The Road Less Travelled: Northwards to Rooksbay
The Redemption of Olvir, the Forgotten Chapter 17
Olvir tightened his belt and slung his pack over one shoulder, his boots thudding against the wooden floor as he stepped outside into the brisk morning air.
The wounds had healed, but the fire in his belly remained. Lostbrook had been kind, yet comfort was starting to taste like rust. The Ironlands called once more: untamed, unforgiving, alive. He didn’t yet know where he was headed, but his dagger was sharp, his legs steady, and the silence between storms had endured long enough.
We left Olvir the Forgotten sojourning in the village of Lostbrook after two consecutive quests very nearly led to his untimely demise. Having established a bond with these once-suspicious townsfolk, he enjoyed their hospitality for several weeks.
But he wasn’t someone to settle in one place. He had to remind himself that his mission in the Ironlands was to find redemption and search for descendants of his family who once lived in the Old Lands.
Is there anyone here who can provide information on Olvir’s family? It seems unlikely. [ASK THE ORACLE: Unlikely] No, there is not. However, one of the village elders, a weathered farmer named Branric, suggests that Olvir is more likely to find information in the main town of the region.This town, known as Rooksbay, is described as “a port city crawling with seafarers, spies, and secret pacts.”
“If there’s information to be had, youngster, then you’d likely find it there… for a price.” Branric adds that last phrase with menace, then continues: “Be careful there, lad. Things are not always what they seem, and allies and enemies shift with the ebb and flow of the tides in the harbour.”
While the warning was welcome, if troubling, Olvir concluded that Rooksbay felt more like his old home in Harrowmere than life among the simple fisherfolk of Lostbrook. Besides, employing his cunning and guile from the shadows felt more natural than hunting monsters in dank sea caves.
So, Rooksbay it would be.
Olvir instinctively reached inside his tunic and felt the hilt of his dagger. He felt, for the first time since leaving the Old Lands, at one with his blade. His time with Sister Brindle had helped form that bond.
He reflected on the past few weeks. About how he first felt that insistent tap of Sister Brindle’s bony finger as he sank a jug of mead in The Gull and Lantern, the homely inn just off the village square.
“Strange,” came a voice like bark peeling from wet wood, “how you carry a wound that isn’t in your flesh.” He turned sharply, hand moving instinctively toward the hilt at his side. But it was no threat that stood before him, at least, not in the traditional sense. Sister Brindle leaned on a gnarled driftwood cane, her warped frame wrapped in layers of patched cloth and brine-stained shawls. Her eyes, milk-clouded though they were, found his with unnerving certainty.
“I saw you in the water,” she said, lowering herself with painful slowness onto the bench opposite. “Drowning. Grasping for something long lost. You still are, you know. Grasping.”
Olvir frowned. “I don’t know you.”
She gave a cackling wheeze that might’ve been laughter. “No. But I know you, Olvir Thornsworn. Iron-cursed. Wanderer. Marked by the dead.” His hand froze. The name she used hadn’t left his lips in years—not since the oath. “How—?” “Names cling, child,” she whispered. “Even if you don’t speak them. And promises? Promises echo.”
She reached a hand across the table, fingers as gnarled as old roots. “Come see me at dawn. You’ll want what I have to offer, though you may not like its taste.” And just like that, she rose and was gone, leaving behind the scent of salt, gutted bream, and the weight of being known.
Olvir met with Sister Brindle on multiple occasions. Their conversations spanned many days, always taking place at dawn. Olvir never quite decided whether Sister Brindle had a genuine gift of sight or whether she was just clever at manipulating and guessing snatches of his past life from snippets garnered from their conversations.
Either way, Olvir came to value the advice and insights of this decrepit old crone. If nothing else, she understood how Olvir needed to adapt to the rigours and challenges of the Ironlands.
Olvir has five experience points (XP) to spend. [ADVANCE] During his conversations with Sister Brindle, he decides he needs to “lean in” to the ritual magic that served him well in Harrowmere, and decides to spend 3 points on “Ward” to help him out of tight spots where he might want to avoid drawing his blade. He spends his remaining two XP to upgrade his Cut Throat ability further. Olvir isn’t looking for a fight, but he needs to be fully prepared for when others might think differently!And so the time has come for Olvir to end his sojourn and strike out on the next stage of his journey. For reference, the assets he can call upon are:
Raven, his trusty companion, Ashencry.
Sway, for information gathering and persuasion.
Trickster, for bending people to my will…
Cut Throat (newly upgraded to rank 3) for when other alternatives are exhausted
NEW! Ward, for getting out of tight spots without resort to violence.
Having taken on a couple of low-level fetch quests to nearby villages, Olvir has been rewarded with a full pack (Supply at +5) and currently enjoys +5 momentum.Remember that I curate a “contents page” for The Redemption of Olvir, the Forgotten. If you need to catch up on anything that he’s done so far, then click this link to be taken to the full repository of past chapters, including the results of my envisioning of the Ironlands, World Truths and a comprehensive backstory.
Olvir stood at the edge of the eastern lane, pack slung across his shoulder, cloak heavy with the smell of hearth smoke and sea air.
Tristran approached first—boots crunching on the frosted grass, jaw set against whatever words threatened to make this a farewell. He held out a hand. “We may not have trusted you at first,” he said, voice low, “but you proved yourself. More than once.” Olvir gripped his hand firmly. “Look after the place,” he said. “And the inn—keep the ale from turning sour.”
From the shadows of doorways and along the narrow path, the people of Lostbrook emerged—quiet, weatherworn faces marked by suspicion that gradually transformed into something resembling respect. A nod here. A small wave there. Even old Tollin Mirewake, his faithful drinking companion from The Gull and Lantern, offered him a wink, one eye milky and knowing. Children stood half-hidden behind fishing nets, whispering about the man who fought monsters and returned bleeding but unbroken.
Sister Brindle lingered near the edge of the crowd, wrapped in shawls that whispered as she moved. Her pale eyes locked on his. “You’ll find darker water where you’re headed,” she rasped, her voice like sandpaper, “And shadows not so quick to fall.”
Olvir inclined his head, neither encouraged nor deterred. “I don’t intend to go quietly.” Her grin was all crooked teeth and mystery. “No, I don’t suppose you do.”
With a final glance toward the village that had mended his bones but stirred his restlessness, Olvir turned northward. The road to Rooksbay stretched like a wound across the hills—long, coiled with secrets, and utterly uninviting.
Just the way he liked it.