Oathsworn: Into The Deepwood…

the debut offering from Shadowborne Games. It’s a dark fantasy legacy adventure game with huge monsters in boss battles against the players controlling a small elite squad called a Free Company. There will be a “choose-your-own-adventure” style book over approximately 200,000 words which will detail the grim story of the adventurers as you make life and death choices. A large portion of that background, writing and worldbuilding is my own, working with lead designer Jamie Jolly.

Behind The Scenes

Article Here:
Oathsworn Worldbuilding: Language – The Knock

Oathsworn Worldbuilding: Economy

Oathsworn Worldbuilding: Character – Midge

Fableman Tarren’s Table

Is this a D&D style Fantasy Setting?

Fableman Tarren overhears your comment and leans over from his table to yours.

Fantasy, Jeremiah? Wish it were so. Keen be running through dungeons, are you? Dragons? Fairy tales. 

This be the Realm Of The Deepwood now. Been out there past city walls at night, have you? You've both legs and what seems a whole mind, so I doubt it. I've been there. I've walked along the Wire Road, I have. Razorvine. Ravagers. Have you not heard of the Scar Tribes? 

I've a scar of a slash on my calf wide enough to stick your thumb in. What from? Don't know. The Deepwood. The Deepwood hungers. 

I've seen the things in the woods. Big as houses. Dark as death. 

Your wife. You want to take your wife along. I'm hoping you've no children. This is no place for them. If you and the lass head to the woods... Well, I hope your children are prepared to be just so many more orphans crying in the streets. 

Dungeons. Heh. The wood holds the terror, not some safe stone dungeon.

Dragons. Were that the things out there that kind, Jeremiah.

Intrigue. Now that, Jeremiah. Aye, that there is.

My throat runs dry now. You'll buy me that next drink for me saving you the terror of stepping out the walls now, won't you, Jeremiah?

Is there a place to find armory, aid, and a good nights rest?

As good as might be found, I would suppose.

As any good sized city, we've a Banksmith. Turn your iron to weapons or weapons to money as you see fit. I hear his trade price is fair, but I've never had quite enough iron on myself to take advantage of his particular skills.

I think you may find more here looking for aid than offering. If you mean a touch of blight or greenworm bite or somesuch, you can try the apothecary.

She's a bit on the moody side, if you catch my meaning. Meaning if she get's up on the wrong side of the bed, quite the row you'll be in for. Watch what you say round her.

Stay away from those street kids, too. Not sure how much you can trust those rats. Always pulling shards from my tip plate.

Good night's rest. Ain't we all been looking for it? Ain't we all...

Tell me of the folk who live in this city of Bastone; About their ambitions, dreams, hopes and woes.

You speak of fairer times. You speak of different places. You've not traveled long the streets of Bastone.

Ambition? Ambition is the currency of the rich. A comfort and luxury not afforded here. 

Hopes? To hope the wall holds. To hope they are never asked to step outside. To hope the outside never steps inside. Hope the guards stand strong. Hope for a meal. Hope to wake up tomorrow. Or maybe for some, to hope not to.

Dreams.

Now would come a thing to say.

Would I could say the same of dreams I have of hope. That there were none. But lately. Something is wrong in the dreams in Bastone. Everyone knows it, but few speak it. Grown men cry out in the night as children would. Others still sleep and sleep on through the day come dawn through supper. Some dreams stay with you when awake, and you still feel them. Still hear them. Still see. They claw at your waking moments.

I myself swear upon animus, Pot's Peace and oath. I've seen within my dreams something watching. Eyes like sunset. Breath like dust. 

You could blame witches, you could blame a turned potato, you could blame the rain. I blame the Deepwood. These walls may be holding out the razorvine and the trees, the Ravagers and mire. The walls may make the scar chieftains take a step back. But something is feeling it's way in. Through crack and crevice, every chip and hole. Something presses at the back of the mind, like so much dirt on a cellar door.

Don't ask of dreams.

You want to know the ambitions of a Bastonian? To become someone who never dreams again.

Where can I get the best drink in Bastone?

The Broken Oak. If you can get away from Greycane. He sings too loudly.

Beyond that, no place holds candle to it. You ask for Yement's draft. Fine potato mash, burn a hole through your gullet it will, but you won't mind the pain.

Yement, he's sweet on Celeste from the underways. She let's him at first harvest. Pulls the best root for himself, so I heard. Makes a better mash.

The stuff's almost clear.

How long has it been since it was safe to travel beyond the walls?

You jest, right? Travel outside called safe? Before anyone in this city was born. Who knows how many generations afore that. May as well ask how long has there been potato.

Where do they find you people?

Who reigns here?

Now that all depends upon what the scholars call scale, then, doesn't it?

Who reigns this room? That might right be me, now. The bar be reigned by Holsten Cor, been running place come near ten year now, I suppose.

But you think you're asking about Bastone. Reigns. More days than not, am I joking?

His Highest, Most Pompous, Never Broke A Sweat, Fat Bottomed, Palace Squatter Davenish holds his place under his pretty and manicured thumbnail as it were. I'm one of his top supporters, let me tell you.

But one thing he done right, that I will grant. Heard he sent word with a supply caravan a few sets back for a Free Company.

If we suppose that caravan ain't got ate by the Deepwood and no ill fate fallen, we might finally get some peace around these parts and maybe sleep without that one eye open behind your back. 

Who reigns the back alleys at night?

The Fableman takes a long, slow drink, lowers his stein and stares.

I've drunk not nearly enough to want to wake with my throat slit part. That's a question you'll not get answered, not by me, and a question never asked again in front of my eyes, understand?

What’s the biggest, meanest thing you’ve seen?

Come what comes and come what may. Better head you've taken to now.

Alright. What I tell you be no children's tale, no fable, though that's the title I wear. I swear on Pot's Peace, oath and all. This is truth spoken as truth what was.

Must be near three year back now. I was with trade group gone to Verum and come back, pockets and bellies full. Moon bright. Seeing clear as clear could. Six of us gone from Bastone the last full moon. We come back seven. Edrick stayed in Verum, had cousins there, promised him a job carting. We come back with Young Tom and his new bride Aristel. Least that's what we left Verum with. 

Usual deal. Join a trot group along the wire road, you carry packs. Harlbeck gave us two guardsmen, so we were four gone with packs, coming back with five. Trades was good. Mail, herb and tool for same.

Afore dawn we grab the wire.

Dusk falls. The guards done right. Cleared the vine, kept the wire clean.

Young Tom. We hear the sound. That sound of the wire when you pluck it. You know it. The low snap, like a lute played by a giant. Young Tom. There's a sound. A scream. Might be Young Tom. Might be what come and took. The woods were so deep there and smell of thundercap. Could see not five paces. Aristel. Her scream was clear. One moment there was her man, next, she wore his blood. 

And it was pouring. Not rain, lad. Young Tom.

We looked up to the trunk and vine. It was larger than two buffalo, maybe three. More eyes it had than them. Mouth like a beak from a dried dead crow. Skin mottled grey, could be mud or scale. Great claws gripping the trunks, leaving the marks we all seen ten thousand times before.

A ravager.

A bristle with spine and muscled through like some wild dog. Looked crafted like torn from bark and trunk, the Deepwood come live. What's left of Young Tom hanging from that skull's mouth.

