Session 2 – Full, Unabridged Transcript
(Transcript includes only in-world narration and character speech/actions.)
Narrator:
The fog had not lifted. It hung low across Gascar’s streets, softening lantern-glow to dim embers and muffling the morning into a kind of hush that felt unnatural for a village of farmers. Even the mastiff at the inn—Rogue, sprawled by the fire the night before—gave only a half-hearted bark before retreating into silence.
Rowan stepped out from Sylvie Perrault’s threshold, the last of her tea still warming his chest. Her words clung heavier than steam: three souls missing, a wood that moved when no wind blew, a Monster that might be omen or blessing. She had given him kindness, bread for his satchel, and counsel that felt more like a charge—trust before tracks, truth before rumor.
The village lay ahead. To the left, the yawning mouth of the inn where Mayor Hugo might already be tallying his unease with drink and accounts. Down a narrow lane, Guillaume’s shop crouched behind its shutters, its signboard swaying faintly, as if waiting for a daughter’s voice to steady it. Beyond, the path south led toward the Azura Wood, its edges blurred with fog so thick it seemed to lean into the fields. Somewhere within those shifting trees, Anais and Elodie had vanished, and Pierre with them—or against them.
Rowan adjusted his cloak, the pine-scented wool damp at the shoulders. His staff clicked once against the cobbles. Every sound seemed to matter in the quiet. The day was young, but the fog gave no hint whether it would break or deepen.
The Wilds were not far; the questions were nearer still.
Rowan:
I cross over to the inn, where I take stock of it. I don't enter yet.
Narrator:
The Yawning Mastiff crouched at the village’s heart like a hearth built too large for the little square around it. Its roofline sagged under the weight of near-constant rain, shingles darkened to the color of wet slate, while smoke from the chimney curled reluctantly upward before dissolving into the greater fog. A weathered sign swung above the door, its painted mastiff reduced by years of drizzle to a ghostly blur of hound and chain.
Rowan lingered at the threshold of the square, staff grounding him while he watched. The inn’s shutters were uneven—one cracked open to show a sliver of lamplight, another nailed closed against some older draft. Beneath the eaves, rain still clung in droplets fat as beads of glass, falling with the occasional patter like a second, private rhythm.
It was no grand establishment, but Gascar was small, and this was its only inn. From here, the mayor ruled with more comfort than formality, and the farmers drowned their weariness at tables scrubbed smooth by years of elbows. Rowan could almost hear that murmur behind the walls: voices pushed low, the scrape of mugs, the mastiff’s slow breathing by the fire. But this morning it was muted, as though the fog had pressed its face against every window and asked the people inside to hush.
From the outside, the place spoke of refuge, but also of questions waiting to be asked—and debts waiting to be settled.
Rowan:
I enter the inn. I try not to draw attention to myself. What's the inside like?
Narrator:
The door gave a soft groan as Rowan eased it inward, and a wash of warmth met him at once—woodsmoke, spiced with the sour tang of last night’s drink still lingering in the air. The inn’s common room stretched wide but low-ceilinged, beams darkened by years of smoke and weather. Lanterns burned dimly along the walls, their glow caught in the rims of tankards and the brass fittings of a long, scarred counter.
Rogue, the mastiff, lifted his head from his post near the hearth. One cloudy eye regarded Rowan without alarm, then shut again as if sleep were the greater duty. The great dog’s steady breathing set the measure of the room.
Several tables stood unevenly across the floorboards, but only a handful were occupied. A pair of farmers sat close to the fire, murmuring over bowls of porridge that steamed in the chilly air. A trader with mud still caked up to his knees nursed a mug and scratched notes onto a scrap of parchment. All three cast Rowan a glance, then let their eyes fall away again—curiosity dulled by fatigue, or perhaps by the fog’s constant weight.
