Session 25 - The Tithe of Copperham

A heavy, dreamless sleep was the only mercy offered in days. The companions awoke late in the Second Dog Inn, the day already creeping towards noon. The crude dormitory room was empty save for themselves; the snoring, flatulent stranger from the night before had vanished. Downstairs, the innkeeper moved with a profound lethargy, a gaunt, wheezing man fighting a losing battle against the grime on the tables. The very air of Upper Copperham seemed thick with a strange listlessness, a premature rot clinging to the dark timber of its buildings.

They stepped out into the village square. In its center, where a well should have been, stood the monolithic pillar of dark, veined stone they had noted upon their arrival. It seemed to drink the light, and the companions watched as villagers gave it a wide berth, some stooping to leave small, pathetic offerings at its base—a dead bird, a bowl of soured milk. Galivan, driven by an academic curiosity that often overrode his caution, stepped forward and tossed a single copper coin into the offering bowl. As it clinked against the stone, a wave of cold dread washed over him, a feeling like a stranger had just walked over his grave. He recoiled, the silent warning of the place now a palpable chill in his own bones. His knowledge of the old lore offered a grim context: during the Blood Mist, desperate villages had sometimes made unsavoury pacts to hold the crimson haze at bay. The spiralling, seven-pointed sigil carved upon the stone and above every door was a mark of such a bargain—unhealthy, and undeniably demonic.

Their quest for repairs led them to the Coppervein Smithy. A powerful woman named Brenna worked the anvil with a furious, defiant rhythm. Though strong, the same wasting sickness that afflicted the others had left its mark on her gaunt features. She had the iron to mend their swords and crossbow, but lacked leather. "Leather's hard to come by," she said, her voice tight with contempt. "The cattle are for Silas's tithe. It keeps the Rot at bay… if you believe him." She took the Wounded Hunter’s fox pelt, directing him to the village tanner, a sour old man overjoyed for the work who promised the leather would be ready in two days. Before they left, Brenna’s eyes hardened. "If you're really interested," she muttered, "stop by the Little Arrow Inn. Keep an eye on the entertainment."

Next, they sought Silas’s Provisions, a trading post as empty of goods as the villagers were of hope. A young clerk, a boy with the weary eyes of an old man, met them with a sigh. "Haven't got anything," he mumbled. A well-crafted gaming board, a relic from their journey through the wizard's tower, caught his eye. Aran, sensing an opportunity for information, spoke of the massive Drake egg they had recently found. The clerk's face went pale with terror. "A Drake egg? You had a lucky escape. The mothers… you don't want to mess with a Drake." For the board, he offered four copper coins. As the Nature-Warden took them, he felt a strange, tingling taint in the metal, a foul residue of heavy, stagnant magic. The conversation was cut short as two of Silas’s enforcers appeared in the doorway, their silent presence a clear command to leave.

As evening approached, they made their way to the Little Arrow Inn. The atmosphere here was jarringly different—a forced, strained joviality hung in the air. On a small stage, a young woman in a jester’s motley quietly tuned a lute. At the head of the main table, the man they presumed to be Silas feasted on roasted piglet, looking far healthier than any other soul in the village. He was large and loud, and his cronies laughed on cue.

Suddenly, Silas banged a tankard on the table, silencing the room. "Folk of Copperham!" he bellowed. "The time for the walking of the cow is upon us!"

A listless procession formed. A miserable, bony cow, its flank freshly painted with the seven-pointed sigil, was led by two villagers wearing strange headdresses of twisted copper wire and twigs. The companions joined the silent march, following the cow out of the village gates and across a fallow field to the edge of the dark woods. There, the beast was tied to a large wooden post. Silas offered a few hollow words about prosperity, and then the villagers turned as one and shuffled back to the safety of their walls, leaving the cow alone in the deepening gloom.

From a place of hiding, the companions watched. A profound silence fell over the woods, a silence of absolute terror. Then came a sound of crashing undergrowth, and a nightmare emerged from the trees. At first glance, it was a cow, but its form was a blasphemy—it had multiple heads, scuttled on too many spidery legs, and lashed out with long, clawed tentacles. It was a Misgrown, a product of Zytera's flesh-crafting. The creature seized the offering, wrenching it from the post, and dragged it screaming into the darkness. The grim tithe had been paid.

Shaken, they returned to the darkened village. As they passed through a shadowed alley, the Seer froze, holding up a hand. In the sliver of moonlight between two buildings, two figures stood in a hushed, urgent conference: Brenna, the defiant smith, and the quiet jester from the inn. The rot in Upper Copperham ran deeper than a mere disease; a rebellion was taking root in the shadows.