Could I say it had six legs or four, I will never be sure. Wiping bits of Aristel's groom from my eyes, we ran. We didn't look for his pack. we ran. You try, you know, you try when you run. To keep that one hand on the wire. It slows you. So you take steps, you grab it, you let go, all of us, plucking that wire to that damned sound, not wanting to lose sight of it.

The Deepwood gone quiet then. No more hiss and hum, rattle and caw. Don't know if it was the ravager come silent it, or us damn fool trader's thinking we could go to Verum and back and not die.

We know there's the old guardpost over the ridge, but we don't know how far. We don't know anything. We just know we keep running. And we hear it. By my dead mother, it was right behind us, running fast as us, but not on the ground. Trunk to trunk, vine to vine.

I'll never know, no matter how many times I nightmare it again, I will never know. How it got there.

But it was in front of us. Just dropped down. Thorned mass of beak, eye and muscle. The guards, now, Harlbeck's men, of course they carry just the light packs. They done what they should. Cut the straps and let the mail drop. Swords more ready than hearts, they stood.

I, lad, did not. The ravager steps into the woods off one side to circle round. I saw it and then not. The breathing, that hissing rough sound, I heard that. With the wire road cleared to the front, I ran.

Aristel in front of me screams, falls, and those guards, they fought that thing. Sword and claw, beak, eye and fist.

I may have run, but not without honor. I grab Aristel under her arms and take with. Behind us, beast and guard. In front, one man, I know not his name. Another, maybe more, run to the Deepwood. No need tell that tale.

Those guards fought hard and earned the iron for their wives, they did. Aristel and I make it to the guardpost. I don't know if they killed the ravager, or just got it too mad to follow.

Six gone to Verum. Seven head back. All that makes it to the gate with the guards from that guardpost come night is me and most of Aristel, less a leg the apothecary kept.

That's no fable, lad.

What’s up with the wire? That dense out there?

The fableman sighs heavily and shakes his head, shoulders dropping.

I'm beginning to think it's that dense in here...

The Deepwood grows over any decent road in a moon's time if not a night. There's ruins out there aplenty for any fool to go look. Only bits of what was the strongest stone remains. And it's not like caravans be running out there trampling paths flat. The undergrowth spreads back just as dense in a fortnight.

So the wire. 

Eyebolt of Iron, Struck deep to the tree. 
Through it runs wire, As far as can see.
When you go trekking, keep wire in fist.
For if you let go, you soon will be missed.

Does anyone practice magic here?

You a witch?

Not I. Have you seen one?

Might have. You know the apothecary, Lyceen? Not that rubbish old man by the underways, Garrin. I mean the woman.

I'm not one to spread rumors. Not for free, least not.

Heard more than one mouth speak she's with the elements, if you get me. She does good work, so I'm none to poke where not wanted. But she's done some healings and thing seem a right bit too good, if you understand.

If the oathsworn fail, will more step up to the challenge of clearing the evil that lurks outside the walls?

When they fail. There is no if. That is the Oath. There are always more taking the Oath. And the Deepwood can never be cleared.

The Deepwood Is.

What is beyond The Deepwood?

If anyone has found an end to it, they've not come back to say. Not that I've heard.

Are there any fabled artifacts rumored to be found within The Deepwood?

I think you mean have they been lost within the Deepwood.

Kings have lost their crowns out there. Whole caravans taken by the wood. Anything of value has been swallowed or taken by the Scar Tribes. It's hard enough to find the next guardpost along the wire. No one is out there looking for legends.

The Scar Tribes you say?

Men. Maybe. Once men. Animals. Brutes. Mindless savages, living in the trees. The Deepwood has taken them. They would rather live there as beasts than in city walls. They have buildings, they say, but in the trees. If you ever see one, you're too close.

Heard tale some that been exiled from their tribes. Broke some code or law we cannot fathom. Some still lust for blood. Revenge against their former kin. Some take the Oath. Just to spill blood still and be excused by law, if you ask me.

I am hungry! What kind of food can I order here? Any recommendations?

Mushroom steak with that red sauce is always good here. The potato stew is fine if the kettle not gone cold. Then it gets that crusty piece and I can't stand that.

The Underways, of course.

Underways ?! How big is this city, anyways?

Yes, Underways. The tunnels where they grow everything. Sorry we're not sitting at some rich noble's table in Cistercia and eating buffalo apples or something. This is real food for the real people, here. Made from dirt and make you strong.

Bastone's a fair size enough to be called city now. We might not cover the ground like Verum does, but a city all the same. Not big enough for everyone to have their own bed, but big enough all the same.

Do the scar tribefolk cause the cities any trouble?

Not if Harlbeck's men have any say in it.

Usually they know to stay back from anyone on the wire, they really don't want to start a war. On the other hand now, when a caravan goes lost, who is to say what did it? More than once, a pullcart is found and the marks are from an axe, not a claw.

Where will your soul go, after the ravager finally finds you?

Tarren takes a moment to shoo away a fly or mosquito.

You hear something?

Listen, this is Bastone. You might as well ask me about the clockworks in Anvar. We're a long ways from Cistercia. You want to talk to the high and holy, I suggest you send a letter next caravan out and wait two moons.

They'll tell you of The Brotherhood. The Venerators. Churches towering high. Pot's Peace and all what. Incense till you cough. And they'll pull the iron from your hand. But I know what these eyes have seen.

Men. Men that don't look no holy high priest. Men. Woman. A whispered chant and a word in some language no one knows. And I've seen sick healed with no medicine. That I've seen. If there's gods walking among us, talking through these men, it's them you want to ask.

And, excuse me, friend. After the ravager gets me? Ain't got me yet, and I don't plan on letting him, hear?

Where's my soul going?

Hopefully someplace where it's not raining eight days of ten. 

(NOTE: Answers up to this point are in Tarrens Table 1 Podcast)

What languages do they speak in Bastone?

Who's the they? A'Dendri? They've no mouths, but they've ways to talk to us. Ursan? Some of them can speak a bit of our tongue. Never heard an Avi, but I've heard they can talk, you know, since some of the birds in the wood can. 

I suppose any decent trader knows some Knock to speak A'Dendri.

What types of folk inhabit the town of Bastone? I saw a mention of a what looked like a Warbear? What can you tell me of these creatures and where they call home? And how did the Oathsworn begin? Who was the first?

The folk here be hardworking. Working to tow the line, stay alive. Most never set step nor eye beyond the wall. I'd say a fair chunk is trader and caravan that come out this far and simply never ventured back again. We've a fair tally of taverns to keep you occupied. Yes, many lay in the streets. But better than die in the Wood. No one judges them without homes. During days, they earn their iron as couriers or cart in the Underways or such. As fair a chance as anyplace else you have right here in Bastone.

Now, warbear. Laddie, keep your voice down a tad. Don't want to be slinging them slurs around here. What you seen was an Ursus. They drop in time to time, I'd say you might see one or two about a few times a year, come for supplies and gear as any other. If you do see one, just stand aside and let it pass.

From the north they hail. There's them that will tell you they're not but honorable warriors. That might well be, but once I saw one pull a man's arm clean off for miscounting the iron given in change for a basket of carrots. Some can speak a few word as well. Now, I'm not out saying you should fear them, but a healthy respect might best be wise.

Now, round these parts, you want to know words, you ask a Fableman. You want to know of the great shaggy warriors from the north, you need to learn to read their armor. Each victory, each battle, they carve a runic note into their armor. Badges of honor as it were to tell their tale. When two meet, they do a slow march round each other to learn the others histories afore they even roar their greetings. 

