Session 4.4: Reunion

Anwen is reunited with her mother. Back at the inn, Padrig is missed.

In our last episode, Padrig told Brennan that he would never fight for him or the Claws again, and, to put it mildly, Brennan did not react well to this. After a brief struggle, Padrig was drugged, captured, and hauled down to the cloaca — an ancient, Maker-made vault beneath the donjon, where Marshedge’s powerful put those they’d rather be forgotten. Meanwhile, Anwen sought out her mother, only to find that she had lied to her about a great many things, and was now languishing in the same prison that holds Pad. In a moment, we’ll rejoin her, having made an agreement with Alastar which will allow her a single visit to her mother’s cell.

A brief note on mechanics, before we dive in — we’re about to head into a few scenes with very few moves triggered. That’s not totally unheard of in PbtA, and even occasionally a session of 5e D&D will have scenes or sessions where few dice get rolled. I tried not to force any dice rolls in if I didn’t think they’d arise at the gaming table, so if you’re a fan of scenes with lots of action and mechanics, hold tight — they’ll be back soon.

The dark, slow waters of Ferrier’s Fen // Photo Credit: Andreas Klodt

Scene 8: A rickety wooden dock

Alastar leads Anwen and Aela from Fen-Walker Hall to one of the many docks that line the edge of the northward slums of Marshedge, while Ozbeg says his farewells and leaves to rejoin Vahid at the Tricklebank Inn.

A handful of shallow-bottomed punts are tied up to the dock, drifting slowly in the swamp’s lazy current. Alastar removes a hanging lantern from a post nail and places it in Aela’s hands, who smiles softly when she feels the lantern’s warmth. The three board the unsteady craft — Anwen at first tries to take Aela’s arm and guide her aboard, but she shrugs it off and nimbly makes her way to the prow, while Alastar takes up a long spruce pole and frees the boat from its moorings.

Alastar shoves the boat off, and abruptly, Anwen is aware of the murky waters of the fen, all around her, and the precarious rocking of the boat as Alastar poles the boat away from the safety of land.

“Is the prison out in the fen? How far?” she asks, her voice meeker than she intended.

Aela, holding the lantern at the prow, calls back to her. “No. But our way there is,” she says. “Are you afraid of the water?”

Anwen nods. “My people are, and those that aren’t are thought quite strange. The elders say not to trust water if the light doesn’t reach the bottom, for The Things Below dwell in lightless depths.”

Aela turns back to her, the lantern casting dark shadows over her empty eyes. “They’re right. It’s good to fear the fen.”

“You don’t seem afraid,” Anwen says.

She shrugs. “I’ve lived with the fen my whole life. It’s given me everything I have — my brothers and sisters, food and shelter, and tasks to put my hands to. It’s taken much, too. I do fear someday it might take my life. But not today, belike.”

Alastar listens impassively, silently guiding the punt through the swamp. There is a cold, clinging mist on the water, and soon the only sign of Marshedge when Anwen looks behind them is the dim glow of lanterns and hearths, scattered on the hill’s black silhouette like hovering fireflies.

“Here,” Alastar snaps, thrusting a rough hempen bag into her hands. “Cover your face. This path is not for the eyes of outsiders.”

Anwen wordlessly pulls the sack over her face. In the blackness, the sounds of the swamp are overpowering — buzzing insects, the sucking sound of the birch pole rising and falling into the swamp, and the constant, low thrum of frog song. After a time, she feels the punt turn, and then slide to stop, no longer rocking gently on the water. Alastar’s firm hand takes her by the shoulder and leads her from the boat. When her feet hit the ground, they sink into cold mud, but she stands on hard stone after a few steps. She hears the sound of rushing, falling water.

“You must climb down. The stairs are steep and slick,” Alastar says brusquely as he leads her on. She carefully clambers down the set of tall, smooth stone steps. Behind her, she hears Aela following the same path, with the sureness of one who has made the journey many times. At the bottom of the stairs, Alastar leads her a few steps more, and then she feels water on her face, soaking the cloth sack. The fen-walker chief hauls her a few dozen more feet, choking and sputtering, before he pulls the bag from her head.

