#ironsworn oc | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

catboyaesthetic · 1 year ago

Text

Ironsworn

The following story has been created with the use of the Solo RPG "Ironsworn." I'm still learning the system and it's equal parts unwieldy and intuitive. It's nonetheless a very rewarding system and a great way of digging into my own creativity. I would highly recommend it if you have the time to get to grips with it.

I've tinkered with it a little bit to fit a character from my own personal worldbuilding project into it, and as such, it's not as representative of the game as it might have been had I generated a character specifically inside the world. The reason for this was the fact that I thought it was cool to integrate my world with this one.

The Journey Begins

All has been set in motion. A week ago I was informed of my new post in a place called “the Ironlands” by the Volcaptain. The talk was short as they often are, but this felt almost cold and distant, where usually the curtness feels professional. To convey in as few words as possible is considered a virtue, but this involves Lena, and to hear the mission that involves her be spoken of so curtly rubs me wrong. It is how we always do things, but to know it’s about her feels different. The main post is to aid the Ironlands, of course. There’s been reports of something called “black iron” being mined there, and the higher-ups believed it’s a synonym for the Elder Mineral. I am to investigate these reports and otherwise present as good of an image of Sunspire as I can. I still find the position odd. To be diplomatic emissary, expeditionary force, assassin, courtier, foreign army and sword-for-hire all in the same person makes me feel as if I am to be a superhuman extension of the Merchant-Kings. But I’m just a man. I bleed. I laugh. I weep. I think tonight I’ll go on that trip down the Halls of Joy I’ve always promised myself. It might be the last time I can distract myself the fullest.

Aboard the Fortune’s Call

As I sail aboard the Fortune’s Call, the air is crisp and full of shouting. Wherever I turn, there is command. Authority, it seems, is infectious, especially aboard a ship this size. It feels like a floating fortress with how many cannons rest on either side, which seem unnecessarily high. The place called the aftcastle is true to its name with how vast the structure is. Decorated with vivid colour and intricate carvings in the shape of lionheads, suns and other ornate ornamentation, it seems every bit a wooden manor. We’re only short a green field to truly complete the picture. While I’m hardly considered to be an authority on taste, I find the whole picture rather gaudy. The man who captains this vessel is equally as colourful in his attire, his manner and his general demeanor. For all his flaws in taste, I do enjoy the man. If there is one benefit to being a Spiresworn, it’s the ability to outrank most everyone in the city. Subsequently, I am considered to be on not just equal, but higher ranked company to the captain. Though I do surrender to his authority on this vessel. Despite my experience, I haven’t the foggiest idea of how to run a ship, let alone run it well. Captain Perrenen has that well in hand, and I believe we have an understanding that I do not muddy his command by inserting myself and he subsequently does not ask questions he ought not to. Thus we spend our time together pleasantly and dedicated to conversation. He is an exceptional rhetorician and his mind is sharp as the saber he carries. On more than one occasion he has managed to stump me, wielding his arguments as deftly as I hope he wields that sword.

It didn’t take long for us to reach our first waypoint of the journey, a port called Heragon, I couldn’t make out a word of the language, but the people were pleasant and helpful. I got to try several delicacies which I believe Captain Perrenen later paid for – being more accustomed with the way things worked. I should have known, of course, that that was a swindle rather than a kindness, but the good captain had the decency to only laugh at me in private. I believe he is the only person whom I have ever enjoyed calling me a fool.

(Undertake a journey 4+3 vs. 9 and 3 – Weak Hit.)

We set sail again before long. In what I understand to be a stroke of good luck, the winds have favoured us thus far. I spend my nights with Captain Perrenen, discussing this and that, and somehow never quite running out of things to talk about. Despite myself, I find myself drawn to him, and whether it’s been weeks or months, the attraction only grows stronger. He doesn’t flatter me the way that I’m used to, no shallow compliments, no deference to rank. He talks to me like a person. He asks me about my ways of thinking, my interests. He treats me like a human being, not the arm of the Merchant-Kings.