Treat them well, but tread carefully.

Asking of the start of the Oathsworn, are you? Legends and facts become mixed here. After the great King's Road, it was clear man has lost to the Deepwood. Blood run in buckets to water the flowers of the undergrowth. And nothing come that can hold it back. But cities need other cities. And people need champions. To clear the paths for merchants and such, well, there's only a few to take such a task.

The Pact was drawn. Nowtimes we call this The Oath. A brand. A mark, seared into the wrist. The Oathsign. Show the sign, and none has power over you in law. Your oath is to die to protect civilization as it stands. None will question.

The Oathsworn assemble into Free Companies, maybe three, maybe six strong. Men, woman, A'dendri even. Bound by the Oath. You lay insult to one, you face them all. Tight families, bound in blood and bound to watch each other die. To take the oath is nothing less than a deathwish.

The first? I've legends upon legends claiming the title. Truth be, many were sworn in under the Pact at once when it started, before people realized the fatality of the path. There's great names lost to time, some we still recall. To swear the Oath is to lose your name. Once you've become a member of The Oathsworn, you're no longer yourself. You're a weapon and an ideal. You die when you take The Oath. You're just waiting for it to happen.

You want names from then? Marcello Greywolf. Talak Walks-On-Frond. Francesca Dominica. Solstice Shadow. Long gone heroes from a long gone time. But hold not their names in honor. That's not why they did it. Their spirits care not for your recognition. Only that because of them, you live.

Do you know of a good blacksmith?

Blacksmiths be awork for the banksmith, of course. Pounding iron when he does not. One day, hoping to become their own banksmiths. Takes a keen mind as well as a strong arm to rise above. And honesty. Working around the iron all day, who's to say is a few flecks go missing?

How long would it take to see the whole world?

Ain’t no one ever done that. Once someone does, maybe we can know.

How old are you?

Fifty six summers seen. And a good number still I remember.

How was Bastone started?

War. 

Isn't that how most things start? A palace. A claim over a piece of road. Petty feuds between men of power turn to wars. Two men on the street fight, it's two men on the street. Now find two petty men powerful enough to command armies and that fight spreads. Walls go up. A defensive outpost is born.

Bastone isn't one of the ancient greats. But The Crown stood behind it. Soon, a defensive outpost becomes a strategic stronghold.

Standing guard over a road buried under the woods.

Of course, we're sitting here now. I'm not sure the story told by the losers.

What weapon or item you would be foolish not to take with you?

A slower friend you don't care for much.

You mentioned a brotherhood. Is that like a secret society?

If I be mentioning it, how secret can it be? SecreTIVE, that I will grant. But Secret, no, not so much. There’s places in Cistercia and Verum where men go in, and they come out anointed, priests, monk, holy men or even Venerators.

What can you tell me of Harlbeck? Does she lead a Free Company?

Well, one, Harlbeck is he, not she.

While he may have his eyes on green, he's been a defender of these walls since I've known him. I don't doubt I see a little yearning to get out there, not sure why, but his pike stands at the gate.

Good man. Stout of heart. Strong of arm. Bested the tavern twice in arm wrestling contests.

I'm not thinking that's a skill that would impress the Scar chiefs, but a skill none the less.

What can you tell us of the Underways? Do they extend beyond Bastone’s walls? How do the farmers find their way?

Now, them underways. Cool, wet, dark. Like the drink, thanking.

Any city more than 50 man strong needs farmland, and farmland in the green ain't so easy to be found. I've spent a fair time walking the passages down there, telling tales on break. Everyone there looks the same by midday. A crust of dirt stuck by sweat glued to your face and arms. Mushroom, root, potato, those white things that look like carrots but taste like feet.

Hard work, sure it is. Bigger cities hold many underways, and they have guilds and politics I care nothing of. The underways here. Celeste. A woman strong in arm and heart. Of course, once she's a day downside, you can't tell her from any man, just a dark cake of mud like the rest.

I don't think they go beyond the walls, but I've not walked every mile under there. And how they find the way, well, it's plenty dark, but there's these different glowing things, not quite mushrooms, I don't think, on the walls. Moss, I would guess. And the farmers know their way from cavern to cavern as well as I can tell you what back alley to walk. It's their place and they know it.

What's the weather like in this region? Any seasons making life surrounded by the Deepwood even harder?

Well the weather is usually rain, unless of course, it's raining.

Seasons generally run the hot wet season, wet season, the cold wet season and then storm season.

Life in the Deepwood really can't get much harder. I can't picture the weather making you feel any better or worse about getting your leg chewed off.

Have any of the cities directly been assaulted, maybe even by flying abominations?
What exactly keeps the Deepwood and its creatures at bay. Is it the walls, the armed guards? Why not burn the whole thing to the ground?

Well, ain't you the most cheery one.

Bugs. Thems the worst that fly in here. The smoke and such of civilization seems to hold off anything else with wings. And anything big and toothy enough to be a scare is too big to fly at all. There's stories, you know, things big enough that the walls don't matter. Ain't no one live to tell about those.

But the wall, yes. The wall. Most of the things out there, they just want the next meal, not figuring how to get through our walls. Bastone is a hard nut to crack, and there's softer food to be had out there, and plenty of it. Now the smaller things, deckrats, scrabblers, you know, the usual, sure, they find cracks and get in. But the bigger beasts would rather be eating than breaking stone.

When some stray ravager decides to claw the gate, sure, sure, the guards take them to task. But for most, they leave us be.

Burn what whole what to the what?

Is it then all dark and gloomy here or are there any yearly festivities, tournaments, or other entertaining activities to be enjoyed?

We've our share of harvest festivals, drinking games and contests, sure. Them that worship the high and holies have their days, but that's not me thing.

Now, for the big tournaments, Cistercia. Not sure you want to travel the Deepwood just to go see some festival.

Entertaining activities? You're looking at him. Got to be a dozen fablemen in these walls any day. Songs, stories, what have. You drink a bit more, and I'm sure you'll find me even more entertaining.

What was that? A disgusting stench filling up my nostrils. Is it the wood? Or the city itself? I came up with an horrible thought: where do you bury your dead? And what happens in case of a major plague outbreak??

Listen here, muckface. You don't like it here, the gates open every day.

Yeah, the back streets smell a bit wet and human, if you know what I mean. Stick to the markets and the food smells overpower it. Now, outwall, some of them smells warn you something up.

Now you ask of the dead. The Cleaners. Ay, now, ain't no one want to be known to be a cleaner. So they wrap their faces and wear a hood. Take the dead. Them that just lie in the gutter and get up no more. Load a wheelbarrow. Make the rounds, pick up the dead. Now, they then record the names, ask who it was. Report to the hall of record. Check off a name, get a bit of iron in pay. When there's a lot of dying, there's a lot of paying, right? That's where we get the phrase "he really cleaned up" when you see someone with a new fistful of iron.

They take the dead to The Pits. Throw em in, burn them all. Maybe that's the smell you got. Burns away the disease, right?

This city is a rats' trap, if you know what I mean.

I would hope so. That's some good eating.

Surely you have some apothecary to help you with the most common injuries and diseases, but I dread to think about some breakout of cholera or something like that...