They are in a tunnel, lit only by Aela’s lantern. The walls are smooth and straight, nearly a perfect circle, with a slow stream of water leading deeper into the darkness. “Catch your breath,” Alastar says. The stone surrounding them is pale and unbroken by mortar or seams.

“What is this place?” Anwen asks, spitting out a bit of swamp water.

“I do not know the minds of the ancients, girl, nor do I wish to,” Alastar replies as he wrings out the cloth. “Are you ready?”

Anwen nods and the hood is returned, still damp and stinking of marsh water. Anwen feels Aela’s hand on her arm, guiding her forward down the tunnel, and she mutters her thanks. They walk in silence for a time; the only sounds are the water beneath their feet and the rusty creak of Aela’s lantern.

After an interminable walk, Alastar halts them. “Wait here. I wish to speak to your mother first,” he says gruffly, and Anwen can hear his receding steps against the stone.

After a short silence, Aela speaks. “What will you say to persuade her to take up the hunt again?”

“I don’t know,” Anwen replies. “I have so many other questions, I don’t even know where to begin. I’m not even sure I can.”

“Perhaps not,” Aela says. “Every person has to choose for themselves how much they can bear. Sianna has borne a great deal. I don’t blame her for not wanting to kill the man she loved. Even if he is a monster, now.”

“Who was she to you? Why do you care for her so much after what happened to you?” Anwen asks.

“I knew her for much of life. Alastar brought me into the fen-walkers when I was a little girl. My family was taken by the suarachan — twisted, flesh-eating frog-things from the deep fen — in a raid on the slums. They left me behind; only the gods know why. I was all alone,” she says.

“I’m so sorry,” Anwen says.

“Thank you,” Aela replies. “Truth be told, I barely remember it. Sometimes I dream of it, but when I try to remember my father, my mother, my brother, I can’t call to mind their faces or their voices. The fen-walkers are the family I can remember. And Sianna, most of all. She was nearly done with her training when I began mine, and she helped me through the hardest parts, the days I wanted to give up and return to the Mire to beg or steal. She showed me what I was capable of. We fen-walkers call one another ‘brother’ and ‘sister,’ but Sianna made it more true than anyone. She was like an older sister to me.”

Anwen hears Aela’s laughter, like soft bells. “I suppose that makes you my niece. Never thought I’d have a niece!”

Anwen feels her heart warm, but it quickly turns to a flash of anger. “If you care for her so much why do you let Alastar keep her in prison here? Why do you help him?”

Aela’s reply is even and calm. “I told you back in the guildhall. The promises we make must mean something. Your mother taught me that. We protect this place from things no one else can, and we must trust one another. I’m glad Sianna found some happiness with Connor, and I’m glad she had you. But she had a duty to us, also. The fen gives and takes. Always.”

Before Anwen can speak again, she hears the sound of Alastar’s footsteps returning. Again, he takes her arm and leads her up steep stairs to a room where each footstep echos loudly in the silence. As they walk, Anwen hears another set of footsteps approaching them, and Alastar mutters an oath under his breath. Aela whispers to Anwen, “Hush now. It’s the new Marshal’s little serpent. We don’t want him flicking his tongue at us.”

Anwen hears a new voice, unsettlingly familiar. “Ah, Master Alastar! What an unexpected delight,” he says. “Who is this poor unfortunate you are consigning to this dark and dreary place?”

“That is my guild’s affair, and none of yours, guardsman. You should not be here; this place is forbidden but by the permission of the council,” comes Alastar’s stern reply.

“My apologies, sir, but I am about Marshal Brennan’s business. He ordered me to secure an important prisoner, and orders are orders, are they not?” the man says.

“The Marshal does not sit on the town’s council.” Alastar growls. “I do.”

