Brazen Wolfe Tabletop

The Summers Clasp

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The temple’s inner chamber had quieted, its enchantments holding outside sound at bay despite the coffin being up righted and the doors opened again. The party stood in a small alcove flanked by stone reliefs of celestial victories, carved in the days before Carlo had earned his name among them. Three of the coffin bearers remained behind, separated from the crowd. They all wore the signs of recent travel: scraped armour, worn cloaks, and exhaustion that ran less deep than their grief.

The party and the trio were shown to a small room and given some wine to help calm their nerves. After a few moments the warrior spoke first, his voice cracked and low. He was broad-shouldered and thick-necked, but his posture betrayed no pride. ‘I owe him everything,’ he said, eyes fixed on a point beyond the party. ‘Two weeks ago I’d have bled out in the Obsidian Pass if he hadn’t thrown me out of the fire’s path.’ His fingers curled into fists. ‘He was still strong then. Still himself.’ He offered no answers, only admiration, and the kind of quiet that comes from watching a living legend fall.

Beside him, the young dwarf rogue stared down at her boots, her voice no louder than the wind through the stones. ‘He made me see I could be more than a shadow in someone else’s tale. Even when I broke ranks… even when I failed.’ She quickly rubbed her sleeve across her eyes. ‘He pulled me out of that ruin when it collapsed. Didn’t hesitate. Just smiled and said I’d did a good job at finding scouting ahead.’ She couldn’t look at the party.

The older cleric stepped forward, adjusting the mantle over his weathered robes. Unlike the others, his expression held something unreadable; composure honed from years of preaching his doctrine. ‘I saw him fall,’ he said, his voice catching lightly, ‘we were deep in the wizard’s sanctum. The air was thick with enchantment, and the wizards apprentices stepped through the plane like shadows.’ He paused, carefully. ‘One of them, one I believe, cut him across the chest with a dark red dagger. I… I thought nothing of it until now as he was so strong and he stood and he was the twice blessed. Nothing could have killed him. That’s what I thought at least.’

The trio exchanged glances, their thoughts echoed across their faces; splintering under the weight of the clerics words. If Carlo, twice-blessed, had truly been struck down in combat by some form of cursed blade and dying later from wounds that had unimpeded him, not phased him until after they had all returned. Guilt crept in uninvited, winding through the silence as they all felt like they could, no should have saved him from the blade if they were just a bit more. Their shoulders sagged. Their hearts, already shaken, began to fracture visibly in their expressions.

But the cleric; whose god was not Auronel nor Vorthuun, held up a hand. His voice grew gentle, almost rehearsed. ‘There is a plan for all of us. Perhaps not ours to understand, but shaped nonetheless. I just hope that the plan with Carlo finds meaning.’ He stepped back slightly, squeezing the shoulder of the dwarven rogue, allowing his words to settle. ‘The blame doesn’t belong to you. We all stood with him. And we all lost something, we all did something wrong in that quest.’

And yet something lingered. A flicker of restraint in the cleric’s tone. Though the party largely accepted his account, unease remained. His eyes had flinched too briefly when describing the wound. His certainty sounded practiced. Whether it was grief or something else left unsaid, the party could not be sure. But in that moment, they held to his reassurance as a fragile shield against what truly gnawed at them: not just that Carlo was gone, but that they had no idea how, or why.

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