Through the churn of snow and blade, a figure in pristine white robes walks straight out of the storm. He does not flinch at the fighting, he comes only for Slaan.
Dravin
Lanterns sleep under ash.
The pass seems to listen. The bane stone’s tether tightens, then shudders, as if the phrase has clicked a hidden latch somewhere deep in the route.
Slaan
It is a signal.
Dravin’s cold smile does not change, but the air around him turns sharp with warning. Bram shifts hard toward Slaan, while Lord Markul’s gaze snaps from the white robe to the swelling motion in the snow.
Lord Markul
That is not an opening, it is a call.
From the far edge of the pass, hidden shapes begin to move toward the tether, answering the trap Dravin has just named.
✓ Quest Accepted
Stop the hidden forces answering Dravin's signal
“Did Dravin knowingly use the phrase to draw the hidden enemy forces into the open as part of Markul's trap”
YES, AND MORE (VeryLikely, rolled 7)
Dravin does not look at the encroaching shapes, but his eyes lock onto Slaan with a chilling, predatory clarity. He confirms the trap was his design, a calculated sacrifice to purge the route of the Church's most dangerous hunters in one stroke.
Dravin
The passphrase was never meant to protect us, Slaan. It was the dinner bell for the wolves we needed to cull.
Slaan
He used us as bait, and the passphrase is a death sentence for anyone standing in this pass.
“"YOU COULD'VE FUCKIN' TOLD ME, YA CUNT" I say seething”
SUCCESS (Great Willpower, rolled -1)
Slaan
You could have told me. You made this into a death sentence.
Slaan snaps the words through clenched teeth, and the red pulse from the bane stone rakes across her face like a warning blade.
Dravin
I told you enough to bring you here. Quietly, that was mercy.
Bram shifts his stance beside the ash map, jaw tight, as the tether’s light throws his shadow long over the snow.
Bram
Mercy? You used all of us as cover.
Dravin
Cover is what the hunted become, if they mean to survive the hunt.
Slaan
The ash stain on Dravin’s glove is still fresh.
Markul’s gaze flicks from Slaan to Dravin, then outward toward the far edge of the pass, where the first moving shapes begin to separate from the storm.
Lord Markul
Enough. The signal has answered. Now we see who comes through it.
“Is Dravin trying to lure Church hunters?”
YES, AND MORE (VeryLikely, rolled 8)
Dravin
It is not just the hunters, Slaan. I am drawing the entire hierarchy of the All Father into this pass, from the lowest scout to the high inquisitors who signed the warrants for your friends.
Slaan
He is not just baiting a trap. He is orchestrating a massacre to clear the board.
Bram
You are turning this entire mountain into a graveyard, Dravin. Do you even care if we are buried here with them?
Dravin
The dead do not hold grudges, Bram. Only the living do. Tell me, are you still so eager to be the hero, or do you finally see the utility in being the blade?
““Don't lecture an assassin about bein' the blade, mate. I'm tellin' ya where to fuckin' point it.” I pause and look at the field in play. “The Doomsayer's people, the inquisitors who signed those warrants, anyone who knowingly served Kolaur—you can 'ave the fuckin' lot. But the ones who came 'ere believing they were defending their Church? They walk. We came to expose Voss, not butcher every stupid bastard wearing the same colors.” I say coldly as I tilt my head in cold rationale”
SUCCESS (Great Persuasion, rolled +0)
Slaan
Don't lecture an assassin about being the blade. Point me at the right throats.
Slaan tips her head, cold and exact, and the snowfield beyond the bane stone sits in the red wash of its pulse. Dravin's smile thins.
Slaan
Take the Doomsayer's people, the inquisitors, anyone who knew Kolaur's game. The ones who thought they were defending their Church, let them walk.
Dravin
You draw a cleaner line than most would. Fine. I will not spend steel on the fooled when the guilty are in reach.
Bram
That is the first sensible mercy I have heard since this trap started.
Lord Markul gives a short, approving nod, already reading the field in the distance. The ash stain on Dravin's glove flakes at the knuckle as he lowers his hand.
Dravin
Then point the blade where it matters, Slaan.