Last episode, our heroes were finally reunited as Gordin's Delve burned around them. Anwen and Padrig set out to rescue Vahid from the treacherous Honest Draigh, and their path led them through the Bloody Grin. There, they crossed paths with Ollem the Stone, once lieutenant to the fallen Delve Boss, Mutra the Teeth. Ollem, now a free agent, had put himself in the thrall business, and Anwen took exception. Her confrontation with Ollem's men nearly turned violent, but the pragmatic lieutenant ultimately backed down when faced with long odds.
Meanwhile, Vahid found himself at death's door, where he encountered the Lady of Crows in the form of a scholarly scribe. Offered the chance to step away from the endless game of mortal struggle, Vahid chose instead to place his hand on the ivory king and return to the fight. He awoke to find himself captive in Draigh's courtyard. Vahid and Honest Draigh treated briefly, but when Draigh seemed ready to dispose of the Seeker, he took action.
Pad and Anwen arrived just as Vahid attempted to make his own escape, and Anwen shattered the stout gates of Draigh’s manor with the power of Mael’s aetherium spear. The turncloak’s men quickly deserted him when faced with the champion of Stonetop, and he was left standing alone.
Standing over the cowering Draigh, our heroes faced a choice between justice and mercy. The merchant's betrayal had cost countless lives and doomed the town, but he also offered potential value—contacts in Marshedge that might help speed an alliance against the hdour.
Draigh’s crimes are many, but our heroes cannot bring themselves to execute him.
The results for this poll were a delight to watch come in. It started out as an absolute landslide to spare him, and then execute started to rack up the votes. It’s possible if voting continued for a few more days, it could’ve gone the other way.
As I was watching the votes come in, I reflected a bit on our heroes’ propensity for mercy: Anwen spared the village strongman Owain, of course, despite the wrongs he had done her and her friends. And of course, her whole arc has been how much mercy she can hold onto while still upholding her obligations as a warrior.
Padrig is the exception to this rule — down in Marshedge’s dungeons, he threw the loathsome Cousin Bertrim to his death, and he shot down the fleeing Hillfolk warrior way back in Session 3.4. And, perhaps for that reason, he carried the second vote by a hair:
Pad’s hand tightens on his sword, but it remains in the sheath. For this episode, we’ll speed through the escape from Gordin’s Delve — as a GM, I’ve found that it’s often good to let defeated PCs beat a quick retreat, narratively speaking. Back to the action:
Scene 15: Draigh’s Manor
Anwen's spear tip wavers inches from Draigh's throat, the aetherium blade still crackling with residual energy. Behind his pleading eyes, she sees the same desperate calculation that led him to betray them all, grasping for any leverage he might use to enrich himself, or simply to save his traitorous hide. The sun is rising now, the morning tinged a sickly orange, ash falling like spring snow flurries.
Vahid searches Anwen’s face for a sign of what she will do. Her eyes dart over to meet his. She wants us to give her permission. She can’t bring herself to kill a man on his knees. A quick glance at Padrig tells Vahid he has come to the same realization. The old bandit’s knuckles are white around the hilt of his sword, but he does not draw.
“I fear he is right,” Vahid says softly. Even that effort strains his throat, and he coughs, spitting blood. “With the Delve fallen, we must turn to Marshedge for aid against the hdour. He can help us make contact with the Old Families when the time comes.”
“Brennan’s in Marshedge,” Padrig growls. “What do you think he’ll do when he sees you, Draigh?”
Draigh’s eyes are fixed on Anwen’s speartip. “No more than what you might do to me here in my own house!” he squeaks. “If Brennan kills me, you’ve lost nothing. But people owe me in Marshedge — the right people. The Seeker is right — I can help you.”
Anwen lets the spear fall; it sparks against the packed earth of the courtyard. “Begone, Draigh. We’ll find you in Marshedge to settle your debts.”
