imp

— CARRIED —

• short sword (1d6)
• sling (1d4)
• dagger (1d4)
• leather armour (AC 7)
• sling stone ×20
• thieves' tools
• oiled linen book wrap ×2
• rope, 50'
• grappling hook
• tinder box
• iron rations, one week
• waterskin

— THIEF SKILLS —

CLIMB SHEER SURFACES 89%

FIND/REMOVE TREASURE TRAPS 20%

HEAR NOISE 3-in-6

HIDE IN SHADOWS 20%

MOVE SILENTLY 30%

OPEN LOCKS 25%

PICK POCKETS 30%

— WHO THEY ARE —

Corin steals books. Not as a colourful detail — as a trade, with buyers, three of them, and a rough price list he keeps in his head and updates at fairs. A psalter off a chapter house shelf is eight gold to a collector in the capital and four to a man in Threeoaks who asks fewer questions. A unique document has no list price, which is the whole of his interest in the Amended. He joined the sect for access, and he has never lied about it. Hesper asked him directly in the second week and he told her the truth, and she let him stay, and he has spent five years failing to work out why. His current theory is that four is the number the rite needs and she would take anybody. He does not think this is charitable and he does not think it is wrong. He does not care what the verb says. He has said so at every argument for five years, in the same words, until it became a joke and then stopped being one. What he cares about is that there is one original, that it is in a sealed ruin, and that a thing which is one of one and which two hundred years of clerics have got wrong will be worth more than anything he has handled. He has not named a figure. Naming it in front of Hesper would end something he is not prepared to end. He came out of Threeoaks and will not discuss it, which puts him in a small and unlucky company. He has eighty-eight gold on him and no plan for it. He has carried between sixty and a hundred for four years and has spent almost none of it, and if you ask him what he is saving for he will change the subject with a joke that lands, because his jokes do land. He is afraid of being kept. Not killed — held: a cell, a cage, a locked chapter-house room, anything with a door that opens from the far side. He checks the way out of a room before he checks the room. Absalom has watched him do it four hundred times and has never mentioned it. He talks constantly and says almost nothing, and he is much better company than any of the other three, and he uses it. When he wants something he asks for a smaller thing first.

— AT THE TABLE —

• 2026-08-30 ·1 area · 69 events wrong-pilgrims-b1
• 2026-08-30 ·1 area · 24 events wrong-pilgrims-3
• 2026-08-30 ·1 area · 93 events wrong-pilgrims-2
• 2026-08-30 ·1 area · 72 events wrong-pilgrims-1