“Of course, of course,” the man replies. “But he had his permission from Grandfather Hawtrey, who has bid him deal with the banditry problem with all due haste. And Grandfather Hawtrey does sit on the council, if I am not mistaken?”

“What is your name, guardsman? I will speak to your commander,” Alastar says.

“Bertrim, sir. Please do. I am certain he will straighten everything out,” he replies.

Anwen’s breath catches when she recognizes the name, but Alastar is hauling her forward, and Bertrim’s steps recede into the distance. She steps up and feels wooden planks beneath her feet, swaying unsteadily, and she hears the creaking of rope. Then the hood is removed from her head.

Her eyes, already adjusted to the darkness, take in the chamber — it sprawls in all directions, low-ceilinged but still massive. Aela’s lantern casts a small circle of light around them, but it is also illuminated by circles of silver light coming from dozens of openings in the floor below. Looking down, Anwen sees she is standing on a crude, wheeled, scaffold elevator, suspended above one of the openings.

Alastar moves over to a large wooden crank and slowly turns it, lowering Anwen into the pit. “Your mother is below. Remember our agreement. She must do her duty.”

Anwen nods, steeling herself.

Scene 9: The cloaca, Sianna’s cell.

Anwen is lowered down onto one of the cells below. She is again awed by the scale of the place — the massive, vaulted chamber, dotted with dozens of basalt pillars, towering over a hundred-foot drop into a lake of slow-moving black-green water — but her awe is quickly overtaken by the sight of her mother.

Anwen always took after her mother, and the resemblance has only grown in the last four years. Sianna’s red hair has just begun to go silver at the roots, and the years of fruitful Stonetop work have strengthened Anwen’s frame, while her mother’s has weakened in her captivity. When their blue eyes meet, Sianna’s are already wet with tears — hope and fear, elation and despair at once.

She cannot hold herself back; before the platform reaches the bottom, she leaps down and rushes to her mother’s arms.

“Anwen, Anwen,” Sianna whispers. “You’ve grown so strong.”

“I’m going to get you out of here,” she replies, fighting back tears.

“Alastar told me the promise he extracted from you,” she says. “I’m sorry you’ve been drawn into this. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you the truth about why I left. I’m sorry about everything.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you lie when you left? Why couldn’t you have taken me with you?” Anwen asks.

“I wanted you to be free from this life. And I wanted to be free of it, too. Alastar recruited me into the fen-walkers when I was a little girl on the streets of Edgemarket, cutting purses. He gave me a chance to be a part of something. That was enough, until I met Connor. And he was enough, until I realized I was going to have you. I wanted Connor to run away with me, to Gordin’s Delve, to raise you there.”

“Why didn’t he?” Anwen asks.

“He couldn’t imagine himself as anything but a fen-walker. He’d lived his life with the guild, same as me. He never hesitated to do what needed to be done to protect Marshedge’s people. I couldn’t ask him to give that up any more than he could ask me to give you up. So we parted ways. I never made it to Gordin’s Delve; Stonetop took me in.”

“And then he caught the blight. And changed,” Anwen says, wiping tears from her eyes.

“Yes. Alastar told me as much, when he came for me in Stonetop,” Sianna says. “At first, I refused to return. But he threatened to tell Cerys and the other elders about the blight. To cast doubt on you, to tell them that he might’ve been sick when you were conceived. That the blight might’ve passed on to you. After all, he said, there was no way to be certain.”

“Is it possible?” Anwen’s voice trembles when she asks.

“No,” Sianna says, putting her hand on Anwen’s cheek. “No, sweet girl. Connor would’ve told me if he had the blight then. I am certain of it. But could Cerys have believed?”

“No,” Anwen says bitterly. “She wouldn’t have.”

“She couldn’t have,” Sianna corrects. “She needs must put the safety of the whole village first.”

Anwen glares up at the opening above, where Alastar watches them impassively. Sianna gently turns her gaze back to her with her hand on her cheek. “Anwen, please do this for me. Go back to Stonetop. Be happy there. Never think of this place again. I’m sorry I can’t return with you,” she says. “But you can make a life in Stonetop, the life that you deserve.”

