Jakez reveals an old secret. The party reaches Erwann. Blades are drawn.
Last episode, after treating with Juba, the party rode deep into the Flats to find the Dawn Shield band, an old and powerful Heoling band whose spirit-talker, Erwann, has been targeted for assassination by the sorcerer, Cirl-of-the-Storms.
Five days south and west brought the party to a drowned crater and the dark lake at its bottom, where the Dawn Shield, their allies, and refugees from the nomads’ feuds are camped in the hundreds. In the meistr’s tent, Mado’s silver gift and Vahid’s silver tongue won a hearing from meistr Jakez, over the objections of Izzak, a Hound of Heol who fears and hates the Seeker’s magic. Vahid delivered his warning: the assassin is bound for the camp, perhaps already among them.
Jakez revealed that Erwann is not in camp: He rides with a hunting party, two days gone, on some dire business of the Dawn Shield’s own. Now the party must go to him, hoping the assassin has not already found him.
Scene 7: The Flats
They ride out that very day, racing the sunset. Anwen is glad to be quit of the place and back in the saddle, beneath the open sky.
Jakez leads the company of eleven riders on a strong dun mare, a heavy aurochs-spear with a shining bronze blade and crossbar and an elaborately carved haft couched in a leather cup at his stirrup. Four of his blooded ride at his side, all hard-faced men, geared for a fight. Ronhl and Merid ride close to the Stonefolk. At least we have a few friends among the Hillfolk who do not see us as halfway to their foes.
They follow the shore at a distance, keeping to the high ground where the broken rock of the rim slopes down into grass. Below, the lake lies dark and still—although the wind pulls at her cloak and whips her hair, no breath of it stirs the water.
Padrig is at her side, his stitched hand resting on his thigh, reins gathered in the other. He has said nothing about the wound since that night in Juba’s tent, but she has watched him learn his grip again each morning, quietly, while he thinks no one is watching. On the journey from the Sun-Spear’s lands, he went hunting at dusk, returning with a pair of coneys and a look of profound relief upon his face1. They roasted them that night, and Anwen couldn’t remember the last time a meal tasted so fine.
They camp at sunset, three small fires burning beneath the vast, star-lit sky. After rations and waterskins are passed around the company, Jakez joins them, his jaw set, the very image of a man with ill news to share.
Beneath the starlit sky, Jakez speaks of the Dawn Shield’s ancient duty. // Source: Midjourney
“I would speak of matters my people hold close. My father and his would hide their faces in shame to see me speak of it to stren, but these are strange times. I would have your words that you will hold this secret as though it were your own.”
“We will,” Anwen says.
“She speaks for all of you?” Jakez casts about the company, who nod or speak their agreement, until his eyes fall upon Vahid. “And you, magus?”
“I give my word,” Vahid replies, his voice soft. For half a breath, Mado meets her eyes across the fire. He sets himself apart from us. Or perhaps he wants to put the meistr at ease. Which?
“The Dawn Shield camp at these waters every year, when the grass turns and the aurochs come to drink. My father, and his, and his, past the reach of any of our stories or songs. Great herds water here, the hunting grounds are rich, a blessing of Heol beyond price. But they come with a grave duty.”
“If there is some way we can help you, we will,” Anwen says. “Just tell us what needs doing, meistr.”
Jakez nods curtly. “Heol willing, we will need none of it. But… this year we were delayed. The whole of the Steplands is in upheaval — bands fleeing the storm-folk, feuds kindled that were long cold. We came late to the water."
Late to the water. Is this why he is so grim? She thinks of the harvest back home, the way every hand is bent to it, and the dread of rain during the reaping-week2. But an aurochs doesn’t sprout like cut barley. Why are they so afraid of a hunt a few weeks delayed?
Jakez continues. “Every few years, when the stars are ill-favored, a curse crawls forth from the lake.” Anwen’s breath stills as the Hillman speaks, his voice quiet and grave. “It is a weak and hateful thing, and it takes hold of a bull-calf that drinks from those wicked waters. Our charge is to find the calf and slay it, and purge the evil from its body with Bright Heol’s light.”