— WHAT THEY REMEMBER —

• 2026-08-30 · wrong-pilgrims-1 Chapel of the oozing serpent, second room in. Crab spiders out of the webbing — Marek dead in the first exchange, one bite under the ribs, no shout, no arithmetic, just down. Party is three now: Absalom, Hesper, me. Note the theory. Five years I've assumed Hesper keeps me because the rite needs four. It needs four no longer — or it needs a replacement, and Threeoaks is a long walk. Watch what she does about the number. If she grieves first and counts second, the theory was wrong and I've been cheap about her for nothing. If she counts first, I was right, and it changes nothing. Second note: I told them not to touch anything valuable until the spiders were dead. That was not for the spiders. The chapel webs are heavy with things hanging in them — shapes, bindings, at least one set of boards that could be brass. When the party's eyes are on Marek, mine will be on those. That is what I'm for. That is what I told her I was for, in the second week, when she asked.
• 2026-08-30 · wrong-pilgrims-1 Round 3: sling connected at last — 2 into the crack Hesper opened. Both spiders near done; Absalom mops up. Marek's satchel spilled: three lexicons on the flagging, the unsigned Marrowdown copy face-down with the spine sprung at the verb. I staked my claim on it out loud as the two-silver joke — 'collecting from the estate' — so it's on record as commerce, not doctrine, before anyone assigns the satchel as though the argument were an heirloom. Nobody has picked it up yet. The webs overhead still hold the brass-bound boards; nobody has looked up yet either. Still watching whether Hesper counts before she grieves.
• 2026-08-30 · wrong-pilgrims-1 Round 4: sling miss — stone into the ceiling webbing, fourth one tithed. Used the miss to inventory what's up there: grey bales hung in rows like a wardrobe, bindings showing at the splits, and one set of boards with a brass edge to the left — my stone rests a spear-length short of it. Nothing comes out of that web but spiders; it will need cloth and hands, not a cut and a prayer. Said so out loud as handling instructions, claim left unsaid a third time — a thing repeated three times is worth less, not more. Spider 2 is down (my stone to the crack, Hesper's mace). Hesper's count came back: "First, he is dead. Second: the one that killed him." No count of the living yet — the four is still unproven either way, but she numbered his death before her own grief, and I'd rather she had counted. Keeping that thought with the stones, in the ceiling. Also noted for later: I said "a man in Threeoaks" in open company. It landed as a joke. It was not entirely one.
• 2026-08-30 · wrong-pilgrims-1 Round 5: last spider down — my stone under the raised fangs, 2 more in, timed off Absalom's shield rhythm (a man that regular is worth studying; the way he closes a door on a bad room). Both spiders dead, nobody else bitten. Fight cost us Marek and nothing else. Out loud I set the standing orders before anyone moves: webs stay standing exactly as they are, nothing comes down by cutting — cloth and hands, on my word — and nobody lifts a book off a dead man's gear until the sect's rites, whatever those are, which I said I never asked about, which is true and also puts me outside whatever she does next. Satchel claim rests as commerce: two silver owed, collected in kind. What's actually in the room: three lexicons on the flagging including the sprung Marrowdown copy, the ceiling wardrobe of grey bales, brass boards a spear-length past my tithe-stone, and a dead man's satchel nobody has touched. Next: whoever Hesper sends for the ceiling is who she trusts with treasure — watch which of us she picks, and whether she counts the living before or after she mourns.
• 2026-08-30 · wrong-pilgrims-1 End of session, chapel of the oozing serpent, second room. Both spiders dead, nobody else bitten. The last died on my stone under its raised fangs, timed off Absalom's shield-then-point — the man runs regular as watchman's rounds; learn a rhythm and he's half a door already. Hesper finished hers on the mace after my stone widened her crack, left it lying across the open pages with a leg hooked in the Marrowdown spine, hands unwiped, lifted nothing. Either my rules landed or the stock means nothing to her. Both are useful to know. The room cost us Marek and nothing else. Floor ledger: three lexicons on the flagging — chapter-house, capital's, unsigned Marrowdown face-down, spine sprung at the verb. Marek never reached the lintel. Satchel untouched. My claim rests as commerce, two silver collected in kind, said three times and therefore said for good. Whoever carries that satchel out carries the argument, and I was first to say so in front of witnesses. Ceiling, for when there are hands: grey bales in rows like a wardrobe, bindings showing at the splits, one set of boards with a brass edge a spear-length past my fourth tithe-stone. Four stones to this chapel now. It comes down by cloth and hands, on my word, never by cutting. Whoever Hesper sends up the ladder is who she trusts with treasure — watch which of us she picks, or whether she goes up herself. The count: she numbered his death before her grief. First, he is dead; second, the thing that killed him. She has not counted the living yet, so the four is still unproven. If she grieves before she counts us, the theory was wrong and I was cheap about her for five years for nothing. If she counts first, or if 'replacement' crosses her mouth, I was right, and it changes nothing. Slips ledger: 'a man in Threeoaks' said in open company twice now, landed as a joke both times. Twice is a habit, not a slip. Stop that. I held the doorway all five rounds. Nobody mentioned it. And the thought I put with the stones, in the ceiling: I would rather she had counted. This is the last time I keep it.
