Campaign: “The Shrouded Vale”
Episode 12: Respect the Process
April 7, 2025
Boots slam against stone as Tavi Falconheart dives into the gauntlet. The narrow walkway stretches ahead, suspended over darkness, with no rails, no safety—just a sheer drop and the promise of death below.
The first stretch is a blur of motion: shifting platforms, collapsing tiles, sudden gaps. Tavi moves like water—jumping, rolling, flipping. The air flows past as he leaps a crumbling edge and lands in a crouch on a spinning disk of stone. This is his element.
The next section slows him down. Pendulum blades swing in precise rhythm. Pressure darts hiss from unseen slits. He ducks behind a column, watching the pattern play out.
His eyes narrow. This is familiar.
A rope stretches taut between two carved heads. He draws his bow and fires—twang—snap. The rope severs. The pendulums falter, then collapse into stillness. The way forward clears.
He runs.
The third section halts him cold. Spinning blades line the floor. Hidden pressure plates between them. At the far end—barely visible—a tiny brass keyhole embedded in stone.
His memory flashes back.
Arrogant. Unshakable. What was it Borra said that day about greed being a virtue?
Tavi had heard it more than once—echoing through ancient ruins and drunken campfire tales. Borra loved traps like poets loved words.
Then it came back to him.
Traps are puzzles. Gold is the reward. Greed is the motivator. Respect the process. I know what I’m doing.
Spoken just before losing his hands.
Tavi nocks an arrow. He breathes slowly, aiming for the tiny lock. If he misses, he’ll trigger every trap in the corridor.
He releases.
CLANG! A hidden blade slices across his side. He grunts, stumbles, nearly falls. Another blade hisses past his face.
He forces himself back up. Blood trailing. Muscles tight. A rush of adrenaline surging in his veins. One more shot.
He draws, exhales, and fires again—this time guided by fear, pain, and grim focus.
Click. The arrow sinks into the lock. The floor steadies. The traps fall silent.
Tavi bolts across the corridor, vaults the final gap, and lands hard on solid stone.
He made it through. Barely
There are four pedestals spread across the platform. A locking mechanism sits beneath each—clearly designed to trigger when one of the items are taken. Only one may be claimed.
The prizes await: A modest Pouch of Gold, brimming with coin. A Glass Vial filled with glowing blue liquid. A healing potion A Rusted Key, ancient but intact. And a Wax-Sealed Envelope, marked only with the word: Respect
.
He steps closer, blood still trickling beneath his armor. The room hums with tension. The kind that demands a decision—one that may shape everything that follows.