The inn spoke in textures: the waxy gloss of the counter where Bastien Hugo, the mayor-**owner**, shuffled papers with heavy fingers; the drip of water from cloaks hung to dry on wooden pegs; the faint clatter of crockery from a back room where someone unseen readied the day’s bread. No laughter stirred here, only the quiet sounds of people doing their best to behave as though the world outside had not grown strange.
Rowan’s entrance drew no remark. For now, he was simply another weary traveler seeking shelter, the kind Gascar had always received—until visitors began to vanish.
Rowan:
It looks like this pub has seen better days. Probably recently. There are the remains of decorations on the walls that suggest it was recently a more happy, lively and cozy place. It must be the worry over people going missing that has dampened the atmosphere. I head over the the bar and look to Baptiste.
"Hello there. Baptiste, I presume? I'm Rowan. I've had a long journey, so your pub is a sight for sore eyes."
Narrator (Bastien Hugo):
Bastien Hugo let Rowan’s laughter roll over him, but his beard twitched with the faintest hint of correction. He leaned forward on the bar, broad arms folded, and lowered his voice so it did not carry far beyond the counter.
“You’ve the right roof, Chronicler, but the wrong man. Baptiste keeps the Mastiff day to day. He’s the one folk know as innkeeper—quiet fellow, sharper than he lets on. I…” He tapped the ledger beneath his hand, a page smudged where his thumb had lingered too long. “…I own these walls. My name is Hugo. Mayor to some, fool landlord to others, and every now and again, barkeep when Baptiste’s off fetching kegs or tending his sick mother.”
The correction was given without sting, almost with a kind of weary pride. His eyes softened as he added, “Folk mix us up often enough. He runs the place, I keep it standing. Truth told, I’d rather it were only Baptiste’s burden, but Gascar’s too small for such neat divisions. We all wear too many coats.”
He slid a cup of cider Rowan’s way, the gesture bridging any awkwardness. “So drink, Rowan. You’ll meet Baptiste before long, and you’ll see he deserves the title you gave me. But if you’re asking after who shoulders the Mastiff when he cannot, that would be me.”
Rogue the mastiff stirred at the sound of his name on the signboard, gave a slow wag of the tail, and went back to dreaming. The inn’s silence settled again, broken only by the murmur of farmers at the fire and the quiet weight of Hugo’s watchful gaze.
Rowan:
"Ah, thank you. That was kindly done. But I'm here about the missing people, as you may have guessed. I'd like to help, if I can."
Narrator (Hugo):
Hugo’s shoulders eased, the correction past, and for a moment he looked almost grateful that Rowan had not pressed further. At the mention of the missing, though, the warmth in his eyes dimmed like a hearth stirred too hard. He set his mug down with care, as though the weight of it might carry more than cider.
“Aye,” he said, voice dropping until it seemed meant for Rowan alone. “That’s the marrow of it. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. Word travels slow through fog, but it does travel, and Gascar’s grief has a way of drawing notice.”
He rubbed at his beard, gaze fixed on the grain of the bar as if answers might be hidden in the knots. “Pierre, Anais, Elodie—each vanished without quarrel or storm, as if the fog itself chose them. No doors broken, no cries in the night, only silence where life should’ve been. I tell folk to keep faith, but I’m mayor only in name. When a village cannot guard its own, every title feels borrowed.”
Then his eyes lifted, steady and searching. “If you’d help, you’ll have no quarrel from me. But I’ll warn you plain, Chronicler: truth here is tangled. Villagers speak in fragments, trying to stitch meaning where none will hold. You’ll need patience sharper than any blade. And…” He paused, fingers tightening on the mug. “…you’ll need to remember this is their home. Some would rather hold their fear close than see it pried open by questions.”
Rogue stirred again, a low huff rumbling from the hearth as if to agree. Hugo’s mouth bent into a tired half-smile. “Still. If Fate sent you, I’ll not turn her gift away. Ask what you will, and I’ll answer where I can. Better that, than waiting for silence to claim another.”
