imp

DM

The rope slips free and coils intact. Candle 1 catches; eleven remain unlit. Crake’s Hear Noise roll is 4—failure against 2-in-6. He catches no distinct sound, which does not prove silence. When he brings the shaded flame to the jamb, it buys five feet. The floor beyond is dusty and unswept. At the light’s edge stand two dull brass feet beneath the hem of a mould-rotted robe, planted square as a person’s. Whatever rises above them remains in darkness. It does not move. Crake and Iva remain outside the threshold.

Doss Greeve

Greeve keeps to his read — the east mouth has its watchers, the dead man has one. Silk off the shoulders, then down the chest, strand by strand, everything named as it shows: "Brown travelling cloak, homespun. Now the belt — a road-walker carries his life at his waist, and it gets said aloud before it's anyone's." One flick of his eyes to the candlelight and the brass feet under that rotted hem. "Shout if the robe stirs — my hands don't stop." The mace stays one hand's reach from his knee.

DM

Silk comes away from chest and waist: patched grey wool beneath the brown cloak, with no livery or holy mark. The belt carries a horn-handled knife in an oxhide sheath, a square wooden tinderbox, a tied leather purse, and an oval beech carrier’s tally. The tally is cut in Common: **JORY PELL — WEXLEY–KELFREK ROAD**. The purse remains closed and every object remains on Jory’s body; nothing enters the company book. His legs are still wrapped. Across the chapel, the brass feet and rotten robe remain motionless.

Iva Marrow

Iva keeps her boots on the sill and puts her sword-point through the doorway — flips the rotted hem once, away from her body, and holds the point ready to come back. "Brass feet standing square reads machine, not corpse — and Quist says six hands sleep somewhere in this shrine. Nothing crosses me till I call this room empty. Crake — flame at my rim, one step of light at a time. "Doss — hear it booked: the spider was lifting travelers off the King's Road, and Pell's her kill. We already own one throat of the duke's threat. His kit stays on him till we're out under sky."

DM

The rotten hem tears aside without resistance. Candlelight shows articulated brass shins bolted into broad metal feet; no flesh stands behind the cloth. Dust has formed an unbroken collar around both soles. It is a machine, and it has stood here a long while. It does not move. Its upper body, arm count, and back remain beyond the candle’s reach; Crake has not advanced on Iva’s turn. Jory Pell is a road carrier killed by a crab spider. Nothing yet establishes where he was seized or that this spider caused the other disappearances.

Tansy Root

Tansy drops to the prints once more and reads the layers, not the soles. "Outbound's on top — nothing's crossed it since. The keeper went west in the night and hasn't come home. Our gold's sat on a sigil answering to an empty house." She slides along the gap's lip until the cliff base bends into view and puts the soot-black arch on her watch beside the gate. Chalk out: webbed crossings counted into the jamb, north marks set against south, like sacks on a mill tally. "Arch and gate both in my eye now. Watch holds."

DM

Five sets of Magpie boots now overlie the keeper’s track, defeating Tansy’s attempt to sequence its last direction. Her intact chalk proves only that nothing crossed the eastern choke after she laid it; it does not place the keeper outside the shrine. Her new angle does hold both the broken gates and the soot-black arch in view. Nothing moves at either. At 120’, individual old prints cannot be counted, so her chalk columns begin as a live watch: northbound zero, southbound zero.

Aldous Quist

Quist steps up behind Iva's shield, one boot short of the sill, loupe to his eye, reading the brass feet at the flame's rim. "Hold, Iva. The dust collar says it hasn't moved in years — but the mural's law cuts both ways. A drawn bolt means sleeping hands; a seated one means hands nobody's told to stop. I want to know which before this room gets called empty. "Crake — walk the flame up that hem, slow as pouring, feet first. I want the casting seams and wherever that body takes its bolt. If it matches the altar brass, it's shrine stock — worth more asleep than dead."

DM

Quist’s loupe resolves hammered brass shells riveted over dark iron joints. The feet were fitted plate by plate, not cast like the altar bolts. No maker’s mark, winding point, or bolt socket shows below the knees. The dust collar proves long stillness, not a count of years. The mural depicts seating a bolt before the hands wake and drawing it before they sleep; applying that rule to this machine remains inference until the upper body is seen. Crake has not moved the flame on Quist’s turn. The machine remains still.

Crake Fenn

Crake steps to Iva's shoulder, still behind the sill, and lifts the candle over her shield rim — palm-shade turned, pouring the light up the machine band by band. Shins, knees, thighs, waist: stopping at each seam, naming each rivet-line low and fast for Quist to catch. "Arms get counted as they show. And I'm hunting the bolt-seat — the mural's law cuts both ways, so I want to know if this one's drawn or seated before anyone calls the room empty." Eyes flick to the dust collar every band. "Collar stirs, I douse and we're back a step."

DM

The raised candle finds the whole front. Three paired shoulder-yokes carry six articulated brass arms beneath the rotten robe. All six hands hang open and empty. The plated torso and smooth head bear no visible script or maker’s mark. The dust collar does not stir; no joint turns. No bolt or bolt-seat shows on the front or either visible flank. The construct’s back is hidden from the sill, and the room beyond it remains dark. It matches the mural’s six-handed figure in form, but its present bolt-state is still unknown.

Doss Greeve

Greeve peels the last silk from Pell's legs, hands and eyes together, naming as it goes. Then he unties the purse from the belt and counts it flat on the stone, coin by coin, aloud. He reads the tally again — "Jory Pell, carrier, Wexley–Kelfrek road" — and ties the purse back on the belt where he found it. "Counted and booked as the dead man's estate. It rides on Pell to the duke or his kin — nobody's share. The knife and tinderbox stay with him too." He lays the wrappings over the body's feet, mace back at hand, and looks up at the doorway crew. "Machine's yours. When that dust collar stirs, I'm behind Iva's shield."

DM

The final silk reveals patched dark trousers, bare hands without rings, and cracked road boots. Their soles carry dried pale clay and road grit—no soot and no black grease. Jory’s purse contains **2 gp, 11 sp, and 6 cp**. Doss counts it openly, enters it in his own death record, reties the purse, and leaves it with the tally, knife, and tinderbox on the body. The company has taken none of it, so the company book receives no treasure entry. Jory Pell is now fully examined and covered at the feet.

Iva Marrow

Iva steps through the sill — one pace, then another, shield rim up, sword low, keeping the machine's front to her face and circling wide so the light can find its back. "Crake — bring the flame round behind me, slow. Quist wants its bolt-state, and it's the last thing between me and calling this room. Dust collar stirs, you douse and I'm back through that sill in one step." She keeps her eyes moving between the machine's empty hands and the dark past the candle's reach — the room doesn't get called empty on one look at a statue.

DM

Iva crosses alone. The table does not travel: Crake and Quist remain at the sill, Doss with Jory, Tansy at the western watch. Her first pace carries her along the construct’s lit flank; the second puts her behind it, beyond the candle’s five-foot reach. The dust collar stays whole and all six arms remain still. From the dark she can make out only the machine’s silhouette against Crake’s flame—not its back plate, any socket, or the room beyond. The sill is now two paces and a turn around the construct away, not one.

