## Turn 1

The common room of the Splintered Tankard hums with the low murmur of morning. Smoke coils from the hearth fire, mixing with the smell of barley stew and wet wool. Mistress Otta Venn moves between tables with the practised ease of a woman who has survived things — her curved knife catching the firelight as she passes.

Dillion sits near the stump of the enormous black tree that gives the tavern its name, finishing a bowl of thick porridge. He is a newcomer to the Keep — a mud-spattered walled town where two rivers meet beneath a granite outcrop. The faces around him are half hopeful, half haunted.

The morning bells ring — tinny and dissonant — and the Market Square beyond the tavern door begins to stir. A dead oak at the square's centre bears a notice board nailed with handbills and pleas.

Dillion drains his cup, leaves a few coppers on the table, and steps out into the Market Square. The board is crowded with papers curling at the edges.

Four notices catch his eye:

— **Old mill at Three Bridges.** The miller vanished months ago. Neighbours report a clicking sound at night. Ask at Weber's Smithy. 5 silver offered.

— **Vanished caravan.** A merchant caravan on the Eastern road. Cargo found intact. People gone. No tracks. 15 silver at the Guild Hall for information.

— **Bones wanted.** Baron's hunters found a pit of bones in the Amber Hills. 2 silver per skeleton delivered to the Guild Hall.

— **Lost signet ring.** Family heirloom. Ask at Fenna's Curios. Reward negotiable.

The mill job tugs at him — coin, and close enough to test his mettle. He heads for Weber's Smithy.


## Turn 2

Weber's Smithy clangs and hisses at the west edge of the Market Square. The smith himself is a hunchbacked man with forearms like hawsers, who carries on a constant low conversation with his hammer — a tool he calls "Bell."

"The old mill?" Weber grunts, not looking up from a glowing horseshoe. "Been dead ten years. Then three months ago, the clicking started. Gears turning on their own in the dead of night. Kids dare each other to go look. None of 'em go twice."

He offers 5 silver to investigate. Dillion haggles.

Dillion talks Weber up to 8 silver, plus a free mace sharpening if there's danger. They spit-shake on it.

In the Market Square, Dillion spots Lark — a scrawny errand boy with quick eyes and dirt-caked knees. The kid knows every shortcut in the Keep. For the promise of a share of loot, Lark spills what he knows: a loose board behind the mill's water wheel, scratching sounds from inside, and once — a dark shape moving past a cracked window.

Dillion grabs a pitchfork from a stall for Lark, and the two head east on the King's Road as the sun climbs toward noon.


## Turn 3

The old mill squats at Three Bridges where the Greywater bends east. Its wheel is half-rotted, motionless. The roof sags. Wind moans through gaps in the planking. The air smells of damp wood and something underneath — a sweet, acrid tang.

Through a grime-caked window, Dillion glimpses a dark shape. Motionless. Waiting.

Behind the water wheel, just as Lark said: a loose board, nails rusted half-through. Beyond it, darkness.

Dillion pries the board open — the nails give with a groan. He lights a torch, the flame pushing back a small circle of darkness, and crawls inside.

The storage room is thick with dust. Crates rot in the corners. And above — a rustle of dry sinew.

A creature drops from the ceiling. Pale skin, sinewy limbs, a mouth full of too many needles. It hisses and lunges.

Dillion's mace meets it mid-air. The impact crunches ribs — 2 damage, and the creature staggers. Before it can recover, Dillion brings the mace down on its skull. A wet crack, and it crumples. 5 damage — dead.

He cuts off an ear as proof for Weber, and finds the creature's gut holds 3 silver and a rusted iron key.


## Turn 4

The iron key fits an iron-bound chest in the corner. Inside: 12 silver, a silver locket holding a lock of auburn hair, and a bundle of love letters — from a woman named Marren to a woman named Elara. The later letters grow desperate. Someone was watching the mill. Someone in hoods.

Upstairs, the creature's nest: shredded cloth, gnawed bones, a scattering of coins. And a leather-bound journal. The miller's hand: cramped, sloping.

He'd trapped the creature in the cellar. Then the Guild came — stored something below. Then the hooded watchers arrived. The last entry is a single line:
*"They know I've seen it. I'll seal the hatch and pray."*

A clay jar sits beside the journal. Grey powder inside, and a note: *"For the lock. Sprinkle on the hasp."* A collapsed shelf hides a padlocked trapdoor in the floorboards.

Dillion sprinkles the grey powder on the padlock. The metal hisses, bubbles, and crumbles like chalk. He swings the trapdoor open and shouts into the darkness below — a taunt, a challenge.

Something answers. A smaller version of the pale creature scrabbles up the ladder. Dillion's mace takes its head off in a single blow — 7 damage. It twitches and stills.