Rowan:
"I'll try not to be too insensitive. Can you tell me if there's anything you think needs looking into first? I'm looking for a lead here, and you seem like the man who might have it."
Narrator (Hugo):
Hugo’s gaze lingered on Rowan, measuring him again—not for threat this time, but for steadiness. He nodded once, slow, as if conceding that the Chronicler’s words carried the weight of both courtesy and intent.
“You’ll earn more in Gascar by listening than pressing,” he said at last, “and you seem the sort who knows the difference. A lead, then? Aye, there are a few threads that itch.”
He leaned closer across the bar, lowering his voice until it threaded beneath the room’s quiet hum. “Pierre Vercher—outsider, hunter, loud as a cracked bell—he came asking questions sharper than his arrows. Wanted paths no one maps, places where the fog lies thickest. Baptiste said he asked after who rises early, which lanterns gutter soonest. Days later, gone, leaving boots by the fire as if he meant to fetch them in the morning. If you follow anyone’s shadow, start with his.”
Hugo’s fingers drummed once against the ledger, then stilled. “Anais Bordeaux—old as oak, wise as stone—walked the fog as if it were a sermon she meant to hear whole. Some call it foolishness, others devotion. She left her door unlatched, as though she meant to be back before the kettle cooled. Elodie Laval, the shopkeeper’s daughter, went with her. That tells me Anais found company in her cause.”
He sighed, heavy as a millstone settling. “If you want my counsel, speak to Guillaume Laval, Elodie’s father. He knots his grief into twine behind that counter, but he knows the rhythm of the village. If there’s a pattern, he’ll have felt it in the flow of coin and custom.”
Then, softer still: “And don’t forget the wood itself. The Azura’s edge has grown… wrong. Birds move out of season, timber groans when no wind stirs. If you’d ask me where to put your boots first, I’d say step where Pierre stepped last—and listen if the wood answers.”
The mayor-innkeeper straightened, wiping the bar with a rag, letting the words settle like dust motes in lamplight. “That’s as much as I have, Rowan. The rest you’ll have to walk into.”
Rowan:
"Thank you, Hugo. You're a good man. But where did Pierre sleep for that night? Was it here?"
Narrator (Hugo):
Hugo’s expression tightened, not from suspicion but from the weight of memory. He reached beneath the counter, pulled out a keyring with only three brass keys, and let them jangle softly before setting them down. One hook lay empty.
“Aye. He stayed here. Corner room at the top of the stairs, facing the square. Said he liked to keep watch on the comings and goings. Paid in advance, too, though he drank down most of it the same night.”
He drew the key from the ring and set it apart, its teeth dulled with age. “Door was still locked when we found it empty. No sign of struggle, no spilt lamp, no hurried bootprints. Just his bow by the hearth, his boots by the chair. Bed was slept in, but not turned over like a man rising in a rush. More like he stepped out for air and forgot the way back.”
Hugo pushed the key forward with a heavy finger. “You want a look, I’ll not stop you. Baptiste said the same—better eyes than ours might see what we missed. But mind yourself. Folk are already whispering the room itself is cursed. If word spreads that a Chronicler slept there next, well…” He let the thought trail off, the empty hook on the keyring speaking its own warning.
Rowan:
I gracefully accept the key. "Thank you, Mayor. I'll take a look now before the night falls, if that's okay with you. I'm tired, but it'll be good to have something to think over as I lay awake."
Narrator:
The brass key felt cool and heavy in Rowan’s palm, the metal carrying the faint tang of old smoke and cider. Hugo inclined his head, not quite a bow, but the gesture of a man who understood the gravity of what he’d just passed along.
“That’s your right,” he said, voice steady but low. “Better to see it while the lamps are still burning. Folk say the fog thickens in that room at night, though I reckon it’s only fear finding shapes where there are none.” His hand lingered on the empty hook of the keyring a moment longer, then slipped it back beneath the counter.