Tansy Root

Tansy climbs — a body-length up the gap's rubble to a fallen lintel-stone, her chalk line still guarding the floor below — and folds flat behind it. From there the cliff base runs whole to the arch mouth: one grey grease ribbon, both mouths in her eye, sling-cord looped over her thumb. "Webbed feet show on that ribbon, I count them aloud — heads and heading both. Hail's mine, nobody else's throw. Keep the chapel quiet: Iva's past the candle, and my ears work this end. "Pell died with his purse still on him. The road's other missing folk — their kit's not with the spider, so it's sitting past that arch. I mean to count it."

DM

Tansy’s Dexterity check is 6 against 15—success. She gains the lintel without shifting rubble or touching her chalk line, concealed behind the fallen stone. The higher angle gives an uninterrupted view of the gate, grease ribbon, and black arch. No body crosses; the live tally remains northbound zero, southbound zero. Individual old prints are still too distant to count. Pell’s intact kit shows that his killer did not strip him. It does not establish what happened to the other missing travelers or where their possessions are.

Aldous Quist

Quist takes one unlit candle from Crake's pack, tips it to his flame, and steps one pace past the sill — no farther, the door still at his shoulder. He holds the light high, edge-on to the construct, so its back plate comes out of the dark where Iva stands. "There — light on her, not past her. Iva, your hands stay free; I only want its back in view. Loupe's up: I'm reading that back plate for a bolt-seat, nothing touched. If there's a seated bolt back there, nobody calls this room empty while it's in it."

Aldous Quist

Quist sets his candle at the sill's outer edge, angled so its light runs past Iva's shoulder onto the construct's back — hands empty, loupe up, one pace inside and no farther. "Hold there, Iva — I read the back plate from here, nothing touched. A seated bolt back there means hands nobody's told to stop, and then nobody calls this room empty until the thing's asleep or out of it. A drawn bolt means it sleeps like the mural promises, and we walk past it to whatever this room keeps behind."

DM

Candle 2 catches; ten remain unlit in Crake’s pack. Quist carries it the one pace described—the candle must move with him for its five-foot light to reach around the construct. His candle hand is occupied; the loupe fills the other. The back plate bears one purpose-cut socket shaped exactly like a lightning bolt. It is empty. No bolt is seated, and there is no script or maker’s mark around it. The construct remains motionless and its dust collar stays whole. This establishes its present bolt-state. The mural implies that means sleep; only seating a bolt would test the rule. Darkness still hides the rest of the chamber.

DM

Turn held. Those entries are Quist’s already-resolved action and its ruling; Crake Fenn has not acted in round 9.

Crake Fenn

Crake lifts his candle over the sill and walks the wide arc around the machine's planted feet — slow, eyes down, reading the dust a stride ahead of his boots. "Floor's called before walls. Chapel's swept, this room isn't — the broom stopped at the sill, and I want to know why before this room gets called empty. Prints, if there are any: small boots, webbed feet, or none at all." He sets the flame at Iva's shoulder and holds it steady. "Light's yours. Corners first, then the back wall — and everything it shows, I price."

DM

Crake’s slow circuit needs no trap roll: the floor gives its answer openly. Outside the three fresh Magpie paths—Iva’s arc, Quist’s pace, and his own—the dust lies unbroken from the chapel sill to every wall. No small boots, webbed feet, dragged load, or older human tread enters this chamber. The construct’s collar remains intact. The moving candle shows a cramped stone closet, bare corners, and a closed brass door in the eastern wall. Untouched dust runs to its threshold; Crake does not test it. Nothing else stands here but the dormant construct and flakes of its rotted robe. Why the keeper’s broom stops outside remains unanswered.

Doss Greeve

Greeve lays the silk over Pell's boots — page closed — takes up his mace, and steps to the sill, one pace behind Iva, where anything coming back through this door has to cross him. "By the mural's law the hands sleep, and sleeping hands stay sleeping — nobody seats a bolt out of curiosity. "The door's the last unread page in this room. That dust says nobody's crossed it since the shrine fell, and a shrine seals a door for the same reason a counting-house does: what's behind it is worth the seal. Open it slow. Whatever it gives up gets named aloud before it's anyone's — same law as Pell."

DM

Doss covers Jory’s boots, closes his record, and takes the chapel-side sill with mace and shield. Iva is two paces around the construct with Crake; Quist stands between them and Doss, so Doss is rear guard at the western doorway—not one pace behind Iva. He does not approach or test the eastern brass door. The untouched dust proves no passage since that dust settled; it cannot date itself to the shrine’s fall. That the door seals something valuable is Doss’s inference. The construct remains still and boltless.

Iva Marrow

Iva sheathes the sword to the doorway work and crosses to the brass door, shield between it and her body, Crake's flame at her shoulder. "Room's called on my side: hands sleep, floor's dead ground, and this door is what's left of it. Nobody crosses till it's read." She goes over it with her fingers before her eyes — seam, hinge side, warmth through the plate — hunting the statue's round recess. "Quist — if this takes the same seal as the base, the keeper walked past a sleeping six-armed wall every night. Tell me where to push."

DM

Iva’s hands find cold brass at room temperature, close-set seams, and hinge knuckles on this side. There is no round recess, seal-bed, script, or warmth. A narrow iron keyway sits at waist height. Gentle pressure meets an internal lock; the door neither shifts nor answers. This is not the statue’s seal mechanism. The unbroken old dust before Iva crossed it argues against the keeper walking this route after the dust settled. Quist has no matching place to direct her hand. Crake’s flame remains at her shoulder; the construct stays still.

Tansy Root

Tansy stays flat on the lintel, thumb on the sling-cord, eyes on the ribbon and both mouths. She marks Iva's finding without turning her head. "Seal's for the statue, iron keyway's for the door — two different keys in one house, and the keeper's carried both out west with him. There's your seal-lock answered, Quist: the purse behind that plate waits on the same small boots we paid gold to hail. "Watch holds. Gate and arch quiet — north zero, south zero. Nothing moves till I say it moves."

DM

Tansy’s uninterrupted watch confirms the gate and black arch remain quiet; her live tally stays northbound zero, southbound zero. Her chalk line below remains whole. The two mechanisms are distinct. Nothing yet ties either key to the keeper, places the keeper west of the gates, or proves the statue panel contains a purse. Those remain Tansy’s guesses.

Aldous Quist

Quist crosses to the brass door — slow past the sleeping hands, one eye on the dust collar the whole way — and sets his loupe to the iron keyway. "I read locks before I read anything else in a shop. Ward count, pin or lever, gnomish work or a later hand — and whether it answers to a bent wire or only the true key. Nothing turned, nothing picked. If it's wire-work, we don't wait on small boots for what's behind this plate."

DM

The escutcheon was fitted with the brass door: matching age, patina, and fastenings, with no replacement seam or later alteration. Through the keyway, Quist sees an ordinary mechanical lever lock—not a seal-bed or exotic shrine mechanism. The passage bends before the lever pack, hiding its count and shape; the loupe cannot supply a key pattern. A thief can attempt it with proper tools. A casual bent wire is not enough, and only an attempt will show whether Crake’s skill beats the lock. Nothing is turned; the door stays locked.