Honest Draigh scrambles to his feet and backs away, bowing deeply. “I’ll pay them gladly. Gladly!” He scurries away, still simpering, towards a laden pack mule, which he begins to lead away.
“We must make haste to Parvati’s,” Padrig says, moving to another of Draigh’s pack animals and stripping it of its saddlebags, laden with supplies and a few fat leather coin purses1. “The flames will be at the Swap soon, if they aren’t already.” He slings one set of bags over his good shoulder with a wince and then gives the mule a jab on its flank with his dagger, sending it running. Rheisart and the other smiths’ apprentices, lingering by the gates, hurry forward to help him.
“Draigh won’t mind if we take these provisions for the journey home,” he says as he strips the last mule. “We’ll have a lot of mouths to feed.”
Anwen nods and then looks to Vahid. From the terraces above, a hot wind blows, laden with stinging smoke and hot ash. The Seeker’s gaze is fixed on the unseen world, and with his storm-marked eye, he can see the spirit of the Foundry, rising with the billowing flame and smoke — a great serpent with coils of flame, unleashed from its ancient bindings. His grip tightens around the Azure Hand, and he reaches out towards the fire-spirit, but even that small effort turns his stomach and sets his head reeling.
Anwen’s voice of quiet concern cuts through his reverie. “Vahid. Can you walk?”
The Seeker takes a few steps towards her and stumbles, and she rushes to his side, offering her shoulder. He accepts gratefully, and Padrig and the rest of their company join them as they take their leave — Draigh gives them a wide berth, making for Sorrow’s Gate, as they turn and climb the grand stair towards the market.
Montage: Flight from the Delve
The streets are near-deserted when their party reaches the Second Terrace, and the Swap’s market stalls and public houses — even the crows have fled, leaving the fallen to rot or burn in the streets. The House of the Mountain’s Daughter2 is situated in the remnants of a Forge Lord edifice, the stone and bronze of its walls some proof against the embers raining from the sky. Brogan awaits them in the doorway, waving frantically when they appear out of the smoke and falling ash.
The common room of Parvati’s house is packed with the refugees from the Bloody Grin. Jens, Dawa, and Baraz confer quietly in the corner, while Parvati looks on from the kitchen with a strained look on her face. When Padrig appears, her eyes flash with anger. “You must think highly of my hospitality, Padrig, to send me so many in such great need.”
Pad gives an apologetic half-bow. “I do. I had nowhere else I could send them.”
Together, Padrig and Anwen gather their band with quick, quiet exhortations. All told, they are a motley band — Escaped cultists, masterless soldiers, smiths’ apprentices, desperate emigres, a magus, a bandit, and a village champion. As one, they climb the uneven wooden stairs into the vaulted storeroom beneath Madame Parvati’s. Baraz, by candlelight, finds the cleverly hidden false stonework, sliding it aside to reveal a dark tunnel beneath, and the sound of trickling water. Parvati bids them farewell. As Anwen passes her, she presses a silver coin into her hand. “Take this back to my old hawk of the mountains. Tell Ozbeg I still think of him.” Anwen takes it from her and holds it tightly.
Baraz leads them through the darkness — the tunnels put Anwen in mind of the depths beneath Marshedge’s donjon. Outside the lantern’s halo, the darkness is near-total. Sounds play tricks on them. Voices and footfalls sound in the black, as well as snarls and skitters. More than once, the company must halt and wait in silence, for fear of coming upon someone, or something.
But finally, the golden light of morning shows itself at the end of a long tunnel, and the party — those that can — break into a run. The tunnel opens into a sheltered glen dotted with tree stumps and overgrown by flowering vines and thick shrubs. The early morning sun, the crisp, cool air, and the smell of mountain blossoms that greet them feel like a dream, delivering them from the nightmare of the burning Delve. Exhausted and relieved, the company rests here for a time.
