Session 27 - The Jailer's Confession

The air in the cellar beneath the Coppervein Smithy was thick with the smells of the forge, sweat, and a nervous, hopeful anticipation. The companions, battered and weary from their ordeal in the cursed mine, stood before the small council of the resistance. On the workbench between them lay a sack containing the rough, dark chunks of Blood Iron, the fruit of their perilous journey.

Brenna, the smith, was the first to speak, her voice trembling with an emotion that was part awe, part steely resolve. She picked up a piece of the ore, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "It's real," she whispered, looking from the metal to the faces of the adventurers. "You found it. With this, I can reforge the Blade of the Defiant. I can give it back its edge." Her gratitude was a palpable force in the small, cramped space.

Elric, the wolfkin mystic, turned his gaze from the ore to Torvin, who was slumped against a wall, his face pale and his eyes distant. "What befell your companion?" he asked, his voice a low growl.

"He touched the blood ore," Hearn explained, his tone grim. "It had a particular effect upon him. But this is not the first time. He'll come 'round."

Elric moved to the table, his long fingers hovering over the ingots without touching them. "Whatever it was, it feels inert now," he mused. "Perhaps there was something else at play in the mine. The ore is said to drive those near it to madness, a hoarder's curse." He turned away, moving to a small corner where he began to grind herbs in a pestle and mortar. "Bear with me a moment. I shall see what I can do."

As the mystic worked, Brenna laid out the two paths that had fractured their small rebellion. "I can reforge the sword," she stated, "but you will have to recover it. Silas keeps the dulled blade above his mantle like a trophy. If you can get it, we can smash that cursed stone to pieces before the next tithe is due."

Pip, the jester, shook her head. "And the ledger too. If we can prove Silas's corruption, we can run him out of town. The village will see the truth."

It was Vorlag, the sullen hunter, who voiced the gravest concern. He let out a low cough, drawing their attention. "One should be wary," he warned. "Smashing the stone may not be the clean victory you hope. The Benefactor is bound to that stone. If you smash it, its rage could be unleashed on the village in a final, dying tantrum."

Elric confirmed the hunter's fears without turning from his work. "What Vorlag says is true. Smashing the obelisk will release untold energies. The only other course of action would be to hunt the beast in its lair before the obelisk is smashed." He finished grinding the herbs, mixed them with water from a flask, and the bowl frothed with an acrid-smelling paste. He walked over to Torvin and smeared the dark poultice across his forehead and cheeks.

For Torvin, the world had been a distant, terrifying dream, a night terror from which he could not wake. He saw Elric approach as if down a long tunnel, felt the cold paste on his skin, and then a tingling warmth spread through him, culminating in a violent jolt. He lurched upright with a gasp, the cellar crashing back into his senses with overwhelming intensity. The smells, the sounds, the flickering light—it was all hyper-real and agonizingly sharp. The malaise was broken, but he was left trembling and wild-eyed.

The debate continued around him. The companions questioned the resistance, learning that the beast's lair could be tracked by its sickly, rotten stench, but that none of the villagers dared venture there. Pip and Brenna provided a detailed layout of Silas's house: a two-story building with a trading post on the ground floor, living quarters above, and a predictable, lazy patrol of two guards, Boric and Lem. There were weaknesses—a loose bar on an upstairs window, a filthy privy chute—but the risks were great.

With the plans laid bare, the resistance members prepared to leave the companions to their rest and their decision. "If you get caught," Brenna warned, her hand on the trapdoor, "please don't take us down with you. I'll open the smithy late tomorrow. Strike while the iron is hot." She offered a grim chuckle at her own joke, and then she was gone, the trapdoor closing behind them with a heavy thud.

Left to themselves in the candlelight of the cellar, they spent the rest of the night in fitful rest and quiet preparation. The next morning, Brenna opened the cellar, urging them to be on their way before the village grew too busy. The companions decided to split up. Hearn and Torvin would venture into the nearby woods to hunt for fresh meat, a potential bargaining chip or a necessary distraction for the guard dog. Meanwhile, Aran and Gallivan would scout the village and Silas’s house, gauging the patrols and planning their infiltration.

