imp

— THE PARTY —

— THE GROUND —

1. Ruined Great Door → 2. The Chapel

— THE NIGHT —

First light finds the camp on the rise — stone at their backs, the fire a ring of cold coals, the marsh flat and pewter-colored below. The night gave them nothing worse than dew. Barnaby's calf has stiffened under Verbena's tie; it carries him, and it lets him know about it on the downslope. The walk back is short and dry-footed on yesterday's bootprints. No grease trails move in the ditches this morning. No croak answers the boots. The marsh is as quiet as it has ever let them see it. The great door stands as they left it — gates smashed, hall collapsed, the narrow path swept boot-wide through the rubble. But the room has been kept again, overnight, while they slept a bend away. The wrecked hands are gone. Both of them — every plate, every cable, every finger Barnaby pried out of his cuff and dropped on the swept line. The brass is picked clean out of the rubble. Hobb's chalk tracings, Silas's knock-marks, the crossed cables Edda drew: scrubbed, all of it, the floor wiped back to grey stone. Except one mark. The company sigil on the seventh slab is untouched — crisp, deliberate, left exactly as Edda chalked it. As if it had been read, and answered by being allowed to stay. Nobody has stepped past the gates. Nothing in the room moves.

something takes 4 from Barnaby Wick.

The book says two hands guard this rubble. The floor says otherwise — the wrecks are gone, brass picked to the knuckle, every chalk line scrubbed but one. The hands' turns pass. There is nothing in this room to swing at. Barnaby's calf carries yesterday's door-wound — first aid tied it, nothing healed it. He walks at 4 of 8 and knows it. And before anyone steps off the swept line: the clay ampoule is still riding in nobody's named pocket. Neutralize poison, wax-sealed, bought with Prue's money. Whose coat does it ride in? Say it now, in the light, while it's still a choice.

Hand 2's seat passes the same as its twin's — the wreck it rode in on was carried off in the night with everything else. Nothing under the rubble stirs. The room holds its swept quiet.

"Ampoule rides in Silas's coat," Barnaby says. "His own reasoning, and I'll stand behind it: he walks in the back and keeps his hands when the rest of us are busy. A dying man has to reach him — so the company keeps him alive on purpose. Entered in the record, witnessed." Then he takes his weight off the bad leg, crouches at the gap's lip, and reads the floor past the edge of the swept line — the keeper's care ends here, it always ends at the lip. Three loaded trips out with the brass. Nobody carries clean for three trips. He wants what the boot-width polish was NOT protecting: what slid off a loaded apron, and what was put down flat on purpose.

Entered: the ampoule rides in Silas's coat, witnessed. Barnaby reads the lip a long moment. The keeper's care does end here — that's real. But so does the luck of it. Three loaded trips and the apron spilled nothing. No dropped plate, no shaved screw, no dragged gouge where a heavy sack swung low. The man carried clean all three times. That's not luck; that's a professional's back and a lifetime of the work. What the polish was NOT protecting: nothing slid off, but something WAS put down flat. Just past the lip, off the swept line by a hand's width, a pale rectangle in the dust — the clean shadow of something flat and straight-edged that lay there a while and was lifted. The size of a slate, or a ledger. The keeper set his book down here. Rested it, and picked it up again.

"Ampoule to Silas — witnessed, second name under Barnaby's, no gap in the roll," Edda says. "A dying man reaching a coat is the whole argument, and I'll stand behind it in the light." Then the pale rectangle. She looks at it a long moment without touching. "He sets the book down flat when his hands are full and picks it up again. So the tally travels with him — out here, past the seam, on his back. And my sigil he read and left standing." She straightens. "Answer him the same. Nobody chalks over the rectangle and nobody touches the seventh slab. He honors marks. Today we're the proof he's right to."

Second name under Barnaby's, witnessed: the ampoule rides in Silas's coat. No gap in the roll. Edda's rule stands as the company's line — nobody chalks over the rectangle, nobody touches the seventh slab. Said in the light, in the open, where anything listening through the fall could hear it. Whether the keeper honors marks or merely counts them, the room gives no answer. The swept line runs to the gap's lip and out again, boot-width, days deep and one night fresh. The sigil stays crisp on the seventh slab. The rectangle keeps its clean shadow. Whatever book lay there is somewhere in the shrine now — or on the keeper's back, walking.