After they’ve caught their breath, Pad presses Jens and Brogan into service to inventory their supplies, and Anwen hops up onto a tree stump to address the emigres. “We will lead you down the mountains and to the Makers’ Road. Any who wish to continue to Stonetop may find a place there!”
The company makes ready to move. Baraz embraces Anwen. “I must return to Parvati and my young ones,” he says. “If your path brings you back to the Delve, you will find your friend Baraz waiting.”
The hulking Lygosi collects those who will return. Rheisart's fellow blacksmiths bid him farewell as they join Baraz, along with a handful of emigres who prefer their chances at rebuilding the Delve to whatever welcome awaits them at Stonetop. They clamber back up to the tunnel’s entrance and disappear into the darkness. Anwen waits at the tunnel’s mouth until she can see their lanternlight no longer, and then gives the nod to Padrig, who calls them to move out, and they begin their descent, down the foothills of the Huffel Peaks, and to the grasslands below.
Setting the Scenes: The Journey Home
Now comes the time for one of my all-time favorite moves/mechanics in Stonetop: Keep Company. Longtime readers of PTFO will know well my love for this move:
Poetry in Design. Source: Jeremy Strandberg // Stonetop
This move can and should be stolen for every TTRPG that cares even a little bit about the relationships between the PCs. It’s just a great creativity pump for establishing small, characterful details about the party. And in this context — the aftermath of a bitter defeat — it’s an opportunity to frame scenes that let the characters show how they’re dealing with it all, and what they intend to do next.
So, what are some worthwhile Keep Company scenes to consider? We probably want to land on 3-4 short vignettes that involve 1-2 PCs and potentially some of the NPCs. I did a quick brainstorm and came up with the following:
Padrig and Vahid talk about his defeat at the hands of the hdour, and what might happen next in their struggle with him, including their need to acquire Stormcatcher’s Crown.
Anwen and Padrig talk with the emigres about making Stonetop their home. This could fit under the question “Who or what seems to be on your mind?” as the emigres will no doubt be curious what awaits them at the end of their journey, and it’ll help us establish what their path to integration into Stonetop’s community.
Anwen and Vahid talk about their respective failures in the battle, and how they might become strong enough to defeat the hdour.
Starting with that first scene, I wanted to establish a how Vahid is feeling after his ordeal. I asked the Oracle “Does Vahid’s condition improve?” and used the “Unlikely” table. My result was “No, and…” which I interpret to mean not only does he not improve, he actually worsens on the trek. Then I asked the Oracle if there was a physician among the emigres, and once again set the odds as Unlikely. This time, my result was “Yes, but…” which I interpreted to mean that while there’s no proper physician here, there’s someone who can help, with caveats.
Scene 16: A Waystation on the Makers’ Road
The company descends from the sharp, granite cliffs of the Huffel Peaks and to the sweeping expanses of the Flats, and from there, they make for the safety of the Makers’ Roads3. After weeks in the cramped terraces of Gordin’s Delve, beneath the looming mountains, the endless blue sky and vast expanses feel like freedom at last, and all seem to breathe easier.
Shortly after the company reaches the Makers’ Road, Vahid collapses on the smooth, black paving stones. Young Brogan and Dawa are by his side when he falls — the old members of Odo’s twisted family regard the Seeker, who gave them the golden mithridate4, with near-saintly reverence — and they carry his unconscious body another mile to one of the waystation plazas that punctuate the ancient roads.
There, Anwen calls a halt to the day’s march, and the more able hands — Jens, Brogan, and Rheisart — direct the emigres in the building of a fire in the waystation’s hearth, and the drawing of water from its well.
As they make camp, Vahid’s condition seems to worsen — he grows pale, his breath shallow, and his sleep is fitful. Pad searches for help among the emigres — one has a touch of a physiker’s skills, but does not speak a word of the Stonetongue, nor Steptongue, nor any other language or pidgin that Padrig can muster. After some pantomime, the man digs into his bags and produces a small waterskin full of a foul-smelling brown concoction, which he forces down Vahid’s throat, followed by a great deal of water, mixed with a pinch of salt and some crushed-up yellow flowers. To Padrig’s surprise and relief, the remedies seem to work — a bit of color returns to Vahid’s face, and he seems to sleep more easily. Padrig orders him moved by the fire, and sits at his side while he keeps the first watch.
