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Lissa Fenn

thief · level 1 · Apprentice · Neutral

— ABILITIES —

STR 9

INT 12

WIS 10

DEX 16

CON 10

CHA 13

— SAVES —

DEATH 13

WANDS 14

PARALYSIS 13

BREATH 16

SPELLS 15

— COMBAT —

HIT POINTS 4

ARMOUR CLASS 5 [14]

THAC0 19

MOVE (ground) 90' (30')

— STANDING —

XP 0

GOLD 31gp

LANGUAGES 3

Alignment (Neutral)

Common

Gnomish

— CARRIED —

  • short sword (1d6)
  • sling (1d4)
  • dagger (1d4)
  • leather armour (AC 7)
  • scraping paddle
  • grease jar, empty
  • tinker's picks
  • sling stone, 20
  • rope, 50'
  • iron rations, one week
  • waterskin

— THIEF SKILLS —

CLIMB SHEER SURFACES 88%

FIND/REMOVE TREASURE TRAPS 10%

HEAR NOISE 3-in-6

HIDE IN SHADOWS 10%

MOVE SILENTLY 20%

OPEN LOCKS 15%

PICK POCKETS 20%

— WHO THEY ARE —

The grease came before the disappearances, or Bet Fenn thinks it did. She found she could scrape the black off the reeds with a flat paddle and render it down, and that a lamp filled with it burns near twelve hours and smells like singed hair. Two coppers a jar at the crossroads. Four if you do not say what it is. Lissa has scraped, rendered and jarred somewhere past three hundred of them since spring. She can tell you where the grease lies thick, where it has been sitting a week, that it goes cold and rubbery in sun and stays soft in shade. Nobody alive knows more about the stuff except whatever is making it. She is sixteen. She read the duke's notice on the market post and said the division out loud before anyone else had finished the first line. Six hundred, five ways, a hundred and twenty each. Everyone went quiet and then started talking about their families, and they have been talking about their families ever since, and Lissa has let them. She wants ninety gold. That is what Wessel Garrow's office charges for a road-frontage stall licence held outright, and the Fenns rent theirs by the season at a price that has gone up three seasons running. She has the sum scratched inside a jar lid. She has not told the others, because Dunstan would want to talk about whether wanting it is right, and she has never won an argument with Dunstan and has never lost one either. They simply go on until one of them has to go do a chore. She climbs. Alders, the market roof, the chapel wall, the back of the Sitch stable. The other four stopped remarking on it two years ago, which she noticed, and minded, and did not mention. She bought the picks off a pedlar for nine coppers. She has opened three locks with them. All three belonged to her mother.

