Role-Playing Games

I must confess, when I was young, I got completely hooked on role-playing games. But I mean the classic tabletop RPGs, sitting around a table with friends and a Dungeon Master. Something that no computer RPG has ever managed to recreate.

No matter how beautifully crafted the world or how exciting the story, something essential was always missing: the freedom of playing a character you truly become, fighting alongside your friends, and knowing that almost anything is possible. Not just endless hacking, slashing, and mountains of magic spells.

I gained experience not only as a player but also as a Dungeon Master, creating adventures and building worlds. Skills that turned out to be surprisingly useful many times later in my life, and still are.

Lands of Lore

Of course, I also spent plenty of time playing computer games. Mostly RPGs, naturally.

One of my all-time favorites among the early ones was Lands of Lore. Even today, I keep coming back to the memory of how simple it was, yet somehow it had that special quality you usually find in a masterpiece.

I remember spending ages searching those almost pixelated walls for hidden switches. Or figuring out that the only way to cross the swamp was to freeze it.

And there was something charming about its simplicity. That pre-3D world where you could only turn in 90-degree steps.

Actually, looking back, the whole game was built around a true KISS philosophy.

Exploring Free Claude 5.5 Led to a Retro Dungeon Builder

It all started with a casual conversation. We even talked about Rogmor, my own RPG project that I started long before the AI era and kept returning to, improving and reshaping it from time to time.

Anyway, Claude outlined how it would build a small Lands of Lore-style dungeon crawler. That got me curious, so we went ahead and created the first working version.

And here's the funny part: all this happened while I was lying in bed, continuing the conversation on my mobile phone. And the game immediately ran on that same phone!

This is exactly what I meant by Scary Creativity in Singularity News :: 0001.

But the really interesting idea went beyond the game itself.

A first-person Dungeon Master mode, where the DM can literally dig out the adventure from a first-person perspective, placing monsters, traps, doors, and NPCs along the way.

Then I added a Famulus, a little assistant who helps with the digging and even demonstrates how to dig.

TL;DR

And then came an unexpected twist.

My original plan was to let AI handle most of the world-building. Not just generating the labyrinth, but also controlling the NPCs.

After discussing how we would maintain a consistent game state, I figured it was time to run a little test before vibe-coding the project any further.

And suddenly, I found myself inside a role-playing adventure.

Almost like the classic tabletop RPGs I used to play. Except this time there was only one Dungeon Master, Claude, and only one player: me.

I should mention an earlier article of mine, LLM RPG Test 2026. As with every such setup, the usual limitations were still there. But I have to say, Claude 5.5 performed exceptionally well.

It managed to maintain the tension throughout the entire adventure, and at the very end, it presented me with such an ironic situation that I genuinely hadn't expected it.

Personally, I especially enjoyed finally testing something I've been talking about for a long time.

One thing that has always bothered me in movies and novels is that characters who are supposed to have faith rarely solve their problems by actually relying on the power of that faith.

This time, I finally had the chance to explore that possibility myself.

So, after this rather long introduction, here comes the part that I suspect nobody will actually read.

Because it's more than 80,000 characters long, which is already beyond the length of a typical short story.

Just one more little detail before we dive in.

This adventure also gives some additional insight into the mental map line in my Single Line CV article. Or at least it offers another, more personal perspective on what I meant by it.

The Bell of Greystone

Arrival

You reach Greystone at dusk, on the cobbled square of a mountain village. A few people stand around the well, talking quietly. In the chapel tower hangs a great bell, but its rope is cut and swings loose. The sign of the nearby inn, a cuckoo, creaks in the wind, and warm light spills from the inn's windows. On the far side of the square a stocky, stern-eyed man in uniform stands watching you.

Your palm tingles, as if from the cold, but it isn't cold. It is a strange feeling that wasn't there during the journey.

Around the square you can see the well, a notice board, the inn, the chapel, in the distance the smoke of a smithy, and the road leading up toward the mountain.

Player: I look over the notice board.

