Session 7 - The Dwarves’ Pursuit: Secrets Beneath Hollow Skies

At the Edge of Dread

The morning was gray and cold, as was every morning in the shadow of the Red Lodge. Mist coiled lazily between the trees, obscuring the paths like the tendrils of something ancient and hungry. Lady Gilma stood near the warped doors of the lodge, her face pale from more than just the biting chill. Her hands trembled, the leather of her gloves creaking as she tightened her grip on the hem of her cloak.

“The Severed Raven cult,” she whispered, her eyes hollow. “They’re out there. Watching. Waiting.” The words hung in the frigid air, a quiet plea more than a warning.

Before her stood Bomtom, Aran, Hyrne, and Galivan. Grim, silent, and uncertain. They had already seen too much in this unforgiving land. The choices laid before them were no choices at all—each path reeked of death and ruin. Bomtom’s hand instinctively moved to his sword hilt, though no blade could carve a safe passage here.

“South to Clifftop Green,” Bomtom muttered, his voice flat, “through the deep forest, two days’ march, maybe three. Bandits, maybe worse.” His eyes shifted to Gilma, but she offered no reassurance—only the weary gaze of someone who had lived through more horrors than she could name.

Hyrne spat into the mud. “We can’t face them,” he said bitterly. “Four of us against a pack of bandits and whatever gods-forsaken beasts they run with? We’d be butchered.”

Silence fell again, thick and oppressive like the fog. Even the forest seemed to hold its breath, waiting for their decision.

“Back to Darkend, then,” Aran finally said. “Warn the militia. Rally whoever’s left. It’s our only chance.” There was no certainty in his voice, only resignation.

With no better choice, the four turned their backs on the Red Lodge, leaving Lady Gilma in her haunted silence. They set off, trudging through the forest’s winding paths. The woods here were thick and suffocating, branches clawing at their clothes like desperate hands. The air was dense with the rot of autumn leaves, heavy and damp. Bomtom kept watch, his eyes sharp, though he knew if something stalked them, they would never see it coming.

The Bitter Return to Dark End

By dusk, the walls of Dark End loomed ahead, dark silhouettes against the bruised sky. The town was as grim as the last time they had seen it, though the palisade now felt more like a prison than protection. At the gate, a torch flickered weakly in the growing dark. A lone guard barked at them—suspicious, wary, and too tired for threats.

“Tis I, Bomtom de Bell,” Bomtom growled, his voice as hollow as the promise of safety the walls offered. “We bring word from Lady Gilma’s Red Lodge, though no one will want to hear it.”

The gates creaked open just enough for them to squeeze through, though it was clear they would find no comfort inside. The streets of Dark End were deserted, and the windows of the hovels and homes were barred tight. It was as though the town had already surrendered to whatever fate was crawling out from the wilderness.

Their only shelter for the night was the stables—filthy, damp, and rank with the smell of beasts. They slept in fits, every creak and groan of the night setting their nerves on edge. When dawn finally broke, it brought no relief.

A guard found them at first light, nudging Aran awake with a boot. “Get up. If you’ve got news, best see Guardé. She’ll want to hear it.”

The Despair of Dark End

Guardé, matron of the town’s militia, was a woman of stone. The cold air of her sparsely furnished office matched the hardness of her gaze as she listened to the grim report. Her sons, the men of the watch, stood like silent sentinels behind her, their faces weathered and impassive.

“The Severed Raven,” Galivan spoke quietly, “rituals, dark omens. Bandits growing bold. They nailed ravens to the walls of the lodge. Something is stirring.”

Guardé’s expression didn’t change, but a shadow passed over her eyes. “We’ve heard the name before. It means nothing good.”

“Clifftop Green,” Bomtom added. “That’s where Gilma says they are. If you send your men there, they’ll be torn apart.”

She remained still, her fingers running over a knife’s hilt resting on her desk. “Then perhaps we’ll burn them out.” Her voice was cold, matter-of-fact. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

But there was doubt in her eyes. They all knew it. There would be no burning this time—only blood.

A Broken Land

Leaving Guardé's presence offered no solace. The market square, which had begun to stir with life, was no longer a place of trade, but a reminder of the world’s cruelty. The slavers had arrived. They always did, dragging their broken merchandise through the mud. The stench of desperation hung heavy in the air.

Bomtom and Aran watched from the edge of the square as wolfkin—half-man, half-beast—guarded the cages. Their fur bristled, and their fangs gleamed in the weak sunlight. These were not creatures of mercy. They were bred for brutality, and the people who sold flesh in this place were little better.

Amidst the throng of captives, Bomtom’s sharp eyes fell on a familiar figure. A woman, her clothes torn, her spirit shattered—Polmore, a woman they had crossed paths with before. Her face was gaunt, and her eyes lifeless. She had once been powerful, but here, in chains, she was just another ghost waiting to fade.

Aran’s hand twitched towards his sword. “Do we do nothing?”

Bomtom shook his head, his jaw tight. “She’s gone, Aran. Even if we saved her, she’d never be the same.”

The world didn’t wait for heroes. The world chewed them up and spat them out. They turned their backs on the square and headed for the docks, their mission in Dark End complete. The hollow promise of survival pushed them onward.

Return to the Hollows

By dusk, they arrived at the Hollow’s docks, the broken village that had once been their sanctuary. But even here, in this place of supposed refuge, shadows lingered. Yarwim’s inn, The Three Skulls, stood tall among the rest, though the bright paint could not mask the fear that clung to the walls.

Yarwim greeted them with forced cheer, though his eyes betrayed his fear. They wasted no time in delivering the news: the dwarves were coming. His face drained of color. “Dwarves don’t forgive theft,” Yarwim muttered, his voice hollow. “And sharing dwarven ale recipes? That’s a death sentence.”

A cold silence followed. They had known Yarwim’s secret for some time—that he was a dwarf hiding from his own kin. But the reality of what was coming for him hit harder than they had expected.

Yarwim’s plan was as desperate as it was brutal. “I’ll hide,” he whispered. “And you—you’ll run the inn. When they come, you tell them I’ve left, or… or kill them.”

The thought of more bloodshed weighed heavy on them all. But the dwarves were relentless, and mercy was a word that had long since died in these lands. Still, the group hesitated. Murder wasn’t what they had come here for. Deception, though—deception they could manage.

The Ruse of the Skulls

As the night deepened, the inn filled with hollow laughter and strained smiles. Bomtom took to the stage, strumming his lute. His fingers, usually clumsy, found a rhythm that soothed the crowd’s unease for a time. But the night, like all things, was fleeting, and when the last of the villagers staggered home, the weight of what was coming settled in once more.

At dawn, Yarwim woke them with a knock, his face ashen. “They’ll be here soon,” he rasped. “We need to be ready.”

The plan was simple, but like all plans in this forsaken land, it was built on the frailest of hopes. They would play the part of innkeepers, serve the dwarves a wretched brew, and pray they could deceive them long enough for Yarwim to slip away. If the deception failed… well, there were always more graves to be dug.