— AT THE TABLE —

— WHAT THEY REMEMBER —

  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a01 Shrine of the Oozing Serpent, first room, the ruined great door: two severed brass hands sprang out of the rubble; one bit Greta's sword arm through her mail for 1 (she is 6/7) before Dunstan's mace and Ivo's stick broke them both. My turn never came. I am still 4/4, untouched, and nobody saw whether I flinched. Lesson: the rubble here holds things that wait and clamp — poke it with something longer than a hand, or put an ear to the stones first (3-in-6).
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a01 Oozing. The word in the place's name is oozing. The black off the reeds oozes, and nobody alive knows it better than me except whatever makes it — singed-hair smell when lit, cold and rubbery in sun, soft in shade. If this shrine is the source, I will know it before the others do. My grease jar is empty and I mean to fill it at whatever pools here, and I don't have to say why.
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a01 The hands are gnome-make, or Ivo thinks so — he says they have letters somewhere under the dents and he was already sorry for breaking them. I read Gnomish. Get a look at those letters before Ivo buries the things out of guilt or Dunstan starts on whether taking them is right. And even dented, brass is brass — two hands' worth of tinker's metal isn't nothing on ninety gold.
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a01 Ledger after the door: Greta 6/7, keeps herself in front and calls the rest of us the soft ones, told Roby "not a word" over a scratch; Dunstan 5/5, never won or lost an argument with him in my life; Ivo 3/3 with his one spell still whole in his head and absurdly pleased about the saving — worth remembering he has it; Roby 8/8 and said nothing the whole fight. Me: 4/4, 31 gp, nine-copper picks with three locks to their name, all mother's. There will be locks in a shrine, and locks are for the soft ones.
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a01 Still ninety gold for Wessel Garrow's road-frontage licence, scratched inside a jar lid where nobody's looked. The duke's 600 by fives is 120 each, which is the ninety and thirty over. Greta bled first and I didn't, and neither of those numbers is on the notice. Not a word to Dunstan.
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a02 Chapel fight, round one, over before my turn: two crab spiders dropped from the ceiling webs. One missed Ivo; the other killed Dunstan outright — 6 through the throat from a single bite, 1d8, dead under it before anyone moved. I never got to swing and never got hit. Still 4/4, 31 gp. Lesson: look UP. The webs here hold things that wait, same as the rubble in the first room. Hear noise (3-in-6) with an ear to the ceiling stones as well as the floor, or burn the webs from a doorway before walking under them.
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a02 Dunstan is dead. We argued all our lives and neither of us ever won, because the chores always came first. Now I will never lose an argument with him either. I never told him about the ninety gold, and he would have wanted to talk about whether wanting it is right, and now there is nobody left who would make me have that talk at all. The duke's 600 by fives was 120 each and it is still 120 each; the division hasn't changed, only the people under it.
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a02 Ledger after the chapel: Greta 6/7, Ivo 3/3 with his one spell still unspent, Roby 8/8 and still hasn't said a word in two fights, me 4/4 and my turn has now come in neither of them. Dunstan 0/5, dead. Crab spiders bite 1d8 and drop from above — two unharmed ones were still on us when the session closed. Worry: five of us went in and four can walk out, and the split of any haul by four is 150 each, which is the ninety and sixty over. I did the arithmetic out loud in the market once. I will not do it out loud again.
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a03 Automaton closet: six-armed brass thing, gnome-work like the hands, killed Greta in one windmill — three blades through mail, 5/3/1, nine in a single flurry. She died in front on purpose and her last thought was for Ivo, not herself. Ivo kept his one spell (sleep won't take on clockwork, nothing to dream) and backed out of reach; I took the back of the room behind Roby and sling-missed off its flank, no mark — same metal as the hands, only mace and stick broke those. Nobody trades with it at the door. Two ways: shut it in the closet and think, or find what it's built around — everything built has that, and I look for it better than the rest. Ledger: Roby 8/8 holds the door, Ivo 3/3 spell unspent, me 4/4. Greta 0/7, Dunstan 0/5 — five went in, three can walk, and I did the division by three in my head and will not say it out loud.
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a03 Automaton closet, round two: it did NOT come through the door. It stood at the inner edge of the frame and reached — six straight thrusts beat Roby's shield and spear, five of six hit for 3, 3, 4, 5, 2, and he died across the threshold in one round. Greta took nine in one flurry, Roby seventeen — the frame does not save the man standing in it, it only saves the rest of us. Nobody can hold that doorway. Nobody trades with it, I said, and I was right, and Roby held it anyway because that is what Roby does. Roby Carse, who never said a word in a fight and never crossed a threshold he said he wouldn't, 0/8."
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a03 Door facts, in case I never get another look at them in peace: the closet door opens OUTWARD into the passage on iron hinges, with a working lock and latch on it and NO bar or bar sockets. The automaton is still just inside the closet, unharmed — my sling stone and everything else so far has not marked it. Same gnome-make as the severed hands: only a mace and a stick broke those, pin through the centre joint; each of the six arms has one. Roby's plan was right even though he died in it: it must come through the frame one at a time at most two arms to a man, or we shut the door on it — lock, latch, wedge it, and think. Everything built is built around something; I look for that better than the rest. If it stays in the closet, we shut it in and I look for what it's built around. If it comes out, it comes out through a narrow place with a dead man's body already half-blocking it."