The notice board

The board is crowded with papers of different ages, pinned over one another.

• A mayoral proclamation with a fresh seal: the Deepwell mine is closed, approaching its gate is forbidden, and breaking the rule is punishable by fine. Signed: Aldric Voss, Mayor.
• A ruling by the captain of the guard: after sunset villagers should not walk alone, and anyone who has seen anything is asked to report to Captain Hartley.
• A handwritten note in pencil, in shaky letters: "I am looking for my son Paul. He has not come home from the mine for three days. If anyone knows anything about him, please tell the smithy. – Barbara." Below it, a smaller slip: "Gregory, if you see this, come home. – D."
• A chapel notice: the bell has been silent for three weeks, the faithful can help with repairs through donations, and Father Brann holds Mass at night as well.

Because you look carefully, you notice something else. At the bottom, under the other papers, is an ancient, yellowed poster. It once announced the "bell festival", and at the end there is a signature: Ilse the Elder, bellringer. Next to the name is a stamp: a bell with a hand inside it. When you look at it, your palm tingles again, stronger than before.

The uniformed man on the other side of the square sees that you have been staring at the board for a long time and slowly starts walking toward you.

Player: I start talking to him.

Captain Hartley

The uniformed man stops in front of you and rests his hand on his belt, not threateningly, more out of habit. He is in his forties, lean, with short hair graying at the temples.

"I am Captain Hartley, commander of the village guard," he says dryly. "You are a stranger, and you have been studying the notice board for ten minutes as if it were a book. That is not a crime in itself, but lately every stranger is interesting to us. Who are you, and what brings you here?"

His voice is official, but his eyes are tired. He seems not to have slept properly in a long time.

As he speaks, he glances for a moment toward the old poster at the bottom of the board, then quickly back at you, as if he doesn't want you to notice.

Player: I'm a traveler, and I like to know what is going on in the area. Maybe I could help look for the missing boy.

Hartley narrows his eyes and looks you over as if weighing you on a scale.

"Help?" he repeats. "A rare offer these days. Mostly people run away from here." He is silent for a moment, then continues more quietly. "Three miners vanished three weeks ago. Gregory, Paul, and a boy called Emery. All of them headed toward Deepwell, and none came back. Since then the mayor has had the mine closed, and nobody may go near the gate. Not even my men."

At the last sentence his jaw tightens a little, but he says no more.

"The boy's mother, Barbara, works in the smithy. She would surely be grateful to anyone who cares about this. You may also hear something at the inn if you keep your ears open. But I warn you of one thing: don't wander at night alone, and don't go near the mine. If you find anything, anything at all that points to the missing men, bring it to me. Not to the mayor, to me." He says this last sentence a shade quieter.

Then, in an official voice, he adds:

"You haven't told me your name yet."

Player: My name is Erwin Greenthorn.

Hartley takes out a worn notebook and writes down your name, repeating it softly: "Erwin Greenthorn." He looks up. "It doesn't sound familiar, but the village is old, and names travel."

He closes the notebook and nods.

"Very well, Erwin. If you need a room for the night, the Cuckoo Inn is on the other side of the square. Barlow is an honest man, though he talks a lot. If you go to Barbara, the smithy is at the end of the square, on the road toward the mountain." He hesitates for a moment, then adds: "That old poster you were looking at on the board is about the bell festival. It isn't current anymore." He says it as if expecting a question, or as if watching how you will react.

Then he adjusts his belt, and the quiet of the square's evening settles around you. The people by the well have stopped whispering and are now watching you, the new face. Far off, from the direction of the mountain, you hear a short, dull rumble that is nothing like a ringing, and then it fades.

Player: Is the village regularly attacked from the north, and did the rope get cut in one of those attacks? What happened?

Hartley raises an eyebrow and looks at you almost in astonishment.

"Attack? From the north?" His voice is dry, but there is a little surprise in it. "Nothing comes from there but the mountain and the snow. At this time of year snow closes the pass, and the last band of robbers was chased off in my grandfather's day. Nobody has attacked us in three weeks, that's certain."

