Transcript

Session 0 — Edkored in the Dogbone Hills

This English page is a faithful translation of the complete French play transcript. It preserves character creation, table discussion, corrections, rolls, and escalation in their original order.

[TIME]

I'm carrying Time for this first game. I bring the world to life around you — its inhabitants, its Forces, its Pressures — but I never decide for you what your character feels or attempts. You carry your Protagonist: you say what he wants and what he does, and you gather your Bets when the outcome becomes uncertain.

Before the first Situation, we sketch his Living Portrait. No points to allocate: we look for the ties, Runes, and beliefs that really matter to him.

If you want a lead to start from, I can see two classic ones — but you can absolutely start from something else:

• Rather the storm warrior: an initiate of Orlanth (Theist worldview) from a barbarian clan of Sartar, bearing the Air Rune, who seeks to protect his community against the occupation of the Lunar Empire.
• Rather the truth-seeking scholar: a young apprentice Grey Sage of Lhankor Mhy, armed with his scrolls and the Truth Rune, whose curiosity often leads him where he should not set foot.

What tempts you?

[EDKORED]

I could see myself as an initiate of Orlanth somewhere between youth and age. When he was 25 there was the Lunar ban on the cult, so as a result he had to live on the margins. Maybe he lives in the hills in a somewhat reduced environment, with a few contacts here and there for what he needs: Yinkini, Kolati, shepherds, other friends of the Secret Wind. But it weighs on him. He no longer really knows what to do with the life he had dedicated to Orlanth. Is that possible and plausible?

[TIME]

Possible, and very Gloranthan, too. Your character lands right in the current tragedy of Dragon Pass:

• The Lunar Empire did indeed conquer the kingdom of Sartar about a generation ago, in 1602.
• The invaders strictly banned the worship of Orlanth, and death is the punishment for any form of defiance.
• Faced with this repression, many Orlanthi and priests had to take to the hills and become outlaws, hiding in rough country such as the Dogbone hills, where they live as “Sword Rebels.”
• Your contacts are entirely coherent with that exile: the Kolati are traditionalist shamans of the wind spirits, Kolat being Orlanth's spirit brother, and the Yinkini worship Yinkin, god of the alynxes — shadowcats — Orlanth's half-brother and a great hunter of the wild places.

And that weariness, that loss of meaning, is a very good starting point: all he needs is a spark.

For the Living Portrait — which keeps the memory of what matters to him and will feed your Bets — I need four things: his name and voice, his Runes, his Life Chapters, and his Worldview.

[EDKORED]

Edkored, in his thirties, “As long as there is air to breathe, there is hope.”

• Air: attached to freedom, and to responsibility, an infinite source of energy.
• Movement: characteristic of air, seizing the opportunity, knowing how to wait too, given recent history.
• Death: it is growing in him; Orlanth has already killed Yelm after failing the trials, and the trial will come when Orlanth kills the Red Moon — is that the pejorative name the Orlanthi give her? Gravity. The feeling of being like the survivors of the Great Darkness. Duty.

He left with all his Orlanthi equipment. His sword. His shield. He knows how to make protective blue woad. He does not have much and lives a Spartan life among the Winds, as he likes to say, in desolate wooded hills. He has taken to the hills. Above all, he trains again and again. He seeks the most reliable divine connection and refines his techniques of flight, his calls to lightning and thunder. He uses thunderstones, of course. He is an almost fully accomplished Orlanthi who knows how to do many things. Almost a solitary adept. For the myth, it is the one where Yelm kills Orlanth at the Fourth Test during the contest.

[TIME]

Edkored holds up very well. The woad — the blue woad that serves as magical armour — and the thunderstones, a magic often associated with the Hedkoranth subcult, tell you at once that he is not simply a peasant on the run. And the Fourth Test, when Orlanth brought Death into the world to strike down Emperor Yelm, gives his quest real tragic depth. As for your question: yes, the Orlanthi often call the Red Moon “Shepelkirt,” a pejorative name — to them she is a false goddess linked to Chaos.

(Writing Edkored's Living Portrait.)

If the Portrait works for you, let's go into the first Situation.

The air is especially dry on this Earth Season afternoon, and the wind blows in irregular gusts through the treetops of the Dogbone hills, a wild zone where no one has the right to put a plough. You have just finished a gruelling training session. Your sword has bitten into the bark of an old dead tree, and the ozone smell of a thunderstone you snapped still hangs in the air.

