A Stranger’s Warning, A Crone’s Bargain
Chapter 18 of The Redemption of Olvir the Forgotten, an Ironsworn campaign.
Previously on Olvir, the Forgotten. After a period of rest and recuperation, Olvir prepares to leave Lostbrook to find information about his family in the largest town in the region, the large port city of Rooksbay.
Catch up with everything in this saga via this curated collection of links
Welcome back to The Redemption of Olvir, the Forgotten. Before we begin this episode, I would like to mention that I have incorporated the additional oracles from the Ironsmith supplement by Eric Bright. I will also be using my own Waypoints Oracle (Download for Free) for flavour along the journey.
Ironsmith introduces Expanded Oracles for all options provided in the original Ironsworn game. Each Ironsworn Oracle now includes two additional Oracles. The suggestion is to roll a d6 to choose the Oracle: 1-2 indicates the original Ironsworn Oracle, 3-4 directs us to the first Ironsmith Oracle, and 5-6 points us to the second Ironsmith Oracle.
With that said, upfront, let’s get moving…
This is a lengthy and dangerous journey [2 progress per waypoint] [Undertake a Journey: Strong Hit] Mark 2 progress=2. Olvir arrives [ORACLE] at an empty animal pen: The latch remains locked, but the pen is, weirdly, clawed from the inside.Backing away from the strange animal pen, Olvir continues to [UNDERTAKE A JOURNEY: Weak Hit]. Tired and hungry, Olvir stops to rest and have lunch. [Supply -1] [Mark progress=2; Total progress=4]Replenished by food, Olvir sets out to [UNDERTAKE A JOURNEY: Strong Hit] [Mark Progress=2; Total Progress=6]. He picks his way carefully between moorland bogs where footprints sometimes lead in, but never come out!Olvir is nearing Rooksbay as he continues to [UNDERTAKE A JOURNEY: Weak Hit] [Mark Progress=2; Total Progress=8]. As he catches sight of Rooksbay in the distance, Olvir is suddenly consumed by painful memories of his life back in his home city. [Take 1 stress][REACH YOUR DESTINATION: Strong Hit] A cheery figure greets Olvir as he arrives in the town square. He introduces himself as Gustav, a carpenter and lifelong resident of Rooksbay. [Take two momentum=9][GATHER INFORMATION: Weak Hit] When you mention having come from Lostbrook, Gustaf seems to change his disposition."The last soul that came out of that place brought a storm in her shadow, stranger. If your feet are foolish enough to follow the same trail, find the altar—west wall, behind the Iron Forge. But mind this…” He leaned in, eyes narrowing beneath his soot-smudged brow. “The crone calls herself Sindri, if you’re minded to find her…”
“Try dragging her back to Lostbrook if you like, but don’t expect thanks for it. She’s poison in a shawl, that one. And this town’s had its fill.” Without waiting for a reply, he clicked his tongue and vanished down an alley like a man eager to outrun his own words.
Olvir pauses to think about what the woodworker said, and even more on the tone in which he said it. He’ll have to investigate, of course, but it could wait until he has rested. Across the square, Olvir spots a rough-looking establishment called The Broken Lantern. “It will have to suffice,” mutters Olvir to no one in particular, as he strides purposefully across the cobbles.
Inside, the lighting is deliberately dimmed. Thick beams overhead hang with nets and faded pennants. A central hearth sputters softly, casting flickering shadows that seem to whisper secrets to each other. Upstairs, there's a room that’s always locked. Some say it contains the titular lantern from the inn’s name—still burning with ghostly light, never fading, never cold.
The innkeeper, [ORACLE] Maevin Crill, is a weathered woman with piercing eyes and an even sharper tongue. Locals claim she once commanded a smuggling ship that disappeared into the fog one night, only to reappear years later with a hull full of bones and no crew but herself. Whether that’s true or not, no one dares ask…
[RESUPPLY: Weak Hit] The barkeep states a ludicrously high price for modest fare.[COMPEL + Trickster: Asset] Drawing himself to his full height, with his raven Ashencry brooding and menacing on his shoulder, Olvir steps closer to the barkeep and whispers that he might care to reconsider the price. He manages to secure a generous discount and a comfortable room for the night, to boot.The next morning, feeling refreshed after a night of dreamless sleep in a warm, comfortable bed, Olvir enjoys the local breakfast speciality, Haddock Hash—smoked fish chopped with root vegetables and fried in eel fat. It’s better than it sounds!
What arrives is a bowl of smoky, savoury, and oddly invigorating food. He washes it down with a mug of “Morning Draught”—Maevin’s patented restorative, a sharp, herbal tonic that tastes like seawater and iron.