The stars shine overhead when Vahid’s eye opens. For a time, he lies still, gazing up into the vast, numberless field. His mind feels bereft — He remembers the ecstatic agony of power coursing through his body, lightning flowing through his veins, imperious mein of a storm-spirit filling his heart. Now, there is only the mundane aches of the flesh, and the uncertain tangle of his own thoughts.
He senses Padrig beside him, and from the subtle movement of his body, shifting towards Vahid, he can tell that Pad knows he is awake. But the old bandit says nothing.
Though the battle was lost, the stars shine still. // Source: Midjourney
Vahid breaks the silence. “How long have I slept?” His own voice sounds strange in his ears.
“Not as long as you need, I’d wager,” Pad says softly. “How do you feel?”
Vahid considers for a moment — the aches in his joints, the unpleasant crackling when his chest rises and falls, the knot of acid shame and doubt in his chest. “Alive,” he says finally.
Padrig snorts. “From your lips to the ears of Tor.”
They sit in silence for a time, Pad watching the horizon, Vahid the stars. Now it is Padrig’s turn to break the silence. “What happened, Vahid? I saw you rising into the sky. I saw you let fly with thunder and lightning that laid low our own people.” His voice is very soft now — even though the emigres are bedded down, he is certain someone is watching.
“I held back his power for as long as I could. When Draigh’s treachery was laid bare, and the assassin came for me, still I held. But in the end, he was many, and I was few — he commands the spirits of the storm like servants, and he mustered them just as he mustered the Stormcrows.”
Padrig waits, letting the silence stretch until Vahid can not help but fill it. “When I could hold no more, I knew my only chance—our only chance—was to cut off the serpent’s head. But I was overmatched. He was more prepared, more warlike. He understands the power we both wield better than I.”
“The power you both wield?” Padrig presses. “Katrin and the Sun-Spear5 say his sorcery is a blasphemy against nature.”
“Perhaps it is. But there was no other choice. Was there?”
Padrig’s mouth opens to upbraid Vahid, but he closes it, the thoughts unvoiced. He remembers the last time he was in Gordin’s Delve, a desperate flight to save the men who’d trusted him with their lives. There were many other choices he could’ve made, of course: He could’ve chosen to challenge Brennan for leadership of the crew, or to have deserted and left Gordin’s Delve with whomever would have followed. But once the battle had begun, at the tip of the spear, there was only one choice — fight on, or yield and die.
“Perhaps there was not,” Pad allows. “What happens next?”
“Our enemy has won a great victory for the Hillfolk. Gordin’s Delve is a blasphemous place among their people. To the Heolings and Storm-folk alike. No doubt he will use this great deed to gather others to his banner. The nomads follow those who will give them victory. Then, he will come to Stonetop. Without the arcanum beneath the village, he cannot realize his grand ambition.”
Here, Padrig triggers Know Things, using his move from the Penitent background, which lets him use Strength (+0) instead of Intelligence (-1). He spent many years as a nomad-fighter, so he knows something about being the target of their aggression.
Padrig triggers Seek Insight: 6+6+0 Strength = 12, Strong Hit
Could’ve used those rolls some time ago, but here we are. Pad knows his business.
“That will take him time. Summer is the Hillfolk raiding season, and it has already begun—he will need at least the rest of the season to muster his forces and fight off whatever challenges come from the meistrs who don’t wish to follow him. If he means to attack Stonetop, belike it will not be until Summer comes again.”
“We must prepare the village. Seek more allies. And… there is still a chance we might turn that arcanum to our own advantage. But we need Stormcatcher’s Crown.”