Lycene. There's a few others farside of town, but yeah. Lycene. Let me tell you three things about that woman. One. She can heal things ain't no one has a right to heal. Two. Don't poke her if she's not in a good mood. Three. More than a few words in a few taverns tell that she's got connections to the life in the fire and the dirt and the rain and plants. Now, I'm kind of fond of all of my fingers working as they do, so that's the last we will speak of her.

Do ya have any tales of Wardens or Rangers ya ken tell us? I heard rumors about the mysterious relationship between the witches and warden. Could I say the wardens are the overseer of the witches?

Tell what tell can and tell what can be. I answer you both. This doesn't mean I only gets paid once, mind you.

Rangers be a strange walk. Some part of me thinks they wish they was Scar Tribe. More comfortable out in the green than here in the walls. A bit touched you would need be for such thoughts. Although their symbol, the bow, aye, if I were out there, I'd rather that to stand my distance than any other arm at my side. Not that I can shoot a bow, but if I could, that would be my way. Let some other fool rush up with steel. If I have a bow, I'm already half way to escaped.

Now, I know, I know, word comes the last few weeks of some A'Dendri out there with a bow. Not seen her myself, I haven't. But the A'Dendri. I'm not so comfortable around them. The no mouth thing gives me the chills. Sure, as any good Fableman, I know a few words and phrases in The Knock, but I'd rather not, if you know what I mean. But talk about someone staying safe out there. A'Dendri Ranger. A distance with a bow AND doing all that A'Dendri tree jumping, flitting about from trunk to trunk. I'm betting it'll be a long time afore her bark gets a scratch. Not that I want to get close enough to check.

Now, next a moment you ask tell of Wardens. Aye, see, wardens are a bit more friendly and city found. Unless of course, you're a witch. You don't smell like a witch. And if you were, I hold nothing against you. But you know, the whole making fire from the air thing, that doesn't sit will indoors.

There may be a witch or two in the shadows here in Bastone, but I'm a fair man. I let them be as can. And any that's thinking of doing something foolish. Well, that's where your Warden steps in.

I walked the wire road one time to Verum, oh, must be seven years back now. Warden Barlo with us. Good man. Big laugh, but you wouldn't want him angry. Sword with a white hilt. He would never tell what it was, but never seen anything like it. And of course, he wore his mantle and had the chain. You know, both for the witch. Yes, he was bringing him a witch. Young man by the name Gregor, but we call him Candle, since come camp and dark the Warden Barlo would let him light our fires with no tinder.

Strange things, wardens and witches. They hate each other. But like a twin brother and sister do. Hate in a way that you need them.

Comes one day we're trudging in the rain and the point man holds up a hand, forefinger and ringfinger extended. We all make the symbol so the man next in line sees. Anyone walked the wires knows what that means. Thornhound. We stand still as trunks. Barlo stands two men in front of me, Candle in front of him. Barlo steps from the guide wire, his sword over his head. Candle snaps his fingers for attention. Barlo thinks a moment and gives a nod. He goes to Candle, does whatever it is that they does, and the collar and chain fall from Candle's neck. Barlo goes up left, Candle up right.

Barlo runs. And I can see it. Thornhound rushing back at him, a dog of the deepwood, shoulder horns looking for Barlo's chest. But Barlo would have none of that. That sword clipped one of those shoulder horns right off.

But the Deepwood, you never know. Barlo steps back to swing again, and his foot lands in a cyst. He stumbles.

And Candle did what Candle does. He lower his head and then that veil starts. Now, I don't know if it's the shimmer from heat when you look over a campfire, or the look of reality tearing, but if you seen witches do their thing, you know the thing I mean.

And fire. Witchfire, got that unholy smell, you know. It dancing around Candle and the thornhound turns with a start.

Candle moves his hands, and so help me, he scoops a hand of that fire and throws it at the hound. It makes that yelp, jumps in the air, and before it lands, he throws another. Barlo gets himself up, heads to the hound and rams his blade clean skewered through it.

But again, with the Deepwood, you never know. Yes, it's raining, but that damned witchfire catches. And the fire starts to spread. Barlo sees this. He rushes to Candle and pushes him aside. When Barlo sheathes his sword, he grabs the fur of his mantle and extends his hand.

And the fire stopped. I don't mean it went out. The fire froze in place. No flames licking, nothing. Warden Barlo closes his fist, and its like someone close their first around the fires. They just shrink and then gone. Fire in the deepwood can be more dangerous than the thornhounds, and they took care of both.

Candle goes to Barlo and holds up his own hair, like your wife when she wants you to put her necklace on. Barlo nods, they say some words with unhappy smiles, and Barlo puts the collar and chain back onto Candle.

And we head on again, Candle leashed like Barlo's dog like the Scar would leash that thornhound.

Wardens be mighty with a blade. But I think sometimes their best weapon is when they aim a witch.

How does one born of woman not fall to horror? Have our minds become that of monsters? The brave fear do they not?

I’m an entertainer, hear? My job is to make sure you lot don’t all go flinging yourselves off that wall. Why? Because believe in gods or no, I believe one day, we will win. One day. It’s hope that one day, no, we won’t be afraid no more.

I say burn the Deepwoods down and save ourselves from this disease.

Not sure if there's enough witches in the world. If that's your solution to the way things are, you may as well just throw yourself from atop the walls. What makes you think we could stop the burn once it started?

Though you must agree that burning the woods is a great plan for ridding the curse on the lands.

I'll not be agreeing to that. Devil that you know or the devil that you don't. What would there be left after the Deepwood burned?

A'dendri, Ursan, Avi and Scar tribe seems like the kind of people - besides the human in the cities- you can meet here. Is there other unspeakable races I am unaware of?

You know this here is a crowded room, do you not? If something is unspeakable, how would you plan I speak it? There's others out there, of course. Tread lightly and ask not such questions. And I ask where you draw the lines, what's a human? But should we really be saying such things out here?

When another thing can hear, everyone remains silent.

Who are the Avi? Why haven't I heard and seen them?

Maybe they ain't want to be heard nor seen.

Saw one once in my time in Verum. Feathers sparkling in the mist. I don't know if I was more in awe or fear, but something in me said take no closer to it.

A brother fableman told me he set camp with one. Called it like a gentle dagger. I don't know what that means, a name, or what. Some say they can fly, some say they can't. Some say they talk to spirits. All I know is those talons look like they can right rip your heart out.

Truth told, I'm not sure if what they say is truth, myth, both or neither. Heard tale told a healer once set up shop just outside Cistercia, outside, mind you, but I've not gone to see. Again, might not be so.

Sorry, lad, I know not a lot of their kind, just rumor. Twould be a stretch to know more.

What do you know about the priest? I heard rumors of a possible rogue priest. How can a priest stray so far from his faith?

The priest? The?

Can't go two block without bumping into one. The priest. As if it's a church of one... The priest...

As for faith, there's more paths of faith than there are ways to get lost in the woods. Grab any five people in the gutter, they tell you five ways to worship. The church in Thrace don't look like church in Bastone.

Faith. I put my faith in something dark and frothy in a fairly clean mug.

These settlements I hear, Cistercia, Thrace and Verum. Do they have the same society structure as Bastone?

Settlements? Cities. The last stands of humanity. Cities they are. Settlements come and go.

Bastone is a warm blanket. The people, the law. I like it here. It might be snug, but I feel safe.

Verum's the seat of the Crown himself and none less. Huge and sprawling, the palace shining for all to see, even those in the gutters. Nobles coming out of the floorboards, not my kind of people.