The hunters were successful, returning with a bounty of rabbits and pelts. Aran and Gallivan, too, learned much, confirming the guards' lazy patrol routes. That night, with the village settling into a sullen quiet, the party reconvened. The plan was set.

They moved under the cover of darkness, approaching Silas's house from the shadows. Gallivan's attempt to distract one of the guards, Lem, with an offer of fine tobacco failed miserably, putting them on edge. They moved to their planned entry point: the upstairs office window with the loose bar. With Torvin providing a steady base, Hearn scrambled onto his shoulders. He worked at the bar, and with a pained grunt, managed to pry it loose silently, but the sharp edge of the rusted iron sliced his hand open. He slipped through the window into the dark storeroom, then helped haul Torvin through after him.

Inside, the air was stale. From the main room, they could hear the loud, animal snoring of a dog. They crept across the storeroom, Hearn taking the lead. As he stepped onto a loose floorboard, it let out a loud creak. The snoring stopped, replaced by a low growl. The dog was awake. A voice from upstairs yelled, "Copper, shut your yapping! Go back to bed!" The dog let out another growl, its eyes fixed on the shadows where Hearn was frozen. Hearn, thinking fast, tossed a piece of the freshly caught rabbit meat. The dog padded forward, sniffed, and then snatched the offering, retreating to the bottom of the stairs to chew on its prize, its attention bought for a precious few minutes.

They slipped past and made their way up the creaking staircase. At the top, a dim, flickering light came from under a closed door, accompanied by the sound of heavy snoring. Another door stood open, leading into a dark study. Inside, they gently closed the door and lit a candle. The room was Silas's office. On a desk lay scattered papers; in a corner stood a metal lockbox; and mounted above a cold fireplace was a massive, two-handed sword, clamped to the wall.

Hearn moved to the lockbox. Miraculously, it was unlocked. Inside, beneath trade documents, was a large, leather-bound book. It was not a ledger, but a diary. The first entry, dated fourteen years ago, read: "The bargain is struck. It will sleep so long as we feed its prison. I've told the others it was a pact for protection from the Mist. They believe me. They have to. May the gods forgive me for this lie."

Flipping forward, another entry from seven years ago: "The Rot took three more this season. Brenna's husband was one. She looks at me with such hatred. If she knew she was hating me for saving her... No. She cannot know."

The final entry, from only a month ago, was a scrawl of pure despair: "The tithe is failing. The cattle are not enough. The stone hummed all through the night. A hungry sound. It whispered to me in a dream. It showed me the image of a child. It's demanding more. The seal is breaking. Fourteen years, and I have failed."

The truth was a punch to the gut. Silas was not a villain. He was a jailer, and the entire village was his prison.

As they stood in stunned silence, debating whether to take the sword, the office door creaked open. Silas stood there, clad in a simple nightgown, holding a single candle. He was not angry. He looked defeated, his arrogance stripped away, leaving only a tired, trembling old man.

"So, you know," he whispered. "I suppose it was only a matter of time. You think this is about power? About coin?" He raised the lamp, his hand shaking. "This village is not a community. It is a prison. And I am the jailer. For fourteen years, I have fed that monster our hope to keep it sleeping. And now, you have come to wake it up." He lowered the light, his shoulders slumping. "Go. Do what you must. I've failed anyway."

"Give me the sword," Torvin said, his voice rough.

"You can take it," Silas replied, his voice breaking. "But it is the key. It binds the stone. It binds the beast. If you release the sword, you break the seal, and the village is doomed."

Hearn spoke then, his tone measured but firm. "Perhaps it is no longer just your decision to make. It's time for you to talk to the village."

Silas stared for a long moment, then gave a slow, defeated nod. "So be it. Let me speak to my wife. I will be here in the morning. I will explain everything."

He escorted them down the stairs and unlocked the front door, dismissing his own startled guards. As they stepped out into the cold night air, the companions looked at each other, the weight of their discovery settling upon them. They had come as thieves to expose a tyrant, but had instead found a tragic warden guarding a terrible secret.