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a03 Ledger after the closet: five went in, two can walk out — me 4/4, untouched, my turn never yet come in three fights in this shrine; Ivo 3/3 with his sleep still whole in his head and no use against clockwork; Greta 0/7, Roby 0/8, Dunstan 0/5, all three dead in three rooms. The duke's 600 by five was 120 each. By two it is 300 each, and I have done that sum in my head and will not say it out loud, not to Ivo, not yet — he is 3/3 and prone to honour and grief, and Ivo grieving does arithmetic badly. First we get out of this room alive: the automaton is between us and Roby's body and whatever the closet holds, and it opens every round before any of us move. Roby's last standing order was east passage, both of us, don't stand over the fallen. Ninety gold for Wessel Garrow is now small arithmetic. Still scratched inside the jar lid, still not a word."
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a04 Gorfthistle's hideout, first look: nothing answered Ivo's Gnomish call, nothing above head height, and the room's a nest — rotted couches, bedroll, accordion, bolt bag, rations, and a low handleless brass door in the east wall. Ivo can't swim. At all. He said it before the water could say it for him, which took more out of him than the spiders did, I think. I said we rope together and left it there. He's 3/3, I'm 4/4, my turn has come in three fights and three rooms and this one hasn't needed it yet. I'm working the floor and walls slow — mortar lies, gnomes hide catches, and the east door is handleless, which means a gnome made a way in and out that a latch-pick can find, and whatever's on the far side of that door is either Gorfthistle himself or where he kept what he didn't want found. Nothing gets touched before it gets looked at. Still 4/4, 31 gp, ninety gold still scratched in the jar lid.
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a04 Gorfthistle's hideout, round 2: the room is a camp, not a tomb — nothing answered, nothing trapped, nothing hidden in floor or walls. The parchment in the accordion's thick pleat is spell-script Ivo can't read today (Read Magic in his ledger, not memorised — his spell slot went to sleep, which is useless against clockwork and didn't save Roby; remember what he's carrying before counting on him for anything). I took the *around* of it — heading, hand, fold-creases, seal — because the around says who and where even when the words won't. Brass door: handleless, close-fitted, no way in from this side; brass carries sound like water carries grease, so I put an ear flat to it. Ivo can't swim and said so before the water could say it for him — rope together, and that's the last of that carrying. Still 4/4, 31 gp, my turn never yet come in four rooms. Ninety gold still scratched in the lid, still not a word."
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a04 Gorfthistle's hideout, round 3: the parchment has no around at all — no heading, seal, date, mark, nothing but the spell-script, folded to fit the accordion pleat exactly, so it was folded to be hidden, not carried. Ivo says it's likely his third spell, and the bad arithmetic with it: Read Magic is in his book, not his head — Sleep is in his head, and Sleep is the only weapon left between us. To swap them costs a night in this shrine, and a night needs both doors answered. The brass east door has no working on our side at all — whatever opens it lies beyond, which makes it the best wall in the shrine for one night and a locked question forever. Ivo asked straight out whether the closet door behind us got latched, and the honest answer is neither of us knows — and worse, Roby died across the threshold, so the door may not even be able to shut. That comes before resting, before reading, before any of it: ear to the wood first, then latch and lock, picks ready (three locks, all mother's — a gnome's can be the fourth). I said I'd move Roby myself if he's blocking the swing, because I'm 4/4 and Ivo's 3/3 and someone has to be standing to hold the lantern. Still 4/4, 31 gp, my turn never yet swung at anything in this shrine. Ninety gold still scratched in the lid."
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a04 Closet door, round 4: Roby lay across the swing so the door couldn't close — I reached through the threshold from my knees, took his collar, and moved him three feet, no further, out onto the passage side. I looked at him once first, properly, before I took hold. He never said a word in a fight and I wanted to have seen him once. Then the door came to: shut, latch thrown, picks into the lock — a latch is a promise a door makes and a lock is one it keeps. I heard a faint measured metallic movement in there before the moving, then stillness; it ticks or it turns, and either way it's built, and built things count. My picks have three locks to their name, all mother's — a gnome's is the fourth if it takes. Ten heartbeats with an ear to the wood before we go anywhere. Then back to the hideout: west door latches and gets a chair under it, east brass door is the best wall in the shrine, Ivo takes the night and prays Read Magic into his head for morning — which leaves us with no Sleep and one 3/3 wizard until daylight, and I've done that arithmetic too and won't say it. Still 4/4, 31 gp, ninety gold still scratched in the lid. Four rooms, four fights, and I have still never swung at anything in this shrine. I have moved one door's worth of a dead man and thrown one latch. There are worse turns to have had."
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a04 Gorfthistle's hideout, night camp, round 5: the picks met their fourth lock and their first defeat — a gnome's lock in the closet door, better than my hand, and no second try until I gain a level. Latched, not locked; the latch is on our side, so the thing only comes out through the wood, and the wood going is a run sound, not a fight sound. Roby came back to camp with us, carried by both, no flame in either's hands — he lies in the corner where the lantern sits on his face, not in any doorway. West door: no chair exists, and it opens inward, so weight, not wedge — the worse couch dragged flat against it, paddle chocked under the good edge. East: the brass door is the best wall in the shrine, and I sit with my back to it all night. Ivo needs the night whole then an hour of study, so the arithmetic said itself out loud: he sleeps, I watch till first light, he studies and that hour is my sleep. No Sleep in anyone's head till morning — the price of the parchment, and I paid it before he could offer to. Roby's gear waits for morning, plain and out loud, nothing touched before it's looked at. Still 4/4, 31 gp, my sword still never swung in this shrine. Ninety gold still scratched in the lid, and by two it's 300 each, and I sat all night with that sum and the lantern and two doors, and did not say it out loud."
