In our last episode, Anwen was taken by the fen-walkers to the vast, Maker-built vault beneath the donjon of Marshedge, where the rulers of the city maintain an oubliette. There, she was reunited with her mother after four years apart, and tried to persuade her to earn her freedom by hunting down Connor, Anwen’s father, now turned into a monstrous fen troll. Anwen’s mother refused, and to earn her freedom, Anwen swore to the creature down herself in her mother’s stead.
While in the chamber above the prison-vault, Anwen also ran into our old friend Bertrim, who inadvertently revealed that Padrig was imprisoned in that place. Anwen returned to the party and they began to plan Padrig’s escape. Vahid proposed that they seek allies within Marshedge. We ended last session with a reader poll: Which of the NPCs we’ve met in Marshedge will the PCs approach for aid?
Here’s how you voted:
We already know Maeve has an axe to grind with Bertrim and the other ex-Claw guardsmen. Perhaps some revelations of Brennan’s past might convince her to take bold action here? We’ll play to find out.
Scene 10: The Tricklebank Inn, continued
“I remember Maeve’s face when Bertrim dismissed her. She wanted to do the right thing,” Anwen says.
“And she can come and go as she pleases from the donjon — the town guard is quartered there,” Ozbeg adds.
“It would be best if we approached her alone,” Vahid says. “We are on uncertain ground, as Padrig might say. We do not know who Maeve trusts and who Brennan has begun to turn to his faction. All we know is that she stands opposed to him. We should find her at her post at the gate. Perhaps from there, we can catch her away from the other guards. Anwen, you and I will go. Together, we must persuade her that our fight and her fight are as one.”
System Notes: The Jailbreak & Countdown Clocks
For the purposes of these scenes, I’m going to introduce a new mechanic, drawn from other PbtA games (particularly Apocalypse World) as well as later games like Blades in the Dark: Countdown Clocks.
In complex, risky plans, you don’t want things to fall apart at the very first die roll of 6 or less, and you also want things to feel concrete and (relatively) predictable for the PCs when they take risks. So, instead of just deciding arbitrarily how pear-shaped the plan goes when characters roll misses, we establish a countdown clock that advances us towards doom: In this case, the doom being that Brennan and the Claws become fully aware of the jailbreak, and move decisively to stop our heroes from freeing Padrig. Here, we’ll use a six-segment clock (generally clocks run between 4 to 8 ticks).
Six ticks, and then we’re in trouble.
We’ll further posit that when we mark the third tick, we’ll introduce some opposition into the mix — not the full power of Brennan’s forces, just a patrol that might cause further complications. In the notes, I’ll let you know when we’re ticking segments. We’ll mark 1-tick as a consequence on appropriate weak hits, and two or more ticks on appropriate misses.
Scene 11: An alley in the Dropoff
The party rests for the night1, and the next afternoon they spot Maeve by the western gate, overseeing the comings and goings of farmers and merchants. Vahid and Anwen wait nearby — Anwen paces a bit nervously while Vahid sits by the roadside, puffing on a clay pipe bought in the Edgemarket.
It is past sunset when she departs from the gate, and she is accompanied by another guardsman, first patrolling down the high street and then moving into the tangled, narrow alleys of the Dropoff. Anwen and Vahid follow her through the slum, and it is there that Maeve marks them and calls them to stand fast and identify themselves.
“I come with a matter for the gate sergeant. Of some delicacy,” Vahid says, flicking his eyes at the other guardsman. He is a fresh-faced youth, the iron of his scales and speartip still clean and bright.
“By the Hammer and Scales, if you’re here to push a grubby pouch of silver into my hand in exchange for some petty favor, I’ll see you flogged up and down this hill,” Maeve says, her eyes narrowing.
Vahid holds his empty hands up placatingly. “By no means. I am a traveler from Lygos, come to Marshedge yesterday. I may have witnessed something suspicious but did not want to cast aspersions on an innocent if I was mistaken. I am a stranger in these lands and do not know the customs,” he explains.
