Last episode, we stepped out of the fiction and did some planning for a significant reversal for our heroes. Vahid had a powerful vision of the hdour’s past, but that vision revealed him to the sorcerer, and while Vahid and Katrin return from the Titan’s Grave, our antagonist saw an opportunity to strike.
The exact nature of that strike was the subject of the reader poll — let’s take a look at what y’all chose:
The readers choose violence! The hdour will send out his minions to strike at the Sun-Spear encampment while Vahid and Katrin — the two people most skilled in magic and the unseen world — are absent.
Setting the Scene
To build up to that moment, however, we’ll start with a quiet scene. We still have a plot thread from Session 7 that the readers selected to be advanced — the Makerglass charm that Anwen took from the young rider who was slain by Padrig, way back in Session 3.3. She is a little fixated on this — she feels guilty for his fate, and her subsequent killing of the guardsman in Marshedge, and isn’t sure how she can reconcile that guilt with her desire to be a warrior, which she first expressed in Session 4.6, as the party returned home.
Kirs is a good person for Anwen to ask about this Makerglass charm, so we’ll set a scene with the two of them and use the Keep Company move (you can reference it here) to shape the conversation. Anwen will answer the question “Who or what appears to be on your mind?” which will raise the question of the Makerglass charm, and Kirs will answer the question “What new thing do you you reveal about yourself?”
For that answer, we’re going to go way back to Session 6.2 — when we randomly generated some traits for the Sun-Spear band, we learned that they have a “Famous member, now or in the past.” We’ll now connects Kirs to that detail, helping to explain his particular talent, and his high position within the band despite his youth.
Scene 1: The Sun-Spear’s pasture
The night is cold and clear, the autumn wind from the south tugging at Anwen’s grey cloak, pulled tight around her shoulders. She sits next to Kirs under the star-filled sky, on a small hillock overlooking the horse pasture.
The Sun-Spear’s herd sleeps in the glen below, most of them standing, half-alert, a few laying in the grass in deep slumber. Things are quiet again; the stir in the camp caused by Vahid and Katrin’s departure has died down.
Anwen went to Kirs as soon as Vahid had departed — after all, if Katrin were her sister, she would have wished the same, and Padrig had agreed. She found him standing watch over the herd with one of Juba’s grandsons, and she breathlessly told the tale of Katrin’s visit and her and Vahid’s departure, bourne up into the sky by a storm spirit before Anwen’s eyes.
To Anwen’s surprise, Kirs bore the news with calmness, bordering on eagerness. “It is for the best,” he said when she finished her tale. “Katrin has to ride in old Loen’s path, now that he is gone. She cannot do that if she is kept within the pale1 by fear and uncertainty.”
Afterward, he sent Juba’s grandson to the meistr’s camp to bear word to the old man, resting and recovering from his wounds. He spoke calmly and quietly in the Steptongue, Anwen straining to make out any of the smattering of the nomad’s language that she’s begun to pick up. The young man raced off, and Anwen took his place, watching for Vahid and Katrin’s return on the dark horizon and passing the time with the young nomad war leader.
While they wait, they talk of small things and swap tales — Kirs tells her about a great hippodrome of white quartz, overgrown by tall, golden grasses, where the young Hillfolk riders go to test their mounts and their mettle, and promises to take her there soon. She tells him about the coming harvest feast of Calangaeaf and the bonfires and warrior’s games of Winter’s Night — axe-hurling, fire-leaping, and boisterous, often drunken, chants to scare away wayward spirits of the woods.
One deep azure moon is a crescent hanging low in the western sky; Its silver sibling is high and full in the north. During a moment of quiet, Anwen draws from her belt pouch the green Makerglass charm, taken months ago from the hands of a dying nomad warrior, and turns it softly over in her hands.
I made this using Midjourney, a new AI art tool. Didn’t quite capture the two moons, but it’s something!
She holds it up in the moonlight to Kirs. “Vahid told me to ask you about this. Have you ever seen its like?”
Kirs peers at it in the darkness, running his hands along the sharp edges, his fingers brushing against Anwen’s. “It is an Oathglass. I have seen them before but never sworn upon one. They are passed down among bands, and aspiring warriors swear sacred oaths on them. It is said that in the days of the Old Masters, they were used to bind slaves to their owners and that if the oath were broken, the glass would shatter, killing the one who wore it. But today, their magic is gone. Only the faithfulness of those who swear gives them power.”