He lights a fresh torch and drops it into the cellar. The light reveals an iron chest — and a woman, gaunt and filthy, shielding her eyes. Lark pats her down — clean. She says her name is Rina. A locksmith. Hired to crack the chest. Ambushed by hooded figures. Locked in for three days.

Dillion jumps down. The chest is empty — whatever was inside is gone. But on the floor lies a brass button bearing a crest: a closed fist gripping a gear. Beyond a crack in the wall, a natural tunnel slopes downward, its walls sweating moisture. The air moving through it smells of the river — it likely passes under the Greywater.

Dillion decides to head back to the Keep. Report to Weber. Get paid. Gear up Rina. The tunnel can wait.


## Turn 5

Back at the Keep, morning light washes the muddy streets. Dillion leads Rina and Lark through the Market Square, drawing a few glances — a blood-spattered man, a gaunt woman in a dead miller's coat, a grinning boy carrying a pitchfork.

At Weber's Smithy, the hunchback examines the creature's ear with a grunt of approval. He counts out 8 silver and sharpens Dillion's mace — the edge gleams, fresh and deadly. He eyes Rina. "She one of Fenna's lot?"

At the Splintered Tankard, Otta takes one look at Rina and ushers her to the back for a bath and clean clothes. Dillion has a pocket of time.

Dillion hits the Market Square. He buys 6 fresh torches and 5 days of rations. He pays Lark 5 silver for his help — the boy pockets it with a wide grin and disappears into the crowd.

Rina emerges from the Tankard's back room scrubbed pink, wearing a patched shirt and breeches that Otta found for her. Over a bowl of stew, she lays out her skills: locks, traps, a steady hand with a crossbow, and the quiet nerves of someone who has worked in the dark before.

Dillion takes her to Weber's for a light crossbow, then to a stall for a padded leather vest. Armed and armoured, Rina nods — ready.

They buy two long ropes and head east on the King's Road as the sun begins its afternoon slope. The mill waits. The tunnel waits. And somewhere below, whatever the Guild was hiding.


## Turn 6

The mill is quiet as they slip through the loose board and descend into the cellar. The bodies of the creatures still lie where they fell. The crack in the wall breathes cool, damp air.

Dillion goes first, torch high. The tunnel slopes steadily down, rough-hewn at first, then opening into a natural cavern. The ceiling pulses with bioluminescent fungi — pale blue light that throws no shadows. The air thickens with the smell of damp stone, blood, and something sharp — mint? Medicine?

A stone door stands on the far wall, carved with the fist-and-gear crest. It sits slightly ajar.

Beyond it: a chamber. A tall construct of grey stone stands motionless — red eyes fixed on the entrance. It wears tattered cloth and rusted armour. It watches. It does not attack.

Rina spots a tripwire at ankle height. They step over it and edge along the wall toward a left-hand corridor. The construct's red eyes track them, but it does not move.

The corridor leads to an iron-banded wooden door with a heavy lock. Rina's picks are quiet. The lock clicks open.

Beyond: a storage room. Two men — one bearded, one scarred — sit playing cards on an upturned crate. Crossbows lean against the wall.

Dillion and Rina slip behind a stack of crates. The guards haven't seen them.

Dillion catches Rina's eye. She nods — she's ready. On his signal, she rises and looses a bolt. It takes Scar through the neck — he gurgles and drops, dead before he hits the floor.

Beard lunges for his crossbow. Dillion is faster — his mace catches the man across the throat. A wet crunch. Beard joins his partner.

Silent. Clean.

They drag the bodies into the shadows. Search yields: 19 silver, a brass key ring with two keys, and a handbill bearing the fist-and-gear crest — a list of names with "Kellis — LATE" scrawled beside one.

Rina finds a stack of delivery manifests and a folded note: *"The Weeper is restless. Bring another before the Chime. — H."*

An iron-reinforced door stands at the far end. Dillion listens — nothing. He rigs a rope from behind the crates and opens it from a safe distance. Beyond: darkness, and a tunnel sloping deeper into the earth.

The air grows warmer, wetter. A sound emerges from the dark ahead — slow, rhythmic breathing. Not human.

The tunnel opens into a chamber with a pit at its centre. Chains descend into the darkness. The breathing comes from below. On the far side, a second iron door.

Dillion and Rina skirt the pit, keeping to the wall. Whatever is down there does not stir.

Beyond the far door: a short hallway ends in a heavy velvet curtain. Warm light glows at its edges. A voice chants in a low rhythm — words Dillion doesn't recognise.

Dillion parts the curtain a finger's width. A study. A chalk circle on the floor, candles at each cardinal point. A dagger at the centre, its blade dark with old blood. A figure in a hooded robe stands over it, chanting.

A weaver. Working something.

Dillion lets the curtain fall and steps back to consult Rina.


