Chronicles of Stone & Blood – Part II
After clawing their way out of the ossuary’s grip, the Saintly Bastards returned to Greymire with battered limbs and quiet minds. For all their swagger and cynicism, something in that tomb had whispered to them. Something had watched.
The town greeted them with little more than flickering lanterns and muddy streets. It was a place on the edge—of the hills, of history, and now, of something darker. While Grobnar, Sleevax, and Pimm made straight for the Saucy Tart tavern, Sister Malady sought solitude and reflection.
In the quiet upstairs room of the Dustmere Inn, Malady laid out the cursed relics they’d claimed: the whispering skull amulet, the gilded hand, and the cold black iron hand. The candlelight danced over them like spirits. Then came the tapping—soft and deliberate at her window. Unstartled, she approached, candle in hand, and drew the curtain.
There was nothing outside. Yet the window was fogged from the outside, and traced across its surface was a sigil: a perfect circle, crossed by three vertical slashes. As she watched, the symbol pulsed with a cold, pale light. The skull amulet whispered in response, its voice like many murmuring as one.
Malady saw a vision—not reflected, but revealed. A stone throne buried deep beneath the earth. A mass of shadow coiled around it, too many eyes watching from its folds. Upon the throne sat a figure wrapped in iron and linen. One hand of gold. One of black iron.
She recorded it all in her journal before extinguishing the candle and surrendering to sleep, her god’s sigil gripped tightly in her palm.
Back at the Saucy Tart, the others sought comfort in drink, meat, and exaggeration.
The tavern was a sagging two-story structure of dark wood and low ceilings, thick with pipe smoke and the scent of spilled ale. The hearth roared with a greedy flame, its glow painting every wall in gold and shadow. A stuffed wyvern’s head hung over the mantle, its glass eyes dulled by time and grime. The floor creaked like an old boat, and the air buzzed with the hum of half-drunken conversation.
At one table, a pair of caravan guards argued over dice and debts. Near the bar, a merchant’s clerk loudly recounted how he once chased off a bandit with nothing but a ledger and a mean stare. Two locals nursed mugs in silence, eyes flicking toward the Bastards with something like respect—or fear.
Grobnar slumped into a bench like a sack of boulders, banging his tankard on the table. “Meat,” he growled. “Bleeding if possible.”
Pimm flopped beside him, pulling out his lute and plucking at it with distracted fingers. “Don’t expect applause. This crowd has no taste.”
Sleevax, naturally, occupied the best seat—boots on the bench, arms stretched wide, speaking just loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear. “So there we were, facing down a wall of shrieking bones, and who do you think takes the first swing? Not Grob. Not Sister Doom. Me.” He grinned. “Naturally.”
A barmaid named Kella brought their plates—mutton pies steaming and lopsided, trenchers of thick brown stew, and a round of foamy local ale that tasted like old boots but hit like a crossbow.
“That thing over the fire ever move?” Grobnar asked, eyeing the wyvern head.
“Only when you’ve had enough to make it interesting,” Kella said, smirking. “First round’s on the house. Second’ll cost you your soul or a song.”
Pimm grinned. “We’re already short on souls. Better make it a song.”
But even in the noise and warmth, the Bastards felt a hollow edge to the evening. The bone dust was still under their fingernails. The air outside still carried the breath of the tomb.
That’s when Pimm saw the old man.
He sat in the farthest corner, half-shadowed, nursing a mug of something dark and bitter. His eyes didn’t wander. They studied.
Curious as ever, Pimm rose and snatched Sleevax’s mug right out from under the elf. Now armed with two drinks, Pimm wandered over. Behind him, he heard Sleevax bark, ‘Hey, you damn little gnome! That was mine!’
He offered it without preamble. “For the thirst,” he said, sliding onto the bench. “You look like a man who’s seen more than most and talks less than he should.”
The man took the drink. Didn’t thank him. But after a long pause, he spoke.
“You one of ‘em?”
Pimm nodded. “From the tomb. And you?”
The man’s story spilled out in pieces—of a cave found years ago, of a throne buried in ash, of the gold and iron hands laid like relics on an altar. Of a humming in the dark that felt like a memory trying to surface.
“The gold one whispers,” the man said. “And if you pick wrong… you won’t die. You’ll wish you had.”
Pimm’s smile faltered, just slightly. “Charming fellow. Bet you’re great at parties.”
The old man looked into the fire, lost in it. He did not utter another word.
Pimm returned to Grobnar and Sleevax with the tale. No one laughed. No one finished their drink.
They left the tavern in silence and made for bed, each haunted by a sigil none of them had drawn. No one laughed. No one finished their drink. The night was lost.
They left the tavern in silence and made for bed, each haunted by a sigil none of them had drawn.
Dawn came like a verdict. And the tomb still waited beneath the hills, whispering through stone and bone.