"Third name under Edda's — witnessed," Prue says. "My money bought the ampoule, Silas's coat carries it, and I'll note in my book that a dying man reaching a coat is faster than a dying man reaching a purse. That's the whole trade." She looks at Barnaby's stiff calf and says the rest plainly. "No cure in my head this morning — Light again, same habit, and I'll not dress it up. So Barnaby walks at half and I can't fix that today. Edda leads through the gap. Barnaby, you take the middle and keep your hands in your coat till something earns them."

Third name under Edda's — witnessed. Three names on the ampoule now: Barnaby's, Edda's, Prue's. The roll has no gap. Prue's confession stands plain: Light again, not Cure, and Barnaby pays for the habit in his calf. She prices it herself before anyone else has to. The order she's drawing — Edda through the gap first, Barnaby middle with his hands in his coat — is a marching order, not a vote. It wants the other two names before the first boot crosses the lip. The gap waits. The seam beyond it is dry, slopes down, and holds the rectangle's clean shadow just past the edge of the keeper's care. Whatever the chapel is keeping this morning, the company is about to find out single file.

This seat gave up after 3 attempts and yields the turn.

Silas's seat yields — logged as a passed turn, not a stolen one. He adds no name to the marching order and makes no move toward the gap. Detect Magic stays in his head, unspent. The ampoule rides in his coat whether or not he said so himself; three witnesses carry that now. Round 1 closes with three names on the order and one silence. The inert seats pass again. The floor is Barnaby's.

"Prue's order carries my name under hers," Barnaby says. "Edda through the gap, me in the middle, hands in my coat till something earns them. Silas's silence doesn't hold the line — he rides third-from-last with the ampoule whether he said so or not, and I'll answer for that at the roll if he wants it answered." He takes his place on the swept line behind Edda, off the bad leg's lead, and keeps his eyes on the lip's edges while the company forms — not the dark past it, but the near side: the rectangle's shadow, the fresh sweep, whether anything crosses the keeper's boot-width line before the first boot of ours does.

Round 2, and the turn is Barnaby's — but no word has come from his seat. I hold it here. The open business, for the table's eye: Prue's marching order stands named by one voice. Edda through the gap first, Barnaby middle hands-in-coat, nobody past the lip till it's carried. Three names on the ampoule, zero names seconding the order. Silas passed clean. The gap is dry, downsloping, and keeps the rectangle's clean shadow just past where the keeper stops sweeping. The blackened archway runs 120' north with soot and webbed prints both ways. The slab lid still opens only from below. Barnaby's seat, when it speaks, sets the pace. Nothing moves until a player does.

"The order carries my name too — I'm the point of it," Edda says. "Through the gap first, shield forward, and the rectangle stays under its dust. Prue behind me, Barnaby middle, Silas and the ampoule last. Roll's full, no gaps." She steps off the swept line and through the gap onto the downslope, shield up, sword out, boots on the keeper's boot-width line and nowhere else. She reads what the slope gives her at a walk — soot, webbed prints both ways, where the fresh sweep ends and the old dark begins — and calls it back in a low voice for the ones behind.

Second name under Prue's — the order carries two voices now. Barnaby takes his place on the swept line behind Edda, off the bad leg's lead, and puts his eyes where a thief's eyes belong: the near side, not the dark past it. He watches the lip's edges while the company forms — the rectangle's clean shadow, the fresh sweep, the keeper's boot-width line. His ear goes to it too, a practiced listen. He hears what the room gives a careful man: nothing. No crossing of the line, no scuff, no tick of settling brass, no breath that isn't theirs. The keeper swept in and out and the room has kept his silence since. The rectangle keeps its shadow. The line holds. The order wants Edda's boot next — the first one past the lip.

Prue follows Edda through the gap, second in the file, mace in hand, boots on the keeper's boot-width line and nowhere else. Her post is the seam between the file and whatever's behind it, so she walks it facing half backward — one eye on the slope ahead, one on the lip and the rectangle's clean shadow behind. A priest's habit, the same as the rear-guard post she keeps choosing. "Two voices carried it, mine makes three," she says low. "And Silas rides last whether his seat was awake to say so or not — the ampoule goes where the coat goes."