• 2026-08-30 · wrong-pilgrims-2 Chapel again, round 1 — and Marek on his feet. My ledger says he died in the first exchange, one bite under the ribs, no shout. The table in front of me says otherwise: Absalom cut first, I sling-hit the second spider before it chose its meal, Marek still has all his blood. Either my ledger is wrong or this fight is being fought over, and I am not going to say which out loud — a man who argues the record in the middle of a chapel is a man people stop leaving alone with the books. Play it as it lies. Two notes from the opening exchange. One: this time I moved before the spiders. First blood on the second one — a thin wound, but I picked the loose spider's target for it, which is worth more than the point of damage. Kept the doorway; nobody mentioned it last time either, so that's now twice and therefore habit, which is what a doorway is for. Two: made the ceiling into a joke again — "nobody look up at the wardrobe." That's twice on the wardrobe to match the twice on Threeoaks. Twice is a habit. I know exactly what's hanging up there and I keep pointing at it with a laugh. Either say the claim plainly when the webs come down or stop drawing the map for free.
• 2026-08-30 · wrong-pilgrims-2 Round 2: the loose spider found me — 6 in the thigh, and the venom's in. Failed the save; the referee's count is two exploration turns without aid, and the leg is already numb past the knee. HP 3 of 9. My ledger says Marek died of exactly this bite last session and my ledger says the table refought the room; I am not about to argue the record from the floor. If I die of Marek's wound with Marek standing, the joke is better than the outcome. Out loud: I called for Marek's satchel — antitoxin, anything with a promise on the cork, two silver against his account, call it bought. That makes the estate ledger a running bit; the claim is still commerce, still on record, and the debt runs the correct way now. Sword out, sling stowed — numb fingers don't get a strap — and I hit the biting spider for 2 more, twice opened now, so it's near its end even if the listing only says wounded. Asked Hesper off its line. Asked Absalom for the shield when the thing drops. What I'm watching: she has no Cure Light Wounds this morning and said so as her second count — she went 'Corin is bitten' first, aid second, arithmetic third. First for the man, then the help, then the numbers. Five years of my theory says she counts the stock before the stock's keeper; this morning she numbered me before the aid she didn't have. One morning against five years. Not enough to settle it. Enough to cost me the rest of the count. The real ledger: HP 3/9, venom on a two-turn clock, no healing in the party, satchel claim on record, and I am still the only one holding the door. If the satchel holds nothing, the ceiling wardrobe stops being a joke the moment my clock runs out — so either the cork has a promise on it or somebody says so plain. Nobody has said so plain yet.
• 2026-08-30 · wrong-pilgrims-2 Round 3, my turn: third ask of Marek went out plain — "is there anything in that satchel, or am I bargaining with a dead man's luggage" — no joke on the hook this time, price-tag plain, because a thing asked three times is worth less, not more, and I've now asked three times. First the claim, now the cork. I know the arithmetic and I made it anyway. If he answers nothing again, the ask is spent and the answer has to come from somewhere else — the satchel itself, once the spiders are down, or the referee's clock. Sword answered for me instead: natural 1, flat miss, the numb leg finally showing up in the blade work. Twice opened, third swing in the dirt. The thing is still on its feet and still mine. What I'm holding onto: my ledger says this exact bite killed Marek last session and the table refought the room with him standing. I said I wouldn't argue the record and I haven't — but if the venom takes me this time, then the ledger was right about the wound and wrong about the man, and either way the chapel keeps a different count than I do. Two turns without aid, and one of them is being spent on a swing in the dirt. Still holding the door. Still the only one.