I find I look forward to the evening discussions we have. To have him to myself for a while where I do not see Captain Perrenen, but only Hann. I say ‘only’ but he is only a captain. As a man, he is so much more. He loves the sound of the ship as it hits the waves, urian tea drawn from barab roots for exactly 5 minutes, something which makes the drink exceedingly bitter and which provides something of a comic contrast to his otherwise sweet disposition. He loves the sunrise, singing, and the sea. All sailors do, in their own way. Lately I find my arguments do not have their old sharpness as I focus on the wrinkles around his eyes from what is still a very short life spent laughing often and loudly. The sound of his voice as he calls my name and tries to draw me out of my musings. The way he looks at me with might be a knowing smile. I don’t know. The weeks soar by, the winds favour us, and we spend our evenings together. For a time, the world is small and peaceful.

(Undertake a journey: 5+3 vs 5 and 2 – Strong Hit.)

The seas are good to us. We make such good progress that somewhere, I feel a pang of regret that it will be over soon. The routine over the past few months has become so ingrained that I would almost feel like I’d be throwing part of me away when I have to step off this ship. It’s something I remind myself of often, especially as Hann and I sit and talk. We’ve gone far beyond battling wits the last few weeks. Perhaps it’s just me, but there is a weight to the conversations we have now, a tension. The way he laughs is different, but no less attractive and I’ve noticed that he looks at me differently. It’s only then that I realize I don’t know what goes on in that head of his, and I would desperately like to know. Sometimes he hides his mouth behind his hand as he listens to me, and I find myself hoping he’s smiling. I find myself feeling as if I were a prey in the eyes of the hawk. I feel he sees me in a way that I find thrilling. I also find myself skirting around certain topics or words because I am afraid they would not sit well with him, despite him never giving any indication of displeasure. In fact, he seems to be somewhat diminished every time I draw away from what might be something risqué. I think he’s hoping for the same thing I am. But what is it exactly that I’m hoping for? Outside of this room we are the same as always. He is Captain Perennen and I am Fyodor, a high-paying nobody for all intents and purposes, which allows me all the privileges wealth can afford aboard his ship – so long as it does not interfere with its functioning. But despite how small this ship is, I feel worlds apart from him. My mind churns and a need that will not be reasoned with rises with every evening he sits and looks at me like he wants the same thing. Or am I just seeing what I want to see? Am I so caught up in my own experience I forget the rest of the world? It wouldn’t be the first time. Lena often said I was prone to egotism, and despite my best efforts to rectify this, I can still get caught up in the whirlwind. There are so many things to dislike about him. As I try to remind myself of them to still the hunger, I find they’ve all disappeared. It would be cruel, I think to myself, to simply consume such a beautiful a man. To use him for my selfish purposes and discard him once we arrive. Soon we will be oceans apart again. Time will be kind to the memory but not the feeling. I would miss him. Worse yet, I fear that I would miss him more than he would miss me. I could write, but would I? I know myself, or at least I try to, and I have historically always been a evasive lover. Quick to action, slow to attach. It comes with the work, I think. I try not to think on it further.

(Undertake a journey 5+3 vs 5 and 1 – Strong Hit.)

My heart sinks as the news reaches us that our destination lies on the horizon. I didn’t think I still had it in me to dread. I glance to Hann as he stands on the balcony of his aftcastle, in every way the picture of the noble captain as he gazes towards the horizon. For the fifth time today, I wonder what he’s thinking. I wonder if he feels the same grief I do. I’m not sure why. Perhaps the adage that misery loves company is truer than I ever thought it to be. I remind myself that all I feel, I feel alone. I do not know what goes on in his head, and for all intents and purposes, his acceptance of my presence has been a calculated indulgence. But even as I remind myself, I find I do not want to believe it. I would rather believe the delusion – if indeed it is – and pine for a man in so many ways my better. You do not get many comforts in this line of work. Spiresworn are meant to be the bastions of the Merchant-Kings around the Known World. But even if each of us are built up to be castles of our own accord, we all rule alone. How thicker the walls and how vast the defenses, the lonelier it is.

