Session #6, as told by Finn

 Survival rule #27

Finn came to with his face pressed into the cracked yard floor, air still hard to find. The pressure on his throat was gone, but the ghost of it lingered, pulsing like a warning. His ribs ached. His back flared with pain. But worse than all that—he didn’t see Rosslyn.

“Ross?” he rasped. No answer. Just the drag of feet, muttering inmates, the echo of a guard’s laughter like iron grating on nerves. He looked around from where he lay, trying not to draw attention. Half the yard had seen it: Silas Cray—Calder’s little monster—had choked the fight out of him like he was snuffing a candle. Some of the boys turned their faces. A few watched with grim eyes. No one helped. No one ever helped.

Rosslyn. Where was she? He didn’t shout. Didn’t panic. Just blinked the sweat out of his eyes and started to crawl. A scrap of shadow behind a water barrel caught his eye, and there—tail twitching, one leg bent wrong, breathing fast—was Rosslyn. Hurt. But alive.

“Don’t you die on me, sweetheart,” he muttered, scooping her up. “You’re the brains of the operation.” He tucked her into his shirt, close to the warmth of his chest. She didn’t struggle.

Lights Out. Doors clanged shut. Keys turned. Voices died down to murmurs, then nothing. Finn sat in the dark of his cell. Rosslyn lay curled on a scrap of cloth, her breath shallow but steady. He’d made her a tiny sling from a strip of his sleeve, tied loose around her leg. He’d stitched up worse. In himself, anyway.

Now came the hard part. Waiting. He kept his eyes on the corridor. Listened. Counted footsteps. The shuffle of other inmates. The guard rotation.

And then…Steps. Too soft to be guards. Wrong rhythm, bare feet. Silas. Of course he came. Finn had expected it. Bastards like that don’t leave threats unfulfilled. They come back to remind you.

The lock turned, smooth and confident. That bastard had a key. A private one — and there he was. Silas. Grinning. Finn’s stomach sank. Not just because Silas was back — but because someone in the prison had knowingly let a prisoner loose in the prison with a key.

“You sleep light, old man.” Silas stepped in, closed the door behind him.

“You ain’t gonna see the rope,” he said. “You’ll wish for it, long before it comes.”

He grabbed Finn by the shirt, shoved him hard into the wall. Head hit stone. Cray’s fist followed—a heavy thing like a hammer. The first punch knocked the air out. The second was just punctuation. The big hands started to choke him again. The edges of his vision quickly started to darken. “This is it”, was the traitorous thought that entered his mind.

Finn was flying — like a bird — the land stretched out beneath him. Fields gave way to ancient forest as he angled his arms and dove. His small form shot between tree trunks at breakneck speed, zigzagging as he laughed like a madman. Then he heard his name, though it sounded like Jonathan. A dark form slammed into him mid-flight, shoving him down. Finn crashed into the forest floor with a hard thump.

 

Heart hammering in his throat, he yanked the dagger from beneath his pillow and jammed it upward between himself and the dark form. The blade met resistance—flesh and cloth—and someone yelped in pain.

 

Jonathan.

 

Finn blinked the sleep from his eyes. “What in all the gods’ left bollocks are you doing in my tent, you daft twat? I could’ve killed you, knocking me out of the bloody sky like that!”

 

Jonathan stared down at him, wide-eyed and bleeding. Neither quite knew what to say to that. “Listen!” the cleric hissed. “The forest’s all wrong. No sound. Inez says there’s something in the trees.”

 

Still half-dreaming of flight and foolish enough to be half-dressed, Finn grabbed his knives and sling and followed Jonathan out into the morning sunlight. Fresh blood on Jonno’s arm. Not too bad—but still, Finn owed him an apology. He didn’t like owing people. Especially when it wasn’t his fault.

 

Their tents were ringed in silver-grey mist—not the sickly green from yesterday’s chamber, but a quieter fog. Survival rule #27: When the fog rolls in, two things follow: monsters and bad decisions.

Inez stood a little way off, pointing silently up into a tree. Jonathan, ever the curious one, walked over to her. Finn hung back near the tents. From where he crouched, he could see the tree clearly but stay hidden. Something moved from Inez’ tree to the tree in front in Finn. He had heard the movement, but didn’t see it other than some shaking branches and leaves. Inez quickly walked over to the campfire and lit a torch. “Taking precautions, she is learning,” Finn muttered.