“Elder Kirs was the only one who knew the way to its resting place. He is dead, Vahid.”
“This I know. I saw him fall.”
“Then how will we find the barrow?”
Slowly, and with great care, Vahid lifts himself to a seated position. He looks down the Makers’ Road, its straight black paving stones seeming to stretch without end into the dark night. “He is dead, but not beyond our reach. The Crossroads6. Where the Last Door stands open just a crack.”
Padrig sucks in a breath. “Vahid… To truck with the dead, to cross the Lady of Crows. Tales are told of people who do these things, and they never end well.”
“I know. Everything you are about to say, I have turned over in my own mind. Now, you can do the same. Is there another choice? I do not know.”
Together, they stare into the fire for a time, until Padrig remembers himself. You’re supposed to be on watch, you damn fool. Silently, he rises, and returns his gaze to the dark horizon.
Scene 17: A Maker waystation, 2 days from Stonetop
The next night, Padrig and Anwen sup with the emigres’ new speaker.
The man across from the fire is Wiland7, a gregarious, leather-faced Manmarcher with a bald head and a scraggly blonde beard. He seems to have emerged as the leader of the emigres through sheer friendliness, and by virtue of knowing the most tongues — Stonetongue, Marchsprech, Lygosi, a smattering of Sunghaian, and even a few words of the odd southern dialect the healer speaks.
For their dinner, Wiland turns three skewered rock crickets over the fire, their sharp hind legs beginning to curl as they roast. Smoke rises from their hard, shiny carapaces, and the air is filled with the sound and smell of their sizzling insides. By the fire, a half-dozen more of the hand-sized crawlers await their fate in a wicker cage, chirping noisily. Anwen watches the things cook, fascinated, while Padrig looks on beside her, keeping his disgust off his face.
“Our last taste of the Delve, eh?” Wiland chortles. “Can’t say I’ll miss it too much. Tastes good, but it’s hard to forget what you’re eating. He takes the skewer off the fire, and places it gingerly on a flat slab of slate before shattering them open with a few sharp smacks of a carpenter’s mallet. As he strikes, he speaks. “Tor, Rainmaker, our many thanks for this humble seat at your feasting table. May it remind us of fatter days!”
Padrig accepts one of the steaming creatures, and skewers a chunk of its stringy, pale meat with his dagger. “Well said, man. Were you a godi, back in the Marches?”
“A simple woodsman, only. I like to be on good terms with folk, and that goes twice for the gods.” He grins.
Padrig swallows the meat quickly, then washes it down with a swig of small beer. “So, how fares our company?”
Wiland nods, as if to say to business, then. “Well enough. They are glad to be alive, to be unchained. There’s much to be grateful for — no one questions that. But the champion,” he nods respectfully to Anwen, “mentioned we might find a place in Stonetop. Your people take in wanderers?”
Anwen nods. “We do. My mother was one such a wanderer. She came to Stonetop after she was outcast from Marshedge. A patron — Cerys, one of the elders — chose her, and she and I lived in their household for a time.”
Wiland nods, taking a meditative bite of cricket. “For a time?”
“She had to return to Marshedge when I was a little girl,” Anwen says, hoping the matter will lie. “I was allowed to stay in Cerys’ household. She grits her teeth as Wiland looks sour for a moment, then, to her relief, he picks a stringy piece of tendon from his teeth and casts it into the fire, smiling once more.
“Kind of her, to look after a vagabond’s daughter. And now you are the village champion, eh? Sitting at the high table on feast days?”
“Anwen fought hard for her place,” Padrig says. “The old champion had turned his back on his oaths and duties to the village, and she defeated him in the ring of honor. If your people work for the commonweal, they’ll get their share of it, and no Delve Boss or Jarl’ll take it from them.”
Wiland nods along as Pad speaks, taking a moment to suck the meat out of a shiny black foreclaw. “So. Work for the commonweal. What work does Stonetop have for us?”
