Last episode, Padrig and the chieftain of the Sun-Spear Band rode out onto the Flats, many miles from the Hillfolk camp, and while hunting scrawny rabbits among the dry grasses, they encountered a wounded aurochs bull, the prey of a Frythanc, an enormous, avian, apex predator of the grasslands. Against the odds, Padrig and Juba were able to defeat the Frythanc and claim its kill for the Sun-Spear.
We closed the session by triggering Padrig’s level up move — this was bit forward-looking, as Padrig needs to have a bit of downtime before triggering it, but we’ll be doing some jumping forward in time this session and Pad will be out of the spotlight for a bit, so when he returns, he’ll do so with his advancement. Let’s see what y’all selected:
Situational Awareness wins a narrow victory! I like this choice a lot — the others are fun and powerful, but this one really builds on Padrig’s core identity as a Marshal, which is his keen eye and tactical thinking. Pad is a cautious, canny fighter, and almost never makes combat rolls without advantage — the most notable time he was forced to do so was in his confrontation with Brennan, and we all saw how that went.
We’ll rejoin the action with a coda to wrap up Pad’s time with Juba:
Scene 3, cont’d: A rocky hill surrounded by a sea of grass.
Juba’s band is summoned — a pair of wary patrollers from the picket swiftly arrive at first, goggling at the massive carcass of the aurochs and the even more massive Frythanc laying dead on the rocks, before Juba sends them packing to fetch aid from the camp.
Padrig kneels beside Juba, pressing folded linen against the worst of the meistr’s wounds. Juba’s face is strained but calm as Pad lifts the bandages to inspect the damage. “Well, Padrig-kamrad1? Should Juba prepare to meet the Crowmother tonight?”
Padrig replaces the bandage, pressing to staunch the slow flow of blood. “Not if aid comes soon.”
“They will come swiftly, do not fear.” He smiles meditatively, but his face twitches here and there with flashes of pain.
They wait, and Padrig stares at the dead body of the Frythanc, one sightless black eye staring back at him balefully. Its body lays where it fell, twisted by the impact of its landing. As Padrig watches, Juba’s blackfeather hunting drake flits from the rocky hilltop, landing on the massive bird’s head, staring hungrily at its eye. Pad looks away, back up the hillside, and sees help approaching, just as the sun begins to descend, orange and red bleeding through the grey overcast.
The patrollers have returned, with a striking, brown-eyed matron leading them atop a glossy black mare. Her dark hair is streaked with silver, and her thick brows are furrowed with worry and anger. In the saddle with her rides a wide-eyed Hillfolk girl of seven or eight, and two older boys trail her, sharing a brown-red gelding; The bigger of them holds the reins, and the smaller grips a curved short bow tightly in his fist. Finally, Vahid trails behind the youths on his slow, brown mare. His burnt hand is hidden in the folds of his robe, and he shifts uncomfortably in the saddle as his horse canters down the hill.
The woman rides quickly down the hill to Juba, dismounting with a quiet word to the young girl. She has a sharp, aquiline nose and a broad face, and wears a white deel robe, closed by a swordbelt. She comes to Juba’s side, a medicine bag in hand, and pushes Padrig aside firmly, but not unkindly. Vahid dismounts and approaches the Frythanc, studying it with intense curiosity.
Juba greets her with a pained smile. “Come, my most beloved. Look upon our bloody harvest!”
She rolls her eyes. “A fine funeral feast it might make for you, great Juba. Sit still,” she replies in a stern whisper.
“Tch! Now you see, Padrig-kamrad, how far the decency of the tu’d has fallen since we threw down the Sorcerer-Kings? How we spit and turn our horses’ backsides towards our benefactors?”
“I saw how swollen with pride you were when I rode down here, my love,” the woman replies sternly, without malice. “You are very brave, yes. You have fed us, yes. The camp rings with your praises — and yours, Padrig of Stonetop,” she says, nodding politely aside to Pad. “But the band still rests upon a speartip. Come down from the clouds, back to your saddle, and keep your wits about you.”
Juba glances aside at Padrig and raises an eyebrow. “Padrig, you stand before my wife-and-love, Laurl. Do you have a wife at Stonetop? No? Perhaps we could find you one among the tu’d!” He yells in pain as she sets upon him with needle and horse gut thread. “Heol above, woman. Have you none of the softness of your youth left in you?”