Still no visible movement, but the stalker crept on to the next tree. Finn thumbed his iron medallion. “Harrows,” he warned. “We’re being hunted.” Jonathan blinked. “What’s a Harrow?” Finn looked at him like he’d just asked what rain was. “The kind of thing your god won’t save you from.” 

Inez approached the tree with the torch raised. Finn still didn’t know why they called her the brains of the outfit. Up there, part of the tree, was… something…Finn didn’t know what to make of it. It looked like some part of the tree bulged out and moved of its own accord. Two frickin’ glowing yellow eyes blinked at Inez. She lowered the torch, trying not to threaten it, but it leapt—landed—and shifted. Its skin changed from bark to something murky, ground-coloured. For an instant they got a glimpse at a thing that had stepped out of a nightmare. 

Tentacles—eight, maybe more—each clutching different objects like a deranged hoarder: a branch, a charred stick, a meaty femur, a metal spike, a rusty axe… It balanced a bulbous head, a frilled collar, and a mouth full of tendrils on — more tentacles. And the most disturbing feature, the tentacles were lined with rows of fingers. Because of course it had fingered feelers. Why wouldn’t it?

It was a merci when it blinked from view, cloaking itself again — but not silently. It made this wet sucking noise that was freaking Finn out to his core.

 

The thing was twice Inez’s height. A tentacle lashed out — missed her leg by a hair, but cut cleanly through her dress. Jonathan ran forward. Finn fired a stone from his sling — but the shot passed through he though the creature was standing. Finn cursed, drew his chopper, and charged. He might as well have swung blindfolded. The creature dodged with uncanny ease. Fighting this thing felt like punching through a dream. Luckily for them, the thing seemed just as lost, its blows missing the smallfolk darting underneath its reach.

Jonathan tried water. (Of course he did.) He transformed into a halfling geyser and blasted the creature with water—straight into Inez. Her torch hissed and died, leaving her soaked and defenseless. The creature lunged, but the slick water made her too slippery to grip. In the mess of limbs and squirming, it tangled four of its own tentacles. “Hah!” Finn grinned. “Should’ve gone for suckers instead of fingers, eh?”

Now they were serious. Inez pulled her blades. Jonathan picked up his axe. What followed was a blur: steel flashing, appendages whipping, spells and swears and the sharp tang of blood—purple blood. Gods. Finn could tell Inez and Jonathan hadn’t been in many fights. They were focused on dishing out, but were a bit too static, leaving themselves open for the occasional nick from a tentacle. Finn was fighting angry with his heavy knife and had a hard time getting hits in against this monster. Inez, the bookworm and barely blooded in battle was fighting with her brain. Using statistics and increasing her chance to hit by fighting with two blades. What good does it do you when you are decked out knives on every limb, and don’t think to use them.  Finn created a bit of space between him and the monster and quickly threw two knives, one penetrating deep into the beast’s torso — tentacle stem — whatever. The creature screeched and charged Finn, grabbing the halfling like a rag doll. The stink — rotting meat, sweat, decay — that wafted over Finn threatened to choke him by itself. The tendrils in its mouth reached for his face. Inez jammed a blade into its back, if that was even a thing. The creature howled. Finn, using the pain as distraction, gripped his buried dagger and yanked it downwards with a roar. It dropped him. 

Now it was angry. The fight turned. It struck Inez hard. Jonathan and Finn pressed in, blades flashing. It ducked Jonathan’s swing. Finn tried to leap on its back but slipped. His hand plunged into the earlier wound halfway up to the elbow—and stuck. The beast spun wildly, bucking and flailing about, spinning him around in circles. Luckily the hand tore free, Finn was flung across the clearing. He landed hard. Dirt in his teeth. Head spinning.

Inez got back into the fight, knives stabbing. Jonathan’s axe swooshing through the air, but neither of them connecting; the creature’s veil messing with their sight again.

 

Finn, furious, grabbed a fistful of dirt and threw it. “See how you like it!” Maybe luck, maybe divine justice—but it hit. Right in the “face”. The thing reeled. It couldn’t see, but it didn’t go down. A lucky tentacle struck Inez. She crumpled. Another hit Jonathan square in the chest. 

 

And that did it. The cleric, calm no longer, channeled something ancient and holy and swung. The blade cut clean through the creature’s neck, purple blood spraying in an arch. The head and body plopped separately on the ground.