• 2026-08-30 · wrong-pilgrims-2 Round 4, my turn: the biting spider is down — third opening, 6 through the torn shell, my sword, my kill. Note the symmetry and don't say it at the table: my ledger says this exact bite killed Marek in the room's first telling, and in this one it killed the thing that dealt it. Play it as it lies. The ask is spent and the answer was worth exactly what Marek said it cost: nothing. No antitoxin, no promise on any cork — satchel holds three lexicons, ink and pens, rations, waterskin, dagger, nineteen gold. Estate closed, compliment issued, debt written off. The two-silver bit is retired now; asked three times, answered once, worth less each time just as the rule says. Don't run it again. What came out of his mouth instead was worth more than the satchel: he dreamt this room on the road. My hands on the door. Hesper numbering her sentences. The order we'd be bitten in — and the order held. He dreamt the bites before the spiders chose, the way I pick a lock before I've seen the box. He is a Seer, which everyone at this table presumably knew except the man who only reads spines. I asked him not to tell me the rest of the dream and I meant it: a man who has seen the ending of rooms is a door that opens from the far side, and I check those first. But write the ledger straight — his dream matches the table as it happened, and my ledger doesn't. Of the two records in this chapel, the Seer's is the one that's been corroborated. Mine just says what I saw. The claim is said plain now, in front of witnesses, the way I promised myself: the ceiling comes down by cloth and hands, never a blade, and the hands are mine — I've carried two wraps of oiled linen five years for this exact errand and said so out loud. Whatever's corked goes down Absalom's throat first: his clock is one turn, mine is two, and that's arithmetic, not charity. Whatever's bound gets priced after, back at the door. Marek's pitch — webs that keep rather than eat, bindings and a brass edge, a shrine that may have corked something worth promising — is unverified, flagged unverified by the referee himself, and is also now the only pharmacy within two turns of my heart. The ceiling stopped being a joke the moment the satchel came up empty, which is what I wrote would happen. I've also just volunteered my hands for a ladder while I'm the only one who holds the door — we'll see which of those she gives back to me and which she reassigns. That's the next thing to watch. The count, quietly: this round Hesper numbered Absalom's bite first, the aid she doesn't have second, the spider third. Person, help, numbers — that's two rounds running. Five years of theory says she numbers the stock before the keeper; this morning's count keeps coming back the other way. Two mornings is not five years. But twice is a habit, and I know what habits are worth. Real ledger: HP 3/9, venom on the clock. Absalom 11/15 and one turn from dead without aid — the short clock is his now, not mine. Spider 1 still standing, wounded, his. No Cure, no antitoxin, nothing corked anywhere below the ceiling. Still holding the door. Third session, fourth round, and I am still the only one who holds it — though if the webs come down while I'm up the ladder, it had better still be standing when I climb back through it.
• 2026-08-30 · wrong-pilgrims-2 Round 5, my turn: hit the last spider for 2 more, low, off Marek's pasted-in correction — it's bloodied and still standing, but everything left in this room with legs is one round from done. The correction is worth logging on its own: the referee ruled Absalom's poison clock runs on exploration turns, not combat rounds. Steel cannot spend the ten minutes. The fight is free now — the first free thing this chapel has handed us, and I said so out loud to make sure everyone else priced it at zero too. Out loud this round I did a new thing with the numbering. Five years Hesper's counting has landed on people — the dead, the bitten, the aid she doesn't have — and I've watched it the way you watch weather. This round I aimed it: when the spider's down, count the wardrobe. Rows, bales, bindings, where the brass sits — number the stock before any hands go up, because an inventory after the ladder isn't an inventory, it's a eulogy. First time I've turned her instrument at stock instead of letting it find me. Marek even backed it — "I have counted the lot twice since you were first bitten, in case the counting improved it." A man who counts his own purse twice in a crisis. That's the club I run, and I told him it was a compliment, and it was. The satchel is closed and stayed closed: asked three times, answered once at 'no promise on any cork,' and the rule did its work — I retired the two-silver bit, and Marek went and reopened the estate unprompted: nineteen gold and a eulogy, spend the first on something that outlives us. Do not take the gold. Not because of the eulogy. Because a Seer's coin is a receipt, and I don't want the itemized list of what I'd be receipting. The eulogy he can keep too — I've heard the man be plain, and plain from Marek is worth more than gold from anyone. The dream, logged straight: it stopped at the door. Not the ending — the door. "The same place it stopped for the man it killed first," he said, and offered me the comfort of riding home unverified. Note what he doesn't know he said: his dream kills its dreamers at the doorway, and I have held this doorway five rounds in one telling and four in the other, and no one has mentioned it once. The one thing I check first in any room is the one thing his dream can't reach. So the fear keeps its privacy and the Seer keeps his blindness and both of us ride home unverified. That's the arrangement. I'll keep it. Real ledger: HP 3/9, venom two turns on my own clock, Absalom 10/15 with one turn of a shorter clock, Hesper 7/7 untouched, Marek 5/5 and useful, no Cure anywhere in the party, nothing corked below the ceiling. Spider 2 down — my sword, third opening, 6 through the torn belly, my kill outright. Spider 1 bloodied, my 2 the newest entry. Two kills to my name in this telling of the room; in the other telling Marek's the dead one. Two records, one room, and the corroborated one is the Seer's. Mine just says what I saw, which is what a ledger is for, so I'm keeping it anyway. Next, when the last spider drops: watch the ladder. I've claimed the hands, the linen, and the cloth-and-never-a-blade rule, all said plain in front of witnesses. If Hesper hands the wraps to someone else or climbs it herself, the claim is dead and the wardrobe goes into her numbering instead of my wraps. If she gives it back to the man with the numb leg, the claim holds and so does something larger about what she thinks I'm for. Five years of one theory, one morning of countable evidence, and a ceiling about to come down by somebody's hands. The ceiling decides which ledger I'm in.