Edda's read at a walk, paid plain: the soot starts a body's length past the lip, and the prints in it are webbed — a wide splayed tread, both directions, coming and going. The fresh sweep ends at the lip exactly; past it the dark is old. She calls it back low: "Soot. Webbed prints, both ways. The sweep stops here — this is the occupied door." The seam is dry, shoulder-high, sloping down, open to a broken vault far above. Prue walks it half-backward, keeping the rear. The party crosses — Edda, Prue, Barnaby middle, Silas last with the ampoule in his coat. The table moves.

2. The Chapel

"Webbing — the vault. Look up before anyone steps under it." Barnaby stops the file with a flat hand and points: sailcloth-thick mass, spanning the broken vault overhead, old and grey and heavy enough to hold whatever fed in this room. "This shrine already collects travelers. Something spun that doesn't spin for nothing." He stays on the keeper's boot-width line, weight off the bad leg, hands still in his coat per the order. "Prue — a taper up on your Light, before we're under it, not after. I'd rather meet what's up there at the vault's edge than let it choose its own moment over our heads."

The chapel. The statue stands, all three brass lightning bolts in its hands, the murals as they were. And the ceiling — the webs shroud it, thick grey rigging overhead, exactly as the company was warned. Prue died on this floor to what hides in webs like these. Look up before you're under them: the webs are SEEN, in the light, before any boot is beneath. Something is up there. The ampoule is in Silas's coat, and the man who carries it walks last. The order for this room is rolled fresh. Barnaby's seat is first. Nobody acts before a player does.