She does not look up from her labors. “It was my dowry, and you squandered it. Have you none of the iron of your youth left in you?”
Juba smiles fondly and cedes the final word, turning his attention to the Hillfolk youths watching from their mounts at a distance. “Sons and daughters of idleness,” he chides. “Was it from your fathers that you learned to sit on the saddle beside two undressed carcasses rather than set to the knife’s work? Because certainly, it was not from my twice-blooded daughters!”
The youths leap to heed him, the eldest drawing a knife from his own belt, while the others scamper to their grandfather’s side, snatching the blades from his sheaths as he chuckles at them.
Standing aside, watching the scene with quiet amusement, Vahid and Padrig confer. “Have you learned much while we’ve been gone? How much will this windfall help the situation here?” Pad asks, nodding to the carcasses, now being butchered by busy Hillfolk children.
“Anwen and I spoke to Solnn and some of the other riders. Over the last few months, they have lost a dozen goatherds, their guardians, and their herds to some unknown assassins. They are not raiders — the herds are left with their keepers, throats slit; food for the scavengers. The nomads are nothing if not practical, so they think this an abomination.”
“Have they not tracked them?”
“They leave no trace, it is said, save, strangely, for grey feathers found on the ground at each attack site. The Sun-Spear call their attackers the Stormcrows, after a bird of ill omen in the Steplands. And they are clever — they avoid patrols and never attack warriors, only the defenseless. Some say they are not men, but malevolent spirits.”
“Do you think this the work of the hdour?”
“I cannot say. I am unfamiliar with sorcerers’ ways. Perhaps if I could treat with their spirit-talker, I could draw some conclusion, but I was rebuffed by her guardian when I asked to speak with her.”
“Their chieftain is in a fine mood with us. I think he will intercede on your behalf now that they’re back from the brink. Learn everything you can. We must know for sure if it is the hdour behind all this — the Sun Spear’s misfortunes as well as the strange whispers that drove the thunder drake to attack the village2. Other bands will be arriving for the spearmoot this week. If we persuade them this sorcerer is a threat, then belike we can stop him before he grows powerful.”
“I will try,” Vahid bows humbly. “We are reaching the edge of my studies, out here in the wilds.”
Padrig cracks a half-smile. “So are we all, Vahid-kamrad.”
Scene Breakdown
To envision Juba’s wife, I went to the Ironsworn character oracles and rolled a few descriptors: Affectionate, Skilled. That’s a good start, but it’s a bit expected for a healer-type, so I go to the Oracle and select an additional descriptor myself: Stern.
I know some folks in the Solo RPG space prefer to go all random, all the time, but in the Ironsworn RAW (as well as in Stonetop’s fate tables), the door is always open to using the Oracles as a bank of options rather than a random generator. In this case, adding Stern to the mix feels like the right choice for a lady who has to deal with Juba’s prideful shenanigans.
I add a few of Juba and Laurl’s grandkids into the mix, too — ultimately, the purpose for this is to increase the narrative and emotional weight of this particular Hillfolk band. We don’t know if great or terrible things are going to happen, but whatever happens, it’ll be more interesting if we can envision the people it’s happening to.
There’s only one roll in this scene, and the trigger takes place ‘off-camera.’ At the gaming table, I can very much imagine Anwen and Vahid’s players trying to gather information among the Hillfolk while Padrig tries to make nice with Juba, so we give them the chance to trigger the roll and send Vahid back into the scene with the information.
For the move, we’re adapting a move from Marshedge, Ask Around:
The move doesn’t totally apply for a Hillfolk band — for example, they’re not going to be spreading coppers around, since the Hillfolk operate largely on barter and credit.
For a quick-and-dirty adaptation, we’ll remove the elements that involve spreading money around, and we’ll introduce a countdown clock to represent the nomads suspicion of outsiders and magi. Since Padrig has done a great job earning their keep, we’ll set the clock at eight ticks, and we’ll mark it for narratively appropriate consequences over the course of the session. If we get to eight ticks, there will be some sort of dangerous incident. We’ll figure out what exactly according to the circumstances.