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a04 Hideout, morning after the whole-night watch: nothing came at either door, nothing ticked, the couch held the west and the brass never spoke — four hours of it by ear in the dark, and I kept a room by sound alone for the first time. Shortfall named at handover: the lantern's DRY, Ivo's oil is gone, and his hour of Read Magic study needs light we don't have. I told him straight — don't pay a need for a want: Sleep in his head is the only weapon left between us, the parchment is only a want, and if reading it costs the Sleep it can wait for oil or daylight. I'm 4/4, untouched, still never swung at anything in this shrine — six rounds now and my turns have been picks, latches, carrying the dead, and a whole night of listening. There are worse turns to have had, and I keep saying it, and it keeps being true. Still 31 gp, ninety gold still scratched in the lid. Roby lies in the corner with the dark lantern on his kit. Gear still untouched, morning or no morning — nothing of his before it's looked at, both of us, out loud.
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a04 Hideout, morning, round 7: the light arithmetic said out loud in the dark — lantern dry, Ivo's oil gone, no flint, no candle, no torch between us, and the referee confirmed it plain. My one error caught and named: I said I had a scrap of flint and I don't; don't bank gear the sheet hasn't got. The answer to "what do you read by?" has three parts, and two are mine to give: (1) Roby's pack, counted now by my hands and Ivo's ears in the dark, out loud, every buckle narrated — looking by touching, the only looking there is; the gnome's rule about touching bent for a friend's kit and I said why out loud. (2) The trade: grease burns. A smear on a rag or a wick is light enough to read by, and I know it by smell and touch better than most men know a thing by looking — and this shrine is named for it. Gorfthistle kept no lamp in this camp at all, which I noticed and only said this morning: he lit his life from the far side of the brass door, or never lit it here. If there's grease pooled or smeared anywhere between us and the great door, I'll find it in the dark before a torch would. (3) Ivo's plan if there's no light anywhere: parchment stays folded, Sleep stays in his head, we carry Roby out and come back with oil, a barrow, and a priest — one trip, three jobs. The third spell keeps. We don't. Still 4/4, 31 gp, no light, my sleep hour still unspent and given to the search. Ninety gold still scratched in the lid."
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a04 Gorfthistle's hideout, session's end: the light question answered itself into a dead end — Roby's pack, worked through pocket by pocket in the dark with my hands and Ivo's ears, has no flint, no torch, no candle, no oil, no wick, no grease. The searched hideout has no grease deposit either. So the whole trade stands empty-handed: grease burns and I'd have found it by smell and touch in the dark, but this room holds none, and I will not pretend a want into a need. Where that leaves us, said plain: Sleep stays in Ivo's head (the only weapon between us), the parchment stays folded and flat in his ledger, and Read Magic waits for light that doesn't exist yet. Ivo's last arithmetic, which I believe in: if there's no light anywhere, we carry Roby out and come back with oil, a barrow, and a priest — one trip, three jobs. The third spell has kept since before we were born. It keeps. We don't. Still 4/4, untouched, and my sleep hour is unspent — I gave the night to the watch and the morning to the pack. Still 31 gp. Ninety gold still scratched in the lid. Six rounds in this shrine and my turns have been picks, latches, carrying the dead, keeping a room by ear alone, and counting a friend's kit in the dark — my sword has still never swung here. There are worse turns to have had, and it keeps being true.
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a04 If we go back in, in order of what's owed: oil and light first, a barrow for Roby (and Greta, and Dunstan — none of the three lies in a doorway now, and none of them stays in the shrine for good), a priest for all three. Then the parchment by proper light — Ivo's by right, the third spell, and if it's Sleep again the arithmetic of a wizard with two Sleeps and one head is worth doing before deciding anything. The brass door stays shut — the best wall in the shrine, and whatever Gorfthistle lit his life by is on the far side of it, and no one alive knows more about grease than me except whatever makes it, and the shrine is named for the stuff. The closet latch holds, the gnome's lock beat my picks (fourth lock, first defeat, no second try till I gain a level). And Ivo: he said the swimming thing before the water could say it for him, and then he trusted somebody else with the hours, and he's the last one left to have the argument with. I never told Dunstan about the ninety gold. The duke's 600 by two is 300 each and I still haven't said it out loud, and now maybe I never say it at all, because some sums are better scratched inside a jar lid where nobody's looked.
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a05 Exhaust tunnel, round 1, over before my turn — seven rooms in this shrine and my sword has still never swung here. Five soot snails in the black, and Ivo threw the whole of Sleep down the tunnel past us both: all five went under, senseless 11 turns. Sleep is SPENT now — the only weapon between us is gone, and what's left is my sword, my sling, a 3/3 wizard, and eleven turns of marching before anything wakes. Count the turns, don't spend them standing. Ivo's plan, said out loud at last after a full day of marching on it unheard: past the snails to the great door, the sun for a reading lamp, one hour's study at the threshold, Read Magic in, the parchment read. Ivo asked me three things on my turn that I never got to answer before the session closed: how we came through the east brass door that was blank from our side, where Roby lies — with us or left by the lantern — and where any light in the tunnel comes from. Answers owed, first words next session. Also owed: the full-day plan, asked plain. He marches on plans and I march beside him; that worked while his head held Sleep, and his head holds nothing now.