Whatever it was—spawned, summoned, or born— the body deflated, folding into itself like a leaky bladder. Its strange veil dropped, revealing garish yellow-orange skin beneath.

 

The horror lay still, dead. Over. Done.

 

Finn, still rattled, cracked a breakfast joke. Poor timing—Inez was motionless at their feet. Maybe dead. Jonathan, at least seemed to have his wits about him, he knelt, prayed and pumped some healing magic into Inez. She gasped awake, wild-eyed, as if Jonno had dumped another bucket of water on her.  

 

Finn slumped, coughing dirt and spit, every part of him aching like he’d been chewed and spit out by an owlbear. His left hand still throbbed where it had lodged inside the beast’s wound — felt like it had been pickled in nightmares. Around him, the clearing was quiet, save for the low, raspy breaths of the others and the lazy slosh of something viscous. That’s when he really noticed the puddle. Purple, like blubber left out too long in the sun. It shimmered strange in the light of the morning sun, pooling around what remained of the thing — the horror. Yellowish flesh now slack and crumpled, like a tent made from rotten leather and stuffed with nothing. It had deflated, literally, the moment its head came off. No bones to be seen. Just a heap of soft tissue, twitching slightly, as if it hadn’t quite gotten the message, it was dead.

It looked — wrong. Not just dead wrong. Born wrong. Like a fever dream from a madman.

They’d killed it. Barely. Finn stayed sitting for a moment longer, catching his breath, hand twitching as the purple stain dried into his skin. It didn’t feel right. Felt like something had stayed with him.

Inez apparently just needed a new mystery to forget about her torn dress. She started rooting through the creatures’ strange gear. She claimed the metal spike, pulled out the book she’d bought off Finn at the start of this disaster. (Cursed, probably.) Laid out the book on the floor and held the spike above it while muttering her strange incantations. Then she started peering at it through some ridiculous theatre binoculars.

“Priorities,” Finn muttered.

Finn recovered his blades, sliding them back into hidden sheaths. Returned Inez’s knife. She took it like it was his job.

The owlbear cubs had dragged the monster’s meaty femur off to one side and were gnawing at it like puppies with a soup bone. “Wonderful,” Finn muttered. “If we could just train them to do that before the murder starts, we’d be golden.” Inez gave him a look that said she agreed—while reminding him it wasn’t his place to say so. Fine. If she was gonna treat him like hired help, he’d at least do what made him happy.

Breakfast.

He pulled out some leftover Elkzilla meat. Added a wedge of dwarven deepcheddar he’d meant to save. Stale biscuits rounded it out. Comfort food.

Jonathan ate like it was a feast. Inez had just picked at hers. Her thoughts were somewhere else, her hands went instinctively over her dress — or what was left of it. Bless it, the thing had taken more damage than Jonathan’s shield. Torn up the side, mud-slicked, bloodstained, and worse, there was now a very particular rip that left — well, let’s just say the moon was out early that day. Jonathan, to his credit, kept his jaw from hitting the ground and tried to be polite. Failed. “Did your dress just surrender?” he asked, all priestly innocence.

Finn wasn’t quite so charitable. “Moonlit cheeks,” He said, with a grin he absolutely deserved to be slapped for. “Didn’t know that was the new fashion in Nook. Very daring.”

She shot the halflings a look that could’ve curdled milk. Yanked the fabric around herself like it owed her money. Mumbled something about provisional repairs. Probably would’ve used a fireball if she’d had the spell slots.

Finn caught Inez sneaking glances at his right hand. The bloodstain hadn’t come off — it had soaked into his skin like ink, staining his wrist, palm and fingers a kind of haunted lilac. It didn’t hurt or itch anymore, it just — was. And frankly, he liked the look of it. Mark of survival. Of victory. Maybe even luck. “Probably means I’m blessed by some forgotten god of mischief or — knives. (Lame) Could be it unlocks ancient vaults. Might even glow when treasure’s near.” He leaned in closer, stage whispered to Jonathan: “Or when someone’s lying.” Inez snorted, but didn’t argue.