“Cures the shakes,” she says, with a sly grin, “Or gives ’em. Depends.”
Olvir stands and straightens his tunic. It’s time to see what the fuss is about with the newcomer from Lostbrook.
[ASK THE ORACLE: Does Olvir encounter any difficulty in locating the place? 50/50: No, he finds it with no issues.]Near the Western Wall of Rooksbay, behind the bustling Iron Forge, Olvir watches a deteriorating shrine encircled by half-burnt candles. Kneeling before the shrine, with her back turned to Olvir, is what appears to be a slender, hooded, elderly woman. She is softly murmuring an incantation, but Olvir is too distant to catch the words.
A few moments later, a bald, portly man appears in the alleyway and cautiously approaches the hooded figure. Without turning or acknowledging the man, she rasps:
“Take the knee and make your confession”
The man kneels beside the old woman. Olvir hears him sobbing and speaking softly in turns. He seems heartbroken! Eventually, the woman stands before him, raising an iron artefact high, and speaks words of absolution.
He shuffles down the alleyway, whilst the slim figure kneels before the altar. It occurs to Olvir that he still has not seen the woman’s face.
The voice struck like a blade drawn beneath the ribs. “Take the knee,” it rasped, dry as crumbling parchment, “and make your confession.”
Olvir froze. There was no one else nearby. Just the gulls, the rusted lantern swinging on its post, and that voice. His hand drifted toward the dagger at his side—but something about the tone stopped him. It wasn’t a threat. It was an inevitability.
“How did you—” he began, stepping cautiously into the open. “Step forward, Olvir.”
Cloaks are layered over one another. A crooked staff clutched in bony fingers. Her eyes were milk-pale, yet they found him with unsettling precision. “You know me?” he asked, voice low.
She smiled without mirth. “I know your name, Olvir Thornsworn. I know the stain of the Old Lands on your boots. I know the scent of guilt that clings to your oath.”
Olvir’s jaw tightened. “Then who are you?” “I am Sindri,” she said, tapping the cane once against the stone. “Watcher of tides. Listener of echoes. And you”—her head tilted—“you’ve come looking for something lost. The price for what I know is steep, wanderer.”
Olvir stepped closer, every instinct at war with his curiosity. “And if I choose not to pay?”
Her grin widened, revealing too many teeth. “Then may the Ironlands finish what the Old Lands began.”
Quelling his burning desire to seek answers to his many questions, Olvir tries desperately to get the upper hand.
[SECURE THE ADVANTAGE + Raven Asset: Strong Hit] He sends Ashencry circling, whooshing past the old crone as he slinks menacingly towards her.“Perhaps it is I who should ask what you want of ME?” he growls.
He detects that the woman retreats a step.
[COMPEL: Weak Hit] Olvir asks whether he should drag her before the Town Magister? Or perhaps back to Lostbrook, where the village folk can deal with her?If Sindri is intimidated, she does a good job of concealing it. “Hmmm… perhaps we can help each other?” she says, her voice softer than before.
Sindri explains she is a “Confessor,” an ancient order of people tasked with hearing the words of penitents and granting them absolution. She has sworn a vow of confidentiality, which has left her with a dilemma.
A few days earlier, she was approached by [ORACLE], a town merchant named Torkel, who brought a troubling confession. He stated that a band of Raiders had captured his wife and child, threatening them with a grisly death if he did not betray the town by opening the gates at the stroke of midnight on a specific day.
“My vows forbid me to act. But you are not bound by a vow. If you resolve this matter and keep the information I have shared with you confidential, then I will disclose everything I know about you and your legacy.”
Here, at last, is the possibility of the first solid lead in Olvir’s quest to find his family descendants. How can he refuse?
Olvir grasps the iron pendant around his neck and [SWEARS A VOW: Strong Hit].The vow weighed heavily—not just in his bones, but in the spaces between his thoughts. A band of Raiders wasn't a beast he could skewer or a coin purse he could bargain for. Olvir knew better than to meet it head-on.
Somewhere out there, the Raiders moved like smoke—shifting, brutal, and rarely still. To challenge them would take more than courage. It would take precision. So he’d wait. Watch. Learn who led them, who feared them, who fed them lies and silver. There were weaknesses in every structure—cracks just wide enough for a shadow to slip through with a blade, a whisper, or a truth no one wanted aired.
Olvir didn’t need to win a war. He needed to end one before it began.
I like the Oracle use.
Excellent installment. The scene where the woodworker turned from welcoming to suspicious was well executed. I could clearly envision it and how it must have unsettled Olivar.