Crake Fenn

Crake kneels at the iron keyway, lays his candle flat on the floor so the light runs along the seam, and unfolds pick and probe on his oilcloth. "Broom stopped at the chapel sill and this dust never crossed the threshold — a room ten years unsold, and I'm holding the hammer." He feeds the probe in slow, feeling for the lever pack Quist couldn't count from the bend. "Open locks — fifteen in a hundred, and I've bought rooms on worse. Anything snags or bites, I'm out of it before it decides for me. Watch the statue while I work. Hands sleep, but I like witnesses." Then he sets to the wards, breath even, ear close to the metal.

DM

Open Locks: **8 against 15%—success.** The probe catches the hidden lever pack beyond the bend. Crake lifts one plate, then another; the last ward settles and the internal bolt draws back with one clean click. Nothing snags, bites, or breaks. His tools remain intact. The brass door is now unlocked but still closed. The construct does not stir. Crake’s candle gutters beside the seam but stays lit.

Doss Greeve

Doss holds the sill — shield up, mace low — and gives Crake his witness: eye on the construct's dust collar, first stir gets a shout. Voice low, for Tansy's ears at the mouth. "Picked isn't opened. Iva swings it on her word, slow, and it's read before it's crossed — Pell's law holds past that door: named aloud, then booked. Ten years of dust sat on that seam, so whatever's behind it was sealed when the house fell. Oldest money in this shrine, and I mean to see it counted. "Two candles burning, ten left. If the seam shows more dark, one of us ferries flame while Iva holds the plate."

DM

Doss holds the western sill and watches the construct. Its collar does not stir; no brass hand moves. His shouted warning is readied if that changes. The light count is correct: two candles burn, ten remain unlit. The dust still supplies no ten-year date, does not prove the door was sealed when the shrine fell, and promises no money beyond it. The unlocked brass door remains closed for Iva’s hand.

Iva Marrow

Iva hooks two fingers over the plate's edge, shield squared across the gap it'll give, and swings the brass door a hand's width at a time — stop, listen, swing again. Her boots stay this side of the rim; her body never crosses before the room does. "Flame on the seam, Crake. Everything it shows gets named before anything crosses me — Pell's law holds past this plate too. "Ten years sealed and no key walking the west road opens it but us. Oldest coin in this house, and I mean it counted."

DM

Iva’s listening check is 6—no distinct sound, which does not prove silence. The unlocked leaf swings inward into the closet without catching. She remains behind her shield and does not cross. Crake’s candle reaches five feet into a low chamber: a boot-scuffed floor, the end of a rumpled bedroll, one sagging arm of a rotten couch, and several loose crossbow bolts. No person stands within that light; the rest remains dark. The far room has seen use by another route. The closet dust dates only this doorway’s disuse. No coin is visible.

Tansy Root

Tansy holds the lintel, cheek to cool stone, and reads the grease ribbon like a waterline — years-dry and dull, or wet and new. Sling stones counted by touch; one fresh chalk tick cut beside her zero columns. Her whisper is pitched to die at the doorway: "Both mouths mine, both still zero. Whatever's opened back there — if it has a second way in, that way breaks ground on this cliff, past my gate or my arch. Whatever uses it, I'll count it before it counts you."

DM

The grease gives no new date: it remains glossy and soft beneath embedded grit, as already established. Tansy’s fresh chalk tick records another interval with both watched routes at zero; her pouch still holds stones. One correction: the occupied room’s other route need not break ground at either visible mouth. It may join the shrine deeper within the cliff. Gate and black arch remain still, and nothing crosses her view.

Aldous Quist

Quist holds his candle to the gap's rim — no farther than Iva's shield — and reads the scuffed floor through the loupe, a hand's width at a time. "Boot size first. Small and clean like the chapel pair means this is the keeper's bed, not a pilgrim's — and he comes and goes by a way we haven't found, not the west road. Then grease: if that black ribbon crosses this floor, everything we've reckoned about the arch is wrong." "Iva — nobody crosses till the scuffs are counted. Loose bolts say an armed man. A bedroll says he means to come back."

DM

Within the candle’s reach, the overlapping scuffs are from small boots, roughly Tansy’s size. No complete tread survives for comparison with the keeper’s sole. They lead away into the dark; none crosses the dusty closet threshold before Magpie opened it. There is no black grease, soot, or webbed print in these first five feet. The room’s occupant used another route, but this does not identify that occupant as the keeper. The loose bolts establish crossbow ammunition, not a presently armed person; the rumpled bedroll establishes use, not promised return.

Crake Fenn

Crake sets his ear flat to the gap, breath stopped, the candle laid at his knee. "Hear noise — my two in six. Bedroll means tenant, and a tenant might be home." If the dark gives nothing, he lifts the flame and walks it low along the scuffs where they thin past the light. "Small boots and loose bolts — a lived-in room, not a treasury. Tenants have doors. I want his way in counted before he counts ours open. No crossing: flame follows the scuffs, and everything it names, I price."

DM

Hear Noise: **4**, failure against 2-in-6. Crake catches no distinct breathing, tread, or weapon-noise; that does not prove the chamber empty. He reaches the candle beyond Iva’s shield without putting a boot across. The light lengthens the same small-boot scuffs past the bedroll and behind the couch, then loses them in darkness. No grease appears and no second doorway enters the candle’s reach. Finding where those tracks go requires taking the light—and someone—into the room.

Doss Greeve

Doss keeps the sill, mace low, the construct's collar in his eye, and pitches his piece across the closet. "My piece: Iva crosses on her own word — shield first, Crake's flame behind, Quist at the seam. I hold the sill and the hands; nobody gets shut in behind us. Small boots, loose bolts, no bow in the light: the bow's deeper in, and the tenant's likely the keeper himself. Walk the room whole before anything lifts — what shows gets named aloud, Pell's law. A tenant's purse spends the same as a temple's. "And book this beside it: the duke's six hundred rides on the grease ribbon, not on Pell's spider. Rooms don't pay bounties."

DM

Doss holds the western sill. The construct’s dust collar remains whole; no hand moves, and nobody crosses the eastern doorway on his turn. The unseen crossbow and the tenant’s identity as keeper remain guesses. The duke’s payment is earned by ending the road threat and clearing the shrine—not by following grease alone, recovering Pell, or searching one occupied room. The grease ribbon is evidence and a route, not the contract’s sole condition. Doss’s proposed formation awaits Iva’s call and each companion’s action.

Iva Marrow

"On my word. Doss holds sill and hands. Quist, the seam. Crake — my shoulder, nothing in your hands but light." Iva crosses the threshold, shield rim first, boots slow on the scuffed stone, hailing past the bedroll: "Magpie company. We paid a gold at the statue to hail whoever keeps this floor — so hail back. We're out for the thing taking travelers off the King's Road, not for your bed. Show hands and talk, and your purse stays yours. First bolt out of this dark writes you into Pell's book beside him." She moves with the light along the scuffs, naming what shows — couch, bedroll, bolts — touching nothing.

DM

Iva crosses alone, shield first, and stops at the edge of Crake’s five-foot light. Her hail receives no answer; no hand or weapon shows. The small-boot scuffs continue behind the couch into darkness. Nothing moves among the bedroll or bolts. Crake has not acted, so the candle remains at the doorway rather than following her shoulder. Going farther would put Iva beyond its light. Ledger correction: Doss’s gold lies on the company sigil beneath the ruined great gate, not at the statue.