Her eyes widen. She thinks of her mother’s oath to serve the Fenwalkers, forsworn, and her promise to Alastair, to return to Marshedge to help slay the monster her father has become.2 “He said something about a promise, as he was dying,” Anwen says sadly. “Is there some way I might find out what oath he swore?”
Kirs frowns thoughtfully. “The straightest path would be to ask his kith and kin. But are they not your enemies?”
“I don’t know,” Anwen confesses. “Padrig said they meant to kill us. Adm certainly seemed like a killer. But this boy was afraid — he stood with his people, but he wasn’t sure he belonged with them,” she trails off, leaving more unspoken.
“What was the name of their band?”
“The Ash-Pickers. Have you heard of them?”
Kirs nods carefully. “I have. They are neighbors of our neighbors when we ride north back to the Steplands come winter. They were once a large and proud band before they were brought low by the Hounds of Heol years ago, when I was young. Perhaps they are the ones who now serve this hdour who your Padrig and Vahid say threatens your home and mine.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps they are trapped in his schemes. Just like us.”
“Then they must free themselves. Like us.” Kirs says firmly.
“If we are trapped together, shouldn’t we help them if we can?”
Kirs chews on this a moment, marshaling his thoughts for a response, but before he is ready, a low whistle sounds from across the glen. Two of the young leader’s riders are making their circuit of the camp’s pale, and they wave to Kirs, their silhouettes lit against the bright starfield, signaling all-clear.
Anwen looks at Kirs with admiration and a touch of jealousy. “All these older warriors look to up you. Why?”
Kirs chuckles. “It is because of my name.”
“Kirs? What does it mean?”
“To the Sun-Spear, everything. I am descended from a hero of the days of the Sorcerer-Kings — Kirs the Clever, Kirs the Crown-thief, Kirs-who-living-walked-among-the-dead.” He pats the bronze knives on his hips. “These were his, and they were given to me when I was old enough to walk. I have worn them ever since.”
“Oh. They made you their war leader because of your name?” Anwen asks, a bit disappointed.
“Oh, no. I had to fight for it, I promise you,” Kirs says. “But my name is why they believe in me. When I first joined the warriors’ ride, the war leader was an old grey hawk of a man named Rogr. He had no love for my great name and took every opportunity he could to grind my nose into the earth. I promised myself I would bear every burden he laid upon me.”
“And what happened?” Anwen asks breathlessly.
“I had to challenge him in the circle when I came of age. Our conflict was dividing the warriors’ ride, between the young and unblooded and the old grumblers,” Kirs says, matter-of-factly. “It was close, but I am faster than he was clever. Afterward, he told everyone that he had pushed me to challenge him, and because of his lessons, I was ready. That I was truly the Crown-thief, born again.”
Anwen laughs. “Is that true?”
Kirs shrugs. “Maybe. As I said, Rogr was a clever old hawk. He could have been testing me, or maybe he was saving face. He died two winters ago while we were still feuding with the Delvers. Juba buried the adze with them after we gave Rogr to the sky. It would be good to have him here now, with the Stormcrows and this hdour to contend with,” he says, his voice trailing into silence.
A cold breeze blows. Above, clouds are beginning to darken the sky, cloaking the brilliant starfield in grey. Anwen shivers a bit. “Do you wish to return to your tent?” Kirs asks solicitously. “I can await my sister’s return alone.”
Anwen scoffs, defiant. “It’s just a bit of cold. My friend is out there too, remember.” Kirs smiles warmly in response, and she beams back at him. “It must be a fine thing to have a storied name like that.” Her face falls a bit as she remembers the half-truths her mother whispered to her about her father and his bravery.
Kirs grimaces. “My father did not think so. It broke him.”
Now he has her rapt attention. “What happened to him?”
Kirs shakes his head. “A story for another time, I think. Tell me, Anwen of Stonetop, what will happen after the spearmoot? Will you return home for your harvest feast and warrior’s games?”
The night has grown dark now, the silver and blue moons shadowed by the rolling clouds. She searches in the dim light for a sign of his intentions on his face. “What else would I do?”
“You could stay with us. If there is a fight coming with this sorcerer, it will be here, among the tu’d. You have proven yourself in the circle, you have a proud upland steed, and we will need warriors. Warriors like you, Anwen.”
