Session 8.4: Spearmoot

Padrig counsels caution. Anwen buries the dead. Vahid learns of a lost crown. The Spearmoot proceeds.

Housekeeping

Before we kick off the recap of the last episode, I wanted to take a second to welcome some new readers — since our last episode we’ve added about 10 new subscribers. Thank you so much for checking out PTFO, and I hope what you find is to your liking! I read every single comment and respond to most of them, so if you have any thoughts, questions or feedback as you read, please share!

I am sorry to say, however, that today’s lengthy episode is probably not ideal onboarding — it’s a bit exposition-heavy and zoomed out, covering the aftermath of some major events of the last few episodes. If you’re brand new here and haven’t read some of the back material, I’d encourage you to check out the table of contents, or this short (and a bit spoiler-y) recap of the first four sessions. That leads you into Session 5, which is a reasonable place to start from if you’d rather not start from the very beginning.

Recap and Poll Results

Last episode, the Stormcrow’s attack came to a head as Anwen and Kirs confronted one of the Stormcrow assassins, and when they cornered him, he was filled with incredible power, harnessing a raging storm-spirit in his fight against the pair. Anwen fought with all her might to protect the young war leader Kirs, but it was not enough — he was slain before she could overcome their foe. As the Stormcrow died, the storm was unleashed, and Vahid and Katrin arrived just in time to contain it.

Meanwhile, Padrig and the Companions hunted down the last living assassin, tracking him to the ruined hippodrome that Kirs once told Anwen of. Padrig tried to offer the man parole, but he refused, and had to be killed, but not before Pad gleaned that the assassin was sent specifically to target Juba’s wife, and not the nomad chieftain himself.

Before we kick off the our first episode of August, let’s take a look at the results of Anwen’s level-up poll:

A strong majority for Never Gonna Keep Me Down, which gives Anwen a free 10+ on a Last Door roll, and makes her more resilient when near death. This move will make Anwen very, very hard to kill.

At the gaming table, if a player selected this move, I would ask the player if it was an invitation to try very hard to kill them. After all, if it were any other move, I would go out of my way to give the player opportunities to trigger it! So, let me know what you think in the comments: With this latest advancement, how hard should the Lady of Crows be gunning for Anwen?

For this episode, we have a lot of ground to cover — the aftermath of the attack, Kirs’ funeral, and the Spearmoot. A lot of this will be dealt with in a more zoomed-out montages, because it entails a lot exposition and NPCs doing stuff. We will, of course, zoom in when moves are being triggered and when the PCs are taking the wheel.

With that preamble out of the way, we’ll rejoin the action the morning after the attack — the Sun-Spear have returned to their ruined camp to count the cost.

Montage: Aftermath

Anwen mutely permits herself to be led from the field by Katrin and Vahid as Kirs’ warriors bear him away. Katrin whispers to her as they go, but even if Anwen could understand, she cannot hear her: The thunder of the Stormcrow’s strikes is still ringing in her ears, and the rest of the world is silent.

Back at their encampment, Anwen collapses onto her bedroll and is taken by a deep and dreamless slumber. Vahid, moving stiffly and with great effort, slumps down as well, resting against the mast of the pavilion, closing his solid-blue eyes and breathing deeply with relief and exhaustion. Padrig and the Companions return shortly thereafter, bearing the body of the slain assassin to lay at Juba’s feet.

Atop the hill outside his pavilion, Juba calls his veterans to his side, and together they survey the corpses of their enemies. When Maikl, Katrin’s hard-eyed guardian, sees the body the Companions returned with, his eyes alight with vengeful anger. “I know that man — he is a rider of the White Arrow Band. Long have I said the storm-folk are to blame for our misfortunes, and here is the proof,” he growls. “And the drakes that struck at our horses in the night were broken to the collar and the chain — the White Arrows keep those monsters as hunters and beasts-of-war!”

Around him, veteran riders signal their agreement with shouts or spearbutts tapped against the earth while young hot-bloods call out for vengeance and a chance for glory. Other voices — scattered and uncertain — call for caution. The band’s position is precarious, their war leader dead, and supplies are scarce. Juba quiets the assembly and calls upon them to return at sunset for a council of war.