Maeve looks Vahid warily up and down and Anwen behind him. Her eyes flash in a moment of recognition, and she waves off her escort. “Head back to the barracks, Rowan. I’ll be along after I hear out this Lygosi.”
Scene Breakdown
Vahid and Anwen attempted to blend in as they followed Maeve, but did not succeed — Vahid triggered Defy Danger with Charisma, and scored a weak hit. They are able to get her alone, but the guardsman that was with her now represents a small risk — if more suspicious incidents occur tonight, he might recall this strange meeting in the slums and report it to his superiors. We represent this risk by marking one tick of our clock. At the gaming table, we might offer the PCs a chance to reverse that damage by tying up this loose end, but neither Anwen nor Vahid are that experienced in skullduggery, so they do not pursue that angle.
“Well, traveler? What did you see?” Maeve asks.
“In short, I see signs of corruption in this town, and I believe you see them too,” Vahid says.
“The corruption of the fen is a fact of life here, sir. If you’ve seen something that concerns you — some sign of mutation or madness — hire a fen-walker and tell them the matter,” Maeve says, making to shoulder by Vahid.
Vahid smoothly places himself in her path. “No, corruption of a more common sort. The gods above protect us from The Things Below, but when it comes to the poison hearts of men, we must protect ourselves,” he says.
“You don’t talk like a merchant. Who are you?” Maeve asks, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“Vahid ebn Sulaim is my name. This is my companion, Anwen of Stonetop. We come to you because an injustice has been done to one of our own,” he says. “By Brennan, the Marshal.”
Maeve stops short. “Friend, if that is so, your easiest path is the one back to Lygos. You’ll find no redress here,” she says.
“You know that from personal experience, do you?” Vahid asks, smiling slightly.
Maeve’s gauntleted fist seizes Vahid by his linen collar, and she slams him against a timber-framed wall, hard. Anwen tenses to rush forward, but Vahid waves her off. “I was present at the western bridge yesterday, when Bertrim, the Marshal’s snake, put dirty silver into the hands of your men,” he says. “I can see you hold your duty close to your heart.”
“What if I do?” Maeve says. “He is the Marshal now. He has the trust of the council.”
“Yes,” Vahid says. “And while they trust him, he grows in power. Brennan has left a trail of blood and betrayal from Gordin’s Delve to your doorstep. If left in power, he will do the same here. It is only a matter of time.”
Maeve glances warily to both ends of the alley and then releases Vahid. He carefully smooths his linen robes and nods in thanks. “What’s your game here?” Maeve asks him. “What does it matter to you who leads the guard?”
“As I said, an injustice has been done to a friend of ours. Padrig is a man of Stonetop, who, until recently, was a lieutenant in Brennan’s crew of mercenaries and outlaws, The Claws. He has become intimately familiar with the sort of man Brennan is, and as such, he wished to quit his company,” Vahid says. “He went to do so last night — face to face, with honor — and has not returned. Then, through happenstance, we learned that the Marshal has taken a new prisoner and cast him into the oubliette in the tunnels beneath the donjon. We believe our friend is that prisoner, and we wish to see him freed.”
“What do you think I can do about that?” Maeve asks.
“You need do nothing other than provide us with the location of the oubliette and access to the donjon. We will do the rest.” Vahid says.
Maeve takes a step back, lip curled in disgust. “Not for every bezant in the Old Families’ vaults. I am a loyal woman of the guard. I do not open the gates of my donjon for an enemy,” she says.
Anwen steps forward and points up at the donjon, louring at the hill’s crest over the town. “My friend is in there. He committed no crime here. He just wanted to be free of your Marshal. We are not your enemies — Brennan is,” she jabs a finger into Maeve’s tabard — green, stitched in white with the willow of Marshedge. “You wear that sigil every day. If you do nothing while he soils it, what honor can you claim? You might as well take Bertrim’s silver.”