“I could stay here?” Anwen repeats, taken aback to be offered a new home so offhandedly. As her eyes adjust to the darkening night, she can now make out Kirs’ anxious expression, anything but offhanded, awaiting her response. She thinks of those waiting for her back in Stonetop: Cadwyn and the other herdsfolk with whom she goes out to the pastures in the Spring. Blodwen, who treated her as a sister even before they braved the Great Wood together. Lewela and Rheisart, who stood with her at initiation. Even Cerys and that strange moment of accord they had under the Pavilion of the Gods. And most of all, Padrig, Vahid, and the Companions, who would no doubt return to Stonetop to prepare for whatever might come next.
In the silence that awaits Anwen’s reply, they both hear a stir spreading among the herd. Quiet at first, and then louder, nervous nickering and the anxious stamping of hooves as sleeping horses rise to their feet. Kirs tears his eyes away from Anwen’s face and looks out, searching the darkness for movement or threat, and her gaze follows his.
“Something is spooking the herd,” he mutters. He drops to a low crouch and begins to make for the pasture, Anwen following behind him. As they move, the horses start to scatter, save for those battle-hardened steeds who stand their ground, rearing up and kicking their forelegs at foes Anwen cannot yet see.
They rush into the herd, dodging between the beasts as they scatter, and soon they are separated in the dust and the darkness. Anwen looks for Kirs, her heart pounding, and she hears two sharp whistles, warning his sentries and calling for aid.
Anwen spots the tall profile of her mare as the brave beast lashes its hooves at a darting shape at its feet. Anwen sees the gleam of scales darting between them and hears claws scratching on the dry earth. Two hound-sized shapes leap and dodge between her horse’s legs, gnashing and biting at its heels.
Anwen hears Kirs call out, first in the Steptongue to his warriors and then to her. “Pack drakes among the horses!” Anwen’s sword leaps into her hand, and she rushes at one of the drakes, interposing herself between it and her mount and slashing wildly at the scaled beast.
Her blade strikes true despite the darkness, and the beast snaps fruitlessly at her as it staggers a few feet before collapsing in the grass, hissing and twitching. Anwen wheels to see one of the drakes clinging to her mare, snapping at its haunches and holding as the horse bucks and kicks its hind legs. Anwen darts forward, snatches the mass of scales and claws off her horse’s flank, and flings it to the ground, its sharp talons leaving tears in her leather bracer and bloody rakes on her skin beneath. Anwen grits her teeth against the pain and turns to face the drake just in time. It is crouching to leap, jaws wide and foreclaws open to grasp and tear.
She meets it head-on, her blade catching the predator mid-charge, slashing through its shoulder and neck, stopping its charge short, and driving it into the grass where it lays still, dead almost instantly.
Scene Breakdown
Anwen rolled quite well here! This part of the fight with a pair of drakes consisted of five rolls and zero misses. Anwen’s stats are now quite high, thanks to her Potential for Greatness move (you can see it here), which has increased her stats three times now. Her Constitution and Strength are +2, so for most combat rolls she will miss only rarely, and that’s exactly what happened here.
First, she had to dodge and weave among the panicking herd to keep up with Kirs.
She doesn’t get hit or trampled by the horses, but she loses sight of Kirs, and is on her own. Next, she finds her own horse, set upon by pack drakes. She draws her sword and goes to work.
She deals 5 damage to the pack drake, which is enough to kill it — they only have 3 HP each. Rather than dealing damage to her for the Weak Hit, we have the remaining drake leap up on her horse, dealing 2 damage — the Upland Steed has 14 HP, (which is a ton!) but another solid hit could put it under threat. It also complicates Anwen further attacking it — she might hit her horse, after all.
So, in response, Anwen attempts to seize the drake and pull it off her horse, repositioning it so she can strike again:
Anwen successfully frees her horse, but she takes damage in the process. The drake rolls high here — 6 damage, more than a third of Anwen’s total HP. The drakes are supposed to be nasty, grabby opponents, so its talons really hurt, and we call for Anwen to resist the pain and shock of blood loss.
No problem. She grits her teeth and gets back into the fight. We don’t trigger Potential for Greatness this time — it can only fire once per level, and Anwen hasn’t yet leveled to 4 (she’s definitely had time, but there hasn’t been a tidy place to put the poll, so she’s been waiting patiently).