He thanks Padrig and the Companions for their service and again swears his friendship to them. “How fares your wife, great Juba?” Padrig asks with genuine concern.

Juba bows his head and makes a reverent gesture to Heol above. “She lives and grows still stronger, praise to Heol. If an assassin sent for me claimed my Laurl, I would drown the Flats in blood until she was avenged.”

“Take care, my friend. When I spoke to the assassin, something seemed amiss. You were not his target — she was. I think some enemy seeks to provoke you into anger and error.”

Juba chews on this revelation bitterly. “You heard my riders, and you have led warriors before, Padrig of Stonetop. Surely you know: If I do not give them vengeance for this affront, I will not lead long.” Before Pad can press the issue, Juba is swept up by his many duties and descends back into camp to count the cost of the attack.

Scene 6: The party’s encampment

When Padrig enters, a young nomad girl is delivering a pair of earthenware cups filled with goat’s milk upon a carved wooden tray. She moves with stiff formality as she lays the tray on the carpeted floor, watching Anwen and Vahid from the corner of her eyes. She assiduously avoids their gaze and gives a wide berth as she hurriedly departs, bowing politely but quickly to Pad at the pavilion’s entrance before shouldering by.

Anwen looks up at him mournfully; her eyes are tinged with red. Sleep still clings to her as she hauls herself into a seated position, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes downcast. Her burnt hand is bound with linen bandages, stained dark with blood and some strange concoction. Pad collects one of the vessels from the tray and sits cross-legged next to her, offering it to her silently.

She takes it in her hands but does not drink. “Why will no one speak to me?” she asks Pad, her voice still rough from the smoke. “Do they hate me? If I had struck with Kirs, he might have lived. But that thing was so fast.”

Padrig puts his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t be a fool, girl. They don’t hate you; That silence is respect. Awe, even. The whole band is talking about what you did — how you slew a demon of the storm.”

Anwen shakes her head numbly. “I was afraid. I hesitated. And now Kirs is dead, just like Cadoc.”

Padrig nods sadly. “Aye. I know my share of dead men, and most of them look like Kirs and Cadoc — young, brave, and ready to go into danger in a heartbeat. You’re drawn to folk like that, and they to you.”

“If I were braver, maybe it would’ve been me who died instead of him.”

“No,” Padrig says firmly. “Kirs was fighting to protect his kin, and he gave his full measure like any warrior should. He would've died for nothing if you hadn’t been there to finish the fight. And the Stormcrows weren’t here for you — for any of us. One of them said as much to me. ”

“You spoke to one of them?” Anwen asks. “Why did they do this senseless thing?”

Vahid’s eyes slowly open, and he looks to Padrig, awaiting his answer.

Pad clears his throat, slightly unsettled by the Seeker’s solid-blue gaze. “The assassin we tracked across the Flats was told by whatever master he serves to strike at Juba’s wife, but not the meistr himself. Juba is renowned as a hot-blooded warrior. I suspect this was a provocation to force Juba to attack unwisely.”

Vahid nods. “The hdour is certainly behind this — he has an abiding hatred for the Heolings. In the sacred place Katrin led me to, I saw the man. A glimpse, only, but I learned much.” Vahid briefly recounts the vision he received from the Fate-Tree. Padrig and Anwen listen, each detail leaving them more awestruck than the last.

“Now, the hdour seeks a method to bind the Thousand-Year Storm to his own flesh,” Vahid concludes. “What happened to the assassin who slew Kirs was the result of an imperfect binding — one where the flesh is unprepared, and the spirit’s vis unmakes the body from within.”

“Is there such a method?” Pad asks.

“There is,” Vahid replies. “I believe it is the purpose of the great arcanum we discovered beneath Stonetop.”

“So unless he is stopped, his path leads through our home,” Anwen says. “How do we stop him?”

Padrig’s lips quirk up in a smile. “A fine question. It’s never a good idea to do what your enemy wants you to do. I will stay close to Juba, and council caution — we can’t let our allies be bled dry in a needless feud.”