A shadow detaches itself from the brush with unnatural suppleness. You recognize Sorane, a young Yinkini warrior from your network, able to hide almost anywhere. She is not wearing her ritual mask, and her breathing is short.

“Edkored,” she says in a low voice. “You were making too much noise with the lightning. A patrol of Tarshite light infantry is coming up the western ravine. They have a hound with them. They haven't spotted you yet, but they are heading straight for the cave where the old Kolati shaman is supposed to call the wind spirits at dusk. If they keep this pace, they'll be on him within a quarter of an hour.” She tightens her grip on her spear shaft. “I'm alone. There are six of them, well armed, in leather and linen armour. What do we do?”

What do you do? What is your Intention?

[EDKORED]

“Sorane, always there to bring me grim news. But we must act, and quickly. We must draw them off so that they hunt us by changing direction. Let's go.”

Time is short. My plan is to put myself on the far side of the path between the patrol and the shaman's cave and set off a thunderstone. Or even call down a little lightning. In short, enough to attract their attention so that they veer toward me. Sorane will be farther off with her alynxes to create another diversion. The idea is that the patrol charges in my direction, but Sorane makes them realize there is something on her side as well. Enough to split them or make them hesitate, wait. And I am also counting on the fact that we know Dogbone like the back of our hand, so we can find a way to lose them easily. I explain all that to Sorane while we trot toward the chosen place.

[TIME]

Sorane nods, her eyes locked on yours with the intensity of a cat about to spring. “May the winds carry you, Edkored. I'll make fools of them on the other side of the ridge.” She melts into the brush without a sound, accompanied by the unseen presence of her alynxes, renowned for their absolute stealth.

You take position opposite the cave, thunderstone — the favored weapon of the god Hedkoranth — firmly in hand.

The outcome is uncertain: let's resolve it.

Intention: draw the patrol away from the shaman's cave, then lose them in the Dogbone hills.

Focus — Action Zoom: Are the thunderclap and Sorane's diversion enough to make the Tarshites abandon the shaman's trail and allow you to disappear into Dogbone?

Your 4 Bets:

• Air — Hedkoranth's lightning and thunder can seize their attention at once.
• Hill survivor — you know Dogbone's ravines, thorns, and hidden ways.
• Sorane — she creates a second diversion with her alynxes.
• Movement — you are relying on speed, displacement, and opportunity to lose them.

The 3 counter-Bets:

• Experienced light infantry — the patrol knows how to manoeuvre in difficult terrain.
• Hound — it can recover a trail that a human would lose.
• Discipline — the soldiers can react without panicking.

4 against 3.

Do you keep your Intention? If so, roll your 4 dice.

[EDKORED]

Yes, I confirm, even if for now, even if they corner me, the shaman will remain protected and safe in terms of the consequence, because I will have drawn them in another direction — unless their intention really was to go and see the shaman, of course. On the other hand, I think they too use theistic magic. The Tarshites are also theists, even if they turned their coats and worship Shepelkirt. Maybe they are also subject to Lunar magic itself — that depends on what day it is.

I'll roll the dice for myself if you approve.

[TIME]

Good catch, I'd forgotten that. Although most rank-and-file soldiers still worship the traditional war gods of their tribe, the officers of Tarshite light infantry — such as those of the First Tarshite Light Infantry that often patrols the region — are generally initiated into Lunar cults such as the Seven Mothers or the war god Yanafal Tarnils. They will therefore indeed use the Theist worldview to read their result.

Since we are in the Dogbone hills, far south of the Glowline — the magical boundary that stabilizes the Empire's magic — the phase of the moon visible in the sky really matters. Let us say that today we are under a Half Moon: Lunar influence is ordinary, so their theistic magic functions normally, without the Full Moon bonus or the Black Moon penalty.

Agreed on your approach and on the consequences. I roll the 3 dice for adversity, the Tarshite patrol: 2, 5, and 6.

Your turn, roll your 4 dice.

[EDKORED]

I roll on my side :) 6, 6, 3, 3.

[TIME]

Orlanth's lightning is literally rumbling in your hands.

(Detailed resolution of the dice, rerolls with Theism.)