She rolls a 3 on her main damage die, but also triggers Paypack, since the drake has hurt her horse, and her. That adds +1d4 to Anwen’s 1d6 damage, totaling a 5 this time — enough to put down the other drake.
We throw the bones a couple of times to see how Kirs fared, using a loose interpretation of the Order Followers move here. Kirs isn’t exactly Anwen’s follower, but we can use the same logic to see how the fight went for him. We assume he’s Quality +2 — after all, he’s descended from Kirs the Crownthief — and the rolls come up 9 and 11. He did about as well as Anwen did — felled a few beasties, but took some wounds himself.
Back to the action:
Anwen searches the dark pasture for a glimpse of Kirs — she sees other riders joining the fight, their spears jabbing at dark shapes in the grass, and then she sees him, his shoulder and arm dark and shining with wet blood. He has already spotted her and is running to her side.
“Anwen! How did you fare? You are wounded!”
“So are you!” she calls back. “I felled two! How many more?” she asks, casting in the night about for more danger.
“No more. There was only a half-dozen, give or take. Something is amiss; These little gnashers do not attack horses in packs this small.” He kneels, quickly examining one of the fallen predators. “Its scales are worn at the throat. This one has borne a collar.”
They look up sharply as a high, fearful scream is carried on the blustery autumn winds. Kirs shoots to his feet, his hunting horn already in his hand and to his lips, sounding three loud, clear notes.
The half-dozen riders who have gathered in the pasture look to him, and he hands out orders rapid-fire in the Steptongue. The warriors scatter in three directions, two pairs heading towards the cluster of nomad tents to the west, the final group circling south around the camp.
He turns back to Anwen and puts his bloody hand on her shoulder. When he looks into her eyes, she can’t help but think of his unanswered question, but he does not speak of it. “Our enemies are here. You are a champion of Stonetop, Anwen — you belong with your people. Go!” With that, he runs into the night, joined by two of his warriors as they race towards the dim lights of the Hillfolk tents. Overhead, the dark clouds rumble.
Scene 2: The party’s campsite, a few minutes ago
Padrig lies on his bedroll, staring at the red-and-yellow pattern of the borrowed pavilion’s ceiling, listening for any sound of Vahid and Katrin’s return. The chill wind from the south is picking up, beginning to whip the tent flaps as the dying flame in the tent’s brazier flickers and gutters.
When the fire goes out and the thin smell of smoke fills the room, Padrig rises and belts on his sword. Ozbeg stirs as Pad goes to the pavilion’s entrance and looks out into the cold autumn night. Their pavilion sits on a flat hilltop alongside Juba’s stately tent and the Yellow Cloud campsite, a trio of austere, off-white shelters with their saffron pennants snapping overhead in the growing wind. In the sheltered valley below, Padrig can barely see the cookfires in the camp center and beyond, dim and scattered lights that betray the presence of dozens of tents hidden in the tall grass. In the distance, he hears the dull thudding of hooves and high-pitched whinnies from the direction of the horse pasture.
Padrig’s antsy, of course, so he’s going to be on the lookout while waiting for Katrin and Vahid, even if he’s feigning a bit of calm to avoid alarming his nomad hosts. Once he hears Kirs and his sentries whistle, he starts looking in earnest for what’s amiss.
Padrig gets to ask one question from the Seek Insight list (reference it here), and he can also use questions from his new move Situational Awareness, though none of those are quite right for this situation.
The best choice here seems to be “What should I be on the lookout for?” — it’s more-or-less what Pad is asking himself at this very moment. We’ll deliver the answer in the fiction:
Across the hill, Padrig’s eye is drawn to motion — the tent flaps leading to meistr Blej’s3 spartan accommodations are whipping in the breeze. Padrig frowns — the sentry that stood there an hour ago, when he last stood and paced, is gone. Then, two sharp whistles, carried on the wind from the south, answered by one from the west and one from the north — Hillfolk sentries, speaking back and forth to one another.
Padrig silences the tiny voice in his head that hoped nothing was amiss and kneels to wake Ozbeg.
“Hrmph. Wuzzat?” the old mountain man mumbles.
“Wake the lads. Arm up. Might be wolves in the fold.”
Ozbeg bolts up and pulls the fighting knives from beneath his pillow. “Are you certain?”
“Certain enough to make certain,” Padrig mutters. “Where is Anwen?”