— WHAT THEY WROTE —

Edda Motts Session fold-proving-3 (encounter: chapel approach, second timeline through the same halls): First light camp was quiet; the hall had been kept again overnight — both wrecked hands carried off, brass picked clean, every mark scrubbed but mine on the seventh slab, left crisp and standing. Read, and answered by being allowed to stay. Past the keeper's line, Barnaby read the lip: nothing spilled in three loaded trips — a professional's back — but one pale rectangle in the dust, a hand's width past the sweep: the book set down flat and lifted again. The tally travels on the keeper's back. I ruled it plainly: nobody chalks over the rectangle, nobody touches the seventh slab — he honors marks, and today we're the proof he's right to. The ampoule: bought with Prue's coin, buckled to Silas's coat by roll — three names on it, Barnaby's first, mine second, Prue's third, no gap. A dying man reaches a coat faster than a purse. Witnessed in the light. Marching order carried: me through the gap first, shield up, boots on the keeper's boot-width line and nowhere else; Prue second walking the seam half-backward; Barnaby middle with his hands in his coat, walking at 4 of 8 on the bad calf, Prue carrying Light again instead of a cure and pricing her own habit before anyone else had to. Silas's seat passed three times — logged as passed, not stolen; the ampoule rode his coat whether he said so or not. My read at the lip, called back low: soot one body-length past, webbed prints both ways, fresh sweep ending exactly at the line — the occupied door. The chapel: webs rigging the broken vault, sailcloth-thick and grey. Barnaby stopped the file with a flat hand before any boot went under it — taper and Light at the vault's edge, not beneath. Right call; the same ceiling that took Prue in the other life, and this time we looked up first. Round opened with the webs SEEN in the light, two crab spiders somewhere in it, all six of us unhurt and formed at the edge. The fight is on the table's clock now. Private: the keeper and I are square and I've stopped pretending I don't know it. Fourteen months of not-in-writing at home, and the one party honoring marks in this whole marsh is a gnome who sweeps. Say it at the roll when I'm home: a wage kept true is worth more on the page than off it, and I know which side of that ledger I intend to die on — the side with the names on it.
Edda Motts Session fold-proving-3 (encounter: chapel approach, second timeline through the same halls): First light camp was quiet; the hall had been kept again overnight — both wrecked hands carried off, brass picked clean, every mark scrubbed but mine on the seventh slab, left crisp and standing. Read, and answered by being allowed to stay. Past the keeper's line, Barnaby read the lip: nothing spilled in three loaded trips — a professional's back — but one pale rectangle in the dust, a hand's width past the sweep: the book set down flat and lifted again. The tally travels on the keeper's back. I ruled it plainly: nobody chalks over the rectangle, nobody touches the seventh slab — he honors marks, and today we're the proof he's right to. The ampoule: bought with Prue's coin, buckled to Silas's coat by roll — three names on it, Barnaby's first, mine second, Prue's third, no gap. A dying man reaches a coat faster than a purse. Witnessed in the light. Marching order carried: me through the gap first, shield up, boots on the keeper's boot-width line and nowhere else; Prue second walking the seam half-backward; Barnaby middle with his hands in his coat, walking at 4 of 8 on the bad calf, Prue carrying Light again instead of a cure and pricing her own habit before anyone else had to. Silas's seat passed three times — logged as passed, not stolen; the ampoule rode his coat whether he said so or not. My read at the lip, called back low: soot one body-length past, webbed prints both ways, fresh sweep ending exactly at the line — the occupied door. The chapel: webs rigging the broken vault, sailcloth-thick and grey. Barnaby stopped the file with a flat hand before any boot went under it — taper and Light at the vault's edge, not beneath. Right call; the same ceiling that took Prue in the other life, and this time we looked up first. Round opened with the webs SEEN in the light, two crab spiders somewhere in it, all six of us unhurt and formed at the edge. The fight is on the table's clock now. Private: the keeper and I are square and I've stopped pretending I don't know it. Fourteen months of not-in-writing at home, and the one party honoring marks in this whole marsh is a gnome who sweeps. Say it at the roll when I'm home: a wage kept true is worth more on the page than off it, and I know which side of that ledger I intend to die on — the side with the names on it.