Cistercia is the place of Faith. Well, of their faith. Aye, the Pillar and The Path and all that incense and mumbling. Also the Venerators. But even here, a dozen moons away, I'll not speak one word ill of those man mountains. Knights and priest and pagentry as far as you can tolerate, and then a little more.

Thrace. City of masks. You want to hire someone to do the unhirable, you go to Thrace. Strange folk there. Gladiators. Slaves. Thems that be both. Put my bets on Gollux in the pits, though. He was a sight to see swing a sword. Profane, esoteric, spectacular and somehow twisted, the streets of Thrace are something to behold. Decadent.

What of science and craft?

You be speaking as if you're not witness to my craft with story and word. If you're talking material things, I'm not your answer. The banksmiths and their metal work, great clock in Verum, whoever built that. The Broken Oak tavern has a lantern runs on amber.

And not that I've been there, but I reckon your best to give your answer lives half across the world in Anvar. City Of Cogs.

What is your goal in this life here?

Tomorrow.

But Tomorrow will always come.

You have more faith than I.

Fableman, do you believe in Pot?

I suppose I don't not believe, but I am not a religious man.

The Crown you say, who and crown of what?

THE Crown. Although now the brow it sits on is younger than you or I. In Verum. Rules over all. Well, maybe not the church in Cistercia. But the throne that The Oath swears to and that all pay fealty to.

Now, don't get my words wrong, Bastone is Bastone strong and stands alone, but to the crown law we still hold. Especially if we want to be able to call for their protection.

The seat of everything is in that Throne. At least that's where every decision mouths from. Keeps the peace between the cities, the supply lines open, for a few bars iron in taxes, sure.

I've not lain eyes upon this new boy king but I hear tell he's not to be judged by how many summer's he's past, and a gaggle of specialist, lawmakers, diplomats and others for advice of all sorts he keeps.

I assume come Winterval we'll see if he takes a new name and such. I'll keep an open ear and tell you what I learn.

I hear tell there may be more Free Companies forming here in Bastone in coming days. Have ya heard any news of the recruiters? What Company is best known, in all of your travels?

The companies don't form here, and I'd rather be happier if they were never needed here. They hail out of Verum, branded and made all official like there. If you're damn fool enough to want to die, you can go and see if you survive the training.

You know, the members of a Free Company didn't earn the title Sixty Seconders for nothing. That's their life expectancy of a new member once they stumble on something in the wood. So, it's not like there be companies where the members be blood bonded since childhood and still they fight.

They die.

A lot.

I would think it's rare, if not down impossible, for a group to stay with the same members for more than a few missions.

You mentioned the Brotherhood - who are they?

Ah. The Extras. Cistercia ain't Bastone, right? They think a bit different. Pillar and Path, Pot's Peace, all this high holy goings on.

Children are sent to join the Brotherhood, or Sisterhood, if the place is getting too crowded. Or, well, if you got the iron in pocket, maybe the child goes to the Knightly orders.

So, some are put into the Brotherhood for a life of devotion to the state and those above us. Justinia, yeah, Justinia founded the orders, I right recall.

But Cistercia, that's quite a ways away. I know the drips and dribbles come down the Fableman line, but I can't light much more than that.

You mentioned you traveled outside the walls. How many of the cities have you seen? And what's the point of traveling if we are self sufficient here with food, mines and people? You said that the crown protects us but can we not protect ourselves with our great walls?

I've spent years of time in Verum. I was at one of the outposts by Thrace once and decided it was not my liking. I've not been to Cistercia proper since I was too young to recall, and the smell of the incense from any of their outposts keep me happily at a distance. City is a bit of a difficult definition. Eight or nine smaller villages I've been to.

Why travel?

I am not a caged bird.

I ask instead. Why do you stay?

There are things that even the warmth of Bastone does not get.

I have eaten fresh buffalo steak. Won't find that here. Nor a tall dark eyed dancing lass named Lyssa. Nay, she's from Verum proper as it were. And I'm thinking she's too soft to make the trip to here. Wouldn't want to see those legs scratched by thorns anyhow. So, Verum it would be.

I don’t think I understand the relationship between the witch and the warden. Is the witch really kept in chains and only released when the warden needs her help to fight an enemy?

Maybe those relationships are only meant for the witch and the warden to understand.

Is the witch really kept in chains?

Here be answers two for you.

Answer one.

Nine years ago, there was an outpost less than one thousand steps from the front gate. Forward scout, checking for illegal trade, that kind of thing.

The important word is was.

A single witch come through, unchained and angry.

We've not rebuilt that outpost. You can still see the charred lumber that way the tower.

Answer two.

Not every witch has vengeance and anger in their heart. Just as not every man is just. Tread light and you may find a helping hand among them.

So in answer to your question, I would answer yes. And no.

You are talking about illegal trade. What is considered illegal?

Let's clear this right now. What's legal in Thrace and what's legal in Bastone might be two different things on the all together.

Short list. Grail Bark, any kind of Drifting Moss, any parts from a Deep Cyst, bones from Ravagers, Sleepwhite, Starfinch eggs.

Essentially, if you can accidentally kill someone with it, it's not in these walls. There's enough dying without some fool trying to profit off it.

And again, not Thrace. Slaves without proper paper and seals won't be allowed in.

Why are those things illegal?

By quarantine. Poisons, the lot. Or trouble. Ravagers recover the bones of their dead. Wouldn't want their eyes peering into Bastone looking for them. Starfinch will out eat us in minutes. Had a Starfinch outbreak some ten years back now. Wiped out two storage silos before we ended up poisoning our own stocks to stop them.

Starfinch have a peculiar quality. The rules of the birds and the bees don't apply to these birds. Just one can hatch a whole brood. I'm sure you can imagine the problems then.

Don’t the men at those outposts check all the goods going in to make this a safe place?

Well, what they should do and what they do may not be so clear cut, especially if your hand is heavy in iron, but you've not heard it from me.

I've not heard of a safe place in the Deepwood. You tell me if word comes of one.

So you are saying corruption is a problem?

I may be a fool, but not so much to ever go near that question.

Has the city of Bastone, or any other city for that matter, attempted expanding their walls into the deepwood. Could this not (eventually) lead to the destruction of the forsaken place?

We're here, now, ain't we? You think these walls were born here and we just built Bastone inside?

I thinks you're seeing things a little backwards here now.

Take yourself a full keg of ale. The whole barrel. Full to the rim. Get yourself one of them little white mushrooms. The ones big as your thumbnail.

Now drop the mushroom into that keg.

Bastone is that mushroom. The ale is the Deepwood. You tell me just how big that mushroom needs to become until there ain't no ale.

You speak about slaves. Can you tell us more?

Bastone, you may find a few underpaid workers in the underways, but if there's slavery here, it's fairly quiet.

Thrace, now, there's another city. There, slaves are combat sport. The gladiators. Oh, I'm sure more than a few of the high houses have servants as well, but if you trade food and a roof for service, is it slavery, or fair pay? Is it better to serve honey to a man you call master and have a ceiling, or to lie in the gutters in the Burrows of Bastone? Slavery is a grey line.

Tales told also speak of Extras, headed for Brotherhood in Cistercia gone on wire to run. If you're caught by Thracian Tracers, you end up fighting in the pits. Not sure how true that is, but that be tales told.