3 Successes against 2: Victory. The margin is only 1, so no Feat, but it's clean.

You strike your thunderstone with the force of your desperation and faith. The “6, 6” does not lie: this is not a mere noise, but an authentic blast of Hedkoranth's thunder tearing through the dry air of Earth Season. A blinding bolt strikes a dead oak a few dozen yards away, shattering the wood in an acrid smell of burnt sap and ozone.

On the far side of the ridge, the Tarshite soldiers start violently, deaf for a few seconds. Their discipline — their 2 Successes — keeps them from panicking: the officer shouts orders, and the hound, barking itself hoarse, strains on its leash toward the strike. They turn around, completely abandoning the path to the Kolati shaman's cave.

That is where Sorane comes in. As the soldiers rush toward your position, a wildcat's howl rings out on their right flank. Feline shadows bound in the undergrowth. Hesitating, the officer splits his troop. You take advantage of your intimate knowledge of the Dogbone outlaw trails to slip away upwind through a maze of thorns and limestone outcrops. By the time the hound reaches the site of the impact, its nose is overwhelmed by the smell of lightning and charred wood. You are already far away. The shaman is safe.

You catch your breath half a kilometre away, hidden under a rocky overhang. The wind brushes your face like a silent word of thanks. Yet your stroke of brilliance has left a trace. The patrol now knows for certain that an initiate of Orlanth, able to wield lightning, is roaming the hills. The hunt is only beginning.

The sun is dropping low, throwing long shadows, and the temperature falls. You are supposed to meet Sorane at your rendezvous point, but suddenly you hear the harsh, insistent croak of a raven — one of the sacred messenger birds of your cult. It is perched on a dead branch just above you, staring at you with unsettling intelligence. What do you do?

[EDKORED]

I am fully aware that my act has revealed my position. Once again I will have to find another place where I can escape the relentless hunt of Shepelkirt, who seeks to wipe out the cult of Orlanth in Sartar. I catch my breath. With the adrenaline and the manifested magic, I feel the air filling my lungs; it is less air than the breath of Orlanth the Thunderer. But my exaltation is short-lived when I hear the croaking and lift my gaze to the dark-feathered bird. I stare at it: “Greetings to you, messenger of the Gods,” I say, trying to make out whether any message is attached to one of its legs.

[TIME]

The raven tilts its head and watches you sidelong with piercing bright yellow eyes. At your words, it seems to shake its head from side to side, then lets out a series of caws that sound uncannily like a harsh mocking laugh. There is no scroll attached to its leg.

The bird hops on its branch, looking impatient. Finally it opens its beak and lets fall a small object, which lands in the dust at your feet with a dry click. Then, with a powerful beat of its wings, the raven launches from its perch. It climbs and flies straight northeast, toward Torkan Valley and the stagnant waters of Still Lake.

It is a place every outlaw knows by reputation. The shallow waters of that lake shelter old crannogs — fortified refuges built on the water — hidden by thick beds of reeds, often serving as the last refuge of Sword Rebels hunted by the Empire. Looking down at what the bird has dropped, you discover a small pierced fang attached to a braid of horsehair. It is the kind of fetish Sorane and her people sometimes wear to win the favor of hunting spirits.

The sun is now behind the hills and the light is fading fast. Your original meeting point with the Yinkini lies nowhere near the direction the raven took. What do you do? Do you follow the direction indicated by the divine bird toward the lake, or do you go to the agreed place with Sorane despite that sign?

[EDKORED]

In order to evaluate my options, I need to know a little more. Edkored is going to have to leave the area. True, he has shaken the patrol, but maybe they are still around? Did he leave anything at his camp? Probably not, he has everything on him, sword, shield. Maybe he would miss some small gear — a knife, prepared woad, more thunderstones, throwing spears... Would it be reasonable to go back for that before heading toward Torkan Valley? And perhaps Sorane ought to be reassured? And yet, as I say all that, I realize Edkored is not that kind of man: when a call comes, he seizes it. He is not a scribe, not a manager, not reflective. He is like the wind. So no, he does not go back to Sorane, nor to his camp. He picks up the horsehair braid, holds it in his hand, and tries to feel whether it carries anything. Then he sets out toward Torkan Valley, at a jog, used to long marches.