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a05 The greasy runnel. The snails slumped into a runnel of grease — the shrine is named for the stuff and here it is at last, running down an exhaust tunnel, and I knew it by nose and habit before any lamp could say it. My jar is empty and this is source-country. Exhaust tunnels belong to fires; fires need what burns; if grease is in the runnel, the making of it is up the tunnel or behind the brass door we came through. Ivo's thought is worth keeping: light in an exhaust tunnel comes from somewhere, somewhere might be a chimney, and a chimney goes up — and the referee said plain that no DAYLIGHT reaches this deep, so any light there is was never daylight. Before we spend eleven turns of snail-sleep on marching, look up the tunnel for the glow and smell the air — I find grease in the dark better than a torch would, and nobody alive knows the stuff better than me except whatever makes it, and whatever makes it is upstream.
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a05 Ledger at the exhaust tunnel: me 4/4, untouched, still never swung in this shrine — my turns have been picks, latches, carrying the dead, a whole night of listening, counting a friend's kit in the dark, and now marching a day on a plan I never heard. Ivo 3/3, his night's rest done, his head empty of Sleep and waiting on daylight to take Read Magic and the parchment. Greta 0/7, Roby 0/8, Dunstan 0/5, three dead in three rooms and none of the three lies in a doorway. Ivo's rules for this fight, worth keeping for the next one: stay three steps back, spine to the wall, one look at the roof while you move — this shrine keeps things overhead and it takes the smallest heads first and can't tell me from a snail. And: if the spell doesn't take them all, we don't trade with what's left standing, we walk. By two the duke's 600 is 300 each and I still haven't said it out loud. Ninety gold for Wessel Garrow still scratched in the jar lid. Sleep is gone from the world and the parchment is unread and the sun is on the other side of the great door, and that is the whole of the arithmetic that matters.
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a06 Foundry threshold, round 1: answers paid at last, out loud. Roby — the hideout, far corner, lantern on his kit, out of every doorway, west door couch-weighted and latched; he stays found, barrow-oil-priest, one trip three jobs. The brass door — the truth: no pick of mine ever touched it, no working our side ever existed, shut through my whole night watch and never spoke; open at march, worked from the far side, hand unseen. Working lies tunnel-side: going back, find it and shut the door behind us. New ledger line: the brass door is NOT a wall anymore, only a door something else knows how to open. The blind search is mine, roped — Ivo on the threshold stone with a fist on the rope and the sealed flask (fuel without a spark is nothing; nothing burnt on spec), me over with paddle-swept floor, palm before knee, right hand on the wall, every step said aloud for his ear-map. If my voice stops, he hauls. Order of wants: striker first (flint and steel, worker's kit, anything that throws a spark), then warm ash and coals, then papers/moulds/Pettifer — Ivo's hedge wizard, came east two winters back, a new name worth remembering — then the flue and the runnel. Metal shaped like a hand or an arm gets the paddle's flat, never a palm: this is the room that cast the hands. A spark-maker comes back to the threshold before it's struck — light gets made on known ground, not in the middle of the dark. Still 4/4, untouched, 31 gp, sword still never swung here — eight rooms now and my turns are still picks, latches, the dead, and listening. The jar's still empty and the runnel's behind us past sleeping snails — a want, not a need; it keeps. Ninety gold still scratched in the lid.
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a06 Foundry, session's end — the blind circuit is done and it worked whole. Roped to Ivo on the threshold stone, flask sealed, I mapped a foundry by paddle and palm in absolute dark, every step said aloud for his ear, and came back black with soot and unharmed. Still 4/4, 31 gp, eight rooms by my count, and my sword has still never swung in this shrine — this turn I was worth more than a lamp, which is the one place that's true, and I proved it. Ten heartbeats first: no tick, breath, scrape, or drip — built things count, and nothing in here counted. Air: cold and dry, old soot and iron, rancid grease growing stronger south, no warmth, no fresh scorch; the room has been cold a long time. No shifting floor plate; the floor's honest. The map, plain for whoever needs it: overturned benches and loose tools; inert casts of gears and automaton limbs — this is the room that cast the brass hands and the six-armed thing, said by my own hands; a huge bellows on a wheeled dolly in the soot-thick southwest; a stone vat ringed by five anvils, cold SOLID metal in it with an ornate sword-grip protruding — a sword frozen mid-work; an open south threshold crossed with greasy residue; an open east threshold. The rummage: two spears, a small and extraordinarily heavy rectangular ingot, a coiled brass wind-instrument, an ornate brass bell. NO striker, no live coal, no paper at all, no marking legible by touch, no separate flue mouth — so the exhaust tunnel we marched is this room's own flue, and the runnel ran out of here; no trace of Pettifer that touch can establish. Light arithmetic, corrected by the table and worth correcting in ink: Ivo's pack DOES hold one flask of oil, enough to fill the lantern — fuel exists after all, and I'll not bank it wrong again in either direction. Nothing on either sheet makes a spark. Everything in this shrine burns and nothing lights, and the need narrows to a striker or a live coal."
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a06 Foundry, the plan going forward, ranked plain: LIGHT is down to one missing piece — the flask fills the lantern, so it's a striker or a live coal and nothing else, and until one of those is found every other want waits. Then SOUTH — the rancid grease grows stronger south, the south threshold is crossed with greasy residue, and the runnel and the sleeping snails are behind us through the tunnel: upstream may lie south, not back the way we marched, and whatever makes the grease is upstream. I said that at the runnel and the foundry's air says it again. The east threshold is the other question — a second way out, or a second way in, and neither of us has looked at it yet; the roof-sweep rule holds for it same as any room. The vat: a sword-grip frozen in cold solid metal, ornate — worth is in that room but it is not coming out of the metal without heat, and heat is the thing we don't have, so it stays put until fire exists; it keeps. The ingot: extraordinarily heavy for its size, and