Let's say for example a party of Oathsworn goes out. Will there be rivalry between them or do they keep things fair and have the same goal?

Look at my wrist. I've no brand. I'm not Oathsworn. I've seen groups bicker, but who am I to say it's as young lovers do or as rivals?

Pot's peace this and Pot's laws that...Where did that phrase start?

Pot.

The God.

That's the name the religious use for him. I would guess it came from Justinia on the first pilgrimage. Again, I'm not a follower.

Tell me about the youth. I've seen many a lad wandering the streets like stray dogs... Do they choose to receive an education or trade?

They wander streets like stray dogs a'cause they are.

Sometime, you need to go outwall to find another mushroom to feed your child. I've seen idiots set traps out there for small animals. Sometime, they don't come back. And the children wander the streets. You going to take them all in? In Cistercia, they throw them in robes and call them clergy. Not so in old Bastone.

Education. Don't step outside alone without a way to save yourself. There's all the education you need.

Trades are plenty, but the people moreso. Only so many apprentices at any time. Usually family and friends thereof. You got no family? Got no friends? This is how the Burrows end up being so bad to walk through.

Choose. Not always are choices handed out like cards in a table game. You take what life has. You hold on. You make the best.

Tarrens Table Podcast 2 contains the questions up to this point

Tell me Fableman, how has the city survived so long? It's been what, five hundred years, since the onset of the Deepwood? Yet the people of Bastone live on, with food and space enough to survive. Are there farmfields enough to feed them all, quarters enough to house them all?

The city ain’t the same as when I was a lad. Won’t be the same when you’re this old. Food and space to survive? You think so? Why’s there so much dyin’ then? Why’s the burrows got dead in the streets every morning? You ain’t starved. I ain’t starved. But come sunlight, someone out there be dead with an empty belly. How we survived this long? Barely. That’s how. Barely.

I noticed three large posts near the Town Square. What were those?

Tarren scowls. His eyes shift uneasily. He takes a long swallow from his mug, wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve and glares a reply.

"Justice."

Who decides what is just and lawful in this town?

High Lord Davenish. I suppose he gets his laws from The Crown.

What is his relation to the Crown exactly?

Crown snaps its fingers, he makes believe he jumps. He's fair enough. Keeps the guard strong.

What of Anvar, the City of Cogs?

Cogs Of Anvar is a whole different thing. Taint never wandered that far. Tales of grease and amber and gears. Must be a sight to see, but not by these eyes.

Tarren leaves for a few days. He returns to his favorite spot several nights later. His clothes still bright, but he seems a bit worn from wherever he has been. He wipes the table with a rag he keeps tucked in his belt, heads to the bar and gets a mug of dark. He slaps a handful of groats to the bar, assuring proper service. He sits, takes a long slow drink, eyes the patrons as they turn to hear his latest, and sighs.

"Something be moving," he says in his usual grumbled snarl. "There's something in the air. My marrow tells me. Been fableman as long as I, you know when comes a new turn of the page and a new story about to unfold. Something's about to start. Not long now. Maybe two nights out. Not long a'tall. Leaves. Watch them in the wind. How they swirl outside the walls. Nights. Colder now. The wet stays longer. Get yourself good shoes, or leather your soles. This is a cleansing rain coming. Haven't slept well, not one night. Something pricking the back of my mind. Comes a soft darkness, comes tales be told."

"Comes the Oatshworn. Into The Deepwood they be heading now, heading here. Word been sent. Word come back. Them with the mark be coming."

"I'll not be knowing if what come be great or fearful. I know I pull me covers up tight come moon. This month will bring tales told, that I can tell, that I can feel. This month."

Welcome home, fableman. Tell us, who are the Curs?

Finding a Cur in the city be like finding and A'Dendri in the Deepwood. They don't want to be seen, they won't be seen.

Thieves, assassins, villains, heroes, vigilantes? Everyone you ask will tell you a cur be something else. Some will say they hail from the gutter, learning to move without note in the dark. Some will say they get training like an apprentice to some older cur who knows the streets better.

You seen them big Scar Tribe, have you? Muscle and bone, even through the skull. They be about strength of arm. No Cur.

Some say a cur be made of shadow. Moving like mist.

If you ever see a man walking, and for no reason, from nothing you see, his throat be slit and he's dying the next minute, put your hands to your purses. There's a cur about.

Are all the warbear white or do they also come in the Grizzlies and black bear form as well. Have you ever heard rumors of the panda variation?

Now, get me not wrong, I've seen my share of the Usran. But also, I tend to be looking at their armor and runes, and weapons can cleave my sorry head in two. I tried learning their runemark. Not sure any but they can quite get their head around it. More runes mean that beast seen more fight, that I know.

As for color, never seen one in black. But just because I ain't laid eyes upon it don't mean there ain't no such thing. Never saw me an honest noble, neither, but there must be one somewhere, am I not telling the truth?

Around here what I've seen are fairly light in fur.

Black AND white? That would be odd. That would be, wow, very odd.

What's the one question we should be asking ya that we haven't?

There's a thing about that, see. Are there thing you need know? Aye, plenty. Are there things of which I'll not speak? Just as many.

The question you should ask I've not the answer for. The question is why are there orange eyes painted on walls at the end of back alleys, where the rats swarm.

I've no thought as to the answer, though. But my skin crawls whens I see them.

They’ve not always been there.

Of all the tales you've told, what's your favorite one to tell?

Banksmith Gamel, alright?

Man's had more wives last tenyear than I've had ales this week. Now, fair be said and fair be told, I like this story acause it ain't no ribald tavern twice told legend. I like this tale as I was there, horrible as it were.

This is real is as real as.

So mark well. Remember and listen.

Come one of them wives, Atrecia. Beautiful girl. Hair all long, full of sunlight and curl. Face like a Cistercian saint. All the boys here in town, they chase her for a kiss or more, hoping for a chance at her hand. Yet she's no eyes for them. She turns down suitor after suitor, breaking hearts like a woodsman's axe through vines. One such suitor hails from Verum, a do-nothing minor noble with a face like a stump and smelling of wild roses. Claims lineage from Cistercia. Jean-Vincent. He was none to happy when he offered her a seat in his house in Verum and she didn't even draw a breath before she said no. Atrecia had a mind sharp as a cur's knife and was not going to settle for this young fool in his fancy ruffled shirt.

Gamel, aye, that's her target. You all seen him, of that I'm sure. Built solid like any other banksmith, wrought of iron and muscle, sweat and soot. And I knows you recognize him over any other banksmith, on account one had has but three fingers on one hand. That's why his friends call him Three. Don't know if I would right honor myself a friend, but shared that table over on that side right here with him with a few of his men more than once.

And, of course. We knows what Atrecia wants with Gamel and we knows why there's brides lining up outside his door. He's the banksmith, right? Iron of a noble without the snot in his nose, if you know what I mean.

These things happen as these things do, and Gamel and Atrecia wed. I might be stretching my boundaries in saying, but I believe they love each other for more than his iron and her pretty eyes. They have their party at The Broken Oak. Me telling stories and Greycane singing in the corner. The streets was dancing. I swear on oath, mark and Pot's peace, even Dane, who had just joined the guard back then, was dancing. What with Gamel's money funding the party, it lasts near three days.

