1.7.5 Sacrifice
The party finishes the Judgment Construct and claims the fifth rune through acts of willing sacrifice — then descends to Depth 4 for the first time.
Opening¶
Pick up mid-combat. The arena is still active, Shifting Law still running.
The platform is cracked beneath you. Half lit, half shadow — the law of this place shifting, punishing you for standing still, punishing you for moving. Tyr does not make this easy.
Five nights. That is what the Speaker's papers said. Five nights until midnight, until the ritual completes, until she walks again.
You are underground. Every hour here is an hour the city does not have.
Finish it.
The Last Verdict¶
The wolf crashes to the stone.
The violence leaves it all at once.
Its body drags against the chains as they pull tight — not restraining, but resetting. Stone grinds beneath it as the great form is forced back into place at the centre of the platform.
The glow in its eyes dims to a low, steady light.
Still. Watching.
The arena settles. The fractured floor stills.
With the fight over, you can see the room for the first time. Five reliefs have been carved into these walls the entire time. No one had time to look.
The Reliefs¶
The Merchant
A carved figure in rich clothing stands before a great wolf's open jaw. A coin hangs from his outstretched fingers — fat, round, clearly worth nothing to a man wearing rings on every hand. In the next panel: the jaw closes. Opens again. The coin lies at his feet, rolled back to him.
Beneath the relief, in Elvish:
"He who gives what costs him nothing receives nothing in return."
The Spare Sword
A soldier — well-armed, a blade at each hip. He takes the left one and places it on a stone plate before the wolf's jaw. He still wears the other. His expression: proud, certain. In the next panel: the plate hasn't moved. The wolf looks away. The soldier's expression has changed. He doesn't understand why he was refused.
"What is given without sacrifice is not a gift. It is a transaction."
The Oath
A figure kneels before the wolf. No weapons. Both hands pressed flat to the floor. From their open mouth, carved in the stone like visible breath, small runes rise — words becoming solid. The wolf's eyes are bright. In the final panel the figure stands, and their blade carries something heavier than light.
"The oath truly sworn binds more than stone. Tyr rewards the bound."
The Warrior's Hand
A warrior in full armour places their sword hand willingly into the wolf's open jaw. Their face shows pain. It does not show regret. In the final panel: where the hand was, a construction of chain-links and pale metal, shaped like a fist, is raised. They fight on.
"What is given that cannot be returned — Tyr holds in trust."
The Last Weapon
A figure in worn boots and plain armour. They carry one weapon — a short blade, nothing remarkable. They place it on the plate. They have nothing left to defend themselves with. They stand empty-handed. In the final panel: the wolf's eyes are brighter than in any other carving on these walls. Light surrounds the unarmed figure. They are not given a weapon back. They don't need one.
"The last gift is the truest measure."
Carved between the reliefs, scattered across the walls:
- "Justice without cost is merely preference."
- "Tyr does not weigh the gift. He weighs the giving."
- "An oath sworn truly is a chain that binds and armours both."
Then — a sharp click.
The wolf's jaw unlocks.
Slowly, deliberately, its mouth opens — far wider than it should. Stone plates shift and separate, revealing not a throat… but a hollow, carved chamber within. Runes ignite along its teeth and inner jaw, etched in precise elven script.
Inside the hollow chamber, resting on a small stone pedestal, is the Rune of Tyr — a flat disc of pale stone, the scales-and-sword glyph etched deep. It glows faint silver. It pulses once when a hand draws close.
Around the base of the pedestal: old offerings. Corroded coins fused where they've sat for decades. The outline of something that was once a ring, melted flat. Ash, long dry. Others have been here before.
When the rune is lifted — the plate beneath it rises. Not violently — a soft, deliberate click. A mechanism completing.
From deep in the golem's chest: a low grinding sound. The sound of something that no longer has what it needs. Its eyes shift — not to you. To the plate. The empty, risen plate.
Below where the rune rested, now visible on the pedestal:
"What do you give willingly, that cannot be returned?"
The Sacrifices¶
Brawn¶
Brawn placed his hand willingly into the jaw.
You place your hand into the jaw.
There is no pain. The jaw closes — clean, precise — and opens again. Where your hand was, living chain-link has formed in its place: pale silver, warm to the touch, fully functional. You flex it. It obeys.
The plate sinks to the floor. The golem's eyes are the brightest they have been in this entire hall.
Chain Limb: Acts as an unarmed Strike (1d8 bludgeoning, Grapple trait — can Grapple without a free hand). Once per day (recharges at daily preparations): after a successful unarmed Strike or Grapple with the chain limb, the target must succeed at a Fortitude save or become Restrained until the end of your next turn.
Riven¶
Riven placed Winter's Vigil — the bow given to him by Etta — into the jaw.
The bow was drawn down into the plate. Not by gravity — by something else. The plate sank fully with a resonant click. The golem's eyes brightened to a steady warm gold.
In return, Tyr gave back a bow.
The hardwood is strong and exquisitely made. Runes cover it across its full length — precise, deliberate, worked into the grain of the wood as though they grew there.
A small grey scale appears on the back of the hand of each character who offered something. Smooth. Warm. Permanent. A mark of Tyr — his acknowledgement that he saw what they gave.
The Rune of Tyr is claimed. 5 of 8.
Going Down¶
The staircase continues below the Depth 3 landing. That landing is sealed — heavy stonework, a locked iron door, mason marks. The lock is old enough that it breaks under pressure. The mechanism hasn't moved in five hundred years. Someone sealed this from below, then never came back.
The passage goes deeper.
The stone changes here.
Above, the cutting was confident — elven work, centuries old, precise and permanent. Down here the strokes are shorter. Less certain. Some faces are half-finished, tool marks still exposed in raw limestone. Others give way to cave entirely — pale, wet, untouched.
It smells different. Old water. Iron. Something that has not felt torchlight in a long time.
The staircase ends. Three corridors open ahead. No markings. No sign of which leads where.
First Signs¶
In the floor of the first significant corridor — a pressure plate. Stone spikes, still functional. Not elven — cruder metalwork, built within the last century.
It went off.
The noise echoes back from three directions.
Further in, the walls are covered in markings. Not language — circuit diagrams. Routing indicators in a small, precise hand. Danger markers. One symbol repeats on every surface: a sealed door with something pressing hard against it from the other side.
A low stone bench in an alcove — tiny tools, gears, pins, coils of wire, carvings half-finished. The scale is wrong for a human or elf. The tools are warm. Recently used.
Session Notes¶
Moving deeper into the wide cavern.
From the far passage — motion. Heavy. Deliberate. Stone plates, repurposed metal fittings, the grinding sound of something large and maintained. Two exterior positions. A third enclosed in the chest.
It does not rush. Each footfall is placed. It fills the passage.
It stops.
It is waiting.