Anwen and Pad exchange a glance. We have to tell them, Anwen had said, when she and the old bandit had conferred while camp was being raised. Even if we need the hands.They have a right to know that we are next.
“We will have need of every hand, no matter the trade in the year ahead,” Anwen says. “You and your folk should know this: The enemy that came for the Delve is coming for Stonetop. In the seasons ahead, we must make ready — strengthen our walls, arm ourselves, find allies in Marshedge, and maybe beyond.”
Wiland falls silent and takes a long, meditative draught of his small beer. “We owe you much, you Stonefolk. But these people have had enough of battle. Belike we should move on. We can go to the Marches as free folk, not thralls.
Pad nods. “I would not blame you, friend. But our Seeker has seen into the enemy’s mind. The sorcerer will not end his march with Stonetop. He means to put all these lands under his shadow, from the Barrier Pass to far Lygos. Unless good folk stand against him.”
Here, Pad and Anwen are triggering Persuade together, with him leading the roll, and her aiding.
They’re ready to join up with Stonetop, even given the hdour’s designs, but they need some assurances. Back to the action:
Wiland wags his head from one side to the other before shrugging his shoulders. “I suppose those are just stormclouds on the horizon, until we know whether Stonetop will have us.”
“I’ll find you all patrons,” Anwen says quickly. “If any of your number goes hungry in Stonetop, I will go hungry with them.”
Wiland’s eyebrows rise. “That’s a kingly promise. Do I have your oath on it?”
Anwen hesitates for only a moment before nodding. Padrig holds back a wince. You’re the Marshal now, Anwen. You can’t fight every battle from the front.
“What gods should I swear by?” Anwen asks.
Wiland chuckles. “In my old thorp, we don’t swear by the gods. We swear with bloody hands between enemies, and among friends…” He smiles and spits in his hand, holding it out. “What say you, Stonetop?”
Anwen looks to Pad, who gives her a near-imperceptible nod. She follows suit, spitting in her hand and grasping Wiland’s. “Sworn, then!” the Marcher says. “Who wants another crawler?”
Scene 18: A hillock, overlooking Stonetop.
On the fifth day, Stonetop is sighted, at long last. At the crest of a hillock, by an old Stonefolk markerstone, the company halts. The sun has risen high, painting the sky a brilliant blue and the clouds pure white. The rolling grasses bow in the warm Spring breeze, and the smoke and din of the Battle of the Delve seem far away. Anwen’s heart swells to see it, but the bliss of homecoming cools when she thinks of what hell might follow them here.
Returning home. // Source: Midjourney
Padrig takes Jens and ranges ahead, to bring word of their return to Stonetop, while the emigres rest and drink from a roadside spring. Anwen sees Vahid, standing apart from the company, away from the safety of the Makers’ Road, at the very edge of the hill, looking out to the village, while he leans heavily on the Azure Hand.
Anwen follows him, letting the tall grass brush her palms as she steps off the rune-carved black paving stones of the Makers’ Road. At his side, she can hear his still-labored breathing, over the buzz of insects and chirrup of songbirds.
“There was a moment when I did not think I would see this place again,” Vahid says. “Thank you for coming for me, at Draigh’s.”
“We swore an oath to one another, Vahid. Of course we came for you.”
Vahid turns to look at her and smiles weakly. His storm-marked eye shines brightly, making his face look even more haunted and haggard. “It is not so simple, for those without your heart, Anwen.”
“It was simple. We can’t defeat the hdour without you.”
“You could not defeat him with me, I fear.”
“We all failed, Vahid. I couldn’t hold at the trailhead, there was a rout at Sorrow’s Gate.”
“I do not say this for your sympathy, Anwen. We held nothing back. If we are to be victorious when next we face the enemy, we must become something more.”
Anwen meets his eye. “What do you mean, Vahid?”