Vahid nods. “I must learn more about my vision. There is much I saw that hints at greater truths, just beyond my sight.”

Padrig’s eyes narrow, and he meets Vahid’s strange gaze. “I have heard such things from you before, Vahid. Months ago in the woods, you told me that the staff you carry is nothing but a tool and that once you understood it, its magic would seem quite ordinary¹. That was when your eyes were brown, and your left hand was living flesh.”

Vahid pauses and gives a deep, meditative sigh, looking down at his ruined hand. “Perhaps I was foolish to think the path to understanding would be short and straight. Perhaps I will never understand this power, truly. But I am certain we cannot stop now — for even if we yield to prudence, the hdour will surely not.”

“He’s right, Pad,” Anwen pipes up quietly. “I’m afraid for Vahid too, but it’s like you said about Kirs. We’re fighting to protect our people, aren’t we? Shouldn’t we give our full measure?”

Pad looks between them, his face lined with concern, but he relents. “All right, Seeker. Go with Solnn and Anwen on the funeral procession, and learn what you can. Forewarned is forearmed.”

Montage: The funeral procession

At dawn, Solnn, the Sun-Spear’s priest of Heol, leads a funeral procession of a dozen riders north to a place of burial.

Though many were injured, only a handful died in the attack from the flames and the assassin’s knives, and the quick action of the band’s defenders nearly all of their scarce food stores from the hungry fires. All agree the cost could’ve been much dearer, but that is cold comfort to those who take the dead to their rest. The bodies are wrapped in linen gauze, once white but now stained grey with the ashes that cover everything.

Anwen recognizes a few of the riders; A pair of them were Kirs’ lieutenants, one old and scarred, the other young, his head shorn and tattooed, and another is Juba’s elder grandson, who rides near to the horse bearing Kirs’ body. Each body is bourn by the horse they rode in life.

The party winds its way between and over the gentle hills of the Flats for a full day and into the next. Solnn leads the solemn procession with Vahid riding by her side while Katrin and Anwen trail behind in sad but companionable silence. Maikl, Katrin’s guardian, follows behind them at a respectful distance, awed as many of the Sun-Spear warriors are by Anwen’s newfound status.

On this forlorn plain, the Sun-Spear give their dead to the sky

Solnn calls them to a halt on a broad plain near sunset, where a handful of ruined stone pillars rise forlornly from the golden grass. In the sky above, white-feathered drakes wheel and circle, and the ground around the pillars is bare of grass and littered with bones, some fresh, some so ancient they are nearly dust.

Here, the dozen riders circle three times, and when they are done, they dismount and bear their fellows from their horses to reverently arrange them in a circle around the ruined pillars. Anwen helps Katrin deliver her brother to his place of honor, flanked by two of his fallen warriors. The procession gathers around Solnn, and she raises her eyes to the setting sun to speak to their god.

“Heol, bringer of light, we bring you our dead. Their love and boldness, their weakness and envy have now perished, and nevermore will they have a share in any deed done under the sun.”

The procession mutters in unison, “Heol kemn.”²

Solnn turns and addresses the mourners. “With Heol’s setting, they depart from our band, the Crowmother bearing them to the shining throne. If they could speak, they would bid us this: Go, eat your food with gladness, and drink with a joyful heart, for Heol shines his light upon you for another day. Be clothed in white, and mark your skin with ink. Enjoy this life with your mate, whom you love, each of the days of this vain life that Heol dawns upon. Whatever your hand finds, be it bow or crook, loom or needle, a child’s cradle or a shining blade of bronze, toil with all your might, for at the foot of Heol’s throne, all are made equal, and in the golden realm of the dead there is neither toil nor glory nor knowledge nor wisdom nor suffering.”

The riders respond again in unison and spread out to unwrap the shrouds. Katrin takes Anwen hand and leads her to Kirs’ body. Her nose wrinkles at the metallic scent of blood as they undo the bindings; The horses of the fallen have been bled, and their blood painted on the insides of the shrouds. Above, the carrion drakes begin to cry, drawing nearer, a few alighting on the ruined stone pillars and looking down at the bodies.