He thinks for a moment, then nods toward the chapel tower.

"The rope wasn't torn. Mira, the bellringer girl, found it on the ground in the morning, and the end was cleanly cut, as if done with a knife. It happened at night, because in the evening the bell still rang, and by morning it was mute. I saw nothing, heard nothing, and neither did my men." He rubs his chin. "Father Brann knows more about the bell than I do. But if you ask me, this was not the work of an enemy. Whoever did it knew the tower and knew when nobody was watching."

He puts the weight of the emphasis on the end of the sentence, but doesn't explain what he means.

Player: Thank you, Captain Hartley! With that, I'll go and visit Barbara.

Hartley nods but says nothing more, only follows you with his eyes until you disappear around the corner of the square.

The paving of the road toward the mountain is uneven here, and there is barely any light behind the walls. In front of the smithy a ruddy glow pulses in the open door, and the blows of a hammer carry from afar. As you come closer, you notice that the strikes are uneven: one hard blow, then a longer pause, as if the hand were working rather than thinking.

In the smithy a broad-shouldered woman of about fifty stands at the anvil, her hair tied under a kerchief, old burn scars on her forearms. She is trying to straighten a long, damaged iron rod, but you can see her thoughts are elsewhere. When she hears your footsteps, she doesn't look up at once.

"Closed," she says, staring at the iron. "Come in the morning if you need horseshoes."

Then she glances at you, and her hand stops. Her gaze runs over you, stops on your palm, and for a moment narrows, but she says nothing about it.

"You're not from the village," she says at last. "What do you want?"

Player: I'm Erwin Greenthorn, and I heard your son has gone missing, and others too, from the mine. I'm looking for a place to stay, and in exchange I'll investigate the disappearances.

Barbara puts down the hammer and wipes her hands on her apron. She looks at you for a long time, as if measuring how many promises like this she has heard.

"You'll investigate the disappearances," she repeats dryly. "For three weeks everybody has been 'looking into' it. Hartley, the priest, even the mayor. Then another proclamation comes, and my son is still not home." She doesn't raise her voice, but her words are sharp. "What do you get out of it? A room? That's hardly payment for this kind of work."

She falls silent, and her eyes drift to your palm again. She quickly looks away.

"Paul is in his nineteenth winter. A good-handed boy, better than I was at his age. In the last weeks he did a lot of special work, orders from the mayor's men, mining tools, ironwork." She pauses a little. "The evening he left, he said he still had to take something somewhere. I haven't seen him since."

Next to the anvil stands a cart with a broken wheel, two of its spokes cracked, the iron tire lying on the ground.

"Look," she says curtly. "I have no hands to spare for all this work now. If you can hold iron and blow the fire, the attic room is yours for the night, and in the meantime perhaps I'll tell you something more. You don't have to. But help is help."

Player: Fine, let it be so. But then I'll also ask the mayor and the priest what they've achieved in this damned search. Forgive me, since I'm a stranger, but I'm a practical man, and when I say I'll look into it, I mean it.

Something almost like a smile appears at the corner of Barbara's mouth for the first time.

"Practical," she says. "That's better than fine speeches. Go and ask them. But Voss is a polite man, and the polite ones are the hardest. And with the priest, don't watch the words; watch what he doesn't say."

Then she nods toward the cart.

You go over and get to work. You replace the spokes, forge the cracked one anew, heat the tire, and draw it tight around the wood. The heat makes your back sweat, but Barbara is skilled, and the work goes quickly. Barbara says not a word the whole time, only occasionally watches from the side, and once gently corrects how you hold the tongs. When the cart finally stands straight, she spins the wheel, and it turns smoothly, silently.

She wipes her hands on her apron and is quiet for a while.