[TIME]

When your fingers close around the alynx fang and its braid of horsehair, you find no scroll there, but Glorantha speaks through raw matter. The hair is still soaked with animal grease and a lingering smell: the acrid scent of wet peat, stagnant water, and the musk of an alynx at full run. For an initiate of Orlanth, used to listening to the air, the fetish resonates with a faint but distinct vibration, like a bowstring still trembling after the shot: the object was torn away in urgency, and the direction the raven took is no accident.

Faithful to the nature of Wind, you do not burden yourself with logistical calculations. Air does not hoard, it rushes onward; Movement does not stop to weigh regrets. You leave your makeshift shelter behind and set off on the beast tracks.

Your pace is that of a hill runner: steady, economical, your breathing matched to the pulse of the wind coming down from the ridges. Beneath your feet, the limestone of the Dogbone hills gradually gives way to darker, wetter ground. Night fully falls over Dragon Pass, and the coppery gleam of the Red Moon pierces the mist beginning to settle in the ravines. Two uninterrupted hours of running bring you to the edge of Torkan Valley. The air there is colder, heavy with damp. Before you lie the black, motionless waters of Still Lake, ringed by thick impassable reeds where First Age Heortlings built old fortified crannogs on pilings. The place is known for its submerged causeways, invisible beneath the surface, allowing outlaws to vanish in the marshes.

As you slow near the muddy shore, a hoarse, strangled hiss sounds in the reeds a few paces to your right. In the dimness, two tawny eyes shine near the ground. A large shadowcat lies crouched against a rotten stump, its flank slashed by a clean cut leaking black blood into the night. Just behind the animal, a figure wrapped in a dark cloak lies sprawled in the mud, half hidden among the sedges.

Across the bank, fifty metres out on the black water, a reddish light blinks briefly: a torch or signal light from one of the lake's crannogs. What do you do?

[EDKORED]

I sense danger in this situation. Something does not fit. Given the circumstances, caution is required. I move carefully toward the shadowcat, taking out the braid the raven gave me. I murmur, “peace.” I watch for the slightest reaction. As I get closer, I assess any detail that becomes clearer. And I want to know more about the figure. Is he still alive?

[TIME]

The alynx is a creature of great intelligence, and its alliance with the people of Orlanth is ancient and unshakable. When it sees you approaching, the great dark-furred feline flattens its ears and hisses in pain, ready to dearly defend its own life and that of its companion. However, when you murmur your word of peace and extend the horsehair braid, the beast stops. Its muzzle twitches. It catches the familiar scent of the fetish and probably recognizes in you a son of the Storms. The shadowcat relaxes ever so slightly and moves half a step aside, granting you access to the figure while keeping its yellow eyes fixed on your every movement. (No roll needed here: the fiction is enough.)

You bend over the collapsed figure. It is a young man, and he is still alive, though his breathing is short and erratic. Gently parting his cloak to assess his condition, you discover an ugly wound to the chest, probably caused by a polearm or javelin.

But one detail instantly catches your eye: the young man wears an insignia showing a waterhen. You have heard of them in the outlaw life. These are the “Mudhens,” a famous band of rebel warriors — Sword Rebels — led by Orstalor Spearlord, who regularly use the crannogs of Still Lake as a refuge against the Empire.

Out on the cold waters of the lake, the red light you had spotted blinks again, twice in succession. It is unmistakably a signal. You know access to those crannogs is extremely difficult for outsiders, because one must follow submerged causeways hidden beneath the water and the thick reeds. The young rebel lets out a faint groan and shivers. The biting cold of the night and the loss of blood threaten to carry him swiftly toward the Courts of Silence.

What do you do? If you try something uncertain — treating him urgently, crossing the lake without knowing the way — give me your Intention and we'll look at the Bets.

[EDKORED]

I cannot leave him to his fate like that. As a warrior I know a few tricks to keep a nasty wound from worsening until a healer arrives. And there is everything needed here to make a mud poultice. A poultice I want to apply to the man as well as to the shadowcat — alynx, is that right, or is that something else? I kneel, shield and sword beside me, plunge my hands into the mud to fashion a paste as I was taught, murmuring the words “Earth and water, keep the breath of life within him,” and then I want to do the same for the animal. My next intention will be to go toward the lights. Normally the poultice takes me less than ten minutes, because it is something often done in the urgency of battle.

Here is what I am betting on: a known battle ritual, simple and quick because the mud is already here; the animal seems to have accepted me; I am not trying to heal them, only to stabilize them.

