Chapter 3 - Sap & Steel
Ironsworn Actual Play, Session 3
Pain was the first thing to return. It throbbed through his shoulder and his chest. A dull, rhythmic reminder of the axe blade that had nearly split him open.
Adventure Move: Gather Information (+wits)
Result: Action 5 vs Challenge 2 / 3 | Strong Hit.
Outcome: +2 Momentum.
Current Momentum: +9
Uros opened his eyes, but the world was dim. He wasn’t in the mud of the trial grounds anymore. The air here smelled of dried sage, woodsmoke, and old dust. Above him, wooden beams crossed a low ceiling, hung with bundles of dried herbs and small, carved wooden trinkets that spun slowly in the draft.
He tried to sit up, but his body screamed in protest. Looking down, he saw fresh linen bandages wrapped tightly around his chest and shoulder. The blood had been cleaned away, the mud washed out of his hair. Even though he was badly injured, he somehow felt clean.
Then his instincts kicked in, right before his memory could. He scanned the room. Heavy curtains were drawn tight against the windows, letting in only thin slivers of grey daylight. The door was barred with a heavy oak plank. A fire crackled quietly in the hearth, casting long, dancing shadows against shelves lined with rows of glass vials and clay pots. Was this a hiding hole?
“He is awake.”
The voice was old and calm, coming from the shadows near the doorway. Uros tensed, his hand instinctively grasping for a weapon, and finding the hilt of his iron brand resting on a stool right next to the bed. They didn’t disarm me, he thought, making his mind race even more. What was this place?
He turned his head and saw her. The old woman from the market. The one who had spat on the ground when he mentioned druids. Now, she wasn’t watching him with fear or disgust, but with a guarded curiosity. Before Uros could speak, the heavy curtain separating the back room was pushed aside. A second figure emerged, and the air in the small room seemed to shift.
She was tall, easily six feet, with the lean, predatory grace of a wild cat. Her skin was the color of rough copper, and her hair, a cascading mane of deep red, framed a face that was too sharp, too striking to be purely human. But it was her piercing, emerald eyes that pinned Uros to his cot.
“Thank you, Berit,” the Elf said softly. “That will be all.”
The old woman nodded and shuffled out of the room. The Elf approached Uros, her movements silent on the wooden floorboards. She stopped at the foot of the bed, studying him.
“So,” she said, her voice carrying a melodic, yet hard edge. “You are the Ironlander who bleeds for strangers and...”
Uros’ mind raced. The trial. The duel. The crowd screaming for blood.
“Where is she?” he rasped, his throat dry. “The prisoner. Aralu.”
“...who helped free one of my kin,” the Elf finished. She bowed her head slightly. A gesture that looked both graceful and deeply sincere. “Aralu is safe. She is weak, and her spirit is frayed, but she lives. Because of you.”
Uros let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Where am I?”
A slight smile touched the Elf’s lips, a mix of pride and, on a deeper level, melancholy. “You are in a safe space. No one here will harm you. Or us.”
Uros pushed himself up, ignoring the flare of pain in his side.
“Allow me to introduce myself, Ironlander,” she said, sensing his suspicion. “My name is Vidarna. I am a druid of the Adamant Grove.”
She pulled up a chair and sat, keeping a respectful distance. Over the next hour, as Uros drank water mixed with bitter herbs, she filled in the blanks. She spoke of the Adamant Grove, the circle of druids sworn to tend the Plahuin, the Great Planetree that stood in the center of Stoneford.
“The Overseer,” Vidarna said, her voice hardening, “sees the tree only as eventual lumber, and the earth merely as a vein to be bled. When we refused to bless his expansion—his raiding of smaller settlements, his strip-mining of the sacred hills—he branded us enemies. Witches, Wizards. He imprisons us to break our will.”
She leaned forward, her green eyes searching his. “You had no incentive. You are a stranger here. Yet you stood in the circle and fought a champion of Stoneford for one of us. Why?”
Uros looked at his bandaged hands. He thought of the rot in Whitefall, of the desperation that had driven him here.
“I made a vow,” he said simply. “To protect.”
She offered her hand. It was cool and calloused. Uros took it.
“Then the Grove is in your debt,” she said. “You are welcome to stay until your strength returns. We have little, but what we have is yours.”
Relationship Move: Forge A Bond (+hit)
Result: Action 5 vs Challenge 1 / 5 | Weak Hit.
Outcome: They ask something more of you first. Envision what it is (Ask the Oracle if unsure), do it (or Swear an Iron Vow), and mark the bond.
“I can’t stay long,” Uros said, releasing her hand. “My village... Whitefall. It’s dying. A sickness, delivered by a foul beast. I came here hoping for a cure. I was told Stoneford had a healer.”
He continued telling Vidarna about the Giant Harrow Spider, how he had lost a companion to this horror. When he suddenly noticed that his desperate honesty was met with a dark expression.
“The sickness that this beast spreads ... if it is what I think it is, a simple potion will not suffice. To cure a deep rot, I would need to brew a draught using the sap of the Plahuin itself. It is the heart of this region’s life force.”
“Then give it to me,” Uros said, swinging his legs out of bed. “I’ll pay whatever price you ask.”
“I cannot,” Vidarna said, standing up and pacing to the window. She peeked through a crack in the curtains. “The Overseer has placed his elite guards around the Great Tree. No one approaches it without his permission. And since the trial... since you humiliated his champion... the guard has been doubled. Right now, the Plahuin is a symbol of strength for him.”
