consequences.

This seemed like an opportune moment to allow Vahid a chance to escape on his own, so I looked back to Draigh’s Instinct, which we established back when he was first introduced in way back in our GM prep for Gordin’s Delve. We used an Ironsworn Orcale to determine Draigh’s instinct, and the Possession result inspired the Instinct “To covet rare, precious, or valuable things.” Hence, he just couldn’t resist putting on Vahid’s fancy magic cloak.

“So, it is of value to him. I think I’ll take my chances. Now, the question is: What to do with you?”

His storm-touched sight seeks out any source of power he might tap, and there, around Draigh’s shoulders, is the answer: his sky-blue cloak, and within it, the slumbering vis of the storm-spirit, His Laughter is the Thunder.

A whispered command awakens him once again. Vahid can sense the spirit’s wrath, roiling within the cloak. Draigh’s eyes narrow in suspicion. He reaches for the knife at his belt.

There is still a chance. Vahid reaches out for the Azure Hand, in the strongbox where the Marshedger has locked it away, and calls it to him. There is an electric crackle and the smell of ozone, and the staff manifests between Vahid’s bound hands with a flash of light. “I am not so easily dispensed with, Draigh.”

Vahid triggers Order Followers w/ Advantage: 6+3+1+12 Charisma = 10, Strong Hit

Vahid tells the cloak to toss Draigh around a bit, and it obliges him. Advantage was gained from acting on the information of his previous Seek Insight roll. The cloak has the moves bear its wearer aloft on a cushion of air and wreak havoc on its surroundings, so conceptually, a combination of those two are enough to deal with Draigh.

Vahid commands the spirit with a gesture from the Hand, and the cloak billows around Draigh, lifting him into the air and buffeting him about as he yelps in surprise.

“Help me, you fools!” he snarls, and his men leap to obey, drawing iron and rushing towards Vahid.

Scene 14: Outside Draigh’s Manor

The flash of blue-white light illuminates the manor’s timber walls from within, followed by a cutting gust of wind that rattles the gate on its hinges. Padrig and Anwen freeze in the shadow of the compound’s gate, exchanging grim looks.

Pad calls out to Rheisart and his fellows, motioning for them to help him scale the walls, but Anwen waves them off. Anger is burning in her breast — rage at the hdour and the Stormcrows, for bringing war to this place, and for Draigh for betraying them when they most needed to stand together. Maël’s spear seems to drink in her anger, humming with an eager, violent energy. She lifts the spear and points it at the wooden gates, and when she lets loose a war cry, a peal of thunder sounds and a lance of white light strikes out, splintering the timbers like kindling in the flame.

The scene beyond the ruined gates is frozen, Draigh and his bravos shocked to stillness by the destruction. Only Vahid seems unbothered, a faint smile on his lips as Anwen strides through the ruins of the gate.

Anwen levels the spear at Draigh’s men. Its bluish edge is still sparking and crackling, though Vahid and Pad both can tell calling on its power has taken much from Anwen — the speartip quavers slightly as she struggles to hold it steady.

“Yield,” Anwen growls. “Draigh is done. You are not his men anymore.”

Two rapid-fire rolls here — first, Anwen triggers the Aetherium Spear’s ability, and Lets Fly using Strength. To activate the spear, she must also take a debility, and I chose Weakened, meaning subsequent combat rolls will be made with disadvantage.

Anwen triggered Let Fly: 5+4+2 Strength = 11, Strong Hit

Next, she demands Draigh’s men stand down. She gets advantage on this for her Speak Truth to Power move.

Anwen triggered Persuade w/ Advantage: 3+3+1+1 Charisma = 7, Weak Hit

For the weak hit, they require some sort of proof of good faith, which can take the form of letting them slink away into the dark.