[TIME]

A fine gesture, and mythically spot on: Orlanth is Ernalda's husband — Earth — and Orlanthi know how to invoke the soothing powers of earth and water even amid the urgency of battle. The alynx, sensing your peaceful intentions and your affiliation, lets you approach.

Let's put that in the balance:

Intention: quickly stabilize the young Mudhen and his alynx with what is available on the shore.

Focus — Action Zoom: Can you stop their wounds worsening enough to keep them on the side of the living and leave yourself able to act afterward?

Your 3 Bets:

• Known battle ritual — you know this emergency procedure and the words that accompany it.
• Mud and water at hand — everything needed to improvise the poultice is already within reach.
• The alynx has accepted you — the wounded animal does not prevent you from approaching or acting.

The 3 counter-Bets:

• Depth of the wound — the young man's injury is severe.
• Cold and damp — Still Lake itself is working against you.
• Urgency and exposure — you have little time and no proper healing equipment.

3 against 3.

I roll the 3 Adversity dice: 2, 3, 6. In the Middle World, the even dice, 2 and 6, each give one Success, with no reroll. Adversity: 2 Successes.

Your turn: roll your 3 dice, with your Theist rerolls if you get any 6s.

[EDKORED]

5, 2, 2, so 2 successes as well. The darkness, the wound, the cold — what seemed obvious to me is harder than it looks.

[TIME]

Off: yes. Your two 2s make 2 Successes in Theism, and with no 6 you get no reroll for the 5. Against adversity's 2 Successes, that's a tie.

A tie gives a Status quo. The threat remains without having yet won, but neither have you obtained what you wanted.

Your hands plunge into the icy clay of the lake. The alynx, Yinkin's sacred beast, allows it with almost human intelligence. The mud clogs its cut and its hissing eases. But for the young Mudhen, the situation is critical. You apply the poultice to the ugly wound, reciting the words of Earth and Water. The bleeding slows beneath your palms, but the biting cold of Still Lake is pitiless. The boy's body is shaken by violent shivers.

You have managed to keep him on the side of the living by the narrowest margin, but the balance is terribly precarious. If you remove the pressure of your hands in order to stand up, reclaim your weapons, or signal toward the crannog, the wound will reopen and the cold will finish him. You are literally pinned in place, knees in the mud, your hands trapped in his wound. Far away, across the black water, the red light blinks one last uncertain time and then seems to recede, ready to vanish.

Status quo, then: you can accept it, or escalate.

Is Edkored the kind of man who accepts being stuck like this, or does he push in one final breath to save him and free himself?

[EDKORED]

I must stop the wound at all costs. I implore the gods to make me their instrument. This young Mudhen does not deserve to die; he must take part in the great battle that will restore Orlanth. It is the Bet of desperation.

So I reroll: 6, 5, 4, 1 → I feel a divine presence, I reroll the 1: 2 → so in the end 6, 5, 4, 2: 3 successes!

[TIME]

The desperate call of an initiate of Orlanth is never wholly lost in the wind. Your escalation adds a fundamental Bet: your absolute devotion and your visceral refusal to let Death prevail tonight. You therefore commit 4 dice.

On the Adversity side, escalation also adds a die. The new opposing Bet is the insidious cold of Still Lake beginning to numb your own hands, threatening to make you lose your grip.

• Adversity roll — Middle World: I roll 4, 3, 1, 1. The only even die, 4, gives 1 Success.
• Your roll — Theism: with your roll of 6, 5, 4, 1 and the rerolled 1 giving a 2, you obtain 3 Successes.

With 3 Successes against 1, the margin is 2, and your score is strictly greater than twice that of the Adversity. It is a Feat!

Your words resonate with a deep intensity. The icy clay beneath your palms seems suddenly to warm, crossed by the slightest tremor, a distant echo of Earth's warmth answering the breath of Air. The dark blood stops flowing at once. The young rebel takes a sharp, ragged breath, his eyelids fluttering. The alynx, sensing danger receding, rubs its scarred head heavily against your shoulder.

The Feat not only allows you to save them both, but gives you an unexpected advantage. The divine energy that has just passed through your hands lets out a few bluish crackles of static electricity. On the dark waters of Still Lake, the red light that was moving away stops dead. Your sparks have been seen. You hear a discreet but rapid splashing: a flat-bottomed boat is heading straight for your position on the shore. Members of the Mudhens, the guerrilla band of Orstalor Spearlord hiding in the lake's crannogs, are coming to meet you.