“No. I’ll help you. Go into the fen with you. We’ll find Connor — my father — and we’ll fight him together. Or, if he can be cured, we’ll cure him!” she says.¹

Sianna shakes her head sadly. “There is no cure, Anwen. Not when it’s come this far. And I can’t fight him again. Don’t ask me to. Four years ago, when I faced that creature in the fen, I saw Connor’s eyes. I heard his voice. I can’t bring myself to strike him down. Should I let him choke the life from me? Spare me while he maims my brothers and sisters? Every path leads to horror. I would rather end my days down here.”

Anwen is quiet. Tears flow slowly down her cheeks. “No,” she says. “You’re not staying down here.”

She looks up to Alastar, and calls up. “Alastar, I said I’d help you. And I will. If you need someone to draw the monster that was my father out, let it be me. I’ll go into the fen with you, and call him out.”

“No!” Sianna lets out, a strangled cry. “Please don’t, Anwen. This isn’t your burden.”

“I know. But I choose to bear it,” Anwen replies, and steps onto the wooden platform. Sianna watches as the platform is raised, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Above, Anwen locks eyes with Alastar. “When my father is dealt with, my mother goes free. Not just of your prison — free of your guild. Of you,” she says.²

“You think you’re ready to face him? You’re still a pup. You have no idea what you’re promising,” Alastar growls.

“I will make myself ready. I’ll come back next season,” she says.

“Next year,” Alastar counters. “Train hard, and we will do the same. We will have one chance, if we are lucky.”

“Agreed,” Anwen says, offering her hand. Alastar clasps it, and they shake solemnly before he again covers her face and leads her from the prison.

Scene 10: The Tricklebank Inn

The Tricklebank Inn is dark and silent when Anwen returns — the innkeeper sleepily opens the door after she knocks for a few minutes and promptly returns to bed. When she returns to the room, Ozbeg is sharpening his knife once again, and Vahid paces nervously.

“Ah, Anwen!” Vahid says, sighing in relief. “Ozbeg told me what you discovered from the fen-walkers — the news of your mother. Did this man, Alastar, take you to see her?”

“Yes. There’s so much to tell. Where’s Padrig? I need him to hear this, too.”

Ozbeg and Vahid look at one another. Vahid’s look of concern comes rushing back. “He has not returned. I begin to fear something has gone badly awry,” he says.

Anwen looks to Ozbeg. “He went to see Brennan. I thought you said he was a reasonable man?” she asks.

Ozbeg shakes his head. “He is! Brennan and Padrig have been brothers-in-arms for years. Might be they’re just having one last drink,” he says. “Let’s not go stirring up trouble without cause. He’ll be back any minute now. Count on it.”

Then, realization dawns on Anwen. “When I saw my mother, Alastar took me to a prison below the donjon. The cloaca.”

Vahid perks up. “I’ve read of the cloaca — A system of flooded tunnels and chambers beneath the hill of Marshedge, leftover from the Stone Lord’s dominion of this place. The largest is a massive vault of some strange, unknown purpose. They use it as a prison? How clever…”

“Yes,” Anwen replies, waving off Vahid’s flow of nervous erudition. “When I was down there, Bertrim was there too — remember that snake of a man from the gatehouse? He said that Brennan had taken some important prisoner and ordered him to bring him down to one of the cells there.”

Vahid looks to Ozbeg. “Padrig is missing. Brennan has an important new prisoner. This cannot be a coincidence,” Vahid says.

“It must be Padrig,” Anwen agrees. “He wouldn’t leave us here without sending word. He’s more careful than that.”

“Hold your bowstring,” Ozbeg says. “Brennan’s the Marshal of this town. He must take prisoners every day.”

“Important prisoners?” Vahid asks. “Prisoners secreted away in an oubliette, by his left-hand man?”