Draigh’s bravos melt away like spring snow, leaving the former Delve Boss held aloft by Vahid’s storm-spirit. Pad strides over to them, grimacing a bit with each step, and picks up Draigh’s knife, dropped when the storm-spirit took hold of him, and slashes Vahid’s bonds. The Seeker, in turn, makes a short, sharp gesture with the Azure Hand, and the cloak drops Draigh unceremoniously to the ground.

“Good to see you alive, Seeker.” Pad’s voice is quiet, and he looks into his friend’s eye uncertainly. Are you there, Vahid?

Vahid’s mind reels. It feels like a hundred years since he has seen Pad’s kind, sad face. “And you, Padrig. I am sorry for what has happened here. I wasn’t strong enough.”

The old bandit breathes out a short sigh of relief. This moment of respite is short-lived, however — from the other side of the valley comes a roar, and a gust of hot, ashen wind. Looming over the tops of the Forge Lord ruins and timber insulae is a great pillar of fire, rising from the Third Terrace.

“It has begun,” Vahid whispers hoarsely. “Cirl-of-the-Storms has broken the binding at the Foundry, and unleashed the spirit of fire held there.”

Anwen joins them, and with the sparking tip of the aetherium spear, she lifts Draigh’s drooping chin to face her. “These are the wages of your treachery, Draigh. We could have stopped this, if you had stood with us.”

“You are right, of course,” Draigh blubbers, shrinking away from the blade. “I doubted the Seeker, and I was a fool! But all is not lost. The folk in the Forge Lord’s serais will be safe, and they’ll have to rebuild. And to rebuild, they’ll need what bounty Marshedge can provide. What Honest Draigh can provide!”

He desperately searches their face for some sign of mercy. Anwen’s eyes are stone. Vahid’s pure-blue gaze regards him cooly. Finally, he turns to Padrig. “You were always a reasonable man. I can go to Marshedge, tell them what’s happened here. Stonetop will need the Old Families to stand with them against the sorcerer! You see it, don’t you, Hound?”

“That’s not my name, Draigh.”

We’ll pause the action here, with a mid-episode dilemma: Does Draigh live or die? Obviously, he’s done some things that have earned him a speedy escort to the Last Door — betrayed the party and the Delve, leading to many deaths, and the destruction of the ancient Foundry that the town was built around.

But our heroes haven’t so far been in the habit of killing helpless foes, even those who have deeply wronged them. And he’s not incorrect about his value — a canny contact inside Marshedge who can tell the Old Families about the threat Cirl-of-the-Storms poses could be very valuable indeed, perhaps helping them move against Brennan (a common enemy!)

This week’s vote will determine Draigh’s fate. When you click through on the link, you’ll see two questions — the first is whether the party spares Draigh, and the second is if they do not, who does the deed?

Let the axe fall on the button below to make your choice, and let me know why in the comments!

As always, thanks for reading, and apologies for this installment’s tardy arrival. Next episode will drop no later than 7/14!

1. As a reminder, since the Gordin’s Delve dramatis personnae has grown quite extensive: We first met Jens as a caravan guard on the way to Gordin’s Delve, where he was part of the effort to save the emigrees from death at the hands of the maurading Stormcrows. Then, he accompanied the party into Odo’s lair, and, against the odds, managed to survive. From the GM’s perspective, he represents an opportunity to add to Padrig’s Crew, an important feature of the Marshal playbook — it’s important to keep an eye out for these opportunities to support the player fantasies of each of the PC’s playbooks.

2. This is a callback to Session 10.4 — the emigres were the travelers on the road that the party joined, and then later rescued, when they ran afoul of the Stormcrows on the road.

3. There’s a bit of homage here, for the widely-read. 1 bonus XP for Vahid if you can call it out in the comments.🏆

4. This is the argument that Vahid made back in Session 13.8 — that when the hdour destroyed the enchanted roads that allow for relatively safe passage from the Delve to Lygos, he reshaped the geopolitics of the region, making it possible (and profitable) for a sole strongman to take over and rule the Delve by force.