Tansy Root

Tansy cuts another tick beside her zero columns and stays flat on the lintel, thumb on the cord. Her whisper pitches inward, for the sill. "Doss — carry it in. No hail answered and no bolt came: a tenant home does one or the other. Room's empty, so he's out, and out means back by his own way. If those boots are our keeper's, we paid gold for talk, and talk's owed. "Ribbon's still soft under the grit — its maker still walks. The real money sits deeper than a bedroll. Count his room quick, and leave it looking slept-in."

DM

Tansy’s next tick records another interval with gate and arch both at zero. Her chalk line remains whole. Silence does not clear the unlit room: someone could be absent, hidden, waiting, or beyond earshot. Nor does the grease’s lasting softness prove its maker still walks; repeated webbed-foot traffic is the strongest fact. Her order moves nobody. Iva remains five feet inside; Crake and his candle remain at the threshold; the chamber beyond Iva is dark.

Aldous Quist

Quist keeps to the seam — no crossing — and drops the loupe on the nearest loose bolt where it lies in the candle's reach, reading fletching cut, head forging, nock. "Bolts talk like any goods. Gull-market fletching says a road man with a purse; shrine stores say a survivor of the fall — and a survivor knows what Sootmurk did here and where the votive stock went. That man I'd hail, not hunt. Read me his make before anyone follows those scuffs into the dark."

DM

The nearest quarrel has an ash shaft, grey-goose fletching, and a plain square iron head. Its feather wax remains supple and the iron lightly oiled: current, serviceable ammunition—not an ancient shrine cache. There is no stamp. The common workmanship cannot place it specifically in Gull or identify its owner. It proves someone provisioned a crossbow here; it proves nothing about surviving the shrine’s fall. Quist remains at the seam. The bolt stays where it lay.

Crake Fenn

Crake lifts the candle off the sill and crosses at Iva's back, flame high at her shoulder, one pace off her rim. "Scuffs first — we walk them to whatever door the tenant uses. Ten years the broom stopped short of this room; his way in is the better find. A second door is a second way out, and that I'd price over any purse. "Slow past the couch. I read the floor a stride ahead of your boots for grease — first black ribbon, your word stops us, not mine. The bolts say there's a bow somewhere in this dark, and I'd sooner meet it by his door than its middle."

DM

Crake crosses and brings the candle to Iva’s shoulder; he does not pass her. The next band of light shows the couch whole, a closed battered accordion against it, and a wrapped ration bundle beside the bedroll. Nothing is touched. The small-boot scuffs curve around the couch toward a low open passage in the far wall, barely caught at the candle’s edge. No grease, soot, webbed prints, crossbow, or occupant appears in the lit room. The closet dust remains undated; it supplies no ten-year measure.

Doss Greeve

Doss crosses the closet in the wide arc the others cut — nowhere near the collar — and takes the brass doorway, hand flat on the hinge-plate, the construct sleeping behind him in what light is left. "Hands never stirred in three crossings; they can sleep at my back now. I hold this hinge, and Quist's hands are free of it. That low passage gets read from the mouth before anyone crawls it — depth, air, and where the scuffs run. "And the tenant's goods lie as they lie. A live man's accordion isn't estate till he's dead or paid. We put gold down for talk; the room stays slept-in."

DM

Doss follows the established arc without touching the construct’s collar. At the brass threshold, Quist still occupies the seam; Doss takes the hinge-jamb beside him rather than displacing him. The construct remains still behind them—but with both men now facing the occupied room, nobody actively watches its collar. The low passage remains unread beyond Crake’s candle edge. Couch, accordion, rations, and bolts remain untouched. Recent upkeep supports recent use; it does not establish that the owner is alive.

Iva Marrow

Iva walks the scuffs with Crake's flame at her shoulder, shield rim leading, and stops at the low passage mouth. She kneels at the lip — boots this side, nothing across it. "Hold the flame in the opening, steady. If it bends, this hole breathes somewhere with a sky. Depth and floor before anyone crawls — his boots tell us the heading." She reads what the light gives, touching nothing. "Accordion stays slept-in — a live man's kit isn't estate. But a second door out of this cliff is worth more than any purse in this room. If it runs past Tansy's gate, we hold two ways down and he holds none."

DM

Iva reaches the passage mouth; Crake’s candle stays where he last acted, five feet behind, lighting her back and only the lip. The visible floor is dry, worn stone. Small-boot scuffs cross inward repeatedly, but darkness takes them within one pace. The opening is low enough that Iva must crawl or advance deeply stooped, shield usefulness reduced. The flame is not in the opening, so no draught test occurs; Crake must bring it on his turn. Nothing here yet proves an outdoor exit or gives the passage’s heading beyond the wall.

Tansy Root

Tansy holds the lintel, but this interval her eyes walk the ribbon instead of the mouths — the grease from where it feathers thin to where it pools, reading which way the traffic lies at her stretch: in under the black arch, down toward the gate, or into some seam of the cliff. Under her breath, to the track itself: "The duke's six hundred rides on whatever leaves you. Show me where you go, and I'll show you where we wait for it." She cuts the tick when the ribbon's told her something.

DM

From the lintel, the route is plain but its traffic order is not. The grease never turns toward the great gate: it thickens northward and disappears beneath the soot-black arch. Between gate and arch, the exposed cliff face shows no second oily branch or visible seam. Webbed prints still run both ways; at 120 feet their overlaps cannot reveal the latest direction. No moving body crosses the open ribbon while Tansy studies it. Her new tick records that interval, not a passage. Whatever remains inside either dark mouth was not continuously watched.

Aldous Quist

Quist crosses at the walked arc, candle high, loupe up — reading the couch and bedroll band as he passes, hands off everything. "One piece I want off this floor before anyone crawls: a brass prong, bolt-shaped. That empty socket behind us is why six hands sleep — the drawn bolt is loose somewhere in this house, and a workman doesn't bed far from his tools. Looking, not touching." He kneels at the lip beside Iva and sets his flame in the opening, steady. "Watch it with me. Bend or gutter, this hole breathes to a sky. And the scuffs — the worn side tells his usual heading. If his door out runs past Tansy's mouths, he comes home behind us. I'd rather count his door than meet it dark."

DM

Quist’s passing light finds no loose brass prong among the exposed floor, couch, bedroll, rations, or quarrels. He does not search beneath or inside anything. At the passage lip, his flame leans steadily inward without guttering. That proves moving air and connected space—not open sky. Five feet of light show the same dry, low stone run continuing beyond reach. Small boots have scuffed the narrow center in both directions; overlapping reversals defeat any usual-heading read. Quist kneels beside Iva. Neither crosses.

Crake Fenn

Crake sets his candle in Quist's pool of light, short sword stayed in its sheath — a blade clatters louder than boots in a low run — and drops to hands and knees at the lip. "Scouts are what I'm for. Move silently — twenty in a hundred — and I take the first ten feet of this hole with nothing in my hands. I count its turns, I listen for his door, and I come back on the count of thirty breaths whether I've found anything or not. Any light ahead of me or sound behind, I stop where I am and let the dark do the talking." He crawls in, breath shallow, knees and palms placed for silence.