Hann catches me staring. I do not have the decency to look away. Rather I take the opportunity to carve him into my memory. If it is not to be, I would like to remember him. To put this finely-honed mind to work remembering a man who was kind to a stranger, a father to his crew and the envy of the sun with the warmth and light he brought to the lives of those around him. I am pulled from my reverie by the sound of his voice, carrying a tone he’s never used with me before.

“Mister Koningszoon, if you’d care to join me in my quarters, I have something I’d like to discuss.” He dismisses his inner circle of officers, then turns and enters his quarters. He speaks to me as if I were a crewmen, with courteous authority – and the implicit expectation he is to be heeded. Something in me bristles at it, yet the largest part is awash with crackling anticipation. I keep my composure, my strides measured, and knock courteously on Hann’s door – The Captain’s door, I remind myself – to announce my arrival. I enter by his command, and the moment the door shuts behind me, Hann’s lips are on mine and his hands are grasping my face and the world melts away in the wake of his affection and the flush of warmth that rushes through me. I taste how hungry he really is, how desperate. How badly he wants to grasp me but even in this desperate heat of the moment, he remains soft and kind and considerate and I want to let him take all he wants as reward for his kindness. Whether he means to pull my hair or strip me or debase me in ways that tumble over each other in my head is irrelevant. For a moment I am his and he is mine and we are only Hann and Fyodor in a floating wooden fortress and barely hours until we are cruelly separated once again. As we continue to kiss and grab at each other, almost as if to confirm that the other is truly real and this is really happening, I let him lead me wherever he wants. We don’t need to speak. We know what we want. We’ve known for weeks – months – what it is we’ve wanted and only now have we found the courage to act.

The brief bout of pleasure and the eternity of joy we spend together after is too short. The beginning of the end comes by way of a simple crewman, relaying a message of our arrival. I try not to weep. Hann holds me, kisses my head and assures me that this won’t be the last time we’ll see each other. He promises to write me. I thank him, knowing I won’t. Knowing he truly is too good of a man for the likes of me.

Damula

As I travel in a vessel vastly underwhelming after months on the Fortune’s Call, I am informed by my ferrywoman the place we’re heading toward is called Damula. A strange name, that even seems to sound wrong out of my ferrywoman’s mouth. Still, the sound of it seems to somehow fit the accent she has. The word itself is thick with history. I find it hard to concentrate as I look back towards the dot on the horizon that has been all the world for the past few months, captained by what had been my home until today. I ask the Ferrywoman what Damula means.

(6+3 Wits vs. 8 and 9 = Weak Hit.)

The ferrywoman thinks on it for a moment, seeming unsure herself. She then tells me it was a word from “those who came before.” Who or what they were or where they come from remains a mystery, and I think I have already overstayed my ferrywoman’s patience with my questions. My own patience is running thin also, and so I overlook the landscape that is steadily drawing closer.

Despite the withered landscape, it has a beautiful quality to it. It seems as if time has passed this place by. The trees that might have once grown here have been cut down and usurped into the buildings of Damula, and it seems they have neglected to plant new ones. Yet somehow, it has enhanced the landscape, not made it worse. I dread to think on the ecosystem, however. What do they burn to keep warm? Do they keep warm? This wind chills me to the soul and the gray skies that always threaten rain make the season difficult to distinguish.