The stair creaked beneath Rowan’s boots as he ascended, the murmur of the common room falling away into the hush of the upper floor. Three doors lined the narrow hall, their wood swollen with age, iron hinges dulled to the color of old pewter. At the end, the corner room waited—Pierre’s room.
The door gave a reluctant sigh as the key turned, the latch clicking open with a sound too loud in the quiet. Inside, the air carried a chill sharper than the rest of the inn, as though the fog had seeped in under the eaves and forgotten the way out.
A chair sat by the hearth, boots neatly beside it, their dried mud flaked to the floor in crescents like the memory of steps. A bow leaned against the stone, its string slack and forgotten. The bed was rumpled, sheets bearing the impression of sleep but not of waking. A mug rested on the sill, its dregs long gone cold, ringed with the faint stain of cider.
The room was no stage for struggle. Instead, it felt unfinished—like a story paused mid-sentence. The silence pressed close, and even the mastiff downstairs gave no bark to break it. Here, in Pierre’s absence, the space itself seemed to watch Rowan, waiting to see what he might notice that the villagers had not.
Rowan:
I carefully approach the bow and dismantle it. I make it unusable. I want to demonstrate to anything that might be watching that I mean no harm.
Narrator:
The bow’s frame creaked faintly as Rowan laid it across his knees. The string was slack already, but with deliberate care he unthreaded it, coiling the gut until it could no longer serve its purpose. He slid the loop into his pouch, safe but separate. Then, with patient hands, he unseated the limb from its socket and leaned the halves apart, reducing the hunter’s tool to nothing more than shaped wood.
The air in the room shifted, as though some quiet presence had been watching. The fog pressed faintly at the window, leaving beads that trembled but did not fall. The silence seemed to draw tighter, but it carried no threat—only attention.
Rowan’s action was not one of destruction but of reverence. He left the pieces carefully on the hearthstone, plain to see: a sign that no weapon would be raised here, not by his hand. The room seemed to hold its breath, and for an instant, the hush of the Wilds felt less like menace and more like acknowledgment.
The oath of a Guardian is not in words but in deeds. In the dim chamber where Pierre had vanished, Rowan’s gesture spoke louder than any vow: I mean no harm. I come to listen, not to strike.
Rowan:
I would like to use my awareness to take in the details of the room. Do you think that's fair?
Narrator:
Rowan let his breathing fall into the rhythm of silence, and the room’s details unfurled like a page under lamplight. His Guardian’s Awareness meant nothing here escaped his notice.
The boots: their mud flaked not from hurried steps but from steady travel. The dried crescents showed he had walked in marshland, not the cobbled square. They’d been placed with care, heels aligned—a hunter’s habit, not a drunkard’s stumble.
The bow: now dismantled, yet before Rowan’s hands touched it, the wear already told a story. Faint grooves on the grip where Pierre’s fingers had pressed too tightly, again and again, as though he carried unease with him into every shot.
The mug: faint dregs clung to the clay, but beneath the ring of cider was the sweeter scent of an herb—mint or balm—unusual for a man who scoffed at Sylvie’s rites. Someone had soothed him, or he had soothed himself, before vanishing.
The window: beads of fog clung heavier here than anywhere else in the inn, as though the mist had pressed against the glass with intention. The sill beneath was damp though the shutters had been drawn—moisture seeping in from more than weather.
And then the air: it was not empty. A hush held the corners like an echo left behind. Not menace, but boundary. A feeling Rowan had known since boyhood in the Wilds—the sense of a presence too large to fit in words, watching without stepping closer.
The room was not only Pierre’s last known place. It was a message left unfinished, waiting for Rowan to decide whether to read it as warning or invitation.
Rowan:
Rowan wants to look at the mug more closely. Who might have been soothing him? Narrator, is there a skill I can use here, or is it simply a deduction check?