Maeve’s face contorts with anger, but before she can explode, Vahid continues smoothly, calmly. “Consider this, sergeant: Brennan saw our friend as such a threat that he would imprison him in a dark hole rather than allowing him to simply walk away. He would not even kill him — even in death, he would be dangerous to Brennan’s hold on his people. The honorable among the Claws respect him, and the treacherous hate him. Is such a man not someone you would wish to be free? Is such a man not someone you would want as your ally? For Marshedge?”2
Maeve, still glaring at Anwen, considers this. After a tense silence, she turns to Anwen. “If you can’t bring this off, we’ll be hanging from the gatehouse,” she says.
“No, we won’t,” Anwen says. “I’ll die before I let him take me.”
Maeve looks at her, reappraising, and then to Vahid. “For Marshedge, then.”
Montage: Preparations
The party agrees to meet Maeve in a dark corner of the Dropoff near midnight. She has arranged to open a gap in the donjon’s security — a time when guards known and trusted by her are watching the entrance.
Back at the Tricklebank Inn, the party takes stock. It is agreed that Anwen and Ozbeg will enter the donjon, while Vahid prepares to return home if the mission fails and tell Stonetop what happened. Well before the rendezvous with Maeve, Vahid departs with the cartload of building materials — the original object of their journey here — along with the Hillfolk mare and Anwen’s hound. He will await them for a day at the nearest waystation on the Makers’ Roads before making for home.
They meet Maeve under cover of darkness. She has brought a pair of guard uniforms — heavy iron scales, green tabards, and half-helms — along with their willow-wood shields and iron-tipped spears. They gear for their mission and ascend the hill towards the donjon entrance.3
En route to the donjon, Maeve lays out their path. “There is a gaol in one of the cellar rooms in the donjon, where we keep thieves and the like before they are judged at the shrine of Aratis,” Maeve explains. “The door down to the cloaca is there. The guard is not permitted below; The gaoler holds the key. He will not give it up willingly, and it would be best if he did not need to die. From there, you must find your friend on your own. I have never been down to the cloaca.”
When they reach the donjon gates, Maeve nods sturdily at the two guards standing watch. Anwen and Ozbeg keep their heads down, their half-helms hiding their faces. She leads them around the edge of the abandoned training yard to a doorway — the arched doors inside the donjon are twice as tall as a man and formed from smooth, seamless stone, decorated with sharp, angular bevels. The double doors are mismatched — one Maker-crafted, stone without a chisel mark, seam, or hinge, the other, a rough wooden door hanging from iron rings mortared into ragged holes in the threshold. Maeve takes a key from her belt and unlocks the wooden door, dragging it open wide enough for Anwen and Ozbeg to enter. Beyond are stairs down, human-sized wooden steps built down the center of the steeper, Maker-crafted ones.
“Below, you will find the gaol. Good luck,” Maeve says.
“We are in your debt,” Anwen says, clasping her arm.
“I want allies, not debtors,” Maeve replies. “I want to hear from this Padrig, once he is free.”
Scene 12: The Gaol
Ozbeg leads the way down the stairs. He motions Anwen to move off the creaking wooden steps and onto the steep but silent stone ones as the pair slowly make their way down. At the bottom, there is an open archway, and beyond that, the gaol.
The town’s gaol is built into an ancient arched cellar, riven in two by some long-past tremor. The break cuts the chamber in half diagonally, a ragged cut in the smooth, perfect stone, and where the rock has split, enterprising Marshedge builders have filled in with mortar and erected sturdy iron prison bars and a heavy iron gate. Behind the bars, a half-dozen bedraggled Marshedgers pace or sit on the cold stone.
On the near side of the gate is something of an office — a crooked wooden table with a loosely-bound, hand-written tome, a three-legged stool, a cot, and a large wooden strongbox. Opposite the stairs is another door — a piece of Maker artistry, a perfect, beveled stone circle marked by sharp and angular runes and geometric designs, centered with an S-shaped keyhole.
At the desk is the gaoler — a hirsute man dressed in dirty brown linens and a thick, boiled leather vest. He hunches over the tome, muttering to himself and writing, unaware of their presence. Leaning against the desk is a wicked-looking spiked mace.
“Take him?” Ozbeg whispers to Anwen.