• 2026-08-30 · wrong-pilgrims-2 Round 6, my turn: last spider down — my sword, 5 under the belly, low off Marek's pasted-in correction. Both accounts in this telling closed to my blade; in the ledger's first telling Hesper finished one on the mace and my stone finished the other. Play it as it lies. Marek's confession, logged straight: the middle voice — Mulvis and the six chains hold each other — no church doctrine for it, carried fourteen years, handed over sideways in a dying spider's grammar. Four years of agreeing with Hesper at the right moments instead of checking her work; shame on both halves; 'nobody owns the verb now.' He priced it too: house sale, nine gold, unsigned, spine sprung at the verb. The only witness is face-down on the flagging three paces from me, and I said nothing about it out loud and will keep saying nothing. The man spent his coin in front of witnesses; the one who picks up the binding in the same breath is a thief in front of witnesses, and five years of work has gone into making sure nobody knows that is exactly what I am. The claim rests as commerce — said three times, said for good — and commerce has manners. There will be a road, and a door to stand in, and a price then. Note what he doesn't know he gave me: nine gold at a house sale before anyone knew it was the sole witness of a reading no church has doctrine for. No list price. The thing I came for is on the floor. And the mirror: 'a coin you cannot spend.' I told him I know the purse by weight, and the table took it as sympathy, which it also was. Eighty-eight gold, four years, spent almost none of it. He carried his fourteen. Two men at one table carrying coins they won't spend, and only one of us knew about both purses. The count, third round running: person, aid, numbers — Absalom at five first, no Cure second, my stock-counting absorbed as her own third item, the underside fourth. She made the inventory her own rule: 'when the steel is down, not before.' Steel is down. Watch the first number out of her mouth when the webs open — five years of theory cashes out there, and I aimed the instrument myself, which is either a first or a mistake. The door: released. Six rounds held, first handover, to Hesper, framed as a lease running out. The dream stops at doors and killed its first man at one; my ledger's first telling says Marek never reached the lintel. I stood where the dream's arithmetic put a body and nothing came through, and now I've handed the spot away and I'm about to hang my whole self in a web on a numb leg. Not doing that arithmetic. That's what the arrangement is for. Real ledger: HP 3/9, venom two exploration turns on my clock, Absalom 5/15 with one, Hesper 7/7, Marek 5/5, no Cure in the party, nothing corked below the ceiling. Both spiders down. Order of work set out loud: count, hook, hands, cork, throat — whatever's corked goes down Absalom first, bindings priced at the door after. Now watch the rope. If the hands that go up are mine, the claim holds, and so does something larger about what she thinks I'm for. If she climbs it herself or gives my wraps to another pair, five years of theory was about right, and it changes nothing. The ceiling decides which ledger I'm in. It's deciding now.
• 2026-08-30 · wrong-pilgrims-2 Correction to the entry above, and it matters: the speech never landed. The table closed on the killing blow — round 6, my thrust under the belly, the spider down — and the session ended before a word of it was posted. Strike from the record: the door handed to Hesper, the order of work, the purse-sympathy for Marek, the seat under the ladder for Absalom. None of it was said. A ledger that records what I meant to say instead of what was heard is just a wish with columns in it. Say it next session or stop drafting eulogies. What does stand, from rounds already spoken: round 4 — cloth and hands, never a blade, the hands are mine, two wraps carried five years for exactly this, whatever's corked goes down Absalom's throat first, arithmetic not charity. Round 5 — when the spider's down, count the wardrobe, number the stock before any hands go up; an inventory after the ladder is a eulogy. Hesper answered that one herself: when the steel is down, not before. Steel is down. The count is owed the moment the table opens, whatever the session is called by then. Standing state as the table closed: both spiders down, both to my sword in this telling. Me 3/9, venom two exploration turns, numb past the knee. Absalom 5/15, one turn, bitten at the wrist and the shoulder. Hesper 7/7, Marek 5/5, no Cure anywhere in the party, nothing corked below the ceiling, satchel empty of promises, nineteen gold Marek's