Silence. No one wishes to speak. No one, save the Seeker. “And what falls if the calf is not slain?”
Jakez meets Vahid’s pure-blue gaze through the smoke and flame. “Rest. We ride for Erwann’s camp at dawn. If you see the assassin among them, take him alive—as proof of your intentions, magus.”
Scene 8: Approaching Erwann’s Camp
They ride out at first light and find the camp before midday, in a fold of hills where a stand of scrubby pine trees shades a small hollow, only the faint smell of woodsmoke betraying its presence from the surrounding grasslands.
When they crest the hill’s rise, Anwen counts. A knot of Dawn Shield riders in grey and yellow deels, with their hair worn long. Two in green felt hats, sharpening a long-bladed spear between them. Men squatting at the fires with their bows across their knees, wearing deels of undyed brown. Fewer than a war-band, but far more than any hunting party she’s seen. Near the center, amidst the Dawn Shield hunters, is the man who must be Erwann.
He is younger than Anwen expected — forty winters, perhaps — and he is butchering a pack drake carcass, straining to drag the blade through the scaly hide . He works at a low table outside the largest tent, sleeves pushed back, forearms red to the elbow. His hands are strong and sure, and there is a smear of blood in his beard where he has scratched at it without thinking. He wears no spirit-talker’s charms or mantle, nothing that marks him from the men around him but the drakes: two blackfeathers3, little carrion-eaters, perch on the tent-rope behind him. He pauses for a moment and tosses them a bloody bit of offal. One snatches it out of the air, the other is on him before he lands, and they tear it apart between them.
Jakez lifts a hand, and the column halts. He rides down with two of his blooded, and his Steptongue carries up to them, pitched to be heard by the whole of the hunters’ camp.
“He’s telling them we’ve brought more hunters,” Padrig says. Anwen looks down at herself: the white deel the Sun-Spear gave her, a scarf wrapped about her copper hair, hiding her pale, freckled face. Her fellows are similarly garbed in borrowed clothes—if the assassin is among them, this deception might hold for a few more minutes yet.
Behind her, Vahid has brought his horse up alongside Mado’s, close enough that their stirrups nearly touch. He says something. Anwen cannot hear it, and Mado gives no sign—the young fox rarely lets slip anything he does not wish to.
Then the Seeker is beside her.
“Do you see what Cirl has done, Anwen?” Vahid says, low, looking down at the camp. “He burned the Delve and called it righteousness. He put travelers to the sword on the open road, and they were nothing to him. Only in his way.”
He is not looking at her. His gaze is fixed on the camp below. There, Jakez embraces Erwann warmly, and speaks softly in his ear.
“The Steplands bleed, old blood-feuds rekindled. These brave men were late to the duty because of that. Because of him. And he cares not at all—he has never once thought of this place.” A pause. “That is what he is. All around him, misery. And whatever monster has risen out of that water will not go looking for him.”
He’s right. A monster from the deep waters, set loose on innocent folk. Another outrage, like the slaughter of travelers on the road, like the burning of the Delve. He leaves misery everywhere he touches. We have to stop him. She realizes her hand has gone to the haft of her spear, and beneath the sleeves of her deel, her storm-marks ache.
“Vahid.” Padrig has come up on her other side, and his tone is very flat. “What are you doing?”
“The assassin is here,” the Seeker says softly, nodding down at the two green-clad Hillfolk in the camp below. “And he is not alone. Wroth will speed Anwen’s steps and strengthen her arm, so let her remember whom we fight and why.”
Padrig’s scowl deepens, but he says nothing. In the hollow below, Mado has moved forward into the campsite, Merid and Ronhl at his side — the older Hillman speaks amiably with his young comrade, as though nothing at all were the matter. But their deception is needless — all eyes are turning to Anwen.