She nods and rushes towards the man. She sweeps the stool out from under him with the tip of her spear, and when he lands on the floor, she strikes him in the belly with the iron-shod butt, leaving him gasping for air.4 Ozbeg drops his spear and rushes in behind her, holding a knife to the man’s throat. “Not a sound, friend,” he whispers. In the cage beyond, the prisoners stir, some moving to the bars to watch.
“We don’t want to hurt you any more than we have to,” Anwen says quietly. “We are here for a prisoner named Padrig who is held in the oubliette below. In the cloaca. You will take us to him.”
The gaoler struggles to catch his breath for a time before he can speak. “There are a number of unfortunates below, and I do not keep their names. They are forgotten,” he rasps. “Even if I wanted to help you, I cannot.”
A few of the prisoners laugh at the gaoler’s misfortune. One calls out, “Oi! Slide those keys over yonder, lass! Let us free!”
Anwen looks to the gaoler’s belt, and there is indeed a thick iron ring with a pair of keys — one in wrought iron, the other in milky white makerglass, with an intricately carved head in a curling shape. Anwen snatches the ring from his belt and continues. “He is a man,” she says. “About your age. Brown hair, with a beard, and the look of Stonetop about him. He was brought here yesterday, imprisoned unjustly by your Marshal. He has committed no crime here. You must have seen his face. Take us to him.” ”5
“I don’t have anything to do with justice. I just lock ‘em up. The Old Families wouldn’t keep me in all this finery if I let ‘em out,” he says, grinning perversely. “Who sent you, eh? What game are you playing? I promise you, the best thing you can do is walk away. Nobody down there is worth saving.”
Anwen’s face twists up with anger. “He is stalling. I’ll loosen his tongue,” Ozbeg hisses, pressing the knife to his cheek.
“No!” Anwen whispers.
A voice comes from the stairwell, followed by the trod of iron-shod boots on the wooden stairs. “Gaoler, gaoler, open the cell! We’ve got a few kind words for one of the fen-filth you’ve got in there!” Anwen whirls towards the archway to see a pair of guardsmen descending the stairs. The lead man takes in her, standing at the ready, and Ozbeg, holding down the gaoler, his knife at his throat, and he immediately drops into a ready stance, raising his shield and lowering his spear. The second guard nearly drops his weapon in surprise.
Anwen steps up, interposing herself between the gaoler and the guards, and raising her shield. The two soldiers rush at them, spears forward, hollering a warning. Ozbeg rises from the gaoler, giving him a kick to the gut, before running at the lead man, trying to get inside his reach, but the veteran is quick. His spear darts out at Ozbeg, but Anwen shoves him aside and takes the strike. The speartip bites into her shield, gouging a chunk out of the wood and slamming the iron rim into her chin, briefly dazing her and drawing blood.
Quickly regaining her senses, Anwen whirls, hauling her shield to the left, dragging his stuck spear with it, and strikes overhand with a powerful thrust. Her opponent tries to raise his shield, but she is too fast, and the spear strikes true, the weight of the ash haft and the strength of Anwen’s arm driving the point through his iron scales and into his chest. He gasps in pain, a bloody stain blooming swiftly on his tabard, and he collapses to his knees.
Anwen freezes as she watches the life drain from his face. She is vaguely aware of Ozbeg rushing by her, knives out, and she snaps back to focus when she hears the young guard cry out in pain. Ozbeg has wounded him, but he has disengaged and is scrambling up the wooden stairs, calling a warning up the long tunnel.
Scene Breakdown
This is a quick combat with only a few rolls — first, Anwen takes up a defensive stance, readying herself for the guards and triggering the Defend move. In parallel, Ozbeg triggers the Order Followers move (Padrig isn’t here, but he can still act on his behalf and use that move to resolve his actions). Anwen scores a 10 (Defend keys off her highest stat, Constitution). As a result, Anwen holds 4 Readiness, which can be spent for various defensive benefits. Unfortunately, Ozbeg misses, and he suffers an attack from one of the guards, but Anwen spends hold to intercept it and another to halve the damage. She takes 3 damage, leaving her with 13 HP remaining.