Ozbeg gnaws at his fingernails while he contemplates this. “We can’t be sure, and if we go in, we stir up a world of trouble. What would Padrig do, if he were here?” he asks.

“I’m going in there to find him,” Anwen says. “Ozbeg, if you were taken — if there were even a chance — Padrig would do the same for you.” She unbuckles the fighting knife that Ozbeg had loaned her from her belt and holds it out to him. “Here. If you’re coming with me, you’ll need it. If not, I’m not carrying a coward’s blade into a fight.”

“Careful, girl.” Ozbeg hisses, shooting to his feet. “Don’t forget what kind of crew Padrig and I ran with.” His hand grips the iron at his belt.

“I haven’t forgotten. Have you? Padrig is in their grasp now. What are you going to do about it?” she asks.³

They lock eyes for a moment. “You’ve learned a lot from the chief. I’ll give you that.” Ozbeg growls. “How do you plan to get us into the donjon? It’ll be guarded day and night. And once we’re in, we still don’t know where they’re holding Pad — if he’s even down there.”

“We need allies,” Vahid says. “Someone who knows this place better than we. I have made a friend of a wealthy merchant here — Tymon Ammar⁴. He seems to have sway with those in power here. Perhaps he could help us?”

Ozbeg strokes his chin thoughtfully. “There was that guard sergeant at the gate — Maeve⁵. Seemed like one of the old guard. She looked like she wanted to slit Bertrim’s throat. Might be she would take an opportunity to move against him and Brennan, and she could get us into the donjon,” he says.

“There is a fen-walker who might help us,” Anwen supplies. “Aela is her name. She didn’t seem to care for Bertrim or the new Marshal. She might be able to help us find their guild’s secret path into the cloaca.”

Vahid looks to Anwen. “We are spoiled for choice,” he says. “But we must choose wisely. If we place our trust in the wrong ally, they might deliver us into Brennan’s hands.”

Next Episode: Session 4.5: Jailbreak

We’ll break here, with a reader poll: Together, we’ll decide who the party approaches for aid. Click the button below to vote!

This decision point isn’t a big character moment, but it certainly would be a significant point of discussion at a gaming table among a group of players trying to puzzle out how to tackle an obstacle. We can think about this question across a few dimensions:

1. Who is most interesting? This is thinking about it from the authorial point of view — Which of these NPCs do you want to draw deeper into the story and spend more time with?

2. What would the characters do? This is thinking about it from the roleplayer’s point of view — Knowing what you know of our heroes, who do you think they would pick?

3. Who is the optimal pick? This is the game-y option — some play groups can spend hours debating the optimal course of action. In PbtA, there’s a bit less emphasis on this — the core mechanics are a bit more forgiving of interesting but sub-optimal plans. But it can still be fun to debate what the optimal choice is!

Hopefully it’s an interesting set of choices for you folks. I’m personally excited about it because it was not very pre-planned at all — I didn’t introduce Maeve or Tymon Ammar with this in mind (of course, by the time Alastar and Aela were introduced, it was clear they might be able to help out with the Pad-in-prison problem). I find it really creatively rewarding as a GM to plant a lot of seeds to use as set-up for later payoffs, even when you don’t have a good sense of what payoffs exactly the PCs will need. Hopefully you folks agree!

Next episode, we’ll meet with our chosen ally and conconct a plan to bring Padrig forth from his captivity. This could conclude our arc in Marshedge, but we’ll have to play to find out. See you in your inbox next week!

1. Anwen attempts to trigger the Persuade move here, but Sianna will not fight Connor again, and so cannot be persuaded.

2. Anwen successfully triggers Persuade here, and scores a 7. Alastar will honor this deal, but he won’t allow her to take his people into the fen until she’s ready.

3. Anwen triggers Persuade here on Ozbeg, using Speak Truth to Power. She rolls with advantage and blows the doors off, rolling an 11. Ozbeg is on board.

4. See Session 4.1 for Tymon’s introduction.

5. See Session 3.4 for Maeve’s introduction.