Funny thing though: Inez kept eyeing it, the way you might a tattoo on a dangerous man you’re not supposed to be thinking about. She went all quiet after a while. Probably imagining how awful it’d be if she had a stain like that. I pictured her in elbow-length gloves for the rest of her life, hiding it away like shame. She’d still find a way to wear her rings, though. Probably layer them up the gloves. Fashion doesn’t die easy in that one.

finished eating — not nearly enough, but that’s halfling problems for you — and started breaking down camp. The fog hadn’t let up, but the party agreed over lukewarm coffee and Jonathan’s version of “morning hymns” that Magki was still the plan. While the others were packing, Jonathan, ever the accidental prophet, was idling about and tripped over something half-buried the water spray had revealed: Stone. Square. Worked. A hatch, or something like it, right next to their campsite. Of course, he didn’t ask why there was a hatch in the middle of nowhere. He just shouted “Adventure!” That seemed to put a smile on Inez’ face.

Finn groaned. Fools attract fools. Trust us to nearly die on top of a bloody mystery.

 

Finn did his thing and checked the hatch—no traps, no lock, closed. Maybe they could just leave — No, Inez had other ideas.

Mumbling to herself, she made that magic that makes doors open, or just rattle in this case. Her face did that thing where she bit her lip and arched her eyebrow in annoyance, which Finn loved if it wasn’t directed at him. She pulled out her binoculars again and inspected the hatch. She “Aha!”ed and grabbed the spike the creature had carried and slid it into a hole that Finn had dismissed as wear and tear of a century of decay or so. With a loud click, the thing seemed to have opened. Damn. Eager Jonathan pulled open the hatch and proudly announced he was the party’s strongman. Leading the party in, he cast light on his shield again like a proper lantern-boy. Inez seemed almost as eager to follow into another underground lair of doom. Finn thought: “Let them stumble ahead, I’ll just watch their backs for now.”

At the end of the corridor, they found their way blocked by a metal grid. Finn couldn’t open it. The party’s strongman hurt his wrist trying to force his way through. Finn felt a small bit of satisfaction at that. Inez started mumbling under her breath and the grid opened. Magic does have its benefits — sometimes — maybe.

They continued onwards until they came upon a small room with a high ceiling. There were two doors at the end of the room, which was lit with a strange green light. Weird static in the air. Finn’s teeth tingled. He kissed his medallion and asked his ancestors to protect him. Best get out of here. He tried the right door. Declared it safe.

 

It wasn’t.

 

A dart flew out, missed his head, and ripped another hole in Inez’s dress. She sighed her disapproval. Fiddling with the lock, Finn’s picks couldn’t find any purchase. Switched to the other door. No traps. Tried the lock—no luck. Grabbed a better handhold and the door swung open — not locked. Cheeks red, he stepped aside. Let the others enter first.

The party stepped into the space beyond the door. The floor vanished.

 

They slid—screaming, cursing—into darkness.

 

When Silas was done—or bored or satisfied—he left Finn bleeding on the floor, not dead, not whole. Blood dripped from his nose. His lip was split. He touched his ribs—maybe cracked.

But he was alive. 

Rosslyn stirred, sniffed at his face, squeaked low and worried. Finn managed a smile. It tasted like iron. He held up his hand, a small, blackened iron key in his palm. Compact. Had the look of a master key.

“I’ve still got it, Ross, he said,” Finn muttered. He spat a tooth fragment into the corner.

He reached under the bunk. Drew out the loose tile he’d been working on for months. Behind it, the stash: a stolen hinge pin, two lengths of wire, a spoon ground to a point. Small things. Sharp things.

He set them on the floor like cards in a game. 

He wasn’t strong. He wasn’t big. But he was clever.

And clever gets out.

Always Has.

 

Session #5, part 2 as told by Finn

 Two Weeks’ Notice

They put me back in the cell like nothing had happened.

Griggs—twitchy, foam-flecked Griggs—had come to behind the kitchen with eyes full of static and teeth looking for a neck. Took two guards to pry him off the third. Poor bastard ended up with his windpipe half collapsed and a soup ladle lodged where no ladle should ever lodge. Griggs, last I heard, got dragged screaming down to the oubliette.

So, problem solved.

For half a morning, I let myself believe the scales had balanced. Then the new problem strolled in.

By the time the dust settled, we were down one golem and up one campfire. Inez passed around her fancy-packet rations, all neat folds and clean edges like she’d been raised in a bakery. They tasted of citrus and shame, like she was trying to apologize for something unspoken. She was still blinking like she’d seen a ghost—and maybe she had. Us halflings, though, we were already swapping stories like squirrels on too much sugar. Jonathan was going on about which spices paired best with lamb chops, and I chimed in with my theory that slicing direction was more important than seasoning. Then someone brought up the moonstone.That stupid glowing pebble. Of course it was Jonathan who brought it up, all innocent-like.