Ozbeg shakes the clouds from his head and rises to a crouch, whispering back to Pad. “Still at the horse pasture with that young nomad hotspur, waiting for Katrin and Vahid to return, as best I know.” He rouses Harri and Hartig, motioning to their gear. As one, they nod and begin to make ready. “Should we go find her, chief?”
“Not yet. The Yellow Cloud’s sentry is missing. Get ready for a fight and follow behind me; I’m going for a reconnoiter.”
Crouched low and moving through the darkness, Pad crosses the hilltop. Then, a hunting horn sounds in the night, three precise blasts cutting through the blowing of the wind. He breaks into a run — a few dozen more feet, and Pad spots the sentry at the tent’s entrance, slumped down in a pool of blood, black and shining in the dim firelight.
He bellows a stentorian4 warning in Steptongue — “Yellow Cloud warriors! Awake! Foes in the camp! Awake and to arms!” — as he bursts into Blej’s tent, his eyes scanning the darkness for the attacker. Immediately, he sees he is too late — the priest’s body lays among blood-soaked blankets and hides, his eyes staring sightlessly towards the heavens.
Pad draws his sword, but he sees no sign of the assassin. Behind him, he hears the tumult of the Yellow Cloud camp rising to arms. He feels his heart pounding, the blood rushing in his ears. Every instinct he has tells him the assassin is still here, but he sees not a sign and hears not a step.
Only a flash of torchlight against a jagged flint blade gives the killer away. He moves at the corner of Pad’s eye, and the old bandit whirls to face him, but he is already too close for sword work, his dagger held high to strike.
Pad drops his sword on the earthen floor to block the knife stoke, grappling face-to-face with his attacker. Young, brown eyes, more startled than hateful, meet Pad’s above a mask of red cloth. His black cloak has a collar of grey feathers, and his face is darkened with charcoal.
“Stormcrow,” Padrig spits.
“Yes, stren. I am an omen of death. But not for you,” the assassin blusters.
The Hillfolk assassin pulls back from his strike, yanking Padrig off-balance and striking him in the gut with a closed fist, trying to disengage and escape, but Pad recovers from the blow and tackles him, sending them both tumbling to the floor.
The force of the landing knocks the dagger from the assassin’s hand, and they trade barehanded strikes to the body and the head as they struggle for control, but Padrig is just buying time — he hears the jingling of the bells on Ozbeg’s knife-scabbards. When the nomad sees Ozbeg in the entryway, he makes one last desperate attempt to flee, but he meets the mountain man’s knives and is cut down.
“Would have been a fine thing to have him alive, Oz,” Pad mutters. Ozbeg shrugs noncommittally and turns to meet a trio of Yellow Cloud Warriors, led by their champion Yana, armed and ready for violence.
Padrig approaches her and speaks with a calm, even voice. “Your meistr is dead, killed by this assassin — he seemed able to move unseen through some strange trickery. More attackers are almost certainly in the camp — our hosts are in danger, and there is revenge to be got. Are you with me?”
Yana looks for a moment like she is prepared to revenge herself on Padrig then and there, but she sets her jaw and shoulders by him to see with her own eyes what has become of Blej. Padrig and Ozbeg watch and anxiously wait at the tent entrance as Blej’s warriors surround them.
The Yellow Cloud champion bows her head, covers her meistr with his golden cloak, and rises, nodding grimly to Padrig. She hands him his unbloodied sword. “Let us find our revenge, then.”
Padrig quickly surveys the view from the hilltop. He hears cries of fear and pain from the tents hidden in the tall grass and sees flashes of out-of-control flame blowing in the autumn wind. To the east is Juba’s tent — one of his sentries waits outside, alert but uncertain where to turn his spear, while the other sprints down the hill towards the rest of the camp. And to the south, beyond the hill’s rise, Padrig can hear the chaos in the pasture, where Anwen last was seen — horses snorting and stamping their hooves, signaling danger to one another.
Behind him, Ozbeg and Yana await his orders.
Scene Breakdown
Once Padrig enters the tent, we have to contend with a few overlapping moves and abilities. First, we know that the hdour is able to cloak his minions from sight using spirit magic, similar to the Veilmove from the Blessed playbook. He is using that ability here to cloak his assassins — we saw him do so to himself in Session 7.6 during Vahid’s vision.
Second, as a result of his situational awareness move, Padrig gets to ask one free question from his Seek Insight list, and although Padrig isn’t quite fully aware of it yet, a fight has indeed broken out.