I’ve already paid the ferrywoman whom I have neglected to ask her name. She didn’t seem the talkative type to begin with, but now that we’ve begun I feel compelled to do so. She tells me her name is Makari. When I ask for her last name, she looks at me like I’ve asked her what colour the water is. It seems these are in short supply. In hopes of not drawing attention to myself – something I have already radically failed at – I tell her my name is Fyodor. She finds the name strange, yet tells me it has a certain melodic quality to it. An observation I find ill-fitting of a ferrywoman, yet nonetheless flattering and indicative of an interest and mind I did not think to find within this ferrywoman. Which itself is a sentiment I find myself somewhat embarrassed of. In hopes of distracting myself from it, I put on my best smile and ask her if she enjoys music. She nods as she adjusts the sails and seems to think on it for a moment. Weighing some unknown thought, she shakes her head and simply looks out across the water once more, the conversation and her interest slipping through my fingers. Despite myself, I find myself all the more eager to pursue her attention. I weigh the likelihood of my chances of her interest and find myself humbled by her stoic interest in the journey. I find myself somewhat forlorn, the rejection like a knife between my ribs. But we are strangers, ultimately. And she is a competent sailor. I find myself thinking on what it would be like to be the sole focus of that magnificent attention. For a moment, I am warm.

I part from Makari with a curt goodbye. Vainly I wonder if she will miss me. I will certain miss her. The sight of her arms bending the ship to her will, the way she gazed across the waves and seemed to be able to take stock of a person with but a glance. There is a hardness and an honesty to her. I look back at her, and to my surprise I find her looking back at me as well. I can’t quite tell, but it almost seems like she smiles for a moment. Then she’s gone again, likely never to be seen and I am, as always, alone.

Naturally, I look for the closest thing resembling a tavern.

(3+3 Wits vs. 6 and 10 = Weak Hit.)

When I approach a stranger in hopes of information, I am met with one of the coldest glares I’ve seen to date. I greet the woman and she leers at me as if to let me out of her sight means I’d rob her blind. “Good day to you and yours, friend,” I begin, and despite her obvious suspicion, she seems to relax a little. “To you as well,” she replies, looking me over with a gaze I’d much prefer held more interest than the current weighing it did. Her arms are broad, her brown hair is short and her eyes are a dark green one could get lost in, as I find myself doing before I catch myself and continue. “Would you happen to know if there is a watering hole nearby?” She looks at me like Makari did, as if I’d just ask what the colour of water is. “No,” she replies curtly. I can feel her judge me to be a fool and in the process of be forgotten. While I would usually prefer it that way, I find myself compelled to correct the notion. “Ah, perhaps I was too broad in my description. I meant to ask for a place where one might find a drink.”

The woman looks up and the realization as to my earlier meaning seems to dawn on her. “Ahh, you mean like Kendi’s Rest? Sure there is.” Her brief moment of helpfulness is swiftly interrupted by her earlier measurement of me. “Typically only locals visit Kendi’s Rest. We don’t get many visitors here.” There is suspicion in her gaze and in her voice.

(Secure an advantage, 2+3 vs 8 and 7 = Miss.)

Something compels to engage with the adage that honesty is the best policy. “Well, it’s true enough that I am a stranger to these parts, and it’s not without reason I’ve come to this place.” I barely catch myself from insulting this place, the words “shithole” and “pit” presenting themselves long before “place” ever does. “I’ve come looking for someone, and while I’m relatively certain there’s no trail of her here, I figured I have to start asking questions somewhere.”

The stranger regards me with even more suspicion, and gradually rises up from her work. She seems to loosen herself up somewhat, and I can take a guess as to what. However, the need for it seems unwarranted, and I am more than a little confused as towards the display of naked preparation for hostilities. I raise my hands defensively, more than able to read the room. “Listen, I mean no harm to you or anyone here, nor do I want to imply that you’re the ones responsible. I simply want to know where my friend is.”