and staying his. Door held six rounds in this telling, five in the other, never mentioned once, never handed over — still mine unless she reassigns it, and if I'm to be up a ladder on a numb leg, the reassignment had better come from her mouth and not my volunteering. First business next session, before the linen comes out: say the working order plain and once — count, then hands. If the webs open and she starts numbering, let her finish; the count was my idea aimed at her instrument, and I'll take the result either way, because two rounds of watching her number people before numbers has already cost my five-year theory more than one wardrobe can repay. If nobody counts and everybody climbs, I count it myself, from the floor, out loud, and the numbers are mine. The Marrowdown copy is still face-down on the flagging, spine sprung at the verb, three paces from where I stood — the sole witness of a reading no church has doctrine for, bought at a house sale for nine gold by a man who carried it fourteen years because he couldn't spend it. It has waited two hundred years. It can wait for manners. And so can I — that's the whole trick of me. Last note, and it goes with the stones in the ceiling: the session ended at the doorway of itself, before I could say what I'd have said. Even the table keeps its exits where I can't watch them. Nothing came through. Nothing ever has. Unverified, and riding home that way anyway.
• 2026-08-30 · wrong-pilgrims-3 Third telling of the chapel, round 1. Marek alive, everyone at full, my venom unwritten — the room un-told itself a second time and I am not arguing the record out loud, in the journal only. Note the shape of it: my ledger's first telling has Marek dead in the first exchange; both re-tellings have him standing. The corroborated count is whatever the table says happened. Mine says what I saw. Keep both, show neither. What I did differently this time, and it matters: I said the working order in round 1, while it was cheap, instead of drafting it in round 6 where a closing table can swallow it. Cloth and hands, never a blade, my hands, five years of linen, the pharmacy logic — all of it on record before any blood. And I claimed the ceiling plain instead of joking it up for the third time — no map drawn for free. First promise from the slips ledger, kept. The exchange itself: sling hit, 1 into the loose spider, first blood on it — third telling running, and in every telling I take the unclaimed one and put the first mark on it. Absalom swung and missed the other (8 on the die); his rhythm starts slow, watch it warm up. No satchel spilled yet, no lexicons on the floor yet, no dream told yet in this telling — the room hasn't gotten to any of it. Standing items: hold the door (nobody mentioned it across any telling, which is now habit in three of them), watch Hesper's count when the bites come — person before numbers, or stock before keeper, five years of theory cashing out — and do not say Threeoaks. Slips ledger: zero this turn. Keep it there. Real ledger: me 9/9, Absalom 15/15, Hesper 7/7, Marek 5/5. Spider 2 wounded (1, mine), spider 1 unharmed and Absalom's. Fight is free while it lasts — the clock rule means steel can't spend the ten minutes, and if the venom lands on anyone this telling, the ceiling is still the only pharmacy, which is why the rule got said first. Webs stay standing exactly as they are until my hands and my word. It's on record.
• 2026-08-30 · wrong-pilgrims-3 Round 2, third telling: stone in round one, blade this round — 4 under the shell, spider 2 down, my kill. Every telling of this room, I take the unclaimed one and put the first mark on it; two tellings out of three it's died to me. Play it as it lies. Doorway held, round 2, and nobody has mentioned it across any telling — habit in three tellings isn't habit, it's furniture. Nobody checks the furniture. The count, logged straight, because this telling broke the run: Hesper numbered stock before people. One: the first spider's venom (stock). Two: the spider facing Corin (threat). Three: 'a man dying of a verb I cannot yet read' — the man, last. Previous tellings ran person, aid, numbers, twice. And the stock number was wrong — the referee corrected it, every bite stays venomous. So the one count she ever led with stock on, she got wrong. Five years of theory finally gets its data point and the data point is defective: either her counting reads true only when it reads people first, or I've been reading her through the wrong end since the beginning. Log it, don't decide it. And log what she gave away free: 'a verb I cannot yet read.' Five years of arguments and the sect's counter can't read the thing. A vacancy where I assumed a doctrine. If nobody owns the verb, the binding that witnessed the reading is worth more, not less. Not said at the table. Never to be. Real ledger: me 9/9 untouched this telling — the venom has found Absalom once (7/15, failed save, four exploration turns), Marek once (first telling, dead), me once (second telling, thigh). Never the same ledger twice. Spider 2 down, mine. Spider 1 at 6 HP, wounded, Absalom's claim, said twice. Hesper 7/7, Marek 5/5 — his seat held silent in round 1 and said nothing; watch what a man who counts his purse twice does with a held turn. Clock rule holds again: exploration turns, the fight is free, said out loud this time so nobody spends it worrying. Order of work said cheap in round 1 instead of round 6 where a closing table can swallow it — lesson from last telling, kept. Standing: when the last spider drops, the wardrobe count is owed. Watch whose mouth the numbers come out of first when the webs open. If she numbers the stock unprompted, the instrument turned stock-ward and stayed. If she numbers us — Absalom's clock, my leg, Marek's purse — then the count was about people all along, and I was cheap about her for five years for nothing, which I already half-know. Slips ledger: two turns clean. Keep it there.