Source: Jeremy Strandberg // Stonetop
When he enters the tent and sees Blej’s body, he asks the question “What is my enemy’s true position?” and we as GMs have to decide whether the hdour’s Veiltakes precidence over answering that question fully and honestly.
I ruled to give Padrig a chance to defend himself from the assassin — it would suck, as a player, to just get stabbed. We want to portray Padrig as more skilled and more canny than those Heoling witch hunters who Cirl blew up, so we give him a shot to catch the assassin’s blade as it comes for him. Since he’s doing it through his situational awareness, we’ll let him Defy Danger with Wisdom instead of Strength — a much better roll for old Pad.
He barely saves himself. He and the assassin trade words, and now the assassin isn’t interested in fighting. Padrig tries to hold him until help can arrive, and now he must defy danger with Strength.
They wrestle a bit while Pad buys time, and the Hillfolk gets to his feet, ready to run, as Ozbeg is arriving. Pad doesn’t want Ozbeg to kill him, so we’re not triggering Clash here, we’re going to Defy Danger one last time, but this time we’re triggering the Order Followers move to use Ozbeg’s +1 Quality instead of Pad’s weaker Strength core, and Padrig is giving advantage by Aiding Ozbeg. They try once more to capture the assassin, while he tries to escape.
He doesn’t escape, but nor do they capture him. He dies on Ozbeg’s fighting knives.
Now, Padrig has to contend with the Hillfolk suspicion. He lays it on the line with Yana, triggering Defy Danger with Charisma. We’re not using Persuade here because Padrig isn’t trying to get her to do anything in particular, he just wants to get back to the fight.
Yana is persuaded, by a combination of observation of the scene, and the strong impression Anwen left on her as an honest and upright warrior. For the purposes of this scene, we’ll imagine that Yana was not a battlefield leader, and so she defers to Padrig — it’d be a bit more fun for Pad’s player to get to command a larger force for a scene or two. He got a strong hit, after all.
Finally, Padrig uses his Read the Land move, surveying the scene of this surprise attack, asking “What here is out of place?” aiming to get a broad sense of what’s going on in the camp to better plan his next move, and he learns of some goings on at Juba’s tent, in the camp below, and in the pasture.
Decisions, Decisions
Literally, in this case, because this episode’s very special reader poll will have two questions. We left both Anwen and Padrig deciding where to go next in the chaos of the Stormcrow’s attack. Let’s review their likely choices:
Where does Anwen go?
Follow Kirs: Anwen defies Kirs’ command to go find Padrig and the Companions, and follows him into whatever danger he’s currently sprinting.
Find Padrig: Anwen heeds Kirs and looks for her friends, whom she is also deeply concerned about.
Where does Padrig go?
Protect Juba: The nomad meistr is a strong potential ally for Stonetop, and he is wounded. The mission requires he be protected, and his sentries don’t seem up to the job. Padrig sends Yana into the camp to look for more assassins while he and the Companions see to Juba.
Find Anwen: Stonetop looks after Stonetop. Padrig would deeply regret if Anwen were killed while on a mission with him. He will send Yana to Juba, and he and the Companions will go to the pastures to find Anwen.
What calls do our heroes make when the going gets rough? Slam the button below and make your choice.
It’s good to be back in the fiction with you folks! I hope this episode was an exciting and satisfying one after a couple of weeks on vacation and planning. Next week, we’ll play out the rest of the Stormcrow’s attack on the Sun-Spear encampment, and see how our heroes deal with the aftermath.
A reader pinged me about this usage of “pale.” It comes from the Latin “palus,” meaning stake — the pale of a camp is its wooden palisade, which evolved to mean the notional border of a camp or village. This is what we’re talking about when we say something is “beyond the pale.” It’s out there, in the wilds!
Oooh, I like the tension. I voted for Anwen to follow Kirs, as keeping the PCs apart is one of strengths of solo play, and PbtA supports it well. I voted for Padrig to defend Juba, as he knows Anwen is tough, and the potential ally is worth the risk.
Thrilling stuff!
Oooh, I like the tension. I voted for Anwen to follow Kirs, as keeping the PCs apart is one of strengths of solo play, and PbtA supports it well. I voted for Padrig to defend Juba, as he knows Anwen is tough, and the potential ally is worth the risk.