“Something tells me I don’t like you. A stranger come from who knows where asking questions about who knows who. I don’t know who your friend is, and I don’t know why you’ve come looking for her, but I think you oughta leave to somewhere better for your health.” The woman growls, having drawn herself up to her full height. She is lean from hard work, broad with muscle. I don’t think she takes well to being threatened. But I don’t have time for this, harangued by the second person I run into in this shithole of a village, searching for a drink, heartbroken and months away from civilization. The mask of the aloof fool drops and I take a step forward to loom over her. Something twitches to life in my chest and my eyes sear with the knowledge of countless battles. The sight of lives I have taken made adds weight to my gaze. I level it upon her and let the vast shadow of my sins cast over her. I am the monster once again. “I think this place suits me just fine.” I speak with a tone as sharp as a knife’s edge. “I also think we should go about our respective business,” I continue, adding with as much venom as I can muster “for your health.”

(Compel, 2+4 Iron vs 3 and 4. – Strong Hit)

She withers underneath my gaze, shrinking away from me. I see the shame in her face from buckling. She tries to catch herself but she knows the game is up. For a moment, she seems a girl in pants far too large for her. “Maybe that’s for the best,” she replies in a voice that has lost all of its confidence. I let the monster slip off of me and once more, I am the pleasant, forgettable everyman. As she turns around to return to her work, I feel a sting of regret. Perhaps I should have tried to talk to her differently. But how? I don’t know what these people are like. I barely got here and already I’ve almost gotten myself into a fight.

I head towards the gathering place of this town, Kendi’s Rest. As I step inside, the heads of six patrons turn to look at me. They seem to collectively realise that I am not a resident of the town, and as such, they stare. It seems I have my work cut out for me not to stand out. Despite the earlier failure, I put on my best smile and greet the scowling faces which refuse to stop staring at me. “Greetings, all!” I begin, my voice thunderous from experience commanding troops, in hopes of easing their hostility. From my earlier encounter I think to myself that they might appreciate bluntness. “I suppose I’ll not dally or taint your day further with endless pleasantry and get straight to the point. Has anyone here happened to have heard of a woman called “Lena?””

( Compel 5+3 Heart vs 7 and 3. – Strong Hit! )

There is some grumbling and murmuring, but finally one person speaks up. “Aye!” He says with a voice that would make the rocks envious with how rough it is, “I’ve heard of a Lena!” I look at him, realizing he’s the first man I’ve seen on this island and quickly make my way over, smiling still but reading his face to see if he’s lying.

( Gather information, 2+3 Wits vs. 9 and 2. – Weak Hit. )

For all I can see, the man is perfectly sincere. I sit down beside him and try to keep my smile as natural and relaxed as I am. Within, my heart is pounding away at my chest. Surely it can’t be this easy? The third person I talk to, and I’ve got a lead?

“A fine woman she was! I remember the way she used to scold me for slacking on my duties.” The man lets out a chuckle, a sound like rocks scraping against one another, and I realise the man is quite up there in years already. The fire from the torches occasionally darken the grooves within the man’s face, worn by time. He lets out a sigh and shakes his head. “It’s a shame she passed away. But that’s the way of things.”

My heart sinks and in my shock, I forget to wear the mask of emotion. “She’s dead?” I ask the man. He looks at me like the other two have before him, like I asked what the colour of water is. “Well, yeah, man! Do you expect us to live forever? She was quite up there in years already.”

Again, my shock overtakes me, this time with a frown. “Wait, what do you mean she was up there in years already?” Now it’s the man’s turn to scowl. “Like I said, man! Are you slow? She was old! Quite old, in fact. Ancient by anyone’s reckoning! We used to joke she might outlive us all! Bahaha!’

Despite the sound of his laughter akin to an avalanche filling the drinking hovel, I feel a warm sense of relief fill my stomach. A feeling quickly replaced by frustration. While I’m happy to hear she’s not dead, I’m back to nothing after thinking I found myself a lead. I put on the smile once more and thank the man, saying that I don’t think we’re looking for the same person.