Narrator:
Rowan lifted the mug into the lamplight, rolling the clay slowly in his hand. The herb’s scent was faint but present, braided with the cider in a way that wasn’t careless—it had been steeped, not dropped in.
His thoughts tugged at the threads of Gascar. Mint or balm were Sylvie’s herbs—her cottage was hung with them, and she brewed them as freely as water. But Sylvie was careful: she gave her remedies openly, never smuggled them into another’s cup.
Baptiste, the innkeeper, knew enough to keep a sprig by the hearth for winter coughs, though he used them rarely. He was not a man for subtleties; his kindness came plain, with no need for disguise.
The deduction came only halfway together. Rowan could not be certain. Someone had sought to soothe Pierre, but whether it was the inn’s quiet hand, a guest with an herbal habit, or even Pierre himself carrying a private store of leaves—each possibility fit the rim of that cup.
The trail was not closed, only blurred. To know more, Rowan would have to listen not to the mug, but to the people who remembered what Pierre asked for in his last hours.
Rowan:
I bow deeply to the window and the fog outside, before returning downstairs. Approching the mayor, I show him the herbs. "Strange fellow, that hunter. All bluster and pride, but he had these in his tea. Did you notice anyone that might have been trying to calm him down?"
Narrator (Hugo):
Hugo looked up as Rowan approached, the weight of the keyring still heavy on the counter though his hand no longer touched it. When Rowan set the mug down, the faint aroma of mint and balm rising with the cider’s sour note, the mayor’s brow furrowed.
“Herbs?” he muttered, leaning close enough that his beard brushed the rim as he sniffed. Recognition came slow, then settled deep in his face. “Not Pierre’s habit. He jeered when folk drank Sylvie’s teas—called them hedge-witch brews. He liked his drink sharp, never softened.”
He straightened, his gaze flicking toward the farmers by the hearth, then back. “If that was in his cup, someone else put it there. Could be Sylvie—she tends anyone who’ll let her—but she’d not slip it in unasked. More likely Baptiste. He knows a sprig or two, keeps them for coughs. But Baptiste’s no fool—he wouldn’t dose a man without saying so.”
Hugo’s voice lowered, wary of the ears around them. “There’s another thought. Elodie. She had a way of steadying people, not just with words. I’ve seen her steep mint for customers when her father’s nerves ran thin. If Pierre crossed paths with her, she might’ve tried the same. Not out of guile—just kindness.”
He pushed the mug back toward Rowan, fingers lingering on the clay. “Whoever it was, they weren’t soothing themselves. They were trying to soothe him. That much I’d wager my post on. But whether he asked for it, or whether someone feared what he might do without it—that’s the knot yet to be untied.”
Rogue the mastiff gave a low huff in his sleep, as though echoing the unease that had crept into Hugo’s words.
Rowan:
"Thank you. I'm going to head back to Sylvie's for the night. She has a room for travelling Chroniclers to use. I'll ask her about the herbs, though." I offer my hand to shake Hugo's. "Where might I find you in the morning?"
Narrator (Hugo):
Hugo’s hand engulfed Rowan’s, the shake firm but slow, as though he carried the weight of a man who hadn’t slept a full night since the fog thickened. His grip lingered a breath longer than custom, an unspoken thanks for someone willing to shoulder even a piece of Gascar’s unease.
“In the morning?” His beard twitched with thought. “You’ll find me here, most likely. The Mastiff wakes with the village. Farmers want their bread before the cock crows, and I tally what passes for accounts with the first light. If I’m not at the bar, I’ll be out back fetching the day’s kegs. Either way, these walls keep me.”
He released Rowan’s hand, a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Ask Sylvie, aye. If anyone gave Pierre a gentler drink, she’d know. And Chronicler—” He hesitated, eyes narrowing as if to pin the words in place. “Don’t mistake my caution for unwillingness. Gascar needs ears like yours. Just mind how you ask. Fear makes sharper edges than hunger.”