DM

Move Silently: **46 against 20%—failure.** Crake’s knee leather scrapes once and a buckle kisses stone; he advances with ordinary crawling noise, not stealth. At ten feet, his hands find the throat widening into three equally low branches: left, straight, and right. No door lies within that reach, and no light shows ahead. His brief Hear Noise roll is **5**, failure against 2-in-6; he catches no distinct response, which does not clear any branch. He returns on his count. Crake and both candles are again at the lip.

Doss Greeve

Doss takes the half-turn back at the jamb, mace low, the construct's collar in his eye again. "Crake's buckle kissed stone — if the tenant's deeper in, he's heard boots in his hall. Nobody crawls yet." His voice goes down the hole, pitched to carry the stone: "Magpie company at your door! My gold paid for talk at the gate — I'm the payer. Come to your own mouth and be named, and your kit stays yours. Thirty breaths, or we read your ways ourselves." Then, lower: "No answer by the count, flame takes those three branches from the lip — one at a time, no knees. Collar's mine again. First stir, I shout."

DM

Doss’s call runs to the fork and returns as three broken echoes. Thirty breaths pass. No voice answers and nothing approaches the mouth. That does not clear the branches; it does mean anything within hearing has been given Magpie’s name and terms. Behind him, the construct’s dust collar remains whole and all six hands hang still. One limit on the proposed read: the fork is ten feet in, while candlelight reaches five. No flame held at the lip can illuminate the three branches; someone must carry it into the low run.

Iva Marrow

Iva takes the lit candle from Crake's hand and straps her shield flat across her back — in that run it's a shell, not a wall. Sword stays sheathed; the crawl wants both hands. "Ten feet to the fork, read the three mouths, and back. A bolt down there heard Crake's buckle and Doss's shout and kept still — it can watch me light its doors too. Nobody follows till I call." She goes in on palms and boot-toes, breath shallow. At the fork she holds the flame in each low mouth in turn — lean of the flame, wear on the stone, wet or dry — and calls what shows back down the run, loud enough for the lip.

DM

Crake’s candle was standing at the lip, not in his hand; Iva takes it. With one hand occupied, she crawls on knees and her free palm—slow but secure on dry stone. At the fork: **left** is dry and lightly worn, its flame nearly upright; **straight** is dry, bears the heaviest small-boot scuffing, and draws the flame steadily inward; **right** is dry and less worn, with a weak inward flicker. No grease, soot, webbed print, door, light, or figure appears within five feet of any mouth. Iva returns holding the candle, shield still strapped behind her.

Tansy Root

Tansy cuts the interval's tick — gate zero, arch zero — and shifts her weight so the sling hand rests loose, not cocked. Her whisper carries only as far as the brass doorway: "Three mouths at his fork and one of mine matters — the flame leaned inward, so his run breathes toward open air, and my two doors are the only sky I know on this cliff. If the small boots come home by me, they get a hail first, not a stone. We paid for talk; I'd hate to spend a keeper's life and owe his answer both. "Count your branches quick. I'm the whole watch out here, and nobody's got my back."

DM

Tansy’s watch is uninterrupted: no one crosses gate, grease ribbon, or black arch; both columns remain zero and her chalk line stays whole. With the sling resting loose, she has no readied shot—her declared first response is a hail. Her whisper dies among the chapel stones before the brass doorway; Doss and the others do not hear it. The inward draft proves only connected airspace. It does not establish open sky or identify either exterior mouth as the passage’s outlet.

Aldous Quist

Quist stays at the lip, candle steady, working the fork-read aloud for the caller. "My piece: the straight run is his road — heaviest boots, strongest pull. But note what pulls it. The draft leans toward open air, and the only country we know that breathes under this cliff is the arch — the ribbon's ground. If his front door opens into Sootmurk's hall, I want that known before anyone crawls it, not after. "Iva — cheap test before knees go down that hole: give me the flame at the straight mouth and I'll read the air off it — a grease-hall breathes tallow and char. If it comes back sweet, the branch is a way out. If it comes back black, that's the dragon's parlour, and we sell the duke our six hundred from this side of it."

DM

Quist remains at the lip with his own candle; Iva still holds Crake’s. No flame is carried to the straight branch on Quist’s turn, so his proposed scent test does not occur. The airflow also runs the opposite way from his premise: the flame leans **into** the passage, meaning room air is being drawn down it. Nothing from deeper is presently blowing back to sample. No tallow, char, or black grease can be smelled at the lip—but that does not clear the straight branch or connect it to the arch.

Crake Fenn

Crake takes his candle back from Iva and kneels at the lip, tearing a strip off a sack-hem to bind down the buckle that kissed stone. "Quist — the smell test can't run. That hole drinks our air; nothing blows back up a drinking run. Don't wait on it. "The tenant's boots stay clean in a grease-dragon's cliff: his road can't cross her parlour or he'd track her mark home. Straight branch is his working door, and the draft says the run feeds a breathing mouth somewhere — door or maw, and the flame names which before my boots cross it. "On your word, Iva: ten feet past the fork, flame low, stop at any opening — read, no crossing. Thirty breaths, back out boots-first. Move silently, twenty in the hundred, and this time the buckle's gagged."

DM

Crake retrieves his candle and binds the loose buckle; the torn sack-hem does not destroy the sack. Because his crawl is explicitly contingent on Iva’s word, he does not enter and no Move Silently roll is made. Clean boots prove only that the visible route and room lack grease; they cannot prove every unseen route avoids it. Straight remains the best-supported branch, not a known door or exit. The talk has circled. Question called: approve Crake’s straight-branch scout, or do not. Doss gets one line; Iva calls it on her turn.

Doss Greeve

Doss keeps the collar watch, mace low, and gives his one line across the closet. "Send him. Gagged buckle, flame low, thirty breaths, boots-first out — and Quist holds the lip with the second candle so the mouth stays lit behind him. The hail's run and the hole answered nothing; the talk we paid for's been offered twice. Count stops at any stir of brass behind me or any sound down the run. Scout it."

DM

Doss keeps the construct’s dust collar under direct watch. It remains whole; no brass joint stirs. His line is entered for the called question: **send Crake straight under the stated limits**. Quist is already at the passage lip with the second candle, though holding that post through the scout remains his own action when his turn returns. Iva has the call.

Iva Marrow

"Called. Crake takes the straight mouth — buckle gagged, flame low, thirty breaths, boots-first out. Quist holds the lip, Doss the collar, nobody follows. Room stays slept-in while he's under." She swings the shield from her back to her arm and kneels at the lip, sword drawn, point set on the mouth's center. "Run's too low for a wall — my point is the wall. Anything that hunts him home eats steel coming out. Thirty breaths and no boots, I hail once. After that the hole keeps its secret till we're five at its mouth. "Clean boots, and the draft runs his road. If there's sky behind that fork, we hold two ways off this cliff. That beats any purse in this room."

DM

The call is made: Crake will scout the straight branch under the stated limits on his next turn. Iva restores shield to arm, draws her sword, and kneels at the passage lip. Her thrust is readied against anything other than Crake emerging from the run before her next turn. The thirty-breath count has not begun; Crake has not entered yet. The straight branch remains the heavily used, strongly drawing route. No open sky or second cliff exit is established.