Ain't none the surprise when a year later, Tam, son to Gamel and Atrecia, be born. He's a good boy. Bit addled when it come to talking with the fairer, but I've never seen anyone do numbers and maths like he does, which is why Gamel has him now working in the shop with him. He's banging iron, too. No doubt he'll be the next central banksmith around here.

Afore this time though, when Tam was standing maybe five summers along, though, that's when things happen.

Comes a caravan, shipment from Verum. Three carts full. Ain't lost one man on the wire. Strong guards. Mail pouches stacked high. Kegs, barrels, spices, jerky, seeds, fruit, silks and more. Some sent from family to family, most to the merchants for them to craft to whatever wares they do. And some to our Banksmith Gamel.

Great crates, framed in wood that Gamel burns after, filled with what metals and tools I know not. Every shipment comes brings something to Gamel's shop.

I wasn't witness at the start of what happens next with my own eyes. I tell you what he himself told me, when we sat o'er that corner right behind you.

A crate he opens with his crowbar. Some sort of scales for weighing irons, I know not what they do, but for some reason, he finds it of great importance. He lifts the device out, holds it to show Atrecia who helps him unpack his new wares.

A corona snake is no thing to be taken lightly. And a corona snake be no snake, with them dozen scaly legs running down each side, red as fire. I was in the street, just across from Three's shop, excuse me, Gamel's shop, he had all his fingers at the telling of this tale, I heard Atrecia.

The guards at the door are already in there, and I see the damned snake, scales sparking in the amber light, wrapped twice round her throat. The little claws digging into her face. Twas one of me most horrible sights these old eyes ever set upon.

She's no chance. The poison's too strong and the thing's bit deep in her neck. Corona snakes kill. It's what they do. They don't eat, they just kill. It unfurls from her neck, the guards ready their pikes and Gamel rushes to his bride, able to do nothing.

But that snake looks for the next. Young Tam, all of five summers, screaming life out as he watches and the thing snaps out at him. Now, Gamel, an Ursan of a man, you would think him slow. But he knew the guards and me by the door was too far to do anything, he leaps in as that Corona snake flashes like fire and launches as sure as an arrow to his son.

May every creature in the Deepwood eat my heart if I'm lying. Gamel's hand gets in the way to catch the damned thing as it flies.

But a Corona snake is not the best thing to want to catch. Them yellow razor fangs clamp solid onto Gamel's hand.

Not one word. Not one scream. Not one tear. Gamel turns, a fury in his eye that would make a scar tribe shudder. He slams his hand to the anvil as the poison makes its way, grabs an hammer from his tools and slams it down through the head of the monster, and through his own two fingers as well, stopping beast and poison in one blow.

I tell one of the guards get the apothecary. Any apothecary. Tam is screaming, Gamel is bleeding, the Corona snake flailing about, choking on it's last meal of Gamel's two fingers. I wrap Gamel's hand and he pushes me back to go hug his son.

A note in the bottom of the crate reads "You asked for scales" signed Jean-Vincent.

That day, Gamel lost a wife and two fingers. Tam gained a hero.

Not two moons later, word comes to Bastone. Jean-Vincent has been killed in the middle of the night by hired curs.

And not one guard laid eye to Gamel. Right is as right is, right?

What can you tell us of the penitent ?

A thousand moons ago, when I was a wee lad, me mother baked us cookies. You know, now that she's moved on, I've no problem saying I went in and stole one from the bowl well afore dinner time.

Somes will tell you otherwise, but a stolen treat is twice as sweet.

I had me cookie, went to dinner, and after dinner, lo, mother brings out the cookies and I get a second!

Was I feeling guilty? For almost two bites. Almost. They was good cookies me mum used to bake.

Now the Penitent, he takes his guilt a bit more seriously than I. Runs the Trials to become one of the Orders, because, in his heart, aye, he's fierce. And them rules, when you go to follow knightly arms, them rules is no joke. See this mug in my hand? That's why I'm no knight. I'm not going a month without this elixir, no. And that's the least of the rules. And the trials. Can't reckon I can tell tale of what they are.

But I can tell you from the trials walk several cuts of men. Some come out knights. All gleam and armor, wearing nearly a bank upon their body. Some come out, head down, go home and become farmers.

And then there's some. Failed, they did. Maybe a trial. Maybe broke a rule. Maybe couldn't put down that mug of ale.

There's no going to try a second time. No one wants that. A failure.

So that failed man, he takes his regrets and balls them up tight. And swallows them hole. A burning hatred of his own weakness under his breast.

And he does what he can to prove, to prove to all who watched, that no, he's not weak. He's stronger than them all. And he can never forgive his own fault.

And he is penitent.

He strives for forgiveness. Not that he will ever forgive his own weakness. But by Pillar, by Path, by the watchful ways of Pot, he seeks forgiveness so he can die a hero, forgiven.

And every failure he takes. His bitter heart beats harder. And that anger, he spits it back up. It is his self loathing, his failure, that brings him strength.

And the fury of a righteous man shall lay them to waste.

And what of these strange creatures - the avi? Any tales to speak of them? Where do they come from? Why are they among us?

I've said a bit afore as my friend told tale of gentle dagger. I've little more to say now. Frightening. Secretive. Powerful.

Where are they from? From what I gather, no place on any map you'll find here in Bastone.

Why are they among us? The man who answers that gains title of the wisest ever walked.

Listen. I'm no comfortable telling tales of Avi. And with reason. There's a clock in Verum on a tower. First it says one, then two. What if I told you that I don't think the Avi see that? They see it all a-once. Midnight, morning, noon. What if I told you I don't think the Avi see them in that order?

So if I speak none poor of the Avi by speaking little of them ever, one will not come and strike me down for something I've not yet said.

You know, I need another ale, even I don't understand what I'm saying anymore...

I think I saw a spirit binder passing by. Who are they?

One who binds spirits.

Where do they find you lot?

Tell us Tarren, are there tales here of the dead rising again?

If you seen me the other day, rolling out of bed come light, a mug still in hand as I walked into a door without opening it, I think we've seen about all you need to know of the dead rising.

I can tell you ghost stories aplenty to frighten a child and keep him indoors with all sorts of dead things, but ain't none that expected to be taken seriously by no one.

Regale me, if you would, with a tale about the Thracians, the Blades most particular.

Thracian blade caught your eye, eh? And I don’t mean on the end of that oversized poker, am I not telling the truth?

Thrace. I’ve spoken a word or hundred of there before. Place of etiquette, masks, nobles and manners. You may not have taken notice, but me myself, I don’t fit that mold. I don’t like Thrace. I don’t like Thracians.

Not that I’ve no respect for the way a Blade can dance with a weapon with the same ease as to a song. The years they train, it’s not like brawlers out here, or the guards in the Deepwood. It’s a choreography of killing. Flair and spin, lunge and pirouette. It’s just, when this dance ends, their partner lies dead.

I tell tales. You understand, right, I’m an entertainer. I lift spirits. With words. That’s my trade. Words. A Blade. He’s an entertainer. In blood. Down in the arenas, slaves, thornhounds, what have. Then there’s the Blades. Trained to fight and to look like nothing less than a dove in the sunlight when they do so. If there’s a beauty in slaughter, the Blades have it practiced to entertain the crowds.

The Path of Blades. Probably the only way to get out of the arena life not on a stretcher or the golden palm of some noble who’s bought you. They win enough, they play pretty enough, they kill enough. They earn the way out of the arena. Up the Path of Blades. Don’t know what rite or ritual lets them go, but now and again, one of them comes out.