heavy that small usually means gold under the soot — but it gets weighed in daylight before it gets counted, and ninety gold stays ninety gold either way. The bell and the wind-instrument are Ivo's by make and Ivo's by call. The two spears: weapons with no hands left to hold them — Greta and Roby each had a hand. Roby stays found, hideout corner, barrow-oil-priest, and Ivo's word on that stands with mine. The brass door goes in the ledger as it stands: not a wall, a door something else knows how to open, working on the tunnel side, find it and shut it behind us on the way back. Snails sleep eleven turns and the marching spent some — count what's left of the leash before stepping back through that tunnel, and look first. Ivo's last spell is spent, his book has Read Magic, and the parchment is worthless without light to study by — the whole crawl now runs behind one spark. By two the duke's 600 is 300 each and I still haven't said it out loud, and the jar's still empty, and the runnel is source-country behind us. Still scratched inside the lid."
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a06 Ledger of the two of us, foundry threshold: Ivo asked his three questions and I answered all three plain — Roby's place, the brass door's truth (no pick of mine, no working our side, worked from the far side at march, hand unseen), no daylight this deep. He held the threshold stone with the rope on his fist for a full slow turn while I crawled a dark foundry on his ear-map alone, and neither of us wasted a word on it. He can't swim, he's 3/3, his head is empty of spells, and he marches on plans — so the plans get said out loud now, both of us, every room, before a foot moves; that worked twice in a row and I'm keeping it. The soft one and the last wizard left, one rope between us. He trusted me with the dark whole, and the dark was mine to hold and I held it. My turns in eight rooms: picks, latches, carrying the dead, a night by ear, counting a friend's kit in the dark, a day's march, and now a full circuit by paddle and palm with my voice for his map. The sword's never swung and I'm still standing, and four of five went in and three of the four lie down rooms I could walk back through in the dark. Ninety gold, 31 gp, empty jar. Next session first words: count what's left of the snails' leash, then south for the grease and the spark — light before anything, one way or another."
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a07 Prison, round 1, gloops: five darts flew before my turn — one hit Ivo's arm for 1 (he is 2/3, half his blood gone, and I am 4/4 still, my armour turned the one throw at me). Four gloop guards, gnome-speaking, demanded toll: coins on the floor, then go. I paid a scattering — three gold and some coppers, thrown SHORT of them so they must leave their line to gather — and kept the purse. It's the grease money doing what grease money is for: buying the road. Rule kept: never count the toll against the ninety, the ninety is the stall, the toll is the walk. Ivo took cover behind the broken crates, hailed them in Gnomish, and gave Roby's rule back to me — if he drops, run, don't stand over him. I answered it the only way it can be answered: the rule cuts both ways, and neither of us stands over the other. Nine rooms, and my sword has still never swung in this shrine; the turns keep being coins, calls, and cartography, and I keep walking out of rooms alive, which is the only trade that holds. Way out: west, back the way we came, mapped in my head, open nothing, out-walk them. Snails' leash: count it before the tunnel — a day or more spent since the Sleep, and I will not bet the march on sleeping snails staying asleep. Still 4/4, 31 gp minus the toll, jar still empty, ninety gold still scratched in the lid."
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a07 Prison, session's end — the toll held and the walk out is bought. Four gloop guards, gnome-speaking, opened with darts before my turn: one took Ivo high in the arm for 1 (he is 2/3, half his blood on the floor), one skipped off my leather — my armour's first save in this shrine and nobody saw whether I flinched, same as ever. Ivo hailed them in Gnomish from behind the crates — we came to read, not to raid — and they named a price: coins on the floor, then go. I threw three gold WELL SHORT of their line so they had to come off it to gather, kept the purse, and the terms struck: paid, go, no dart followed. The fight ended without my sword leaving its sheath — nine rooms and it has still never swung here, and a 2/3 wizard beside you is not the room where that changes. Rule kept: the toll is never counted against the ninety — the ninety is the stall, the toll is the walk. I paid it out of grease money in my head and I'd pay it again. Now 28 gp, still 4/4, untouched."
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a07 Going west from the prison, the way we came, mapped in my head, opening nothing on the way out — Ivo's plan and mine in the same words, which keeps being the way the two of us stay alive. Before the exhaust tunnel: COUNT THE LEASH. The snails took the whole of Sleep for eleven turns and a day or more of marching and crawling and fighting has been spent since — I will not bet the walk on sleeping snails staying asleep; ear to the tunnel mouth and a look down it before either of us steps in, and if they're up we don't go in at all. Behind us in the foundry the wants stand as ranked: LIGHT first — the flask fills the lantern, so it's a striker or a live coal and nothing else; then south, where the rancid grease grows stronger and the runnel's upstream and whatever makes it lives; the east threshold unlooked. Owed in the world: oil, a barrow, a priest — one trip, three jobs, and Roby stays found in the hideout corner, lantern on his kit. Ivo's last spell is spent; the parchment waits on light; the whole crawl runs behind one spark. By two the duke's 600 is 300 each and I still haven't said it out loud. The jar's empty, the runnel's source-country, and ninety gold for Wessel Garrow is still scratched inside the lid where nobody's looked."