What do you do as the craft approaches through the mist?

[EDKORED]

I straighten up now that the young man seems calmer, feeling a wave of relief when I meet his living gaze and hear his breath. My shield is still on the ground with my sword, so I stand exposed, but facing me I recognize my own kind, Orlanthi like myself. I raise my hands in peace. Hair in the wind, displaying my Air Rune and Movement Rune on my chest, my skin slightly blue from repeated training to reproduce the acts of Orlanth in the wild.

“Edkored,” I say, to identify myself. A single word. That is entirely enough.

[TIME]

The flat-bottomed boat glides silently across the black waters and bumps the muddy shore. Three figures emerge from the mist aboard it, wearing leather armour and open helmets. One of them, handling a long spear with great dexterity, lowers its point slightly when he sees your empty hands, your tattoos, and the stabilized body of his young comrade.

The alynx lets out a low hiss of recognition. The warrior plants his spear shaft in the mud to steady the craft and studies you with the visceral caution of Sword Rebels, those outlaws who wage a relentless guerrilla war against the Empire. He knows the rituals of his people: for Orlanthi, hospitality is a sacred law established by the Storm God himself to turn a stranger into a friend.

He speaks the traditional formula, his deep voice carrying over the lapping of the lake:

“Halt, stranger! Who comes here, in a place not permitted to everyone? Do you come as friend or as another enemy?”

Behind him, his two companions scan the darkness, plainly uneasy about the lightning that had streaked the night. Their leader waits for your answer, aware that the rite places all who submit to it under the direct scrutiny of the deity; anyone who speaks a lie in this exchange exposes himself immediately to the Divine Wrath of Orlanth. How do you complete the ritual and seal your meeting?

[EDKORED]

“I am Edkored. Orlanth guided me here, by sending his raven. I found a young Mudhen badly wounded and his alynx. Hurry, he needs care. I have managed to stabilize him,” I say, completing the ritual and naming myself, but above all making the urgency of the situation clear.

[TIME]

Heortling custom demands that in such a meeting in the night, especially between rebels potentially hunted by the Empire, one party names himself first. Your terse answer and your bearing speak for themselves. The warrior, his spear lowered, measures you for a moment. His gaze moves from your runic tattoos of Air and Movement to your skin made bluish by protective woad and your frequent contact with the magic of Orlanth. Then he notices the young wounded man's chest, now rising steadily, and the alynx, creature of Orlanth, rubbing against you.

He lifts his spear, lays it across the boat, and strikes his fist against his leather cuirass. “Hail to you, Edkored, son of the Winds,” he replies, his voice betraying cautious relief. “I am Gringolf, of the Mudhens. And this boy whom you have torn from the Courts of Silence is called Vorlak.”

He casts an anxious glance toward the dark shore behind you. “The bluish lights on the bank... was that your magic? Lunar patrols are prowling the hills tonight, and sound carries on the water. Your healing will not go unnoticed for long.” A second rebel moves toward Vorlak to help him, murmuring a brief prayer of thanks to Chalana Arroy, Goddess of Healing. Gringolf motions for you to board the flat-bottomed boat.

“The night is not safe, Edkored. Orstalor Spearlord, our chief, will want to speak with you. There is room for you and Vorlak's beast. Come. The path to our crannog is twisted, and we must disappear into the reeds before the Empire's hound scents your trail.” What do you do? Do you take your place in the boat and head into the labyrinth of Still Lake, or do you have some other idea in mind?

[EDKORED]

Of course I follow them, but remain silent because I am thinking back to the patrol that nearly fell upon Sorane and me two hours' run from here. Damn Empire, will we ever finally gain the upper hand? My mood is dark, but I remain anchored in the memory of the first Heortlings who survived the Great Darkness in a situation every bit as desperate as today's, if not more so.

Off: we can close the first session there.

[TIME]

The boat pushes into the thick mists of Still Lake, swallowed by the shadows of giant reed beds. The lapping of water against the hull and Vorlak's steady breathing are the only sounds breaking the night's silence. You leave the Dogbone hills behind you, but you know the Empire never sleeps. Orstalor Spearlord's crannog awaits you in the darkness. We'll stop there for this first session.