Kirs’ eyes are closed, and he has been dressed in a pure white deel, now stained red with blood. Katrin leads Anwen away as the white-winged scavengers begin to flock. A few of the Sun-Spear watch with grim fascination as they begin to feast; Kirs’ old veteran turns away and sees to his horse while his younger comrade forces himself to watch, his face lined with grief.

Scene Breakdown

Let’s take a bit of an aside to talk about the worldbuilding happening here. The Stonetop setting gives some broad guidelines about the core gods of the world, of which Helior is one, but no specific beliefs or rituals. There’s a bit more worldbuilding in the Lightbearer playbook, which is for playing Stonetop’s sun priest — there, Helior is described as a beacon of hope and mercy, and his priests wield holy flame. If the Lightbearer was in play, that player would be most responsible for answering questions about the faith, but in its absence, it falls more on the GM, so we put our GM hats on for this funeral procession.

Generally, when I’m developing the details of religions for TTRPG worlds and stories, I draw from real-world religions. Whether you think it’s a good thing or a bad thing, I think it’s true that most people are not very familiar with the specific contents of the major religious texts — even those of the dominant faiths of wherever they happen to live. That unfamiliarity is great fodder for envisioning fantasy worlds; drawing from the deeper parts of the text can feel at once familiar and new.

When envisioning what the worshippers of Heol might think and say about death, my mind was quickly drawn to the book of Ecclesiastes in the Old Testament. The phrase “under the sun” appears numerous times in the verses, which felt thematically appropriate. Ecclesiastes also combines a sort of fatalism that is not very common in the Bible with an almost Buddhist “be here now” element that felt appropriate to a faith that ascribes holy significance to the daily sunrise and sunset.

So, to envision Solnn’s funeral invocation, I cribbed from Ecclesiastes 9:9, reimagining its imagery from the perspective of these horse nomads. In a traditional PC-and-GM game, I would probably not read it at the table, but instead send it via email as part of pre-session set-up. Generally I find players don’t have a ton of patience for lengthy ‘cutscenes’ where their characters are mostly inactive.

For the burial specifically, I thought sky burial would be appropriate for sun-worshipping nomads — returning the bodies of the dead to the sun on the wings of sacred scavenger drakes. This is a burial rite practiced in central and east Asia which involves leaving the bodies for carrion birds, and in our vision of Stonetop, this niche is occupied by feathered drakes out on the flats. In real-world sky burials, the carrion birds sometimes have to be coaxed to consume the bodies, so I envisioned the annointing of horse-blood to draw them near and to further underscore the bond between horse and rider, even at the moment of death.

When they reach their mounts, Katrin draws a short, slender bundle wrapped in ash-stained cloth from her saddlebags. She draws one of Kirs’ bronze daggers from it and presses the hilt into Anwen’s hand. The scars on her palm are raw, and the blade feels like it burns her anew as she grasps it. The blade is blackened and oxidized from the storm’s vis as it bled from the assassin.

Katrin glances aside at Vahid, who is watching from a short distance. She speaks to Anwen in the Steptongue, slowly and clearly. Vahid approaches, and Anwen looks to him. “What did she say?”

“She says she wishes you could have known her brother longer, and she has seen visions of ungiven fates where that came to pass. Now that you have shared this loss, she says you are sisters and bids you take one of her brother’s blades. She will keep the other.”

Anwen takes the blade from her and nods solemnly, meeting her eye. They mount up and ride together until the sun sets.

After camp is made and a meager dinner served, Vahid approaches Solnn. “Honored voice of Heol,” he begins, bowing weakly, “I wish to know more about this strife between the people of the sun and the storm and the old tales of the tu’d. Katrin led me to a place of visions, and I struggled to make sense of what I saw and heard when the heart of the hdour was revealed to me. His master spoke to him of a time when the tu’d was an unstoppable storm, and meistrs ruled as kings. I have read nothing of this in my histories. Is it so?”