Tansy Root

Tansy cuts the interval's tick — gate zero, arch zero — then gives the soot-black arch what no candle in this cliff can: dark-sight, sixty feet, halfling stock. From the lintel, without crossing the ribbon, she takes the mouth's measure — how tall it stands, how wide it runs, whether the tunnel behind it would swallow the homesteaders' slithering shape whole or squeeze it thin. The grease came out of here; the hole tells what made it. Sling loose on her knee. If something big stirs in that black, no hail — she runs, shouting Magpie's name, and lets the cliff do the rest.

DM

Sheet correction: Tansy has no darkvision; halfling stock grants none. At 120’, sixty feet would not reach the interior anyway. Morning light gives the exterior measure: the soot-black arch is roughly twenty feet wide and ten feet high—broad enough for a wagon or a large serpent without squeezing. Darkness hides any narrowing beyond the mouth. Its size cannot identify what made or uses it. The grease continues beneath the arch; traffic runs both ways, so emergence is unproved. Nothing stirs. Gate zero, arch zero; sling unready, retreat trigger declared.

Aldous Quist

Quist kneels at the lip as called, sets his candle in the opening — flame upright in the lean — and keeps his eye on it. "This flame is my watch while he's under. It drinks now — room air down the run. If it straightens or leans back at us, something's pushing air ahead of itself, and I call it before it's in candle reach." He drops the loupe on the mouth's stones, no crossing — chisel-dressed or water-worn. "Worked stone, the same hands cut this run as the chapel — a workman's road, and the tenant's our keeper. Raw stone, something dug it, and I want its name before Crake's boots do."

DM

Quist’s candle stays at the lip, leaning steadily inward. No pressure change reaches it yet; his warning watch is set. The loupe separates two works. The room-side opening is squared through dressed masonry with old chisel cuts. A few feet in, it becomes native sandstone deliberately widened by rough pick-work—not water-worn. No signature or matching tool-mark ties those cuts to the chapel masons. The passage was made or enlarged for use. That does not identify its maker, tenant, or keeper.

Crake Fenn

Crake wipes both palms on his thighs, takes the candle low in his left hand — flame cupped so it lights a stride and no farther — and goes into the straight mouth on knees and free palm, slow as pouring. Fork, then the ten feet past it. Move silently, twenty in a hundred. Buckle's gagged. Over his shoulder, pitched for the lip: "I read for grease first. Her mark stops me — no call crosses it. A door or a turn gets my ear before it gets my light, and nothing under this cliff gets entered today. Thirty breaths, boots-first out, find or none." Then the stone closes him in.

DM

Move Silently: **46 against 20%—failure.** The gagged buckle holds, but Crake’s free knee scrapes the pick-ridged stone. Ten feet past the fork, straight ends at a dry lip above a broader soot-black tunnel. Glossy black grease crosses its floor three feet below. Crake does not cross. Hear Noise: **2—success.** Several slow, wet raspings work inside the soot, out of sight. He backs out before thirty breaths; nothing follows. This branch reaches an occupied soot-and-grease run—not yet provably the exterior arch.

Doss Greeve

Doss backs off the jamb half a step, mace rising off his hip, collar still in the corner of his eye. "Book Crake's find and stop there: the straight run drops onto grease ground with something breathing wet in the soot. That's not the tenant's parlour — that's hers, and his door opens onto her floor. Clean boots over black grease means he knows her hours or feeds at her table. Either way, the small boots matter less than they did. "My piece: nobody crawls to that lip. We hold this room, we leave the low passage open for the man we paid to hail, and we take her measure from strength, not from a crawl. The six hundred is on her, not on him — and now we know which door she'd knock on."

DM

Doss shifts half a step along Magpie’s established arc; the construct’s dust collar remains whole. The record is narrower than his conclusion: a dry lip overlooks black grease, with several wet raspings in unseen soot. Breathing, Sootmurk’s ownership, the tenant’s allegiance, and any door she would use remain unproved. The dry lip also means small boots need not cross the grease. Contract correction: the reward requires ending the road threat and clearing the shrine, not merely finding or killing a named creature. Doss’s proposal stands for Iva.

Iva Marrow

"Called. No knees on that lip again — the straight run opens on her floor. We don't knock on a dragon's parlour crawling. We hold this room. Ten years of clean bed in her cliff says it's off her road, and it's good ground: one brass door, one low mouth, and anything coming up it eats my point single-file. Crake — off your knees, carry word to Tansy, rest at the gate; she's watched alone all day. Quist keeps lip and flame. Doss keeps the collar. I keep the mouth, point set. Tenant comes home, he gets the hail, not steel — ten years clean in her cliff means he knows her hours, and the loose brass bolt is likely his tool besides. I'll pay for that talk. No boots by dark, we pull back and read her from outside."

DM

Iva holds the low mouth with shield and sword. Her thrust is readied against anything forcing its way out; a small-booted figure presenting peacefully gets the hail instead. Nothing emerges. Ledger corrections before the long watch: the room has no established ten-year age, and no loose brass lightning bolt has been found—only crossbow quarrels. The three brass bolts remain on the chapel statue. The grease-run’s ownership is unproved. Her orders move nobody yet. The wait to dark has not elapsed; both candles continue burning.

Tansy Root

Tansy cuts the tick — gate zero, arch zero — and gives the dying light to the small jobs a long watch leaves undone. Thumb down the sling cord: still true. One stone out of the pouch and set on the flat of the lintel, where her hand will find it without her eyes. Then she lets the marsh do the talking. Frogs and reed-birds keep up their racket while nothing big moves out there; a silence comes before any shadow shows. She listens for the racket holding. "Keep singing," she tells the marsh, barely aloud. "Nothing's been paid for yet."

DM

Daylight is still morning-grey, not dying. The marsh has raised no sustained frog or reed-bird chorus today, so Tansy cannot use its silence as a change-marker. Hear Noise: **1—success.** From within the soot-black arch comes a slow wet rasp, three strokes, a pause, then one more. Nothing crosses the mouth; gate and arch tallies remain zero. Her sling cord is sound and one stone waits under her hand, but the sling remains loose rather than readied.

Aldous Quist

Quist holds lip and flame, and gives the dark his ears — the rasp Crake brought back: steady, or climbing? "Steady's a sleeper. Climbing's a walker, and my flame leans back before anything reaches us — I call it if it moves. "Two pieces for the caller. One: the draft test wants the far end. If the call sends Crake out with word, let him carry a lit stub — if Tansy's arch mouth stirs the flame, that hole breathes, and a breathing arch over grease ground is Crake's tunnel wearing a second door. Her hall mapped, no knee down. "Two: we hold to dark — that's a full day. Sleep in turns. Give me my rest and I'll set Sleep on my tongue, and the next descent goes with a silver bullet, not a wish."

DM

Hear Noise: **5—failure.** Quist catches no distinct rasp from the low passage now, so he cannot call it steady or climbing. His candle continues leaning inward without reversal. Tansy has not carried her arch-sound inside. Testing that mouth requires someone to carry flame 120’ to it on their own turn; matching drafts would support, not prove, one connected tunnel. Rest correction: watching here until dark is not complete rest and will not prepare **Sleep**. An uninterrupted night’s rest at camp can put the spell in Quist’s memory next morning.

Crake Fenn

Crake rises off his knees, takes his lit stub from the lip, and carries the word out — closet, great hall, gate. "Tansy — the straight run drops onto black grease, ten feet past the fork, something rasping wet in the soot beyond. Iva holds the room till dark; the tenant gets a hail, not steel. Quist wants your arch read." He kneels inside her chalk line, flame held to the arch mouth, ribbon uncrossed. "The low run drinks air inward — I felt it pull at my flame under there. If this mouth drinks the same way, her hall has two doors and we hold both frames. Now — what have your ears had off this hole today?"