A wind has stirred around her, whipping the scarf from her head and letting her crimson hair fly like a war-banner. The very air around her thrums with power. She slides down from the saddle, spear still in hand. Beneath her deel sleeves, the storm markings crackle and rumble, eager to be unleashed.
And it is then that Mado strikes. He and Ronhl have come alongside the two Hillfolk in green, and like a hunting hawk, Mado lashes out with his shortsword, the blade still in the scabbard, aiming a crippling blow at the nomad’s back.
But Cirl’s assassin is swift and clever. He sees the blow coming with a moment to spare, and he turns, taking the blow on his shoulder. “Ambush!” he cries. “The Stormcrows have come!”
A dozen blades leap into a dozen ready hands, even as Jakez calls on the hunting party to stand down, bellowing in the Steptongue. In the din, the assassin snatches up the spear he had been sharpening, and launches it at Erwann, a strike no less true for all its desperation.
The spear is in the air, and so is Anwen. She moves like a summer gale, the grass bowing in her wake, campfires guttering, tents straining at their ties. In her eyes, the spear moves like a pebble sinking in honey, and she halts in its path, raising her hand to strike it from the air. Flesh meets bronze in a burst of bloody mist, and the blade is sundered from the haft with an ear-splitting crack, sending both pieces tumbling to the ground.
The assassin lets out a strangled war-cry and rips a long dagger from its sheath, raising it high to charge at Anwen, but Mado is there, with a swift kick to the back of his knee sending the Hillman to the ground, where the young warrior dives atop him, seizing his blade-hand and holding it fast to the ground. Behind him, Ronhl slashes at the assassin’s companion with his long fighting knife and takes a dire blow in return. Merid comes to his comrade’s aid, kneecapping the man from behind with the haft of his spear, driving him to the ground. Jakez bellows and points at the assassins, ordering his warriors to Mado’s aid.
Strong arms take hold of the assassin, hauling him to his feet. His deel robe is torn away, revealing a brace of hidden blades and Tor’s fist tattooed upon his chest, marking him as storm-folk. Voices in the Steptongue are all around Anwen, made into whispers by the thunder of her heart and the rushing of blood in her ears. Her vision is ringed with red and fixed on the assassin’s face, lean and cruel. Unbidden, she feels her feet carrying her towards him, her bloodied hand clenching into a fist filled with Tor’s own thunder.
Padrig is calling to her, his voice rising above the din. “Anwen! Stand fast! Take him alive!”
But her marks demand vengeance.
Scene Breakdown & Reader Poll
This scene is quite dense with rolls and mechanics — we’re going to go in-depth on them, but at the end of it, Vahid has a choice to make, so if you want to skip straight to that, just jump down to the next subhead!
The first roll of the scene was triggered outside Anwen’s perception — Vahid uses Seek Insight to search the hunter’s party for the assassin:
Vahid triggers Seek Insight: 4+2+1 Wisdom = 7, Weak Hit
He has one hold, and uses the question ‘What should I be on the lookout for?’ to identify the assassin and his confederate, wearing the green felt hats and sharpening the spear.
The next roll was triggered when Vahid had a quiet word with Mado. Mado needed to hide his reaction, not necessarily from Anwen, but from the Hillfolk who might be watching. Vahid aids him with his own skills of subtlety, so he rolls with advantage:
For his one choice, he chose deal +1d4 damage. The idea here is to incapacitate Tagh before he can strike. Like most human opponents, Tagh has 6 HP — he wasn’t planning on a stand-up fight. Sadly, however, Mado rolls 5 damage, and Tagh is still up and at ‘em.
So the spear is flung, and now it’s Anwen’s turn. She spends a Resolve to act immediately, per Anger is a Gift, and then a Fury to move like lightning, closing the distance between you and a foe before they can react. She interposes herself between Tagh and Erwann, and takes the spear for the spirit-talker:
Anwen triggers Defend: 6+1+2 Constitution = 9, Weak Hit
With the 1 hold, she chooses the suffer an attack’s damage or effects instead of your ward. Tagh rolls 1d10 for damage (he is an assassin, after all), and Anwen takes 6. To block the spear with her bare hand, I decided another Fury would be sufficient, using the imbue your next strike with the force of thunder option, which also gives me fictional positioning to spare her a problematic wound like Pad’s. She now has 1 Fury remaining.