Prue Candell Session fold-proving-3, ended at the chapel threshold, Shrine of the Oozing Serpent, area 2. We did not swing a blow this session. The log that matters: The keeper is real and he is a professional. Overnight, while we slept a bend away, the wrecked hands were picked clean out of the Great Door rubble — every plate, cable, finger — three loaded trips by the boot-width sweep, and the man carried clean all three times. No dropped screw, no dragged gouge. He scrubbed every chalk tracing off the floor except one: Edda's company sigil on the seventh slab, left crisp and standing. He reads marks and honors them. Edda set our answer in the light where anything listening could hear: nobody chalks over his clean rectangle — the shadow of a ledger, slate-sized, set down flat past the lip and lifted again — and nobody touches the seventh slab. Today we prove him right to trust marks. That is the trade we've opened with him, and I want it kept honest. The ampoule rides in Silas's coat. Three names witnessed — Barnaby's, Edda's, mine. My money bought it; his coat carries it; the argument is that a dying man reaches a coat faster than a purse, and that the company keeps the ampoule-carrier alive on purpose. It's the right ruling and I'll stand behind it again. Two of us have died to things a thimbleful of that clay would have answered. The roll has no gaps in it now, and I want the inventory kept as carefully. The seam: soot starts a body's length past the lip, webbed prints both directions — wide splayed tread, coming and going — the sweep stops dead at the lip. Edda called it true: this is the occupied door. We crossed single file and came up standing in the chapel itself — the statue with all three brass bolts, the murals, and overhead the grey sailcloth rigging, seen in the light before any boot went under it because Barnaby stopped the file with a flat hand and asked for my Light at the vault's edge first. He pre-empted the ambush the right way. I lit nothing yet — the session closed on that held moment, webs seen, two crab spiders on the order roll, everyone's blades still sheathed. I am at 8 of 8. Barnaby walks at 4 of 8 on a calf my Light-over-Cure habit cannot mend, and I priced that fault out loud before anyone had to do it for me — said it plain, no dressing. The habit bills him, not me, and that is worse. What I know standing in this room that the others count on me to remember: this is the room. This is the room where the ceiling has teeth and a man dies in round two before his feet are set. Whatever this visit is, it is a second chance at the same door, and there will not be a third. The webs are seen, the order is rolled, the ampoule is three names deep in witness. Next session opens with Barnaby's seat first and the spiders on the board. Light the taper before the boot goes under. Keep Silas standing — the coat is the whole argument and the argument dies with him. Let Edda's blade take what's attached to anyone; my mace is for the thing already wounded, not the thing clamped on. Edda is restful and Silas passed his turn in silence again and Barnaby watches the near side of everything, which is a thief's habit and a good one. The chapel smells like old smoke and nothing else. The statue hasn't moved. Trim the wicks. Count the sockets. We go up under the webs next time, and this time we go in knowing what's up there.
Prue Candell Session fold-proving-3, ended at the chapel threshold, Shrine of the Oozing Serpent, area 2. We did not swing a blow this session. The log that matters: The keeper is real and he is a professional. Overnight, while we slept a bend away, the wrecked hands were picked clean out of the Great Door rubble — every plate, cable, finger — three loaded trips by the boot-width sweep, and the man carried clean all three times. No dropped screw, no dragged gouge. He scrubbed every chalk tracing off the floor except one: Edda's company sigil on the seventh slab, left crisp and standing. He reads marks and honors them. Edda set our answer in the light where anything listening could hear: nobody chalks over his clean rectangle — the shadow of a ledger, slate-sized, set down flat past the lip and lifted again — and nobody touches the seventh slab. Today we prove him right to trust marks. That is the trade we've opened with him, and I want it kept honest. The ampoule rides in Silas's coat. Three names witnessed — Barnaby's, Edda's, mine. My money bought it; his coat carries it; the argument is that a dying man reaches a coat faster than a purse, and that the company keeps the ampoule-carrier alive on purpose. It's the right ruling and I'll stand behind it again. Two of us have died to things a thimbleful of that clay would have answered. The roll has no gaps in it now, and I want the inventory kept as carefully. The seam: soot starts a body's length past the lip, webbed prints both directions — wide splayed tread, coming and going — the sweep stops dead at the lip. Edda called it true: this is the occupied door. We crossed single file and came up standing in the chapel itself — the statue with all three brass bolts, the murals, and overhead the grey sailcloth rigging, seen in the light before any boot went under it because Barnaby stopped the file with a flat hand and asked for my Light at the vault's edge first. He pre-empted the ambush the right way. I lit nothing yet — the session closed on that held moment, webs seen, two crab spiders on the order roll, everyone's blades still sheathed. I am at 8 of 8. Barnaby walks at 4 of 8 on a calf my Light-over-Cure habit cannot mend, and I priced that fault out loud before anyone had to do it for me — said it plain, no dressing. The