Solnn nods warmly. “It is my task and honor to keep the stories of our people for the Sun-Spear. It is so that the storm-folk were once the vanguard of the tu’d. In the days of the Old Masters, when our people toiled under their cruel yoke, it was the storm-priests that first exhorted our people to revolt. The warriors of the storm-folk threw down the first of the Old Masters and showed us the tyrants could bleed.”

As she speaks, others gather around to hear the histories of their people once again. She addresses all of them as she continues.

“But the storm-folk are prone to excess — the sun is constant in its rising and setting, but no man can say where the storm will rage next. Our kin became drunk with glory and betrayed us.”

Mutters and curses rise from the riders of the procession as they listen to this familiar tale.

“They called upon the Things Below for the power to put an end to the Old Masters and ensure they could never return us to bondage, and the Things Below, in turn, corrupted them and put in their hearts a terrible madness — the crown-greed, the hunger to lord over their brothers and sisters. Many meistrs styled themselves as kings. They wielded artifacts of great power, from the Things Below and taken from the hoards of the Old Masters. For centuries they warred with one another, and the tu’d bled. Until Arzhur the Liegekiller³ arose to put an end to them. Heol sent down an army of shining spirits to ride at his side, as he laid low those who would rule the tu’d as kings.”

“These were the sorcerer-kings and the barrow-builders,” Vahid says. “The scholars of the south know little about them. They were nomads?”

“Many were,” Solnn says. “But the Old Masters had other servants upon whom they conferred blessings and burdens. Once the Old Masters were defeated, those servants thought to take their places.”

“Were the people of Stonetop among them?” Vahid asks eagerly.

Solnn hesitates. “Some stories are better left untold,” she cautions. “Speaking them aloud can bring the past to hateful life.”

Vahid shakes his head weakly. “These are no longer tales of a bygone age. Our enemy seeks the power to subjugate your people, and I believe that power is beneath Stonetop. My hosts, Anwen and Padrig’s people, are in the hdour’s path and know nothing of what they protect from him. No matter what wrong was done in the past, surely you cannot ask them to risk their lives and not know why?”

The Hillfolk don’t usually talk about their history to outsiders (this is established in Stonetop’s worldbuilding materials), but our party has made a bit of an exception for themselves with their various heroics. But what Vahid is asking now is the true secret, so he has to Persuade her. Vahid is offering something she wants — to defeat their common enemy, the hdour. Hopefully, his Let’s Make a Deal move will help here by upgrading a weak hit to a strong one, but first he has to get a weak hit. He’s rolling with disadvantage, thanks to the Miserable debility he picked up during his vision quest:

Vahid triggers Persuade: 4+4+4+1 = 9, Weak Hit→ Strong Hit.

Solnn glances at her people, sitting around the fire. Maikl’s eyes narrow in suspicion at Vahid, but he says nothing. She sighs and continues.

“Very well, Seeker. I will tell you what I know of Stonetop. In the days before Arzhur, and even before the revolt, that place was called Storm Hill, and it was home to a people chosen by the Old Masters, foremost among them a sorcerer called Stormcatcher. The Old Masters there feuded with their kin to the east, in the Great Wood, and their champions were nine human warriors. Stormcatcher gave them blessings of thunder and lightning, and they were the storm incarnate on the battlefield.”

Vahid leans in, nearly forgetting his bone-deep exhaustion. His solid blue eyes fix on Solnn, and she looks away before continuing her tale.

“When the Old Masters were defeated and scattered, Stormcatcher disappeared, and her tower was cast asunder. Her champions were left behind to rule in her stead. They soon became tyrants, demanding tribute from the bands that ranged near the Storm Hill. Few could face them on the battlefield; if one fell, another was given the storm’s blessing to take their place.”

A ghost of a smile lights her face now, pride and sadness intermingled. “It was one of our blood, our kin, who finally brought them low. Kirs the Crownthief⁴, climbed the Storm Hill’s high fortress walls, and stole into their sanctum in the dead of night, claiming the crown that gave them the storm’s blessing.”

“And what became of the crown?” Vahid asks.

“The Crownthief rode north to a unhallowed place: The barrow of a restless sorcerer king, Yezkial the Thrice-Betrayer, a hateful wight surrounded by deathless attendants. Kirs walked unseen among the dead, venturing into the dead king’s burial chamber and placing the crown among his treasures. The champions of Storm Hill tried to brave the halls of the unliving, but each time they were turned back by the horrors within.”