We’ll assume Anwen is triggering the move; Vahid will want to lay a little low, what with the rumors racing around the camp about his strange burnt hand and his ability to command raging flames, but he can aid her by coaching her on what questions to ask and comparing notes, plus interpreting for her in the Steptoungue:
As a result of the strong hit, Vahid got some concrete information about the threat still facing the band and its nature. And we had no need to mark any segments of the clock, so we’ll leave it right here, ominously empty:
In the next few scenes, we’ll spend some time with Anwen and Vahid in the camp, while Padrig consults with Ozbeg and the crew on how they might help the nomads with their Stormcrow problem.
Montage: Back at the Camp
When the hunting party returns laden with meat, the relief within the camp is palpable. That night, there is a great feast. Slabs of limestone, chiseled from the karsts of the Steplands, are placed on the dung fires til the air around them shimmers with heat and then dragged from the stinking smoke, and the flesh of the Frythanc is set upon them to sizzle and pop. Bronze carafes of goats’ milk, some fermented and mixed with the blood of horses, are passed around and poured into bronze cups and drinking horns.
The nomads roll out long, woven rugs to receive the dishes and sit cross-legged on thick pillows or the bare dirt. Padrig sits at a place of honor at Juba’s right hand, and when the feast is underway, and the mood grows celebratory, Juba rises and presents Padrig with an arrow, fletched with sky blue feathers plucked from the Frythanc’s wings. “A symbol of the old friendship between our people, Padrig-kamrad. You brought good fortune with you and the boldness to seize it. Among warriors, let a word of thanks be like the beat of a heart: A small thing, but it suffices.” Padrig, with a glance at Vahid, demurs twice before the gift is thrust into his hands with a good-natured shove from Juba.
The next morning, the first of the delegations arrive for the spearmoot: A half-dozen Heoling riders of the Yellow Cloud Band, led by their meistr, Blej — a pious, golden-robed priest with a blazing sun tattooed around his right eye. He and Juba greet one another with stiff formality, and his company makes camp near Juba’s tent.
That afternoon, when the sun is high in the sky, warriors from the Sun-Spear and Yellow Cloud gather in a grazed-over pasture to test their skills against one another. Ozbeg and Anwen watch from a nearby hillock, having already been training for some hours.
Another beautiful day on the endless grasslands. Photo: Wing-Chi Poo
Scene 4: A knoll overlooking a barren pasture
“Come on, old man. One more round. I almost had you on the last one.” Anwen brandishes a fistful of arrows, plucked from the dry earth and pulled from a wooden shield hanging from a speartip at the top of the hill.
Ozbeg waves his hand, shushing her. He stands a short jog down the hill, looking down towards the Hillfolk warriors, playing at arms. They have formed a broad circle down on the pasture, and a handful of idle tradesfolk watch from a distance as they duel, armed with wooden staves smeared at one end with sticky, black tar.
Kirs, the Hillfolk warrior who spoke sharply to Anwen, seems to preside over the warriors of the Sun-Spear — despite his youth, they make way for him and bow their heads in respect, and he chooses who goes into the circle from their ranks. The Yellow Cloud champion is a serpent of a woman, tall and lanky; Her spear's swift, flowing motions baffle her opponents, and a pair of skilled Sun-Spear warriors fall to her before she retires from the circle for a rest.
“You haven’t the patience to be an archer, girl — you belong in the thick of it. If you want to learn something new, come watch these nomads have at each other.” Anwen smiles and sidles up to the old mountain man. “Look at her stance. Her strikes. What do you see?”
Probably not well-advised for Anwen to roll +Wisdom a lot, but this is a low-stakes moment, so a miss is not the end of the world — plus, this gives her the one XP she needs to level. We’ll tick the “Hillfolk Suspicion” clock, narrate some initial tension, and keep things going.
Anwen frowns and searches fruitlessly for a sign of whatever clues Ozbeg might see. “She’s fast?” Anwen assays uncertainly. As she watches, she notices a pair of the Yellow Cloud warriors watching her and Ozbeg back, pointing and murmuring amongst themselves with wary looks.
Ozbeg grunts. “Aye, she’s fast. Too fast for you?”
Anwen frowns. “I don’t know.”
Oz nods down the hill. “Only one way to find out.”
