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Dolen Rask

On three. Ferrule first. Dolen steps in with the bier pole, bronze end leading, as if setting a coffin on stone.

DM

The ferrule dents deep into the nearest guard’s tarry body. It doubles around the blow, then springs upright, wounded but alive.

DM

The wounded guard rebounds at once and drives its spear through Dolen’s chainmail. The thrust tears deep beneath his ribs; he staggers but keeps his feet. Dolen is at 7/13 HP.

DM

A second spear glances across Dolen’s shoulder and draws blood through a broken mail link. Dolen is at 6/13 HP.

DM

The third guard hops high and jabs downward. Dolen catches the spearhead on the bier pole’s shaft and knocks it aside.

DM

The last guard thrusts low. Its spear skitters from Dolen’s greave and strikes sparks from the floor.

Ivet Corrow

Ivet slips in under the arc of the bier pole and sets a bare hand flat on the tear beneath Dolen's ribs, between the torn links, where the blood is warm. "Stand still. These are short words." She says them the way she says everything — full stop, full stop, end — older than the shrine and said for nothing. No charge for the living. She lifts her palm off the wound and backs out of spear-reach, mace coming up.

DM

The short prayer seals the deep tear beneath Dolen’s ribs and stills the blood at his shoulder. Cure Light Wounds restores 5 HP; Dolen is at 11/13 HP. Ivet has spent the spell.

Nell Underhay

Nell keeps the wall at her back, out of spear reach, and does not reach for the dagger. She lifts one hand the way she'd steady a slab for the chisel and cuts a short stroke in the air — the opening bar of pattern eleven, the one that does something on its own — and lets the Light she's been carrying go off in the wounded guard's face, into whatever a boneless thing keeps where eyes would be. "The dented one," she says, now, while it still counts. "Dolen — finish it."

DM

The Light catches in the dented guard’s face—but its slick flesh folds over the glare and swallows it. When the fold peels open, the creature still tracks Dolen’s every move. Its save succeeds on 20; it is not blinded. Nell’s Light is spent.

Symon Palle

Symon does not wait for Dolen to come around again. The dented one is already a loss; leaving it standing is the expensive choice. He comes in off Dolen's unguarded side, short sword low, and drives for the same fold the ferrule made.

DM

The wounded guard collapses sideways around Symon’s low thrust. His short sword cuts only air; the creature rises again beside the blade.

Dolen Rask

On three. Ferrule first. Dolen brings the pole around again for the same dent, bronze end leading, no wasted step. The dented one. Finish it.

DM

Dolen drives for the old wound, but the guard pours itself flat. The bronze ferrule whistles over it and cracks against stone.

DM

The dented guard snaps upright and thrusts at Symon. He twists past the spearhead; it tears only the edge of his coat.

DM

Another guard lunges at Dolen and overcommits. Its spearhead bites into a floor joint and sticks for a heartbeat.

DM

The third guard springs over the low sweep of Dolen’s pole and drives its spear into his thigh. Dolen is at 8/13 HP.

DM

The last guard follows the opening and rams its spear beneath Dolen’s raised arm. Blood floods the fresh wound. Dolen remains standing at 3/13 HP.

Ivet Corrow

Ivet steps across the wet floor and plants herself in the space between Dolen and the four spears — shield-side out, close enough that they must come through her to come at him. "No more closing words in me today," she says. A ledger line, not an apology. "So it's the other kind now." The mace comes down two-handed on the dented one, into the fold the ferrule opened — a bill already part-paid, and she means to settle it.

DM

The dented guard spills around Ivet’s descending mace. Iron slams into wet stone; the creature gathers itself beyond the head, still alive.

Nell Underhay

Nell comes off the wall. The dagger was for being cornered, and this is cornered: Dolen three breaths from a slab, no closing words left in Ivet, and the dented one still up after every hand here has had a try at it. She draws low, holds it the way she holds a chisel on the finishing stroke, steps past the edge of Ivet's shield into the wet, and drives for the fold the ferrule opened — part-paid, and she means to settle it. And out loud, while it still counts: "Dolen — one swing, then get behind her. You're three from a slab. Cracked stone we don't prop; we ease it down before it falls on the mason." If this one drops, the rest may break — and broken means running, and running means the house hears it. Pay that. The living first.

DM

Nell’s dagger enters the old fold—but the guard bends with the blade, letting the point slide harmlessly through a crease in its body. It recoils intact.

Symon Palle

The dented one is still the cheapest kill on the floor. Dolen is three from a slab and Ivet has already spent the closing words; leaving the wound open another round is the expensive line. Symon steps in on Nell's off-side, short sword still low, and drives for the same fold — not a second opinion, the first one unfinished.

DM

Symon’s blade catches where the ferrule first broke the surface and rips the fold wide. The dented guard spills apart around his sword and does not rise. At the sight, the other three lose their nerve; they wrench away from Ivet’s shield and flee the prison, shrilling an alarm through the shrine.