“Inez still has it, right?” he said.

 

Inez clutched the shiny thing like it was a love letter from home and spun some nonsense about preservation. “We” still had the moonstone, she said, like it had been a team effort. I nodded along, of course. She was pink-cheeked and prickly about it, which meant we’d struck a nerve. Jonathan smiled like a saint. I let it go—for now.

 

Then she said something daft about me setting the course next. And here’s the kicker: nobody argued. I told her I wasn’t in charge of this parade of misfits. I reminded her that the deal was she would take me out of Nook, not the other way around. I had no map, no plan, and no interest in pretending otherwise. This was her show, and she was the director. That seemed to put a bit of color on her cheeks, and I could see the whirlwind of thoughts behind her eyes.

 

Jonathan revisited the carcass of Elkzilla Rex—his god only knows why—I noticed the owlbear chicks had passed out from stuffing themselves, one snoring like a tiny sawmill. I wanted to run. Instead, I cooked.  Ignoring Jonathan’s mutterings, I took some meat from the hind leg and started slicing it down into travel-ready cuts. It felt good to do something normal. Then we realized we had no water.

 

Jonathan, being a walking miracle, summoned some with a flick of his wrist and offered to teach Inez the spell. She tried. Failed. Tried again. Failed harder. I laughed. Said she needed a few good slaps—that’s how I learned. In Grint’s house, failure was met with knuckles, not patience.

 

Apparently, that wasn’t the done thing in gnome high society.

 

She flushed like a beet and nearly bit my head off. I was about to joke about her other cheeks but caught something in her face—tired, sad, the kind of pain that lingers. I let it drop. Told her that’s how I got schooled. She didn’t laugh.

 

When I went to heat up my cookware, I found it had gone cold. A quick check showed every piece of metal except Inez’s gear had lost its heat. In a brilliant attempt to look impressive, I grabbed her knife bare-handed and burned myself like an idiot. Real clever, Finn. Jonathan offered up his axe to see if Inez had some magical metal-heating ability, but it was too heavy for her, and she dropped it like it weighed a hundred pounds. Nearly cost Jonathan a few toes.

 

After the meal, the owlbear cubs perked up and started chasing each other around. Inez announced we’d travel toward Magki and the Light Academic tower. Both Jonathan and I raised the idea of heading back into the dungeon below, just to see if she’d bite. She didn’t.

 

So off we went, across the field and back to the road, making good time without incident. Suspiciously good.

 

Eventually we reached a hamlet so small it looked like it had been sneezed out of the dirt. A handful of buildings. Smallfolk-sized, mostly. Barely a soul in sight. Most of the paint had peeled off long ago, and what was left looked like rust trying to remember color.

 

And then there he was: one sagging gnome slouched on a pile of empty bottles like a wine god gone to seed, greeting us like a king.

 

Now Ross, this bit stuck with me. Inez must’ve thought she looked a right mess—red hair all loose and tangled, catching the sun like it wanted to set her alight. Freckles shone through the grime like starlight on a dirty window. She was missing a stocking, I think—the left one. Fidgeting, fixing her hair, brushing off her dress like she could wipe away the last few days. And still… still, she looked beautiful. Not the polished kind, not the ones they paint in parlors. No, she looked like the kind that grabs your heart. Wild. Honest. Like the world had tried to scuff her up and she just wore it like a badge. Couldn’t look away, if I’m honest. Not then. Still can’t.

 

The gnome introduced himself as Meyon Hiir. Least, that’s what Inez told me later. With his thick gnomish accent and slur, I thought he said “Mayor Here.” Which, for all I knew, he was.

 

Inez bowed like she was meeting royalty. He gave her sass about wine, and she handed him Jonathan’s conjured water. He took one sniff and called it piss. I nearly collapsed laughing. You’d think she’d stabbed him.

 

I saw a chance and snuck off to scout for loot, while they were having their conversation. Old habits. Found the place was even more rickety than it looked. Got my foot caught on a loose board and, trying to steady myself, shoved my hand through the wall. A bottle rolled out—straight into the king’s lap. He gave me the stink eye, claimed it was his by right, and downed it.