“Oh? Well, good luck to you, then. Oh, and uh… spare a kindness for an old man?” He asks with a mischievous grin, holding up his empty tankard. I ponder for a moment, before I pull out my pockets and show that I don’t even have a cog to my name. “Hah! Maybe I should offer you a kindness, eh?” The man laughs, and where I briefly expect him to offer some kind of alms, he merely gives me more laughter. Then he realizes I’m still there and gestures with his tankard for me to leave. “Go on, off you fuck.” He says, without losing any of his pleasant demeanor, and with a mixture of shock and admiration, I do just that.

I head towards what passes for a bar and hail the person behind it – a woman, who seem to be more ubiquitous than men so far. She heads over and gives me a curt nod. Before she can ask me for my order, I tell her I don’t have anything to pay with. She sets her hands on the bar, leans forward, curls up her upper lip in contempt and asks: “Then what are you doing here, stranger?” I tell her I’m looking for information on a woman named Lena. “Never heard of her,” she replies, and makes to leave.

“Then what news is there? Surely there must be something keeping you busy around these parts?” I quickly ask before she turns around fully. She seems to be anything but eager to talk to me.

( Compel, 3+3 Heart vs 1 and 7 – Weak Hit. )

I put on my best smile and decide to engage in a bit of flattery. “Surely this place is where all the important people gather. And a woman like you seems like she knows the value of information.” I tell her. It seems to evoke little other than the raise of an eyebrow, but at the very least, she seems curious. “I do,” she replies curtly, “well enough to know that I don’t simply give it out for free. Especially not to every passing stranger that enters my tavern.”

I put two and two together. “You must be Kendi then,” I ask, to which she performs a mock curtsy with nonetheless perfect form. She must have practiced that quite a bit. “The very same. Now, you know who I am and seem to be the observant sort. But I’m not in the business of wondering, I’m in the business of knowing.” She throws her drying cloth over her shoulder and sets her hands on her hips before jerking her head up expectantly and looking me over. “What’s your name?” She asks, expecting to be answered. I oblige. “Fyodor,” I swallow the urge to say my last name, I’ve stood out enough already and the custom of last names seems to be unfortunately absent. “Well, Fyodor,” Kendi begins, “I could tell you what occupies this beautiful town of ours, but I’d like to ask you a few things first.”

At her mercy, I throw up my hands before opening them before her. “Whatever you’d like to know,” I tell her. She narrows her eyes for a moment and she wastes no time. “Where are you from, Fyodor?” “Sunspire,” I answer truthfully. Kendi shrugs, “Never heard of it. Though that does makes you an outlander.” She notes. I raise an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?” “No,” she answers, continuing on. “What are you doing in Damula?” Now it’s my turn to shrug. “Like I said, I’m looking for a woman called Lena.” Kendi’s interest is visibly piqued. “What is she to you?” A flood of images and feelings wash over me, but no words come until heartbeats later. “Someone I could not stand to lose.” I answer, surprised by my own obfuscation. Kendi shakes her head, looking me in the eye while I briefly drown in remembering. “No no, you don’t get off that easy. What is she to you? Family? Friend? A loved one?” “All that and more,” I reply without missing a beat. The mask of pleasantness is gone. I look at her with all the desperation that I hold within and it seems to strike a chord with her. Kendi’s expression softens somewhat, and the questions cease. For a heartbeat I think I spy a glimmer of respect in her gaze before she carries on cleaning. After a while, she begins to speak unprompted. She seems a little tense as she does so, and much to my surprise after her earlier demeanor, she drops her volume.

“News around here is always slow. But lately people around here can’t seem to stop worrying about the dead.” “The dead?” I ask incredulously before I can help myself, and Kendi gives me a scathing look that tells me I spoke too loudly. “Yes, Fyodor. The dead.” Her eyes grow distant as she tries to focus on cleaning this one particular tankard rather intensely. “Everybody wants to be the one that solves the problem, as that would ensure you spend the rest of your life living luxuriously wherever you go.” I tap a finger on the sad excuse for a bar as I think. “Why?” I wonder aloud, and Kendi looks at me like everyone before her has; like I asked what the colour of water is. It seems to be becoming something of a tradition. “Because,” Kendi begins with a tone that makes it clear it is the most obvious thing in the world, “the Dead have been restless for years now and no one knows why. They’ve been assaulting this town every night for weeks.” She looks at me for a long while in silence before realizing. “You don’t know, do you? They don’t just walk again, they are organized. They are coming, Fyodor. Every night, they come.”