Anwen then attacks that guardsman, while Ozbeg does the same with the other. And they both score strong hits. Anwen deals enough to down her opponent — this is the first time she’s ever killed another human being. At the same time, Ozbeg, despite being a more seasoned killer, fails to down his opponent, who no longer likes his odds, and takes off running.
Anwen races after him, taking the stairs two at a time, and slams the haft of her spear into his back, sending him face-first into the stairs.6 She presses her speartip into his belly and whispers, “Not another word, friend. Yield, and you’ll make it out.”
This guardsman is younger and greener than the first — one of Brennan’s new recruits. His pale face is a mask of panic, and he doesn’t seem to hear her words. He tilts his head towards the courtyard door above and bellows at the top of his lungs: “INTRUDERS IN THE GAOL!” ”7
Anwen shuts her eyes and drives the spear into the young man’s stomach, silencing him.
“You don’t need to give everyone a chance, girl! Down here, now!” Ozbeg calls urgently. Anwen marshals herself and climbs back down the stairs. When she comes to the gaoler, her eyes are hard.
“If you don’t take us to Padrig, they will have died for nothing. And you will have, too.” She levels her spear at his chest. “Will you help us? Or would you rather see the Lady of Crows tonight?”8
The gaoler holds up his hands. “Very well. Your friend was recently moved to one of the cells, reserved for, ah, questioning, attended by the Marshal’s man, Bertrim. I will lead you there, but I hope you will not blame me if you find him less than whole,” he says.
Anwen swears under her breath. “Here,” she says, tossing the iron key to Ozbeg. “Free the other prisoners. It might gain us some time while Brennan’s men chase them about. It’s not right to keep people in cages, anyhow.”
Ozbeg’s eyebrows rise in amusement. “Finally, we agree,” he says. Once loosed, the unfortunates of Marshedge rush for the stairs, a pair of them stopping to snatch up the gaoler’s mace and Ozbeg’s discarded spear, another taking the tome of names, giggling maniacally as he goes.
Meanwhile, Anwen raises the Makerglass key to the stone door. It slides smoothly into the keyhole, the stone seeming to take it from her hand. Of its own accord, it twists, rotating the entire door with it, a full quarter turn, accompanied by only a whisper of stone sliding against stone. Then, the door slowly half-turns on its edge like a spinning coin, allowing access to the passageway beyond. Anwen motions for Ozbeg to enter, and he prods the gaoler through with his knife. She goes through last, removing the key from the keyhole. It slides smoothly out, and as soon as Anwen is clear, it turns and rotates back into place, as though the unseen hand that moved the mechanism was waiting for her.
The gaoler sullenly leads them through dark, crumbling tunnels, a few flooded with the dark green water of the fen, towards the place of Padrig’s confinement.
Scene 12: The Questioning Cell
Padrig awakens with a splitting headache, groggy and cotton-mouthed. He stirs and attempts to rub his eyes, but his hands are bound. Under his back, he feels rough wood and iron manacles scratch at his wrists and ankles. Even the dim light here is overwhelming — Padrig squints to try to make out his surroundings.
He is on a familiar circle of black stone, but this place is outfitted for unpleasant work. There are tables arrayed with grim metal instruments and stands of glass vials full of thick, darkly-colored liquids.
Around it all bustles Bertrim, wiping his hands with a dirty rag and inspecting his supplies. Padrig watches as he goes to the wooden platform elevator and takes from it a strange, domed object draped with a black-dyed hempen cloth. As he moves it, Padrig hears a soft fluttering sound and the rattling of metal.
Bertrim looks at Pad, and smiles blandly. “Ah, you’re awake! Finally. I took the liberty of drugging your food and water, so we could just talk, you and I. No need to involve anyone else in the crew, after all — we wouldn’t want you to draw them into your treachery!”
Padrig shakes his head in resignation. “Do your worst, Bertrim. You know that there’s no fucking treachery. I just wanted out.”