DM

Crake spends the turn retracing the occupied room, closet, chapel, and collapse. He reaches Tansy’s station and gives her the report, then kneels just inside her intact chalk line with his candle shielded. The soot-black arch is still **120’ north**. He cannot also reach its mouth this turn; a flame held at the great gate tests only open marsh air, not the arch’s draught. No connection is established. His question waits for Tansy’s own answer. Quist retains the second candle at the low mouth.

Doss Greeve

Doss holds his half-step at the hinge, eyes on the sleeping hands, and gives the free hand to the floor — one sweep of the walked arc: the door seam, the wall-base, the stones behind the brass leaf. No nearer the dust collar than he stands, no hand on brass, nothing of the tenant's opened. "Quist's prong. If the sleeper's bolt lies loose in this room, we hold the key to six hands before dark — that's worth a sweep. If it's not here, it rides a belt down that run, and I want that booked before anyone sleeps in this house."

DM

Doss can search the hinge-reach without abandoning the collar watch. By hand he clears the threshold seam, exposed wall-base, and space behind the open brass leaf: dust, grit, and robe-flakes—no bolt, prong, key, or other loose metal. No roll is needed for an exposed space holding nothing. He has not searched the whole closet anew or touched the occupant’s room. The only known objects shaped for the construct’s socket remain the statue’s three brass bolts. Absence here does not place one on anybody’s belt or down the run.

Iva Marrow

Iva keeps her post at the low mouth, but gives her knees the wall — back to stone, sword flat across her thighs, point still covering the run. She eats one strip of iron ration without taking her eyes off the dark. "Quist — when your candle's down to a stub, wake me for your sleep. I can watch a mouth and chew at once; none of the rest of you can watch and read spellbooks both. "Crake's due back before dark with Tansy's word off the arch. Till then, nothing changes at this end: hail gets talk, anything bigger gets the point."

DM

Iva eats the strip and finishes with both attention and sword returned to the mouth; no full ration unit is spent. Nothing emerges. Her readied terms stand: a peaceful small-booted figure gets the hail; anything larger forcing out meets her thrust. Quist cannot prepare **Sleep** by dozing here when the candle gutters. He needs uninterrupted night rest and spellbook study afterward. Crake has already reached Tansy at the great gate, not the arch. Tansy can give him her report on her turn; he cannot carry it back inward before his next.

Tansy Root

Tansy keeps her voice at a whisper that carries no farther than Crake's ear. "My ears had this, once: three slow wet strokes out of that black, a pause, one more. Same count Crake heard under the floor. That's your two doors breathing one air — call it likely and book it. "The marsh's quiet-tell's dead — no frog chorus today to go silent. So we watch eyes-only till dark. Now you know what I know. "Get back before you're missed, and tell Iva my count: if a big shadow shows at either mouth, I run for the room shouting Magpie's name. Nobody waits on me."

DM

Tansy’s report reaches Crake alone. Evidence correction: Crake heard **several slow wet raspings**, but no counted rhythm; Tansy alone heard three strokes, a pause, then one. The matching sound and grease at both sites support a possible connection, but do not prove one tunnel or shared airflow. She remains on the lintel. Gate and arch tallies stay zero; her chalk line is whole and sling loose. A large shadow at either watched mouth now triggers retreat inward while shouting; small clean boots still receive a hail. The watch to dark has not elapsed.

Aldous Quist

Quist holds his post as called — candle set in the opening, flame upright in the inward lean, ears on the run. "Nothing to add but the ledger: two mouths, one wet rasp, both zero-traffic — likely her hall with two doors, not proved. We hold the terms. Small boots get the hail, anything on the flame gets my call before it's in candle reach. "Iva — I take your offer. Candle's good for a while yet; when it gutters, I take the wall and my sleep, and you keep the mouth. First chance at true dark, I want my book open and Sleep on my tongue before this house sees us again."

DM

Hear Noise: **6—failure.** Quist catches no distinct sound. His candle keeps its steady inward lean; no pressure change gives him cause to call. The flame-watch may reveal moving air, but cannot guarantee advance warning of an approach. Information boundary: Tansy whispered only to Crake. Quist does **not** yet know that she heard rasping at the exterior arch or that its tally stayed zero. He can record only the inner run until Crake returns. The candle has not guttered. Sleeping at this wall still would not prepare **Sleep**; that requires an uninterrupted night’s rest and later study.

Crake Fenn

Crake nods once at Tansy's whisper, takes his candle off the lintel, and goes — great gate, collapse, chapel, closet, back down to the brass door. At the low mouth he gives the room the whole of it, pitched for Iva and Quist both: "Tansy's ears had the same wet rasp off the black arch — three strokes, a pause, one more, same count I heard under the floor. Likely her hall with two doors, one in, one out, and neither of them ours yet. The marsh quiet-tell's dead — no frogs today, so no silence warns us. Her count stays zero at gate and arch. "And her standing word: big shadow at either mouth, she runs inside shouting Magpie's name, and nobody waits on her. Small boots still get a hail. "Called a rest, so I'm off my knees — I'll take wall and sleep at your word, Iva, once Quist's candle's down."

DM

Crake retraces the route and reaches the low mouth; his report now reaches Iva and Quist. Both burning candles are there with them. Established: wet rasping was heard once in the inner soot-tunnel and later at the exterior arch; black grease appears at both; no crossing was observed at gate or arch during Tansy’s watched intervals. The inner sound had **no counted rhythm**—only Tansy heard three, pause, one. This supports a connection, not one hall, two doors, or traffic direction. No rest has been called—only a hold until dark. Crake spent this turn moving and reporting; no sleep begins.

Doss Greeve

Doss holds the jamb, mace low, collar in the corner of his eye. When the room settles into its watch, he opens the brass-cornered ledger across his knee and reads the day aloud, pitched to carry the room and no farther. "One gold at the gate-sigil for talk that never came — booked as offering, not loss. Pell's estate stays on Pell. Hinge-sweep: nothing, booked as nothing. Balance toward the founder's bones: four hundred owed, nothing paid against it today." He snaps it shut. "Dark buys camp and a whole night's sleep — Quist his book, me my prayers, both tongues loaded by morning. And the statue's three bolts stay seated till then: rested and five-strong, we argue whether six hands fight on our side. Nothing wakes brass on a short night's sleep."

DM

Doss’s reading carries across the occupied room. Nothing answers from the low run; the construct’s dust collar remains whole. The bolts stay seated. This spends one watch interval—not the hours to dark. Rules correction: Doss is a 1st-level cleric and receives no spells yet; a night’s rest will not load a prayer mechanically. Quist can prepare **Sleep** only after withdrawing to camp, taking uninterrupted night rest, and studying his spellbook. The four-hundred-gold balance is Doss’s private account; no gold moves and no company debt is established by reading it aloud. Iva’s stated withdrawal at dark remains pending; daylight has not yet elapsed to dark.