Uros slumped. “Then I fought for nothing.”
“Not for nothing,” Vidarna turned back to him. “There is a way. But it requires a trade.”
She began to explain the truth about Stoneford’s wealth. The Overseer claimed the mines needed to be dug deeper and deeper to find fortune, driving his workers to exhaustion. But it was a lie.
“He found the fortune years ago,” Vidarna whispered. “Deep in the dark, the miners found a Star-Iron Geode. A lodestone that fell from the sky in the ancient days. It hums with power. It is hot to the touch.”
“Why hide it?” Uros asked. “If he wants wealth, why not show it?”
“Because he is a hypocrite,” Vidarna spat. “He executes my kin for witchcraft, yet he hoards one of the most powerful magical artifacts in the Ironlands. He uses the Star-Iron to forge superior steel for his elites, secretly harnessing its heat and magnetism. If the people knew he was hoarding a source of magic while starving them with promises of future wealth... his rule would crumble.”
She looked at Uros. “I need you to retrieve that stone.”
“You want me to rob the Overseer?”
“I want you to expose him,” she corrected. “But more importantly... the stone is kept in his private cellar, beneath the longhouse. If you break in and steal it, the chaos will be absolute. He will pull every guard he has—including those at the Plahuin—to hunt for the thief.” She paused.
“In that window of chaos, I can slip into the square and harvest the Heart-Sap you need for Whitefall. I can brew your cure. But I need a diversion that shakes the earth.”
Uros looked at his sword, then at the desperate determination in the Elf’s eyes. It wasn’t just a heist. It was a coup.
“Where exactly is the cellar?” Uros asked.
They spent the next few hours plotting. Vidarna drew a rough map of the Overseer’s longhouse. She spoke of guard rotations, of a small opening, a shaft-like structure near the kitchens, and of the heavy iron door that guarded the Star-Iron.
“And one more thing,” Uros said. “If I do this... I need to know I can get out. I can’t save my village from a cell.”
“Bring the Star-Iron to the edge of the woods, by the river,” Vidarna promised. “I will meet you there with the cure. And then... you disappear.” Uros stood up. The pain was still there, but now it had a direction.
Uros reached for his sword next to him and unbuckled the clasp of his scabbard. The sound was sharp in the quiet, herb-scented room. He didn’t draw the blade fully. It was just enough to expose two inches of dull, gray steel near the hilt.
He pressed his thumb against the flat of the blade until the skin turned white. Iron was the only god his people truly trusted. It was cold. It was unforgiving. And to speak a lie while touching iron was to invite a curse that no healer could mend.
Vidarna watched him, her eyes narrowing as she sensed the shift in the air. The magic of the Ironlands wasn’t just in ancient stones or elf-spells; it was in the weight of a promise.
“I vow to retrieve the Star-Iron,” Uros said, his voice dropping an octave, resonating in his chest. “I will breach the Overseer’s hold, take his prize, and buy you the time you need. If I fail, let the iron claim me.”
Quest Move: Swear an Iron Vow (+heart)
Result: Action 8 vs Challenge 8 / 9 | Miss.
→ I burn my Momentum of +9 to turn this into a Weak Hit.
Outcome: +1 Momentum
Current Momentum: +3
He let go of the blade, the metal warming slightly from his touch. The pact was sealed. There was no going back now.
Night had already fallen outside, but Uros was in no condition to move yet. The adrenaline of the conversation faded, leaving him trembling with exhaustion.
“Rest now,” Vidarna commanded, though her tone was softer than before.
Relationship Move: Sojourn (+heart)
Result: Action 6 vs Challenge 3 / 5 | Strong Hit.
Outcome: Recuperate, +2 Health / Plan, +2 Momentum
Current Momentum: +5
This small hideout became a sanctuary. Berit brought him a bowl of thick, earthy root stew that warmed him from the inside out, chasing away the lingering chill of the trial grounds. While he ate, Vidarna checked his bandages again, applying a fresh poultice that smelled of crushed pine needles and damp earth. It stung, but the throbbing heat in his shoulder began to subside into a dull, manageable ache.
They went over the plan a few more times. Vidarna tested his knowledge of the longhouse, details she had given him just moments ago. He had to be in a proper condition for this kind of mission, both mentally and physically. There was no room for error. If he failed, Whitefall would perish, and with them, eventually, the Adamant Grove.
At last, Uros sat by the fire, watching the flames dance. He cleaned the dried blood from his armor, tightened the straps of his boots, and let the silence of the room wash over him. For the first time since leaving his village, the constant, grinding pressure of survival lifted. He was safe here. He was among allies.
Outside, the wind howled against the wooden shutters, a reminder of the cold reality waiting for him. When the fire had finally burned down to glowing embers, he watched the dying light and felt some sort of strength return to his limbs. Not fully healed, but surely enough. Enough to hold a blade. Enough to keep a promise.
He stood up, the leather of his armor creaking in the silence. The first hint of grey light was beginning to bleed through the cracks in the wall. The false dawn was near. In the hours of early morning, he hoped to get to the longhouse unnoticed.
Vidarna was watching him from the shadows. There was no need for more words. The plan was set, the target marked. Uros reached for his sword, his hand closing around the cold iron of the hilt. It was time to pay for this refuge with action. He buckled the belt tight, grimacing slightly as it pressed against his bandages, and looked at the Elf.
“Let’s get it done.”