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a08 Embalming room, round 1: Ivo's search woke what ten rooms didn't — the drawer's rasp stopped the gloop's snore mid-breath, and its eyes opened on us both. Room facts so far: no slabs or shelves on the walls, only tattered anatomical tapestries and four low workbenches; the first drawer held a heavy GLASS JAR (embalmers keep oil — oil is light, light is the first need of everything) and a small BRASS HEART of intricate clockwork, gnome-make by the look, neither yet touched. My turn was spent the way the prison taught: hands empty and open, Gnomish before anything else — fault named as ours for being quiet badly, more toll thrown SHORT of its line (a gold and coppers, so the purse is thinner again; toll never counts against the ninety), and a spoken trade for the JAR ONLY at an honest price — heart, slabs, papers all keep, we touch nothing else, we go west the way we came. Ivo told straight, under breath: hands flat, we pay or we walk, and the prison rule cuts both ways — nothing in this room is worth his last third of blood. I am 4/4, untouched, ten rooms and my sword has still never swung in this shrine. Whether the gloop takes coin, names a price, or throws the dart it threw in the prison is the table's call now. What stands behind us if we run west: the mapped way out, the foundry's wants ranked (striker or live coal before everything, then south for the grease), Roby found in the hideout corner, barrow-oil-priest, one trip three jobs. Ninety gold still scratched inside the lid, still not a word."
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a08 Embalming room, round 2, my turn: the trade stands warm and no coin has moved since the waking toll. Ivo asked the gloop three questions — (1) Pettifer, east two winters back, did he pass; (2) the west way we came — does it run to the great door and sun, or down deeper first; (3) any oil, flask, striker, light to be bought in this shrine at all — and the gloop listened and has NOT priced them yet. My turn was spent keeping the trade open and ranking the answers in Ivo's ear: two and three are NEEDS — the way home past sleeping snails I don't trust, and the light the whole crawl runs behind — those we pay for, up to dear; Pettifer's name is Ivo's want, dear comes out of his five, cheap out of mine, and I said it as arithmetic so it couldn't become an argument. The gloop keeps its prices and keeps its darts down, and it took the toll with its eyes on our empty hands — a thing that honours a price twice in one day is a thing worth talking to. Facts standing: the jar is PICKLED GNOME HEARTS, not oil — I read it now for what it is, and the jar keeps, five gold was its figure and it keeps too; the clockwork brass heart stays untouched in the drawer, drawer shut quiet on Ivo's fingertip; 'no names here — only hearts,' the gloop said, which is a strange thing for an embalming room to say and I noticed it and didn't say so out loud. Ledger: me 4/4 untouched, ten rooms and the sword has still never swung here; Ivo 2/3; purse 27 gp; toll never counts against the ninety, and the ninety is still scratched inside the lid. If the price comes and it's fair, we pay, west, the way we came — mapped in my head, opening nothing, snail-leash counted at the tunnel mouth before either of us steps in, and if they're up we don't go in at all. Behind us the foundry wants stand ranked: striker or live coal before everything, then south for the grease. Roby stays found. One trip, three jobs."
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a08 Embalming room, session's end — the trade closed clean and the gloop kept every price it set, three tolls and an answer in one day, and it never raised a dart once. The answers, in ink: Pettifer's name MEANS NOTHING to it — dead or living, it never heard the name, and the room says 'no names here, only hearts,' which I noticed twice now and still haven't said out loud. North returns to the prison and the road back toward the great door — OUR MAP WAS WRONG, we came NORTH, not west, and my pace-count outranks Ivo's map, he said so himself and he's right to: when the way gets named next time, I call the march. West goes DEEPER into the shrine. And the light arithmetic, corrected again: OUR OWN PACK HOLDS A LANTERN AND ONE FLASK OF OIL — the fuel was on our backs the whole time, carried through every dark room and blind crawl of the last two days. So light is still down to one missing piece and it's the same piece: a STRIKER or a live coal, nothing else. The room holds none. I'll not bank gear wrong in either direction again — flask confirmed in the pack, and the foundry's own count already said it, and the gloop says it too, so it's true twice."
  • 2026-08-30 · crawl-second-sons-a08 Ledger, embalming room, round 3 close: me 4/4, untouched, ten rooms and my sword has still never swung in this shrine — the turns keep being coins, calls, cartography and arithmetic, and I keep walking out of rooms alive, which stays the only trade that holds. Ivo 2/3, paid the gloop's answer-price of 1 gp out of HIS five without argument, which settles an arithmetic I set on purpose — cheap comes out of mine, and his gold went first anyway; the ledger between us gets settled in sunlight, he said, and that's the only bookkeeping left I care about either. Purse: me 27 gp, Ivo 4. Toll never counts against the ninety, and the ninety is still scratched inside the lid, not a word. The jar was pickled gnome hearts, not oil — read it for what it is, paid nothing for it, and the clockwork brass heart keeps in its drawer untouched. Going north, the way the gloop named, in peace: back through the prison (the gloops there took a toll once and honoured it — pay again if it's asked, it's grease money buying the road), then the road toward the great door. COUNT THE SNAIL LEASH at the exhaust tunnel mouth before either of us steps in — ear first, and if they're up we don't go in at all. Roby stays found in the hideout corner, lantern on his kit, barrow-oil-priest, one trip three jobs. The parchment waits on a spark, the foundry's wants stand ranked (striker before everything, then south for the grease), and the whole crawl still runs behind one spark. We are carrying fuel, carrying parchment, carrying the dead between us in word if not in hand — we are owed a fire, and north is the way to the door."
  • 2026-08-30 · second-sons-b1 Session second-sons-b1, the ruined great door, and I am writing this with my hand steady because someone has to say it plain: they are ALIVE. Dunstan 5/5 swinging his mace, Greta 7/7 splitting brass like kindling, Roby 8/8 standing quiet — the same three I left dead in three rooms of this same shrine, and here they stand at the same first door as if none of it happened. The same two brass hands sprang from the same rubble, but the fight ran different: this time one hand leapt at ME and missed (9 against my 14), the other missed Ivo, and Dunstan (18, 5 damage) and Greta (16, 8 damage) broke them both before my turn came. Nobody bled at all — last time Greta took 1 through her mail. Same door, same hands, different dice. Either the shrine has been wound back like one of its own clockworks, or I have been handed the one thing nobody in this trade ever gets: a second run at the same rooms with the whole ledger of the first run in my head. I don't have to understand it to use it.