“So they were broken?”

“Yes. Kirs was far-sighted and knew that the tu’d could wander widely and wait til the nine were taken by old age or a turn of fate. And so it was — once the champions had passed on, many bands set upon the Storm Hill, humbling in battle those who remained and forcing them to renounce Stormcatcher’s power. Their sanctum was sealed, and the secrets of the champions burned in a great fire. The Storm Hill was no more.”

“The hdour will surely seek this crown out in its hiding place. Can it be found?”

“Many know of Yezkial’s burial mound. None who have braved his hall returned to tell what they found there.”

Maikl chuckles humorlessly from his place across the campfire. “Perhaps the Thrice-Betrayer will slay the hdour for us.”

“Perhaps,” Vahid allows, but his voice is not hopeful.

Montage: The White Arrows

While Anwen and Vahid are burying the dead, Padrig remains with the Sun-Spear and awaits the Spearmoot, greeting more Heoling emissaries at Juba’s side. The meistr of the Crow’s Teeth — a short, stout, bow-legged woman named Enra leads ten riders, each bearing saddlebags laden with gifts of food and supplies. She greets Juba effusively, pledging her band’s support in this dangerous time, but when Juba recounts the story of the attack and the hdour, she grows more guarded with her promises. Nevertheless, her riders readily lend themselves to mending what tents can be salvaged from the fire and preparing Juba’s band for their journey back to the Steplands.

The day after Anwen and Vahid return, three armored Heoling warriors arrive, fierce-looking and each marked with a sunburst tattoo on their shorn skulls. These are the Hounds of Heol, drawn by rumors of the hdour; Juba confides in Padrig as they perform the rituals of hospitality, sipping spiced horse milk and tasting salt from a carved wooden cellar.

On the third day after the attack, Juba’s scouts ride to the edge of the camp, sounding an alarm: The storm-folk are here. The White Arrows have sent emissaries; by custom, a Spearmoot is open to all of the tu’d, no matter the god they worship.

Packed with warriors from many bands, eager for glory and vengeance, the encampment now grows tense. Maikl and many of Juba’s veterans, along with the warriors of the Yellow Cloud band, wish to strike now against the White Arrows, who they claim violated the Spearmoot’s truce and have forsaken the protections of the tu’d’s law with their blasphemy. The Hounds of Heol raise their voices in support — if the White Arrows harbor a hdour, they are all guilty of witchcraft.

Juba, with Laurl strong and recovering at his side, calms the most hot-blooded warriors and rides out to meet the White Arrows, bringing his most trusted riders, and Padrig, Anwen, and Vahid ride with him to the meeting place to bear witness for Stonetop.

The White Arrows are led by their meistr, a jolly-looking old nomad with a salt-and-pepper beard. His deel is vibrant blue silk with clouds stitched in white thread, and around his chest, he wears a thick silver chain etched with Maker runes. His belt rings with swords and daggers, and flanking him are beast-keepers holding snarling pack drakes straining on chains of bronze. His entourage is only warriors, armed and armored, and most of them stare daggers at Juba and his people.

“Abra. You are bold indeed to show your face in my riding grounds, surrounded by your cutthroats and cold-blooded beasts,” Juba growls.

The storm-folk meistr scoffs. “No boldness is needed, mighty Juba, for surely the Sun-Spear have not fallen so far that they would violate their own truce. Your messenger said your band was in need, pressed to desperation by ill fortune and banditry, and so I have brought what I can.”

He gestures, and his warriors bring forth their gifts. Abra grins as he unwraps one and offers a strip of dried aurochs meat. “The storms and fires drove the aurochs to my band’s riding grounds — finally a bit of good fortune for us, eh?”

Juba snarls. “I could not accept a gift from you without offering one in return.” He snaps, and his warriors bring forth the shrouded bodies of the Stormcrows and cast them at Juba’s feet. Juba draws a curved knife, and the storm-folk warriors tense, but Juba only kneels to cut the shroud from the faces of the assassins.