“Here is what we know: Long ago, the Storm Lord Indrasduthir, whom we know by the name Stormcatcher, created a powerful band of warriors, empowered by arcana, to face the threat of the Green Lords, when the Makers went to war, a millennia ago. These warriors, and their people, were perhaps the first to call Stonetop home. Indrasduthir is gone, but the legacy and power of Stormcatcher remain. The hdour will claim this power for himself, unless we stop him. There is no one else who can.”
As he speaks, his voice grows steadier, clearer. The hunch in his shoulders is gone, he stands proudly, despite the pain Anwen knows he must be in. Padrig said something has come over him — that grasping the storm has changed him somehow. I see it, now.
“We must grasp this power ourselves, and use it to defeat him. Do you see any other path?”
Anwen is quiet for a time, turning away from Vahid’s shining eye to look on her home, the only home she has ever known. “No,” she says at last. “What do you ask of me?”
“Only that in these matters, you follow me, as I have followed you on the field of battle. Padrig will counsel caution, and he is right to do so. But you and I must act. It is in your courage, and my understanding, that we can be victorious.”
“Shall it be another oath, then?” she asks with a mirthless chuckle.
“No, you need not swear. This is beyond oaths. I intend to walk the path that Indrasduthir walked before me. Turn back if and when you must, I will go onward.”
Session End Notes + Summer Break
And that’s a wrap on Session 14, the Battle of Gordin’s Delve!
As has become customary after a session concludes, I'll be taking a break for part of the summer. I aim to resume publishing in the last week of August. When we return, we'll kick off with a GM prep episode where we look at all the plot threads, big and small, we've got dangling and decide which ones to focus on as Stonetop prepares for war. We'll also start thinking about how we might bring this whole story to a moderately satisfying conclusion, since things are starting to give some ‘final act’ vibes.
Writing the Battle of Gordin's Delve was an absolute marathon—certainly one of the most complex sequence I've tackled in PTFO. It was also a huge blast to write, and I'm feeling pretty proud of how it unfolded. I'm eager to hear what you all thought of it: How did the battle feel as a reading experience? Did the way our heroes' defeat unfolded feel earned? And for those of you who run big battles at the table, did my approach to PbtA mass combat feel satisfying, or would you have handled it differently?
Drop your thoughts about those topics, or any other topic, in the comments, and I'll see you all at the end of August for the beginning of the end of PTFO:Stonetop!
We haven’t been on the Makers’ Roads in some time — recall that the black basalt paving stones are worked with intricate Stone Lord runes, projecting a magical aura that prevents acts of violence.
We first visited the Crossroads way back in Session 3.1, published more than 3 years ago. Way back then, I said that I sure hoped someone would use the power of the Crossroads to speak to the dead, and wouldn’t you know it, we seem to be heading in that direction!
Through thick and thin, I feel like I've been with these characters in every moment. This latest session has been fantastic. It's been really good to see TTRPG character come up against a defeat and still maintain momentum as the pressure builds to keep not just themselves but Stonetop itself safe!
I'm as excited as ever to witness their story's finale!
I really enjoyed the Gordin's Delve arc. Intrigue, villains to boo, an implacable foe and some god-awful dice rolls really grabbed and held my attention.
Thank you for creating this and sharing it with us. I particularly like the balance of in-game fiction and the dissection of the mechanics and rolls that get us there.
Through thick and thin, I feel like I've been with these characters in every moment. This latest session has been fantastic. It's been really good to see TTRPG character come up against a defeat and still maintain momentum as the pressure builds to keep not just themselves but Stonetop itself safe!
I'm as excited as ever to witness their story's finale!
I really enjoyed the Gordin's Delve arc. Intrigue, villains to boo, an implacable foe and some god-awful dice rolls really grabbed and held my attention.
Thank you for creating this and sharing it with us. I particularly like the balance of in-game fiction and the dissection of the mechanics and rolls that get us there.