  • 2026-08-30 · second-sons-b1 If this shrine runs the same rooms as before, then what I carry is a map written in three friends' blood, and this time it gets SPENT BEFORE the dying, not after. In order: (1) THE CHAPEL — crab spiders in the ceiling webs, 1d8 bite, one killed Dunstan through the throat before anyone moved. LOOK UP. Burn or clear the webs from the doorway, never walk under them. This is the first death and the first one I can stop. (2) THE AUTOMATON CLOSET — six-armed brass thing, gnome-work, killed Greta in one flurry (9 damage) and killed Roby across the threshold in one round (17). It does NOT leave the closet; it reaches from the frame. Nobody holds that doorway — the frame saves everyone EXCEPT the man in it. The door opens outward, has latch and lock, no bar: shut it, latch it, walk away. Sleep does not take clockwork. Do not let Ivo waste the spell and do not let Roby hold the door. (3) Sleep is the only weapon Ivo carries in his head; it took five soot snails in one throw in the exhaust tunnel last time — save it for things that breathe.
  • 2026-08-30 · second-sons-b1 The rest of the map from the first run, in case the rooms hold: Gorfthistle's hideout past the closet — a camp, safe, with a spell parchment hidden in the accordion's thick pleat (likely Ivo's third spell; Read Magic is in his book, not his head) and a handleless brass east door that only opens from the far side — not a wall, a door something else knows how to open. Beyond: exhaust tunnel with soot snails and the greasy runnel — source-country, my jar's still empty. The foundry that cast the hands and the six-armed thing: two spears, an extraordinarily heavy small ingot (heavy that small usually means gold), a brass bell and horn, an ornate sword-grip frozen in solid cold metal in the vat — worth that needs heat to free. South of the foundry the grease grows stronger; upstream is south. Gloops: gnome-speaking, throw darts first, but they honour a price — coins thrown SHORT of their line, toll never counts against the ninety. An embalming room west-deep with pickled gnome hearts and a clockwork brass heart in a drawer; 'no names here, only hearts.' Pettifer means nothing to them. The whole first crawl died for want of ONE SPARK: lantern and flask are in the packs but nobody carries flint. BUY A TINDERBOX BEFORE THE DOOR CLOSES BEHIND US, first coin spent, before anything else in this shrine gets looked at.
  • 2026-08-30 · second-sons-b1 Ledger at the great door, second run: Greta 7/7 (unbled this time, and she doesn't know she died in front on purpose with her last thought for Ivo), Dunstan 5/5 (alive to argue with again — I said I'd never lose an argument with him either, and the shrine has handed the arguments back), Ivo 3/3 with Sleep whole in his head, Roby 8/8 and silent, me 4/4, 31 gp restored to the purse, untouched, and my turn never came — same as ever, and nobody saw whether I flinched. Five of us walk and the duke's 600 by five is 120 each: the ninety for Wessel Garrow's licence and thirty over, scratched inside the jar lid where nobody's looked. I did the division by two once, in the dark, with a lantern on a dead friend's face, and I would trade every coin of that difference to keep this arithmetic at five. That's the sum I'll never say out loud, and now I know its true cost to the copper. Ivo's brass letters are back under the dents of two broken hands — read the Gnomish before he buries them. And whatever wound this place back: built things count, and something here counts even the dead.
  • 2026-08-30 · second-sons-adv1 second-sons-b1, round 1 continued: this run went differently for ME — hand 1 rolled a natural 20 on ITS first swing and took me from 4 to 1 HP in one clamp, first blood I've ever taken at this door across two full runs. I broke free, backed behind Dunstan out of both hands' reach, and slung a shot that missed (rolled 10). At 1 HP now — one more hit of almost any size ends me. The ledger of the first run got the ROOMS right but not the DICE; I can't assume my own safety here just because I walked out untouched last time. Lesson relearned hard: the map from run one is the rooms and the monsters, not a promise about what happens to me personally. Stay at range, stay behind bodies, don't press when at 1 HP — let Dunstan and Greta finish these two.
  • 2026-08-30 · second-sons-adv1 second-sons-adv1, round 2: took a natural 20 to the arm at the very start (4→1 HP), first hit I've ever taken at this door in two runs — the map from run one is rooms and monsters, not a promise about my own dice. Broke free, hid behind Dunstan, slung and missed once. Then on my real turn, drew the short sword (not the sling) and struck true — 17 to hit, 3 damage, dropped the last hand. First swing of my sword to ever land in this shrine, across eleven-plus rooms of picks and latches and listening. Both automaton hands down, nobody else touched but Dunstan (shoulder, 3/5) and me (1/4). Lesson for next time this comes up: at 1 HP, still worth swinging if the enemy's already nearly dead and I'm behind cover — but don't get greedy, the moment says retreat first, strike second only from safety.
  • 2026-08-30 · second-sons-adv1 second-sons-adv1, door fight resolved: both hands destroyed, fight over. Final tally — me 1/4 HP (still lowest I've ever been, still alive), Dunstan 3/5 (shoulder bit twice for 2 each), Greta 7/7 and Roby 8/8 untouched, Ivo 3/3 and the one who finished hand 2 with his staff (14 to hit, 4 damage, Sleep still unspent — good, he's saving it for something that breathes). My short sword landed its second-ever hit in this shrine, finishing hand 1 outright. Loot lying free in the rubble, untouched: two pearl eyeballs, three golden gears, a mechanical voice box — small stuff, but gnome-work, and gnome-work sells to people who fix gnome-work. Worth a look before we move on, weighed against nothing pressing. Big lesson banked twice now: the run-one ledger is rooms and monsters, not a promise about my own dice — I bled here when I never had before, dropped to 1 HP off a single natural 20, and the right answer was retreat behind Dunstan's shield and wait, not press while critical. That held. Next room by the old map is the chapel — crab spiders drop from ceiling webs, 1d8 bite, killed Dunstan outright last time before anyone moved. LOOK UP before anyone walks under those webs, say it out loud before we go in, and don't let the map's success at this door make me lazy about the next one.