“Oh, good.” Bertrim says. “I’m pleased we don’t have to pretend I’m trying to uncover some grand conspiracy from you. Of course there’s no treachery. You would never stoop to such things; you’re so very superior to all us common bandits. Tell me, Padrig: Do you feel superior now?” He looms over Padrig, his curved dagger now in his hand.
“I’ve mucked latrines and found things that are superior to you, you twisted little maggot,” Padrig growls.
Bertrim’s smile slips, but only for a second. He takes the point of his dagger and places it to Pad’s chest, pressing slightly. A drop of blood appears, and it grows to a line as he drags the blade down, cutting a shallow slice down the side of Pad’s torso. Padrig grimaces and then cries out as Bertrim mirrors the cut down the other side of his chest.
“There we are. Let’s let that flow a bit,” Bertrim says, leaning against one of the tables and watching with his bland smile.
“If you know I would never betray the crew, what are we doing here?” Padrig asks.
“There are those in the crew who are quite fond of you. Some of the veterans. When things went a bit sour in the Delve, well, nobody challenged Brennan directly, but I always hear things. You may not have intended it, but I think there are some who would rather follow you than Brennan. Not me, of course, nor Ivan. Nor anyone who really matters. But enough to be troubling. And isn’t that the worst sort of betrayal? To overshadow Brennan in the hearts of his own men? Tsk, tsk, Padrig.”
“He was raving about the weird sisters, the witches of the fen. Dreams they were sending him. He’s going mad, Bertrim. He’ll lead the crew to ruin again, worse than before,” Padrig says.
“I’m sure you’ll tell me all about it,” Bertrim says. “We’re ready to begin.”
Bertrim pulls the black cloth cover from his strange cargo and beneath is a bronze wire cage, containing a pair of birds — black and wine-red plumage and shiny, attentive eyes. They seem fixated on Padrig, cocking their heads towards him and shrieking an unsettling, cackling cry. From a soft velvet bag, he removes three eggs, white shells speckled with bright red.
“You are woods-wise, so perhaps you have heard of Butcherbirds. Fascinating little creatures. They love a fresh, bloody carcass, and a large flock of them can drive a pack of wolves away from a kill. I only have these two, but as you can see, they’ve started a little flock of their own,” Bertrim says.
Slowly, Bertrim arranges the velvet bag in a nest on Padrig’s chest, between the two bleeding cuts, before he rests the eggs there. “Sometimes, the nesting mothers will move their clutch to a fresh kill to convince the chicks to hatch. They can smell blood through the shell, you see, and are ravenous when they are born. They aren’t so helpless, like other little birds,” he says, his smile widening. “Their claws are sharp and they’ll cling to their meal, even if it isn’t quite dead yet. And their beaks are strong enough to chip their way through bone to get to the marrow.”
Padrig looks down at the eggs. He can feel their warmth through the velvet, and one of them shakes a bit as a tiny hole appears in the shell.
“So, Padrig,” Bertrim asks, his gaze not moving from the eggs, which now have all begun to shake and crack. “Who are your stalwarts among our ranks? Who do you think I should speak to next? I have some ideas, but I’d love to know what you think.”
Padrig sets his jaw and looks up, but something catches his eye. In the murder hole above, he sees Anwen, looking down on Bertrim’s tableau, her eyes wide with shock. His eyes snap back to Bertrim. “Tell Brennan I’m willing to help him. I’ll rally Stonetop for him if he releases me from my service,” he says, desperately trying to hold Bertrim’s attention.
“I’m sure we’ll know if you’re in earnest soon enough,” Bertrim says, his eyes fixed on the eggs. One of them has cracked open, and a wriggling pink head emerges, its thick, serrated beak opening and closing, searching for something to bite. But Padrig isn’t watching them — he’s looking up to Anwen as she leaps down, spear in hand, towards Bertrim.
We will close here, and learn the fates of Bertrim, Anwen, Padrig and Ozbeg next week. One tick remains on the countdown clock, so the mission is on a knife’s edge — another miss result at the wrong moment could bring Brennan’s forces down on all of them and force a deadly confrontation.