Rogue stirred by the fire, thumping his tail once against the floorboards before drifting back into sleep. The inn’s lamplight pressed dimmer against the fogged windows as though urging Rowan toward the door, and the path back to Sylvie’s hearth.
Rowan:
I head back to sylvie's. When inside, I ask about the herbs.
Narrator (Sylvie):
Sylvie’s cottage greeted Rowan with its familiar breath of warmth and dried leaves. The fog still pressed at the shutters, but inside, every corner bore her quiet order: herbs strung from rafters, blankets folded where hands might reach, the loom-carved altar ringed with guttering candles. She had not gone to bed; a pot steamed softly on the stove, and her hands worked a shuttle of thread even as her eyes tracked Rowan’s return.
“You’ve worn the night heavier,” she said, voice low but kind. She set the weaving aside as Rowan drew out the mug, its rim still marked with the faint shadow of mint. Her brow furrowed at once.
“Ah. You found this in Pierre’s room?” She reached to sniff the clay, her fingers steady though her lips pressed thin. “That’s balm-mint. I keep it for coughs, for worry, for nights when a villager’s sleep runs ragged. But no—I never brewed it for Pierre. He mocked such things. Said tea was for the fearful, and he was not afraid.”
She turned the mug slowly in her hands, then set it down, as though its weight unsettled her. “If he drank this, it wasn’t from my hearth. Baptiste knows herbs enough to steep them, though he’d tell you if he had. More likely someone else cared for him, or tried to. Elodie, perhaps. She often came by to fetch herbs for her father’s shop. She knew balm-mint calmed the heart.”
Sylvie’s gaze lifted to Rowan’s, shadows of exhaustion flickering in her eyes. “But what troubles me is not who gave it. It’s that Pierre accepted it. A man who laughed at kindness does not drink it down unless something in him shifts. Either he was more afraid than he showed… or someone had his ear in ways we do not yet know.”
She placed the mug beside the steaming pot on the stove, leaving it there as if it might answer in the night. “What you’ve brought me, Rowan, is no small clue. A herb is never just a leaf. It tells us what a man was willing to take into himself. And Pierre—he was not a man of easy acceptance.”
Rowan:
I thank Sylvie. We pass about half an hour with happier conversation over tea, then I head to bed for the night.
Narrator:
The cottage seemed to ease with Rowan’s thanks, as though gratitude itself lifted some of the weight from the rafters. Sylvie busied herself with the kettle, the fragrant steam unfurling into the room like threads of calm. Their talk wandered—away from vanishings and fog, into gentler ground. She spoke of a boy in the village who’d once tried to shear a sheep backward, of the spring rains that had turned the fields into mirrors, of the loom-song her mother used to hum when she was Rowan’s age.
Laughter came lightly, not in defiance of the night but as a small rebellion within it. The candles burned lower, shadows drawing close in companionable shapes instead of watchful ones. For a little while, the world outside could have been any village in Barbecia, and the fog only a farmer’s nuisance.
At last Sylvie rose, smoothing her robes, and led Rowan to the small chamber she kept for traveling Chroniclers. The bed was plain but clean, sheets smelling faintly of lavender kept among the rafters. A carved token of Fate—a loom’s shuttle, no larger than a thumb—hung by the window, catching what little light the moon dared lend through the fog.
“Rest, Guardian,” Sylvie said softly, pausing at the threshold. “Fate does not begrudge weariness. Sometimes the clearest truths come to those who have the patience to close their eyes first.”
The door shut gently behind her. Rowan lay down, the tea’s warmth still steadying his chest. Outside, the fog pressed close to the shutters, but it did not breach them. For the first time in days, perhaps weeks, the village’s burdens felt as if they could wait until morning.
Sleep took him like a tide, not sudden but inevitable, carrying him into the heart of the night.
(End of Session 2)