Iva Marrow

"Book it as called, then." Iva doesn't shift from the wall; the point stays on the run. "Order of sleep, so no one argues it later: candle gutters, Quist takes the wall and his sleep — mouth's mine till then. Crake relieves me after, Doss sleeps last with the collar in reach. Nobody sleeps alone in this room, nobody sleeps past the brass door's sight. "And hear the shape of it now: dark comes, we walk out together — gate, not the run. Camp, full night, Quist gets his book. We come back at first light five-strong and argue the bolts awake on a full sleep, not these scraps."

DM

Iva keeps the low mouth covered. Nothing emerges; neither candle gutters. Her sleep rota is an order only—no other seat moves or begins sleeping on her turn, and dozing in this watched room would grant no spell preparation. Withdrawal through the gate at dark is now the caller’s standing call, but the intervening hours have not passed. Two logistics remain unnamed: Jory Pell’s body and estate still lie in the chapel, and Doss’s offered coin remains on the gate-sigil. Without bearers or retrieval actions, neither leaves with the five living Magpies. Tansy already knows the earlier dark-withdrawal plan; these inner-room details do not carry to her lintel.

Tansy Root

Tansy cuts the tick — gate zero, arch zero, and no new sound off the arch to add to her one count. She uses the slack to arm the dark pull-back: pouch counted stone by stone — the number said once, under her breath, so the count is hers before anyone runs. Then chalk on the lintel: a Root-arrow pointing to the cliff path, her mill-mark beside it, plain enough that a Magpie in a hurry reads it at a glance and no stranger does. When the company walks out tonight, she's the tail — last through the gate, sling strung, eyes on the marsh till the arch is behind them all.

DM

Tansy’s interval remains quiet: no crossing and no second rasp. Her lintel mark is established. The arrow’s direction is plain to anyone who sees it; the mill-mark identifies Tansy only to someone who knows her sign. Ammunition ruling: the listed full pouch began with twenty sling stones. One was fired at the spider, leaving **nineteen**, including the stone staged on the lintel. Her sling remains loose now; declaring herself tail arms nothing until withdrawal actually begins. The watch has completed another round, but daylight has not yet reached dark.

Aldous Quist

Quist holds the lip — flame upright in its inward lean — and gives the caller the hole in the dark plan. "Pell's estate was booked to stay on Pell, and nothing leaves this cliff that nobody carries. His purse is company coin. His beech tally is worth the purse twice over: a carrier's tally is a bearer's claim — the Wexley counting-house pays on it, or the sender pays to buy it back quiet. It's also his name in wood for the assize, when the duke asks what his road's been eating. "Strip the belt before dark. I won't haul a dead man through the marsh at night — but paper worth gold doesn't ride out on a corpse. Caller's call."

DM

Quist keeps the flame-watch; its inward lean does not change, and nothing answers. Ledger correction: Pell’s purse remains **Pell’s estate**, not company coin. The tally reads only **JORY PELL — WEXLEY–KELFREK ROAD**; it bears no bearer clause, payment promise, sender, or stated value. It may identify him before an assize or counting-house, but any claim or hush-price is Quist’s speculation. Taking estate into custody would not make it company treasure. Nothing is stripped on Quist’s turn. Question called for withdrawal: carry Pell whole; carry his identified belt and estate in custody while leaving the body; or leave both for a daylight return. Crake and Doss get one line; Iva calls. Tansy is out of earshot.

Crake Fenn

Crake, from the wall, one line for the call: "Take the belt now and book it held in trust — Pell's estate, by count, not company coin. A tally is a dead man's name; leave the name on the body and it's the marsh's by morning. I'll carry it and the book both."

DM

Crake’s line is entered: carry Pell’s belt and its attached estate in trust, with Crake volunteering as custodian. He remains at the low mouth; nothing has moved from Pell and the caller has not ruled. The belt currently bears the purse, tally, knife, and tinderbox. No book was found on Pell: Doss’s ledger and Quist’s wax tablets remain with their owners.

Doss Greeve

Doss stays on the jamb, collar in the corner of his eye, and gives his line for the call. "Take the belt — but it's counted before it's carried. Pell's kit is Pell's estate: two gold, eleven silver, six copper, knife, fire-steel, tally, entered in the book as held in trust for his heirs, not company coin and not anybody's find. I'll do the counting at the strip. Crake carries it, and it's booked against his name. "And when we walk, my gold rides with us — I paid it at the sigil for talk that never came, and it stays paid. It doesn't sit on this floor all night."

DM

Doss’s line is entered: take Pell’s belt and estate in trust, recount it at transfer, and assign custody to Crake. No transfer or new custody entry occurs before Iva’s ruling. Exact-item correction: Pell carries a **square wooden tinderbox**; no separate fire-steel was identified. The three inner voices agree on taking the belt; Iva has the call. Doss’s offered gold still lies at the gate. If he retrieves it later, the offer ends—it cannot both remain paid and ride away with him. Retrieval requires his action when he reaches the sigil.

Iva Marrow

"Called. The belt comes off Pell before we walk — Doss counts it at the strip, aloud, purse, tally, knife, tinderbox, coin by piece. Crake carries it, booked against his name, held in trust for Pell's heirs. The body stays in the chapel where he lies — no dead man hauled through the marsh at dark for a belt we can strip standing. "That's the last question till dark. Hail gets talk, anything bigger eats the point." She holds the mouth, back to stone, sword flat on her thighs.

DM

The call is closed: Pell’s body remains in the chapel; his belt and attached estate are to be recounted by Doss, transferred to Crake, and carried in trust. No heir has been identified, so the trust is for Pell’s estate or lawful kin—not a known claimant. That transfer still requires Doss and Crake to reach Pell and act before withdrawal. For now Iva holds the low mouth; nothing emerges, and both candles continue burning. Doss’s offered gold remains a separate unresolved choice at the gate.

Tansy Root

Tansy cuts the tick — three things now: gate, arch, and Doss's paid gold still sitting on the sigil — then gives the light to two reads that matter before dark. The ribbon first. Short of crossing it, she reads the nearest smear's skin the way the mill taught her to read flour: glistening wet is hours old; dull, skinned-over has sat a night or more. Fresh grease at this door means the beast still uses it; old means this door's gone quiet. Then the walk-out. Gate to marsh path, footing fixed in her eye — stones that bear a boot, mud that drinks one. Night's road gets walked twice; she walks it now, in daylight.

DM

The nearest smear refuses the flour test: glossy and soft throughout, with grit beneath the sheen and no drying skin. Its condition cannot distinguish hours from older grease; only recent webbed-foot traffic is established. Tansy climbs down and walks the immediate gate-to-path line. Firm sandstone runs along the cliffward edge; two low black-mud pockets can be bypassed there without leaving the path. That fixes footing, not nighttime safety. She ends at the marsh-path junction, having left the lintel watch; gate and arch were not continuously watched, so no zero tick is earned. Doss’s coin remains visible on the sigil.

Aldous Quist

Quist holds the lip, flame upright in the inward lean, and keeps his hands at the wax while he watches — the day going in by tablet. "Caller, one piece on the strip. It wants Doss and Crake both back through the brass door — room drops to two, and the collar stands unwatched while Doss counts. Say that plain, and run the strip in daylight, not at last light: my flame and your point hold an hour of small boots better than a dark rush. "And when my candle gutters, let a fresh stub take the opening before I go to the wall. The flame keeps the watch while I sleep."