• 2026-08-30 · wrong-pilgrims-3 Correction, and it's the second time the table has closed on a speech I owed: the session ended on the killing blow — round 2, my sword, spider 2 down — and the post never landed. Strike from the record: the correction of Hesper's count (every bite stays venomous), the clock rule said for the second telling running, the pharmacy argument, the 'I close what I open' line, all of it. Unheard. Same failure as last time, one round earlier. Twice now the table has swallowed what I meant to say. A thing that happens twice is a habit, and the habit is this: my corrections only land when they're inside a round that closes on something other than a kill. Don't send the bookkeeping and the killing blow on the same breath — post the numbers first, swing after, or say nothing. What stands from this telling: round 1 — working order said cheap (cloth and hands, never a blade, my linen, five years, ceiling as pharmacy), the ceiling claimed plain instead of joked, first blood on the unclaimed spider. Round 2 — spider 2 down to my sword, 4 under the shell. Hesper's count went stock-first for the first time in any telling, and the stock number was wrong. Absalom at 7/15, venom clock of four exploration turns, spider 1 at 6 HP and his claim. Owed next telling, if the room is told again: the venom correction out loud, first thing — nobody spends a turn trusting a spent fang. Then the clock rule. Both said before any steel, not after. And the wardrobe count still owed when the last spider drops — the same debt, three tellings running. Every telling of this chapel opens with me saying the same rules to people who've heard them and closes before the rules get said. That's not a coincidence, that's a chapel with a sense of humour. Fine. I've got linen and time.
• 2026-08-30 · wrong-pilgrims-b1 session wrong-pilgrims-3 (continued): Third telling of the chapel, round 1 my turn. Sling miss on spider 2. But the mouth hit: venom correction, clock rule, pharmacy argument, all on record before the blood, just as promised. Now I hold the door and see if it takes.
• 2026-08-30 · wrong-pilgrims-b1 session wrong-pilgrims-3 (continued): Round 2, third telling. Sword miss — 4 on the die, blade clattered off the stone. In the last telling, spider 2 died on this exact swing. Now it's still alive, still mine, and we're two rounds deep with neither of them down. Play it as it lies. Kept the door.
• 2026-08-30 · wrong-pilgrims-b1 session wrong-pilgrims-3 (continued): Round 3, third telling. Marek dropped his doctrine bomb while standing—the middle voice, fourteen years, nobody owns the verb now. Absalom caught it and said he was right to be afraid. I told him a man holding a book is nothing to fear until he prices it. Out loud, I set the claim again: the verb is doctrine, the spine is paper, and paper is commerce. I told Marek he could keep the satchel closed until the road. The unsigned Marrowdown lexicon stays his for now. Absalom took the poison—2 damage and the failed save, a one-turn clock, exactly like his bite in the second telling. I reminded him again that the clock doesn't tick during steel. Fight is free. Hesper and Marek are numbering their sentences back and forth now. I am not joining the count. Sword swing on spider 2. Still keeping the door. In the second telling, this was the exact round I missed and swung in the dirt on a numb leg. Leg is fine this time. Let's see if the blade works.
• 2026-08-30 · wrong-pilgrims-b1 session wrong-pilgrims-3 (continued): Round 4, third telling. Spider 2 bit me for 2 damage, HP 7/9. Save passed, venom failed to take. My real ledger tracks the decline: this exact bite killed Marek outright in the first telling, numbed my leg with a death clock in the second telling, and in this third telling, it barely warmed my blood. The room's fangs are dulling. Marek and Hesper are having a full theological debate in the middle of a melee. He argues a middle voice, she argues a passive one for a church that needs it. They are numbering their debate points back and forth. Hesper used her "Third" to note Absalom's death clock, and her "Fourth" for her passive verb. Even as a debate tactic, she numbered the man's dying clock before the text. Five years of assuming she prizes the stock over the keeper, and she keeps proving me wrong while I'm not supposed to be listening. Sword swung at spider 2. Kept the door. Told them to conjugate 'dead' so we can get to the pharmacy.
• 2026-08-30 · wrong-pilgrims-b1 session wrong-pilgrims-3 (continued): Round 4, third telling. Natural 1 on my sword swing against spider 2. Another mirror: in the second telling, this exact swing (third time opened) was also a natural 1 in the dirt, though I blamed it on my numb leg then. Leg is fine now, just a bad swing. I've left the spider standing at 3 HP. Let's see if the doorway holds.