"It's good," she says at last. "I'll talk, as I promised." She lowers her voice. "In Paul's last week he wasn't only making tools. The mayor ordered a big iron lock for the mine gate, a heavy, two-key piece. Paul worked two days on it, and he said he found it odd. At that time the gate was still open, the miners were working. Nobody had fitted the lock yet, but after the disappearances the mine was closed, as if the mayor had known it all in advance." She looks you in the eye. "Maybe it's nothing. Maybe he's the kind of man who plans ahead. But to me it's strange anyway."

The smell of food drifts from the back room, where someone has lit a fire. Barbara nods toward the attic.

"The room is yours. In the morning there will be bread and soup, if you behave."

Player: I go into the chapel, introduce myself to the priest, and ask him about the mine.

The chapel

The chapel door opens with a creak. Inside it is cold, smelling of wax and damp stone. A few candles burn before the altar, and three or four old people sit silently in the pews, praying under their breath. The silence from the tower is different from the stillness of a church: heavy, as if something were missing from it. Your palm tingles again, stronger than on the square.

A thin girl of sixteen or seventeen is sweeping in the side aisle, her hair tangled, her fingers inky. When she sees you, she stops and quickly lowers her head. Beside the altar, a gray-haired, stooped man in priestly robes is straightening the candles. He is around sixty, his movements slow and careful. He hears your steps, turns, and looks at you kindly, but wearily.

"Welcome, my son," he says softly. "We rarely see a stranger at this hour. I am Father Brann. Can I help you with something, or are you only seeking the quiet?"

Player: I'm here because of the men missing from the mine. And I would also ask your blessing for the search.

Father Brann looks at you for a long, almost measured moment, then rests his hand on the altar rail.

"The miners..." he sighs. "Three young men, and all three were baptized in this chapel. Weeks ago they still sat at Sunday Mass, and now..." He doesn't finish. "I prayed for them every evening, but in vain. I asked the mayor to let me say a Mass at the mine gate, in case it would help, but he wouldn't allow it. The mine is closed, he said, 'for safety reasons.' I do not argue with him; that is his business, not mine." He adds more quietly: "Meanwhile the village sleeps badly. Many people see the same dream at night, something calling from deep below. I don't tell the children."

He raises his hand and places his fingers on your forehead. The gesture is quick and warm.

"May God accompany you on your way, my son, and watch over you while you walk in the dark." Then he looks away toward the tower. "You know, what really weighs on me is not even the mine. Three weeks ago the bell fell silent, and that was the heartbeat of this village. The rope was cut, but worse, they took the clapper too, the bell's tongue. Without it the bell is only a big, mute piece of iron. Whoever did this knew exactly what he was taking."

The sweeping girl in the background stops and clings to the broom handle. Brann notices you rubbing your palm, and for a moment his gaze strays to your fingers, but he says nothing.

Player: On the way out I speak to the sweeping girl and ask her about the mayor.

Slowly, so as not to frighten her, you turn toward the sweeping girl between the pews. Mira, if you heard Father Brann correctly from beside the candles, snatches up her head and grips the broom handle as if it would save her. Her glance flashes over you, toward the priest at the altar, then back.

"I'm only the bellringer's helper," she whispers. "Mira. I don't know much about the mayor, sir. I'm in the tower and the chapel, not at the town hall." Her voice is quick and soft, the words running into each other. "Lord Voss often comes to the chapel; after Mass he usually talks with the Father, and he is always polite. He donates, too." For a moment she falls silent, turning the end of the broom. "Only these last weeks he hasn't come. Even though since the bell he should come more."

Father Brann has his back turned at the altar, but the girl keeps looking back and forth. When she turns to you again, her eyes widen as if she wanted to tell you something, then she presses her lips together.

"Not... not here," she whispers, barely audible. "In the morning, when I'm by the well, because I fetch water. Then I could..." The sentence is left unfinished. In a louder voice, as if speaking only of church order: "The exit is on the left, sir."

You can see she knows something, and fears it. Father Brann has put down the candlestick in the background and starts toward the door.

Player: I go to the mayor and ask him what danger the mine holds and what came of the search.