I have to say, a woman come to Bastone some summers back. A Blade. They called her Rose, but I never set about speaking to her. I seen her when a man tried taking her coin pouch. She sat on a bench in The Broken Oak tavern. She stood from her seat, spun in place, read hair and long blade flashing, and looking so much like her very name. She sat right back down afore the two parts of what was the thief hit the floor. I’ve never seen such beauty in motion. Terrifying. Rose. Can’t forget her.

Poets of death, they are.

Can you give me a rundown of some major events and goings on I may have missed?

Ah, story time's over and you look for the town crier now, do you? Here's what has the wire been saying.

Apothecary Lyceen and Apothecary Garrin had them a fight in market last week over the fair price of thundercap. Commander Dale hisself come to break that squabble up. Now, folls be fools, but some foolish fool done take it on his shoulders to break one of Lyceen's windows. She gone and fixed it, but, not for me to say and all, but if there one less fool and one more toad, wouldn;t surprise me none. Not that you hear me saying that.

Davenish says word come back that, aye, a Free Company headed this way on account of, well, he won't right say exactly, but I'm not doubting it has to do with more than a few people up and gone and rumors of someone found, I lie not now, a few actual limbs in the back alleys. Like people parts. Whatever it is, they're keepin' it in whispers fair, and better than a panic, that.

Celeste and Yement. I seen them twice now walking a little closer than maybe just talking deals, if you smell the wind.

Word come Gollux won another royal arena match from Thrace. One more and he can choose to Walk The Path Of Blades. That man's part Ursus, I swear to it.

There was a crack up side wall by that old sally port entrance, the south side one. Gorman's men got on that right quick, they did. If one thing Davenish does good, it's keep the walls.

Minstrel Lucas gone and broke is foot dancing, of all things. You would think that would be the last thing tap toes would do, but he's out of that line for some weeks coming, I would think.

Greycane comes with tale to me that a young man named Aron gone outwall to fetch a flower for his dear and ain't been seen again. How many time I tell that news and just change the name, is that not the truth...

What sort of bar games are played here for fun, passing of time. Does the Oathsworn play something different to help them ease their minds from the horrors they face?

Dice games are big no matter where you travel. That's if you wear The Mark or not. Different games in Thrace and Cistercia, but always dice. Verum is big on knife throwing.

And, of course, everywhere, someone be losing their iron at 30-Groat Army.

(Rules to 30-Groat Army HERE)

Are banksmiths the only ones who work with iron?

Does that mean the bolts and cables of the Wire Road are done by their own hand? Do they make it from their own pile of groats, or is the Wire Road funded by some other party?

Have there ever been any incidents of someone trying to cut, melt down, or otherwise pawn off sections of it? A wire-road robbery if you will.

Well, banksmiths mostly, of course. But at any decent banksmith, there's a fair amount of shafters working. Apprentices. Some banksmiths go on, almost ready to retire and just watch younger arms do the work as they take their sliver. Course, none would turn away a fair bladesmith. The Thracians look down on those who go to a mere banksmith for their weapon, want their steel from some fancy handed specialist.

Groats to nails, the old saying, right? Not sure any still actually do solid groatwork. Some fancy bars on the windows around Davenish's place, you can still see the numbers, those was groats.

For the wire, there be workmen. Gappers, riggers and linemen go and replace bits. Every three eyes be a knot pulled in the line, so if there's a break, it don't all just run out.

Now, caught taking a piece of the wire. That's a gutting. Plain as can be. Anyone caught with a piece of wire not apposed to be having it, well, they ain't long for this world.

Now and again some parts get broken, aye, as there's some larger things out there not ducking under. Again, the gappers, riggers and linemen tend to. You know. Like the song.

I am relatively new to this town and would ask your wise guidance on a subject of the heart.
For mine was stolen by an exiled member of the scar tribe, a life without him is now a life without worth. However as the son of a warden I am duty bound to follow in his footsteps. In these dark times is it wrong to place ones heart before duty?

Ah, so seeks Tarren The Matchmaker, not Tarren The Fableman, Young Heart?

I'm of two answers, for I'm not fool enough to see inside you.

On the one. Scar tribe? Are you gone greenmad? You don't make stew one night, they right eat your liver. Duty is there for a reason and to it, stay bound and strong, make your father proud, aye.

That answer is out me head, right?

Next answer from me heart.

Love has made many a man as drunk as any drink, ah, believe me, I know, been there I've been with a heartache hangover none could cure. Now some like the dark, some like the mash, some like the cider.

If you be drunk on love, it's not my place to tell you what to drink.

You must decide. What are you? What you are.

Are you a head with a heart, listening to elders? Or a heart with head, doing what it must?

I'll not tell you which I'd choose nor which I wouldn't.

Although I'd dare say I like my liver doing things other than being dinner.

How the heck is this beer done? I can get how they do that stuff with potatoes and sure as hell there is plenty of hops out there - but what are they using to make this beer?

In Thrace. they actually have a grain patch. That stuff’s for nobles. More than a few outposts make their way on a patch of the real stuff. Round these parts, you got some clever brewers working over barrels of Wheatroom. Big chunky tall mushrooms. Fancy Apothecary out in Cistercia come up with it. Mills down to a flour for bread. Don’t know the formula myself, but a dash of this and a bit of that and it comes a not half bad stout.

There are rumors about the Green Streets of a "Grove Maiden." What is she? Another one of them A'Dendri?

Perhaps I’ve not made my word clear. The bark skins ain’t my kind and I’ll not cross paths with them, given a side alley to duck into. Maiden? That’s a laugh. As if they be women. You seen an A’Dendri man? More tree than not. I don’t like talking about them. Only thing I like a lot less than barks are the Avi.

What sorts of animals are there around Bastone? Besides the rats, of course. And, what do they do? Do the People keep pets here? Or pack-animals?

Have you met Livey Grandurk? I seen him once eat a three gourd pie himself in one sitting. That’s the worst animal I know around, am I not telling the truth?

Here you find a dog or three. Real ones, not thornhounds. Sliplizards must live nearly every shady spot. And a few cats ain’t been turned to dinner yet. Bastone’s a bit too cramped, but in Verum, I seen entire herd of buffalo in the streets. Even ate buffalo steak, though it ran my pockets dry to do it. Would do it again, I would. Not the dried jerky stuff come down the wire. Actual juicy meat. Oh, now I wish you ain’t brought that up, I’ll be hungry all night.

There's a new Free Company in town, 'case you hadn't heard. I saw 'em myself the night before last. One of them had a chain around his neck: A Witch, I reckon. But, he had the brand on his wrist, too: So he must've been Oathsworn. And that got me thinkin': He swore the Oath, same as the rest of them 'Sworn. So, why the chains?

Don't get me wrong, I don't trust a Witch anymore than I trust the wenches down the way. But, isn't there something... I dunno... special about the Oath?

I told a few tales earlier about witches, like young Candle.

And I’ll say just this few word more, and not much, lest one of you be one. Not minding to offend none.

For one, not all cattle wants to be branded.

For two, when you light a campfire, you ring it with stone. It’ll cook your stew, warm your hands. But that fire. It don’t be caring two spits and a cough if a spark come out and light your tent while you sleep. Fire does it’s job. Mind you, for a while. Witches. About the same. Danger on purpose or not, danger still.

And as for The Oath.

Sometimes. Things get broken.