 

Inez smoothed over the blunder by introducing us all. Turns out Meyon had heard of the Systemix family from Nook. Gnomes stick together like that. He asked if her family would send more wine. She lied with ease. Not bad.

 

I asked if there was a tavern. He said the nearest one was six or seven days away and launched into a tale about giants, cheese, and cyclopes. Then came the quiz: name the ancient hero who fought giants. Inez froze—looked like a student caught scribbling notes during a sermon. I considered piling on. Briefly. But she didn’t need another slap from me that day.

 

So, I asked if there was a barn or hayloft, we could kip in. He implied we were all shagging and asked about Inez’s chaperone. She turned red again. I might’ve, too, from trying not to laugh.

 

He finally pointed us to a campsite up the road, less than an hour’s walk. Then promptly fell asleep.

 

Behind us, a crowd had gathered. The chicks—our owlbear cubs—had caught up. That sealed it. The townsfolk gave us the boot. Thankfully, no pitchforks or torches.

 

We found the camp just as promised. Inez tried to scrub dignity back onto her soul with a foraged meal of roots and regret. Jonathan and I picked berries—one of us said they were sour, the other said poisonous. We didn’t test it. Inez, still reeling from the wine-piss debacle, didn’t touch them. We dug for grubs to feed the chicks. They scarfed them down. We were gonna need bigger bugs soon.

 

We ate the rations I’d prepped that morning. I made sure we camped well off the road, hidden from view. That annoyed Inez—she seemed to think every traveler needed her approval to pass.

 

Later, she slipped off and came back with that mysterious glow of hers. The cubs loved it. She looked at Jonathan and me like we were supposed to be impressed too. I just don’t think I’ll ever fully understand women.

 

She said she saw someone—on horseback, watching us. Claimed it was the one from the monolith. If that’s true, trouble’s close. Inez seemed to enjoy the mystery and not consider much else.

 

Rosslyn, if you ever find yourself traveling with fools, you’d best consider you might be one yourself.

 

Tomorrow, we march. Probably. Or get eaten. Or murdered by a sentient tea kettle. Honestly, I’ve given up trying to guess. 

He made his entrance during airing time. That sliver of afternoon where they pretend, we’re still human enough to need sunlight.

He walked with the cocky limp of someone who’s earned every one of his scars and still thinks he won the fight. Half-elf, if you squinted, though something heavier lurked in the blood. Broad shoulders, neck like a stump, skin like dried-out hide. One ear gone. Not cut—bitten. Smile like a bad joke left out in the rain. 

Walked straight through the yard like the bricks owed him rent. And when he saw me? He grinned.

I didn’t recognize him, but I recognized the look. The kind of look a man wears when he’s not here to serve his own time—he’s here to serve someone else’s.

Calder sent him. Of course he did. Hanging was too clean for a man like me.

“Finn Slynt,” the half-elf said, crouching beside me like we were old friends at a funeral. “Calder says hi.” Voice like gravel rolled in blood. He smelled like cloves, piss, and powder. The kind of smell that lingers long after the body’s cold.

“I’ve got orders,” he said. “Two weeks of evenings. We’re going to get to know each other. Properly. And then, right before your neck stretches, you’re going to miss that appointment, but I’m going to make you wish you had made it.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but his hand was already on my throat. Fast. Like a snake that’d been coiled too long.

The world narrowed.

Air thinned.

The sky winked out like a dying candle.

I struggled. Useless. My hands couldn’t find purchase. My legs kicked dust. A distant part of me heard Rosslyn squeak—but I couldn’t see her. The world went black.

Then he let go. Just long enough to spit on the ground beside my head.

He stood. Maybe he stamped. I don’t know. Something crunched near me. Was it her? I don’t know.

I gasped like a fish on a dock, watching his boots walk away. Slow. No rush. Why would there be? He had time. Orders, after all.

The guards didn’t see. Or pretended not to. And me? I laid there. Throat burning. Eyes watering. Dust in my teeth.

They say every man’s got a clock in him, ticking down to something. Me? Mine’s loud lately. Fourteen nights. Fourteen reminders. Tick. Tock.

And Rosslyn? Gone.

Session #5, Part 1 as told by Finn

“Grease and Grudges”

 

Somewhere deep within the innerwalls of the Eastshore prison Finn has hit a wall with a grunt. Solid stone where there used to be space. “Lovely,” he mutters. “Someone’s been doin’ renovations.”