## Turn 7

You pull back from the velvet curtain, your heart hammering. Rina watches you, crossbow raised, eyes asking the question.

You motion her closer, pressing your back to the damp stone wall. The chanting continues beyond the curtain — a low, rhythmic murmur in a language you don't recognise. Male voice. Steady. Building toward something.

*The room beyond:* Warm candlelight. A chalk circle on the floor — intricate, layered symbols spiralling inward to a centre where a curved dagger rests on what looks like a folded piece of cloth. Shelves along the walls crammed with jars, scrolls, bones. A low wooden table with an open book, a smoking censer, and a human skull.

And the weaver himself — you caught only a glimpse. Dark robes. Seated cross-legged before the circle, hands raised, chanting.

The corridor continues past the curtain — you saw it curve to the right before you pulled back. Another door, maybe, or another chamber.

Rina whispers: *"That's blood magick. I've seen the signs before. He's not just praying — he's winding something up. If he finishes..."*

She looks at you, waiting.

Waits and deliberates, weighing the risk of waiting for the ritual to finish against the danger of interrupting a blood-weaver mid-chant.

## Turn 7

Rina rises from the shadows, her crossbow level with the gap in the velvet curtain. She breathes out slowly, waits for the precise moment between the weaver's chanted syllables, and pulls the trigger. The bolt whistles through the air and bites deep into the weaver's throat. He lets out a strangled gurgle, his chant breaking into a wet cough as he collapses forward over the chalk circle.

Dillion pushes past the curtain, mace raised. The weaver is slumped over his circle, blood pooling around the ritual tools. Dillion doesn't wait to see if he's still breathing; he leaps forward and throws a coil of rope around the dying man's torso, binding his arms and neck with frantic haste. The weaver's movements are weak, his strength fading fast as he struggles against the hempen cords. Dillion cinches the knot tight, pinning the weaver's arms to his sides.


## Turn 8

Dillion pulls the rope free, the weaver's body slumping lifelessly across the chalk circle. The blood is fresh, dark and steaming in the cool air of the study. Dillion leans over the body, checking for any sign of life, but the weaver is gone. He turns his attention to the dagger. The blade is made of dark, jagged obsidian, its surface etched with fine, glowing runes that pulse with a faint, sinister red light. As Dillion's fingers brush the hilt, a jolt of unnatural cold travels up his arm, leaving his skin tingling. He lifts the dagger from the center of the ritual, noting that the cloth beneath it is soaked through with fresh blood. Nearby, the ritual book lies open to a page covered in frantic, blood-stained scribbles and drawings of the very ritual that just ended. The room is silent now, save for the faint crackle of the censer and the distant sound of water dripping somewhere in the darkness beyond the study door.


## Turn 9

Dillion carefully pulls the obsidian dagger from the pool of blood, tucking it into his belt. He turns his attention to the ritual book, which lies splayed open on the blood-slicked altar. The pages are heavy with dark, frenetic scribbles, and the ink seems to shimmer with a malevolent life of its own. The drawings depict a creature emerging from a pit, its form a nightmare of limbs and teeth. Dillion traces the lines of the ritual, trying to grasp its true purpose, but the symbols are alien and unsettling. As he studies the glyphs, he feels a deep sense of dread, as if the very words are watching him. He realizes this was no mere sacrifice, but an attempt to summon something far more terrible than he had imagined.


## Turn 10

Dillion licks his lips, the dark allure of the book warring with the primal fear in his gut. He decides it's too dangerous to leave intact. He douses the edges of the tome with spilled blood and sets it ablaze with a small flame from his flint. The parchment curls and blackens, the sinister symbols shrieking in a way only he can hear before turning to ash in the ritual chamber's heat. With the evidence gone, Dillion and Rina begin a careful sweep of the study, searching for anything else the weaver might have left behind. Their eyes scan the cluttered desk and the stone shelves, looking for clues or treasure. They find nothing but dust and the lingering scent of old blood, though the eerie silence of the room seems to press against their ears, heavier than before.


## Turn 11

Dillion pauses, the heavy silence of the study pressing against him as he looks to Rina. The young woman's face is pale, her eyes reflecting the fading embers of the ritual book. She pulls her cloak tighter around her, her hands trembling slightly as she gestures toward the dark tunnel uncovered beneath the altar. 'The weaver is dead, but his work remains,' she whispers, her voice brittle. 'The air in this tunnel... it feels wrong. Like something is breathing just out of sight. We have what we came for, Dillion, and we have a survivor to protect. Returning to the Keep is the only way to truly stay safe, but if there's more of this filth down here, we can't just leave it to fester.'

The weight of her words hangs in the stagnant air. Dillion feels the pull of the unknown, the lure of the secrets hidden within the earth, but the cold dread from the ritual book remains fresh in his mind. Every shadow in the corner of the room seems to shift, mocking his hesitation.