A few more rapid-fire rolls follow — Mado uses his quickness and skill to bring the assassin down to the ground:
And Ronhl duels the assassin’s confederate. Pad triggers this move because technically Ronhl and Merid are his followers, even if it was initiated by Mado — an odd little corner-case here, but at the table, I think it’s good to let the Marshal-`player always roll for his or her followers.
Padrig triggers Order Followers: 6+1+1 Quality = 8, Weak Hit.
Ronhl deals 6 damage, and receives 8 in return. That will do for the old Hillman — we’ll deal with that soon.
And now we come to the episode’s final moments. Anwen is overtaken with the vengeful Thunderhead’s wrath. Her roll to do so is poor — Wisdom is generally the ‘willpower’ stat, and Anwen’s is -1. So instead, Padrig steps up, using his Stentorian move to gain advantage, ‘ordering’ her to stand down:
Instead of just having Anwen pound Tagh into the dirt immediately, we instead use the GM move Put Someone in a Spot. Vahid could use the Azure Hand to still the storm roiling inside Anwen. No doubt Stormcatcher once used it to control her Nine Thunders in the elder days.
But Vahid has good reason not to. If they take Tagh alive, he might reveal that Katrin is the one who marked Erwann for death, leading to a lot of awkward questions for the Seeker: Why would Katrin take such a dire step to remain in the hdour’s inner circle? What is Cirl planning that is so important to stop? A part of Vahid — the part that is perhaps becoming Stormcatcher — would rather not answer these questions. But another part of Vahid — our old scholar, the Seeker — knows that he must be honest and forthright with his allies. Which part holds sway in this moment? That is for you to decide. I’ve already done the roll: if Vahid intervenes, he will pull 1 Fury away from Anwen with the Azure Hand, stilling her rage and saving Tagh’s life. If he does not intervene, she will slay him. What do you do, Vahid? Mash the vote button to make your choice, and then the comment button to tell us why you chose what you chose!
That closes out this episode. We will see what the Seeker decides next week, when Session 17.5 finds its way into your inbox on 7/20. Thanks, as always, for reading!
A quick mechanical aside here — I triggered Forage for this, and Pad scored a strong hit. I’m not watching supplies too closely, so those fictional effects are less important than the fact that this old dog can still hunt — if he had rolled a miss, we’d instead envision that his wound remains problematic for archery.
Historically, in subsistence agriculture societies, a late harvest, or one interrupted by rain, could spoil an entire crop, making wheat and barley sprout or rot, ruining them for seed or consumption. Anwen’s reaching for something familiar to interpret the Dawn Shield’s obligation to return to the waters.
It’s been some time since we encountered a drake in the wild — here in the world of Stonetop, ‘drakes’ are dinosaur-like reptiles/archosaurs, not dragons. The pack drake in particular is a dog-sized predator that stalks the tall grass, and the blackfeathers are winged lizards the size of crows.
It speaks to the power of this system that a measly 6HP assassin is an important adversary, even now. Not because of the harm he could deal to the PCs, but because of how vital their connections and good standing to the greater world are. Beautiful writing.
Voted for calm, mostly because that matches with the building trust goal. I thought the risk of revealing something a little nebulous in the moment, but then I’m not an ancient sorcerer!
It speaks to the power of this system that a measly 6HP assassin is an important adversary, even now. Not because of the harm he could deal to the PCs, but because of how vital their connections and good standing to the greater world are. Beautiful writing.
Voted for calm, mostly because that matches with the building trust goal. I thought the risk of revealing something a little nebulous in the moment, but then I’m not an ancient sorcerer!