“Look here, Abra. One of your wayward warriors, who stole into my camp to kill my beloved wife. Do not deny it, for my riders know yours well — they carefully mark their faces as they turn and flee from us.”

One of Abra’s men — a young swordsman, his face half-stained with blue paint and his horse marked with white-lightning slashes — spits back. “Your sun is setting, old man, and our storm is gathering! Set aside the truce and let us see whose warriors prevail!” A handful of brethren howl in agreement, beating their spears against their shields.

Abra smiles indulgently and looks back to Juba. “Try not to fear too much, great Juba. My son Maël; he is hot-blooded and eager for glory, but he has sense enough to respect the decencies.” Abra glances down at the bodies of the Stormcrows and shrugs. “I know that man, yes. He was cast out into exile two years ago; he was an unquiet soul and not well-suited to times of peace. No doubt he has fallen in among other outlaws, who gather around your prosperous band like flies around an auroch’s ass.”

“And the others?” Juba growls.

“More outlaws, I’d wager. They have the look of Ash-Pickers, to my old eyes,” Abra replies airily. “That band was broken by kinstrife three winters back, and their remnants have been coming to me in drips and drabs ever since. Most I send on their way to starve or find the Rainmaker’s blessing on their own. After all, my band is not a rich one — we can only take those who will serve.”

“These were no bandits, you old fool,” Juba fumes. “They were made bold by the power of black magic, and they serve a hdour. What do you know of this? What are you hiding?”

Abra’s smile fades. “I grow impatient at these accusations, O proud Juba. You Heolings are happy to scorn us when your fortunes are fair, and when things turn against you, you see black magic everywhere. And who do you blame? Your neighbors, who simply wish to be left alone, to hunt the aurochs and rob the Delvers as our fathers did. Am I not free to have some good fortune, Juba? Or does the sun only shine on you and yours?”

Juba falls silent, shaking with rage. All his warriors’ eyes are on him; hands fall to pommels and grips tighten around spear hafts. Into the silence, Padrig speaks in a quiet voice to Juba. “Peace, my friend. We only serve our enemy by striking blindly.” Abra stares at Pad, seemingly noticing him for the first time when he speaks to Juba. His eyes narrow in uncertain recognition, and his gaze darts back and forth as he tries to place him.

Two rolls here: First, Pad is trying to convince Juba to stick to the plan and not attack impusively.

Padrig triggers Persuade: 6+4+1 Charisma = 11, Strong Hit.

The second roll was to determine whether Abra, who we’ve established as a bandit who strikes at Gordin’s Delve, recognizes Padrig. Pad has so far avoided entanglements with the Hillfolk based on his bloody past — let’s see if that changes. I used the Ironsworn expanded Yes/No Oracle. For the probability, I selected “Likely” — Pad’s been around the block, and Abra has spent a long time fighting the Delvers. The result was Yes, But: Yes, Abra recognizes Padrig, but hasn’t quite placed him yet. If we spend more time with him, he will almost certainly recall Padrig’s involvement with the Claws.

Juba sets his jaw and nods. “I thank you for your humble gift. I believe it best you return to your people — I fear not even Arzhur himself could not protect you from the ire of those who await us back at camp.”

Abra shrugs nonchalantly. “A sad day, when the people of the tu’d cannot partake in milk and salt as brothers. Ah, well!” He chuckles as he wheels his horse around.

“Look to your people, Abra,” Juba hisses as he goes. “There is a serpent among you.” Abra waves placatingly as he rides off. Maël, his son, lingers, his eyes burning with unconcealed hatred for the Heolings as the two bands part ways.

Montage: The Spearmoot, and a decision

Juba and his blooded warriors make plans with the Heoling emissaries over the next two days. Vahid goes before their leaders and speaks of his vision of the hdour, warning them of his great ambitions and terrible power. At first, the emissaries are reluctant to hear Vahid — a stren and a wielder of dangerous magics — but Juba speaks of Stonetop’s old friendship with the Sun-Spear, and the heroic service that each of the party has done for the band.