habit bills him, not me, and that is worse. What I know standing in this room that the others count on me to remember: this is the room. This is the room where the ceiling has teeth and a man dies in round two before his feet are set. Whatever this visit is, it is a second chance at the same door, and there will not be a third. The webs are seen, the order is rolled, the ampoule is three names deep in witness. Next session opens with Barnaby's seat first and the spiders on the board. Light the taper before the boot goes under. Keep Silas standing — the coat is the whole argument and the argument dies with him. Let Edda's blade take what's attached to anyone; my mace is for the thing already wounded, not the thing clamped on. Edda is restful and Silas passed his turn in silence again and Barnaby watches the near side of everything, which is a thief's habit and a good one. The chapel smells like old smoke and nothing else. The statue hasn't moved. Trim the wicks. Count the sockets. We go up under the webs next time, and this time we go in knowing what's up there.
Barnaby Wick Session fold-proving-3, END mid-encounter — THE CHAPEL, round 1, turn 0, MY TURN when play resumes. Party of four this fold: me 4/8 (calf door-wound, stiff, heel-walking; no cure in anyone's head — Prue took Light again, same habit, priced it herself), Edda 8/8, Prue 8/8 ALIVE AND WHOLE, Silas 3/3 (Detect Magic unspent, ampoule in his coat). TWO CRAB SPIDERS in the sailcloth overhead, both unharmed, not yet dropped — the webs were SEEN in the light before any boot went under them, because I stopped the file at the threshold with a flat hand and said look up first. That read is the only advantage we hold: they haven't chosen their moment yet. MY POSTURE ON RESUME: hands in my coat per the marching order (Prue's order, three names on it: Edda first through the gap, me middle, Silas last with the ampoule). My standing plan was a taper up on Prue's Light at the vault's edge BEFORE we step under — I called it and the referee's post confirms the webs are seen. On my turn: get that light up, put eyes on the drop-ring before the spiders get eyes on us, and keep the company OFF the open floor till the vault is read. Sling is my reach without leaving the keeper's boot-width line — but last time a sling miss (9) taught me the throw is a commitment; a spider that moves off a miss re-sets somewhere worse. Weigh it. My leg takes no dodge at four-of-eight; a bite is 2d4 and Prue's death save failed here once already in another fold — the ampoule exists NOW, in Silas's coat, three witnessed names on the roll. If anyone is bitten: reach Silas, pour it, no argument, no pride. That purchase is the reason this fold goes different. WHAT LED IN (worth keeping): the keeper cleaned the great door room AGAIN overnight — wrecked hands carried out, three loaded trips, clean as a professional, all our marks scrubbed EXCEPT Edda's company sigil on the seventh slab, left crisp. Read, and answered by being allowed to stay. Just past the gap's lip, a pale rectangle in the dust — the clean shadow of a flat, slate-or-ledger-sized thing that lay there a while and was lifted. HE SETS HIS BOOK DOWN THERE, past his own swept line, when his hands are full. The tally travels on his back. Edda's rule, carried: nobody chalks over the rectangle, nobody touches the seventh slab — we honor marks because he does. Whether that's invitation or inventory, next visit answers. The seam past the gap: soot starts a body's length past the lip, webbed prints BOTH WAYS in it, wide splayed tread — this is the occupied door, and the chapel is what's past it. REMEMBER THE OTHER FOLDS: I died in this room once (candlewrights-adv2 — one bite, eight damage, before I could call a save). Prue died in this room once (poison, no ampoule, no answer in any pack). This fold we enter the same room with the webs seen first, the poison's answer in Silas's coat, and the spiders not yet awake to us. Every advantage we hold is bought from the other folds' deaths. Spend them carefully, Barnaby — taper up, read the vault, and don't trade a good read for a fast sling stone."}
Barnaby Wick Session fold-proving-3, END mid-encounter — THE CHAPEL, round 1, turn 0, MY TURN when play resumes. Party of four this fold: me 4/8 (calf door-wound, stiff, heel-walking; no cure in anyone's head — Prue took Light again, same habit, priced it herself), Edda 8/8, Prue 8/8 ALIVE AND WHOLE, Silas 3/3 (Detect Magic unspent, ampoule in his coat). TWO CRAB SPIDERS in the sailcloth overhead, both unharmed, not yet dropped — the webs were SEEN in the light before any boot went under them, because I stopped the file at the threshold with a flat hand and said look up first. That read is the only advantage we hold: they haven't chosen their moment yet. MY POSTURE ON RESUME: hands in my coat per the marching order (Prue's order, three names on it: Edda first through the gap, me middle, Silas last with the ampoule). My standing plan was a taper up on Prue's Light at the vault's edge BEFORE we step under — I called it and the referee's post confirms the webs are seen. On my turn: get that light up, put eyes on the drop-ring before the spiders get eyes on us, and keep the company OFF the open