Anwen raises her brow in surprise. “Could I? Isn’t it like the warrior’s circle back home? Only for chosen fighters?”
Ozbeg shrugs nonchalantly. “Out here, no one gives a shit what Owain thinks. As far as they know, you’re the champion of Stonetop. Just go down there and tell that Kirs fellow you want to scrap with one of ‘em. That’s all there is to it.”
“That’s all?”
Ozbeg only grunts again in confirmation.
“Who should I challenge?”
“The best one you think you can beat. You’re a strong hand with a blade, Anwen — strong enough that you’ll only get better if you test yourself against the best. Iron sharpens iron.”
Anwen looks down at the circle. From here, she can hear the warriors shouting in the Steptongue as the fighters circle one another, jabbing and feinting with their mock-spears. Her heartbeat begins to pound louder and faster as she walks down the hill, strapping her shield to her arm as she goes. As she gets closer, a stir runs through the Hillfolk, as the newcomers openly gawp at the stren among them and chatter in their language.
Kirs sees her approaching, and their eyes meet. His handsome face is impassive, and Anwen’s face flushes when she remembers his sharp words from two nights ago3.
Recall that one of Anwen’s Fears from her Would-Be Hero playbook is “They won’t take you seriously.” We take this opportunity to trigger it and see if Anwen can master herself and set her fear aside. Often, she does so by using Resolve from her Anger is a Gift move, but right now she has no Resolve to spend, so she will instead Defy Danger using Constitution — she takes a deep breath and tries to steel herself physically against the jitters and hesitation she’s feeling.
On a Miss, we’d impose a Debility — probably Weakened, which would give disadvantage on Strength and Dexterity rolls til it’s cleared. In this case, we’ll just give disadvantage to the first roll Anwen makes with either of those two stats.
“Have you come to show us Stonetop’s mettle, stren?”
Anwen’s eyes dart left and right — the Hillfolk warriors’ eyes are all on her now, and their looks feel to Anwen like wolves ready for a feast. She swallows. “I have.”
Kirs holds up his hand and shouts in the Steptongue. The fighters in the circle put up their spears and stand down. “You are a guest in my meistr’s tent, so I give you the choice: Whom would you face in the circle?”
We’ll close this episode here, and answer Kirs’ question with a reader poll.
Anwen is intrigued by Kirs: He has the respect of his fellow warriors despite his youth, and is quite skilled — both things that she aspires to. She’s also nursing a bit of a grudg: He mocked her for her unease in the saddle. So, she wants to impress him, but she also wants a bit of payback. The question is, which takes presidence?
Challenge Kirs directly: Pay Kirs back for shaming her in front of her friends, and perhaps earn some grudging respect.
Challenge the Yellow Cloud’s champion: Win Kirs’ admiration by fighting on behalf of her host-band.
Mash the button below to make Anwen’s choice, and hold forth about why in the comments. Next week, we’ll see how Anwen fares once she finally gets a chance to duel in a warrior’s circle (even if it isn’t in the one back home), and see Vahid meet with the Hillfolk’s spirit-talker.
Linguistically, kamrad is derived from the real-world Breton ‘kamarad,’ and is used here as an honorific suffix. It is akin to the word ‘Baghatur,’ used by various steppe peoples, sometimes as a social equivalent for knighthood. Pad hasn’t quite been knighted, but his stock is definitely rising, and he’s not ‘stren’ anymore.
Padrig refers to the events of Session 5 when Vahid heard strange whispers on the wind when the Thunder Drake attacked the village and linked them to the Hillfolk sorcerer.
Voted for Kirs, because I feel like his interactions with Anwen have been kind of flirtatious in a middle-school boy "he teases you because he likes you" sort of way. I like the idea that they've got chemistry, but Anwen hasn't really, like, realized it yet. What better way to tease that out than getting all sweaty and physical with each other?
Voted Yellow Cloud. The exchange with Ozbeg set it up too perfectly.
Voted for Kirs, because I feel like his interactions with Anwen have been kind of flirtatious in a middle-school boy "he teases you because he likes you" sort of way. I like the idea that they've got chemistry, but Anwen hasn't really, like, realized it yet. What better way to tease that out than getting all sweaty and physical with each other?