Despite my proximity to the hearth which crackles comfortingly beside me, a chill goes through me. Yet another peril to add to the list amidst hostile but strangely helpful Ironlanders, now the Innumerable seem to have reached even here. I nod my head upwards towards Kendi, “Have you heard of the Innumerable?” I ask. Kendi raises an eyebrow, but shakes her head. “Why, who are they?” I ponder for a moment whether to tell her, but decide for it seeing how free she has been with her information. “The Innumerable,” I begin after leaning in conspiratorially, “are known as the Heirs of the Ashes and are effectively the nation of the dead.” Kendi lets out a skeptical puff of air and I beckon her back over. “No, no, I’m serious. Wherever there are bodies in the ground, they claim dominion.” “So they’d consider this place theirs as well?” Kendi asks. I throw up my hands as if to indicate it’s out of my hands, and nod. Kendi lets out a sharp laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. What, so the dead have a nation, with a king and everything? And cities?” She seems genuinely curious before a grin slowly spread across her lips that suits her particularly well. “Come off it, you’re pulling my leg.” I scowl and shake my head. Kendi’s grin drops. “I told you, I’m serious. I don’t know how they’re organized exactly, I do know that—” I catch myself before I reach into information which is privy only to a handful of people even within Sunspire. Kendi looks at me expectantly, raising her eyebrows as if to indicate “go on.” Then, after realizing I was not going to continue, lets out a ‘tch’ and shakes her head. “Anyway, that’s what’s occupying people at the moment. Staying alive.”

I continue to tap my finger on the bar as I mull over the information. Technically all the dead are part of the Innumerable. But it may very well be that this… outbreak? That it might have nothing to do with them. The unfortunate part of having to deal with a nation of the dead is that not everything can be seen as a formal action by a nation as living agents would undertake them. The application of magicae to purposes of reanimation does not necessarily make that corpse part of the Innumerable. Yet by virtue of being dead, it is. I hope we have rhetoricians or diplomats better suited to distinguishing between formal actions of the Innumerable and deciding what is the actions of a brainless bag of bones.

Still, the problem remains. The dead are assaulting the Damula every night. Are they driven by instinct or do they have some kind of leadership guiding them? These questions are redundant. What matters is that I promised to help this place where I could to the Merchant-Kings. And these people need help.

“Alright,” I say aloud, nodding. “

( Swear an Iron Vow, 4+3 Heart vs 8 and 10. )

I look at Kendri, who looks back at me with a certain suspicion. My voice is clear and grave as I speak “I promise to help safeguard Damula from the onslaught of the Dead in the name of the Merchant-Kings. This I vow.”

“With what?” Kendri asks drily, made all the more chafing in the wake of my grave declaration. She looks me over once again and grins. “Last I saw, you didn’t have any weapons or armour. You don’t have a scrap to your name, and for all I know, you’re a bumpkin blowhard. What are you gonna do? Talk the dead to death? Oh wait.”

Some of the patrons chuckle at her joke, and I find myself somewhat embarrassed. But she’s right. As capable as I am, I’d do much more damage with a weapon than without. Before I can properly fulfill my vow, I should fix that. I thank Kendri for the information and the company, and she replies she feels the same with a surprising amount of warmth. Before I can do anything of note I should find the tools with which to deal with this harsh lands. Whether axe or sword or mace, I need something more to defend myself than just wit and wiles. I step out of the warmth of the tavern and back into the cold gray of Damula.

#Ironsworn #Solo RPG #Solo TTRPG #Writing #Fiction #Fantasy #OC

3 notes · View notes