Hopefully the episode has some tension to it — I was quite tense when I was doing the rolls and taking notes as the clock ticked up. Overall I felt quite satisfied with how the countdown clock added some structure and transparency to how close things were to blowing up. I’m curious how you folks see it — feel free to sound off on the comments for or against countdowns.
I also hope that this episode was a good one for Anwen — it’s a bit of a spotlight for her, taking a leadership role in the mission to save Padrig. Arguably, Ozbeg could’ve tried to be the leader, but of course, Anwen is the PC here, so a bit of handwaving takes place to put her in the driver’s seat. As a result of her spotlighting, she had some big character moments — lending her voice to persuading Maeve, and taking her first (human) life in a battle. My hope is that she feels like she’s learning and growing stronger, while still maintaining some of the idealism that’s infused into the Would-Be Hero playbook. Let me know in the comments how you feel like our girl is doing!
I was a little uncertain about the decision to send Vahid away — it seemed a reasonable way for the plan to unfold, but at the gaming table, it would be tough to exclude a PC from this set of scenes. On top of that, Vahid misses his chance to see the ruins beneath Marshedge, which no doubt disappoints him enormously. In the end, it seemed like the most reasonable thing for the party to do, though — Ozbeg and Anwen are experienced fighters, and so far we’ve portrayed Vahid as more uncertain of himself in a fight and reluctant to engage in violence directly.
Next episode should conclude the jailbreak (one way or another), and then we’ll do some session wrap-up and housekeeping to figure out what our next adventures might look like. As always, thanks for reading! See you in your inbox next week, for the conclusion of our Marshedge arc.
Anwen triggers the Make Camp move and recovers 8 HP, putting her back at full again. She’s a bit bruised up from her tiff with Ivan, but she’s physically recovered.
Vahid triggers Persuade here, with Anwen granting him advantage by triggering Aid — this setup produces the best roll for the PCs, since Vahid has +1 Charisma — they’re rolling 3d6+1, dropping the lowest d6. If Anwen leads the roll, she gains advantage from Speak Truth to Power, but since advantage doesn’t stack, they only end up rolling 3d6 with the lowest dropped. So, Vahid takes the roll and gets an 11, so Maeve is on board.
A quick note about inventory tracking — we’re choosing a medium load for both Anwen and Ozbeg, and nearly all of their inventory slots are being taken up by the gear-come-disguises Maeve is providing them. If they need something minor like a lantern or a rope, they will have it, but beyond that, they are out of luck.
Anwen actives Clash, aiming to subdue the gaoler. Normally, you don’t have to roll to attack an unaware opponent, but since Anwen is trying to take him prisoner and not just skewer him with the spear, we have her roll. She scores a 10, and deals 5 damage to the gaoler — enough to subdue him for the scene.
Anwen triggers Persuade and Speak Truth to Power, appealing to the gaoler’s conscience. This does not succeed — she gets a 4. We advance the clock two ticks, and that brings in a patrol.
Anwen triggers Persuade in her attempt to convince the young guard to surrender. She rolls a 5, he shouts a warning and we advance the clock an additional two ticks.
Anwen triggers Persuade again, getting advantage for also triggering Speak Truth to Power. Generally in PbtA, you can’t repeat rolls, but here Anwen is changing the leverage she’s using — before, she was appealing to his sense of justice. Now she’s appealing to something a bit more primal. This tack works — she scores an 11.
Another great episode! I admit I was disappointed when Vahid left, although I can see the reason behind it.
Great use of the clock. Definitely fits. I like your use of tools from different games. Are you still using the Ironsworn oracles behind the scenes, such as Maeve's personality, as you did with the Hillfolk?
Holy hell man. Brennan and Bertrim both are two evil guys I love to hate. Amazing bud!
Another great episode! I admit I was disappointed when Vahid left, although I can see the reason behind it.
Great use of the clock. Definitely fits. I like your use of tools from different games. Are you still using the Ironsworn oracles behind the scenes, such as Maeve's personality, as you did with the Hillfolk?
Also, great writing in general