Ahead of them, Osgar the Silent walked with measured, soundless steps, crossbow resting easily in his hands. Martha watched him often, noting how he moved like a shadow that had learned discipline. He had saved them. That counted for something. More than something.
Corvitz Shadowmark drifted nearby, sometimes on the road, sometimes apparently a pace to the left where the trees grew thicker—though no one was ever quite certain how he got there. The raven’s black eyes missed nothing.
Martha did not trust him. Neither did the mice.
A mage was a mage.
Yet Corvitz spoke softly, offering observations rather than orders, and somehow the group found themselves following his suggestions all the same: which fork to take, when to slow, when to keep moving despite fatigue. Each time, it felt reasonable. Sensible.
Only Osgar showed no reaction at all.
He never spoke. Never questioned. If Corvitz stopped, he stopped. If Corvitz moved, the weasel followed, eyes distant, expression carved from stone.
None of the others noticed the faint shimmer that sometimes crossed Osgar’s gaze when Corvitz’s voice dipped into a certain cadence.
Felix did notice.
Or rather—he felt something. A pressure behind his thoughts, like a door he had long known existed but never dared open. As the raven spoke, Felix sensed the flow beneath the words: intention nudging possibility, will shaping outcome.
It terrified him.
Because it felt familiar.
Felix adjusted the staff on his shoulder, heart thudding. I’ve done this before, he realized—not with spells or words, but with choice. With expectation. With wanting things to go a certain way, and watching them… bend.
He swallowed hard and said nothing.
The road curved, trees thinning slightly, and that was when Martha froze.
Her nose lifted. Ears pricked.
“Smoke,” she said quietly. “Campfire. Not far.”
They all stopped.
Dietmar slipped off the road instantly, melting into shadow. Fors crouched, hand on his blade. Felix’s fingers brushed the spellbook without thinking.
Corvitz tilted his head. “A group,” he said after a moment. “Several heartbeats. Tired. Unaware.”
“Could be trouble,” Fors said.
“Could be supplies,” Felix replied.
“Could be mages,” Martha growled.
Corvitz’s voice slid in smoothly. “If they are, better to choose the ground. Surprise favors the living.”
No one argued—but Martha felt the decision settle before she consciously made it, like a stone dropped into water that had already been leaning toward the fall.
“We ambush,” she said at last. “Clean and fast.”
Corvitz nodded. “Wise.”
The plan formed quickly. Too quickly. The original band would circle right—Martha, the twins, Dietmar—using the undergrowth and the slope. Corvitz and Osgar would take the left, approaching through the denser trees.
A pincer.
Osgar simply turned and went, crossbow ready.
Corvitz followed, his outline blurring at the edges, already half-elsewhere.
As they split, Felix glanced back once, a chill crawling up his spine. For just a heartbeat, he thought he saw invisible threads stretching from the raven to the weasel—tight, unquestioned, unbreakable.
Then the moment passed.
Gardallach woke with his teeth bared, breath caught halfway in his chest, the sharp, unmistakable tang of hound flooding his senses. For a heartbeat he lay still, tangled in canvas and half-dream, telling himself it was memory or nightmare or some old instinct scratching at the inside of his skull. Then he breathed again. The scent didn’t fade. It deepened. Cold air, damp grass, leather, and beneath it all that hated, disciplined musk—trained, patient, awake.
The tent glimmered grey with predawn light. No alarm. No shouted warning. Gardallach’s eyes slid sideways to the other bedroll. Pippin lay sprawled on his back, mouth slightly open, tail twitching as if chasing something only he could see. On watch, my brush, Gardallach thought, fighting the urge to kick the stoat awake. Beyond the tent flap he could still taste smoke, faint but damning. The campfire wasn’t dead. It had been left to sulk. Careless. Visible. A gift.
He listened. Somewhere nearby, canvas creaked as Brund shifted in his own tent—still asleep, thank the dark. Across the clearing, Fennel and Drimble’s shelter was a darker shape against darker trees, quiet as a held breath. No voices. No footsteps. Which was worse.
Gardallach eased a claw free of his blanket and wrapped his fingers around the knife at his belt. The hound was real. Awake. Close. And if it had caught their scent, then the dawn wasn’t creeping in alone.
Brund came awake to Gardallach’s shout already half on his feet, years of bad ground and worse mornings carrying him forward before his thoughts caught up. He dragged his shield upright, snatched the weight of his axe into his hands, and shouldered out of the tent as the camp exploded into motion. The fire guttered, accusing. Shapes were moving beyond it—low, fast, wrong—sliding in from the east where the light was weakest.
A crossbow thrummed and a bolt hissed past his ear. Brund didn’t slow. He lowered his shoulder and charged straight into the dark, boots tearing sodden turf as another shot cracked somewhere to his right. Something feathered lunged at him and he smashed into it without breaking stride—wood and bone and surprised breath folding under his shield. The raven hit the ground hard and stayed there.
The crossbowman had already abandoned subtlety. Armoured, broad, confident—he let the bow fall and drew steel instead. Brund roared and met him head-on, axe swinging in a brutal arc that would have split an oak. The blow rang and skidded, turned aside by an ancient, battered helm snatched up like a shield, its old runes screaming as loud as the impact. In that heartbeat of shock, Fennel was suddenly there at Brund’s flank, lantern guttering, luck twisting sharp and strange around her.
The enemy saw her too. He lunged past Brund’s guard, blade flashing toward the squirrel. That did it. Brund felt the world narrow, felt something cold and furious lock into place behind his eyes. She shouldn’t be here. He crashed forward, shield slamming, axe coming down with all the weight he’d been holding back. The armoured figure fell in a tangle of steel and broken intent, and Brund planted himself between Fennel and the dark, breathing hard, daring the dawn to bring more.
This was the first game on our Burrows & Badgers 2nd Ed campaign. Moorham, a destroyed town, is a lure for magical folks. There is bound to be conflict as they converge on it…
This game, played against Aaron’s Survivors of “Fortune”, was great fun. Brund proved brutal and tough as he hurtled into both Corvitz and Oscar, dismantling them. Fennel foolishly joined the combat with Osgar, a mistake I won’t make again…
Elesewhere we saw plenty of cool spells cast and an exchange of ranged fire. Cover is important as even that -2 to the hit roll can make a huge difference.
Until next time,
Owen