The mayor

The mayor's house stands on the north side of the square, next to the chapel: two storeys, a carved gate, light curtains in the windows. A servant answers your knock and silently leads you into a heated study. Maps on the walls, orderly papers on the desk, a silver candlestick in the corner. Behind the desk, an elegant man in his fifties, dressed in blue, rises and offers his hand.

"Aldric Voss, mayor of the village. Welcome, Mr. Greenthorn." His voice is courteous and smooth, his smile precisely measured. "News travels fast here. A moment ago, if the smell doesn't deceive me, you were at the smithy, and now you come from the chapel. A useful stranger, I see."

He seats you and leans on the edge of the desk.

"You ask what dangers the mine holds. The short answer: serious ones. Deepwell is old, its passages are built on medieval workings, and below the second level the ground has long been unreliable. Master Corvin, my adviser, who understands such things, examined it two weeks ago and judged it prone to collapse and full of poisonous gases. That is why I closed it." He pauses briefly. "As for the missing young men, we searched the first-level passages but found no trace of them. They probably went deeper, or left the village. Sadly, in the first case there is not much hope."

He leans back and touches his fingertips together.

"I appreciate your willingness to help, but believe me, the best service you can render is to stay away. It is dangerous here, and I wouldn't want a well-meaning stranger to come to harm." With a delicate movement, he sets a silver purse on the desk. "Ten gold coins, for your trouble. The Cuckoo Inn will be on me until tomorrow morning, and if you wish to travel on, I'll pay for the carter too. Let's say it is the village's gratitude."

His smile doesn't flicker. He waits for your answer.

Player: Thank you for your generosity, but the smithy suits me fine, those fancy inns are not to my taste. I'll stay a few days anyway, because three friends of mine are on their way here and we agreed to meet here. (nothing of the sort was agreed)

Voss's smile does not change for a moment, but something calculating enters his eyes. He doesn't take the purse back; he leaves it on the desk.

"The smithy, I see." His voice stays smoothly pleasant. "Barbara is a good woman, though she has hard days now, and grief can be a poor adviser." He leans back. "Three friends, you say. Interesting. Three people rarely come here at once, especially now that the pass is closing. Do I know them? Where do they come from, and when do you expect them?"

The question sounds casual, as though prompted only by hospitality, but the fingers of his right hand tap rhythmically on the desk.

"I ask because the village is in a difficult time and I would like to know who passes through. Let's say it's a mayor's duty. If armed men or professional investigators arrive, it's good if they notify us beforehand, so my guards don't take them for enemies." His smile is a little wider now. "The money stays on the desk. If you change your mind, or your friends arrive and the Cuckoo seems better after all, Barlow knows he should put everything on my account. My offer doesn't expire."

Meanwhile, beside the door, where you hadn't looked until now, a broad-shouldered man in a leather vest leans against the wall. He listens, a short sword at his waist. When you notice him, he doesn't even glance at you, only watches the mayor, as if waiting for a signal.

Player: I take the gold, and while doing so I say that they are Little Tegg, Helga of the Collar, and Rodgo the wizard. Though if you ask me he can't do magic, but he knows his wines.

Voss falls silent for a moment, then quietly, sincerely begins to laugh.

"A wizard who can't do magic but knows his wines." He shakes his head. "That is the best description I've heard lately. Little Tegg, Helga of the Collar, and Rodgo. I'll remember."

He pushes the purse on the desk toward your hand and watches you tuck it away. His smile is unchanged, but his eyes remain calculating. Along with the names, the word "wizard" particularly catches his attention.

"You know, Master Corvin, my adviser, likes to talk with people of that profession. Someone who understands magic, even if only in theory, rarely comes here." He is silent a moment. "When Mr. Rodgo arrives, please bring him to me. Over a glass of wine they would get on well. Or, if you like, I can send word to the guards posted at the pass, so your three friends aren't held up, and so that they notify me when they come through."