 

He slumped, back against the stone. “Well, Ross, that’s it then. Either I go out in front of a crowd, swingin’ in my best shirt, or I crawl back and wait for plan bloody B.”

 

Rosslyn squeaked and curled around his hand.

 

He closed his eyes. “Back to the cell it is. But not to stay.”

 

He turns back, shoulders aching from the crawl. Twenty minutes lost pokin’ about some fool hope of a tunnel. He just wants to get back to his cell before the guards count noses.

Rosslyn chitters on his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I should’ve left a sock in my bunk. Or a decoy rat.”

 

He eases open the old kitchen panel—just wide enough for a halfling and a whisper. The place should be empty. The scent of bland prison stew in the air. Along with something worse.

 

Boots. Heavy. Sloppy. And then—“Who’s in my kitchen?” growls a voice like gravel in a piss bucket. Finn winces. Griggs. Mean bastard. Prisoner. Used to be on kitchen detail until he tried to beat a lad to death for using his ladle. Wasn’t supposed to be here.

 

Finn ducks behind a sack of flour. Griggs stomps past, dragging one leg and breathing like a bellows in a fire. He stops, sniffs. “Smells like rat piss and cowardice.”

 

Rosslyn bristles. Finn mutters, “Don’t rise to it.” But then Griggs does something worse—he turns toward the pantry hatch. Right towards the hidden way. If Griggs sees it, if he figures out someone’s been sneakin’ through—he’ll run straight to the guards. And worse, he’ll smirk about it.

 

Finn weighs it. No time. No space. He can’t risk the man talking.

 

The room’s dim, but Finn’s eyes find something useful: a slab of congealed grease on the stone floor, slick and shining. Right next to a meat hook, left dangling from a nail.

 

He stands. “Oy, Griggs. Thought they banned you from kitchens.” Griggs turns, eyes red and wild. “You.”

 

He charges. Finn sidesteps. “Mind the floor.”

 

Griggs hits the grease patch head-on. Both legs shoot out. He crashes down, skidding into a bucket and denting a pot with his skull. Dazed.

 

Finn’s on him fast. Hook in hand, quick thunk to the side of the head. Not too hard. Just enough. Griggs goes limp.

 

“Sorry, mate,” Finn mutters, hauling him into the corner. “You’ll wake up with a headache and an alibi. Could’ve been worse.”

 

He grabs the nearest bowl—porridge, maybe—and a crust of bread. No time to savor. Just enough to line his stomach and not look suspicious.

 

He grabs a mop and bucket and strolls through the hall past a guard towards the mop room, joins the other prisoners on work detail and makes it back into the cellblock. No questions asked—if you look like you belong, people think that you belong where you are.

 

His cell’s still undisturbed. Rosslyn leaps off his shoulder and noses into the bedding.

 

Finn sits down hard. Breaks the bread in two. Hands half to Rosslyn.

 

“Could’ve been worse,” he says, chewing. He swallows, wipes dust from his brow, and sighs.

“At least we earned ourselves a breakfast.’

 

“Now, you wanna hear about the time me, Inez, and that long-faced holy boy fought a mountain with arms?”

 

So the sun pokes in through the tent flap like it owns the place, and I wake up face-down, mouth full of canvas. Brain’s full of fog. Stomach’s makin’ a sound like an angry badger. Somewhere out there, I hear crunchin’—something’s eatin’, and I feel left out.

 

I sit up, rub the gunk from me eyes, and right on cue—boom boom, there it is again. That damn phantom marching sound. Ghosts of a war telling us to be off, at least that’s the message that I got. Grab me medallion to keep out the Harrows. Still warm. Too warm. 

Add to that a low rumblin’ in the earth and the occasional twitch beneath me arse like the ground’s got gas. I hate this forest, Rosslyn. Hate it like I hate damp socks. Nothing good here. Shoulda left yesterday.

 

I step outta the tent, morning fog’s thick enough to butter. Stretch, I feel better than I deserve, which is always suspicious. The owlbear cubs gnawin’ on what I think is a lump of meat. One of the cubs waddles past, lookin’ like it took a bath in a blood fountain. I holler, “Your chick, your problem!” at Inez. She doesn’t laugh. Probably too busy makin’ eyes at her creepy rock idol again. Jon’s playing dead in the grass. I shuffle off to take a piss in peace.