On behalf of Stonetop, Padrig councils the assembled nomads to be cautious. “Vahid has seen that our enemy is a subtle one,” he says. “When hunting a serpent, the wise hunter waits until he is certain of a killing blow.”

Padrig triggers Persuade, with Vahid’s Aid: 5+6+1+1 Charisma = 12, Strong Hit.

The nomads endlessly debate among one another — two days and two nights are spent in council among the many blooded warriors Juba has called together. In the end, they swear solemn oaths to spend the winter in preparation, so when the season of war arrives, they will be ready to hunt for the sorcerer.

After the moot, the party convenes in their pavilion. Vahid’s body still aches from the exertion of silencing the storm-spirit, but his mind has cleared.⁵ The sharpness of Anwen’s grief has faded, but she remains quiet and withdrawn.

Padrig breaks the silence in the tent. “Our work here is done, it seems. The Heolings are united against the sorcerer, and come Spring they will hunt for him in the Steplands,” he says. “Best we return to Stonetop and prepare.”

“I fear we do not have time,” Vahid says. “Solnn told me of the crown used by Indrasduthir — they know her as Stormcatcher — to imbue her chosen champions with the storm's power. The hdour will be searching for it, and without it, we cannot make use of the power beneath our village. We should make haste to claim it, lest it falls into his hands — or we miss an opportunity to confront and defeat him!”

“If we want to confront him, our path leads to the White Arrows and the Ash-Pickers,” Anwen protests. “The hdour is hurting them, just like he was hurting the Sun-Spear! If we can help them, perhaps we can turn them against the sorcerer and leave him without allies. Let us seek them out!”

Vahid’s brows rise in appraisal of this plan, and he and Padrig exchange a glance, but Padrig just shakes his head. “No. Our place at Stonetop. Our people know nothing of this threat — we must tell them. Our people aren’t ready to face the likes of the Stormcrows — we must make them ready. Winter will soon be upon us, and a poor harvest could doom us just as surely as the sorcerer’s storms.”

We’ll pause here, and choose a course of action with this week’s reader poll. The party is mulling over their next move — our options are:

1. Heed Padrig’s council, and return home. Vahid needs to rest, and they need to bring word back to the elders and the rest of the village about what’s happening beyond their borders, and what they must prepare for. Choose this one if you’re excited to get back to Stonetop and spend some time in the village, confronting homefront threats and building our relationships there!

2. Follow Vahid’s advice, and search for the crown. The crown is the final piece of the puzzle that would allow them to active the arcanum below the village and, possibly, apply the Storm Markings, giving them the power they need to face the hdour directly on the battlefield. This path is also one of the two that will offer a chance to confront the hdour directly. Choose this one if you want a good, semi-old fashioned dungeon crawl!

3. Go with Anwen’s gut, and seek out the White Arrows and their Ash-Picker guests. The hdour seems to have designs on the fate of the White Arrow Band, but their meistr seems unaware. A diplomatic mission could potentially bring them over to the cause — but it could also place them among their enemies. This path, like option two also represents a chance to confront the hdour directly. Go with this one if you want some diplomacy and intrigue, and if you’re not yet tired of spending time with the Hillfolk!

This choice will probably determine our story direction for at least the next two sessions — and chances are, these choices can’t be preserved for future polls, since the situation will evolve and change based on what we do. So choose wisely, and as always, thanks for reading!

1. Way back in Session 1.3, Scene 5.

2. “Heol proclaims,” based on the Breton word “Kemenn.” Vahid would be translating for Anwen throughout this scene — recall that she is the only one of the party who does not speak the Steptongue — though in the previous episode, we laid some groundwork to soon establish she has learned at least enough to get by.

3. Arzhur was first mentioned in Session 7.2, Scene 3. A reader asked me in DMs if there was any worldbuilding behind Juba’s aside about Arzhur, and, well, there is now!

4. This is Kirs’ famous ancestor, which we generated using Fate Tables way back in Session 6.2, Scene 2.

5. A lot of days have passed, so we let Vahid clear one of his debilities — Miserable, specifically. He’s still Weakened, and will be until he takes an extended rest in a healer’s care.