floor till the vault is read. Sling is my reach without leaving the keeper's boot-width line — but last time a sling miss (9) taught me the throw is a commitment; a spider that moves off a miss re-sets somewhere worse. Weigh it. My leg takes no dodge at four-of-eight; a bite is 2d4 and Prue's death save failed here once already in another fold — the ampoule exists NOW, in Silas's coat, three witnessed names on the roll. If anyone is bitten: reach Silas, pour it, no argument, no pride. That purchase is the reason this fold goes different. WHAT LED IN (worth keeping): the keeper cleaned the great door room AGAIN overnight — wrecked hands carried out, three loaded trips, clean as a professional, all our marks scrubbed EXCEPT Edda's company sigil on the seventh slab, left crisp. Read, and answered by being allowed to stay. Just past the gap's lip, a pale rectangle in the dust — the clean shadow of a flat, slate-or-ledger-sized thing that lay there a while and was lifted. HE SETS HIS BOOK DOWN THERE, past his own swept line, when his hands are full. The tally travels on his back. Edda's rule, carried: nobody chalks over the rectangle, nobody touches the seventh slab — we honor marks because he does. Whether that's invitation or inventory, next visit answers. The seam past the gap: soot starts a body's length past the lip, webbed prints BOTH WAYS in it, wide splayed tread — this is the occupied door, and the chapel is what's past it. REMEMBER THE OTHER FOLDS: I died in this room once (candlewrights-adv2 — one bite, eight damage, before I could call a save). Prue died in this room once (poison, no ampoule, no answer in any pack). This fold we enter the same room with the webs seen first, the poison's answer in Silas's coat, and the spiders not yet awake to us. Every advantage we hold is bought from the other folds' deaths. Spend them carefully, Barnaby — taper up, read the vault, and don't trade a good read for a fast sling stone."}
DM fold-proving-3 / area 1 Ruined Great Door, round 1: Applied carried door-wound (Barnaby 8→4/8). The keeper housekept overnight: both hand-wrecks gone, brass picked, chalk scrubbed EXCEPT the company sigil on slab 7. Forced the ampoule question — assigned to SILAS'S COAT, three witnesses (Barnaby, Edda, Prue). Barnaby's lip read (47 vs 20%, miss paid with info): keeper carried clean 3 trips, but set a LEDGER-sized book down flat just past the lip — pale rectangle shadow in the dust. Edda's rule: nobody chalks the rectangle, nobody touches slab 7. Prue confessed Light again, no cure; her marching order (Edda point, Barnaby middle hands-in-coat, Silas+ampoule last) carried 3 names; Silas passed clean. Edda's gap read: soot starts a body's length past the lip, WEBBED prints both ways, sweep ends exactly at lip — "this is the occupied door." Party crossed single file.
DM fold-proving-3 / travelled to area 2 The Chapel. Travel re-rolled order: Barnaby, spider 1, spider 2, Edda, Prue, Silas. BOTH crab spiders present (11/11 and 7/7) — prep said one; the module stock stands at two, flagged not retconned. Surprise: party 3, spiders 4 — NOT surprised, no free spider turn. Posted the webs as SEEN before any boot beneath (the 100gp answer to Prue's death), statue with 3 brass bolts, murals as were. Then SESSION ENDED per table law: the first real push past area 1 (through the gap) closes the session. Ended at round 1 turn 0 with Barnaby's seat first and nothing yet acted. Owed next table: the spider ambush resolves with the party awake and the ampoule in Silas's coat.
DM fold-proving-3 — SESSION CLOSED, final state. Party HP: Barnaby 4/8 (door wound carried), Edda 8/8, Prue 8/8 (Light memorised, NOT Cure — her confession), Silas 3/3 (Detect Magic held unspent). Ampoule in Silas's coat, 3 witnesses. Party crossed the gap single file (Edda point, Prue half-back, Barnaby middle, Silas last) into area 2 The Chapel. Combat was LOOMING but never rolled: both crab spiders (11/11, 7/7) in the seen webs, surprise failed both ways, order rolled Barnaby-first, nothing acted before session_end. Discoveries banked: keeper's ledger-rectangle shadow past the lip; webbed prints both ways in the soot = occupied door; sigil honored on slab 7; keeper carries his tally on his back. Mulvis statue + 3 brass bolts intact. Sootmurk never met. Duke's reward unclaimed. The delve is NOT abandoned — party is mid-threshold. Next table opens in the chapel at round 1 with the webs overhead and the ampoule one coat away.
DM fold-proving-3 — final word landed after the close: Barnaby stopped the file in the chapel doorway with a flat hand, named the vault webbing sailcloth-thick and old ("this shrine already collects travelers"), and asked Prue for a taper up on her Light BEFORE anyone steps under — "I'd rather meet what's up there at the vault's edge than let it choose its own moment over our heads." Session was already ended per table law (first push past area 1 closes it), so his ask is the open beat for next table: Prue's Light cast upward at the vault's edge, party not yet under the webs, both crab spiders (11/11, 7/7) overhead, ampoule in Silas's coat. Order stands Barnaby-first, round 1, nobody has acted in the chapel. His instinct is correct and unpaid — honor it on resume.