 

Anyway, I’m standin’ there, whistlin’ a tune only half-forgotten, when I look down and—oh, what’s this? Blood. Guts. Bits of beast strung along like somebody’s idea of a trail mix. My brain wakes up proper, like a kettle hittin’ boil. I look back and realize—oh no, that ain’t just meat the cubs are munchin’. That’s a giant. Antlers and all. Elkzilla. Torn clean in two. Not chewed. Split. Which means something sharp, strong, or cursed did it—and we’re just sitting here like bait at a banquet

Right then, Ross, I made a decision. And that decision was: Time to go.

 

But not Inez. No, she’s over there pokin’ at the corpse with a stick, sayin’ fancy words like “Cervus maximus giganti” or “Antlered apex fauna” or somethin’ else that won’t help when whatever did this comes back for dessert. Jonathan’s noddin’ along like a lad at sermon. Neither of ‘em’s got a lick o’ sense. She’s got that “let’s investigate the creepy forest trail covered in blood” look in her eye. Like it’s a Sunday stroll.

 

I check for a trail—nothin’. Could’ve been dragged in. Could’ve crawled. Or maybe it just appeared. Either way, no sign of what killed it, which is somehow worse.

 

Jon and I exchange that look that says: Can we just go home already? I say we pack up in case we need to bolt. She pouts. Wants us to go back into that mad room underneath the idol to look for more stones. Ross: “you should have seen her face, when Jonathan compared her to his mad gran’father in the robes. Hahaha.” That seemed to annoy her and set her back right. We said we’d leave—Jon needs his little prayer, then he’s ready. I’m already packed. Inez too.

 

And then—curse the stars—those two tree-huggers decide to bring the bloody cubs. I tell ya, Rosslyn, if some monster’s bringin’ meat to feed its babies, and we’re sittin’ next to the buffet? That’s a problem. And if those cubs realize we killed their mum? Well, I like my eyes where they are.

 

As I’m thinkin’ that, we hear a noise. Stone on stone. Or maybe claw on stone. Scratchin’ behind the monolith. Of course Inez decides to go take a look. Because she’s clearly immune to basic survival instincts. Jonathan follows her. 

I’m torn between following them and maybe becoming breakfast to some giant monster or doing the sensible thing and leaving these deadweights behind.

I go ‘round the side, flankin’—smart, yeah? But by the time I catch up, she says she saw some cloaked figure bolt into the trees. I see nothin’. No rustle. No tracks. No nothin’.

 

But there’s a message carved into the monolith now. It looked like scribbles to me, but Inez reads it out with a face of a halfling reading the menu at a pie store. Says it’s a summons to a contest or duel. Skips a few lines, I think. Her poker face is terrible. I say we leg it.

 

Too late.

 

The earth has another tremor, like my uncle’s gut after eatin’ cabbage. The monolith shifts. Cracks. Bits fall off. And then—boom. Giant bloody golem, big as a barn and twice as ugly. Stone fists the size of ponies. Inez yelps. Jon panics. I consider my life choices. The thing raises its arms ominously.  I don’t wait. I shout, “Run!” and I run.

 

Wind wooshes past me head—barely missed. I hear a thud behind me, where Jonno and Inez were standing. One of em got hit, maybe. I look over my shoulder, the others waited around to see what the deal was. Like there is anything three smallfolk can do against that.

 

Inez starts screamin’, “Throw the moonstones!” I yank at me bag, trip like a fool, land flat, and the moonstone pops out like it’s got a mind o’ its own. I grab it, roll, and chuck it in one smooth toss. Should’ve been on stage, Rosslyn.

 

Just as it’s sailin’ through the air, I see the golem’s already got a hand on a stone behind it—drawing it into an awkward position. It makes a grab for my stone with its free arm and seizes too. And just like that—it stops. Eyes go dark. Whole thing locks up tighter than a miser’s coinpurse.

 

Jon and Inez are haulin’ each other to safety. Golem turns back to stone, like it was all a dream. And the moonstones? Look like regular rocks now. Bastards.

 

Then me stomach growled loud enough to startle birds. “I’ll make breakfast,” I say.

Because if the day’s startin’ like that, Ross, I need eggs. And possibly liquor.

Finn leans back on the cell wall, breaking off another crumb for Rosslyn, who curls tighter in his lap.

“We’ll get out, little mate. One way or another. Not today, maybe. But soon. Sun’s got no business shinin’ this long on rats like us unless it means to light the way.”