Beside the doorpost, Rask doesn't move, but the shoulder leaning on the doorframe tightens a little under the leather vest. Voss doesn't look toward him, only the forefinger of his right hand taps once on the desk.

"One more thing I'll ask, just for the sake of order." His voice is light. "By which road are you expecting them? From the pass, from the western valley, or perhaps from the south, along the river?"

Player: Oh, if only I knew; we weren't that specific when we parted.

Voss watches your face in silence for a little while, then his smile turns warm again, almost understanding.

"Well, yes, wanderers meet like that, roughly, but at least the destination is shared." He stands, signaling that the questioning is over. "Very well, Mr. Greenthorn. If you hear news of them, or they need anything, you know where to find me. My door is open, and my offer stands."

He gestures to the door, where the servant is already standing. As you step out, Voss adds, his back turned, as if just adjusting his clothes:

"Take care in the dark. Rask will see you to the square. Nights in Greystone are not safe for strangers."

The man in the leather vest sets off beside you without a word. He doesn't speak, doesn't look at you, just walks one step behind you on the paving. At the edge of the square he stops and stays there when you go on. When you look back, he is still standing there with his arms crossed, and he is not looking toward the mayor's house but at you.

The moon is already high, and no one is at the well. In the smithy window a pale light still burns, and from the direction of the Cuckoo Inn come singing and giggling.

Player: I rest in the smithy and sort out my equipment. I ask Barbara whether Voss has been acting strangely lately. The next morning I happen to wander around the well.

A night at the smithy

A narrow staircase at the back of the smithy leads to the attic. The room is small but clean: a straw mattress, a blanket, and a window facing the mountain. You unpack your belongings, check your equipment, and put away the ten gold coins. Below, you can hear Barbara tending the kitchen fire.

You go downstairs and ask whether Voss has been acting strangely. Barbara stares into the embers for a while.

“Strangely?” she says at last. “Voss never acts strangely. That's the trouble with him. Always the same: polite, calm.” She stirs the fire. “But some things have changed. He used to come here himself to place orders, and he haggled like everyone else. These past few weeks, he's sent Rask, his bodyguard. Pays in advance, never haggles. The two-key lock was like that too. The price wasn't even a question.” She pauses. “I've also seen him going to the mine with his wizard, Corvin, since spring. Paul once mentioned that the master had asked how long the chisels were, for cutting a deeper passage. I thought nothing of it then.”

She glances at your palm, then meets your eyes, but says no more.

“Sleep. Morning will be harder.”

Nothing happens during the night, though once you think you see a dark figure at the edge of the square through your window. Then it disappears. In the morning you have bread and soup before casually wandering over to the well.

Mira's testimony

Few people are out yet. Soon Mira appears with two buckets, her hair as tangled as ever. She lowers a bucket into the well and speaks softly without looking at you.

“Good morning, sir. No one's watching now. Father's preparing for Mass.” Her voice trembles. “I… I don't know if I should really tell you.”

Player: The truth cannot be kept hidden!

Mira tightens her grip on the rope and slowly turns toward you, as though the words are difficult to force out.

“The truth…” she repeats quietly. “Father Brann says that too. But he didn't see what I saw.” She looks around the square before continuing. “Three weeks ago, that night, I was sleeping in the tower. I'd been stitching the replacement bell rope. I heard a noise on the stairs, but I was afraid to go down. I hid behind the bell.” Her voice thins. “A broad-shouldered man came up, wearing a leather vest, a sword at his side. It was Rask, the mayor's man. I'm certain. He cut the rope with a single stroke, then reached under the bell and removed the clapper, its tongue. He wrapped it in a canvas sack and left. He said nothing. He wasn't even in a hurry.”

She stops and leans against the well.

“In the morning there was damp gray dust in the footprints on the stairs. It smelled like the mine. That's all I know. I don't know where he took it.” She lowers her head. “I didn't tell Father Brann because Rask was sitting in church that Sunday too, and if he found out I'd seen…” She leaves the sentence unfinished.

Before hauling up her bucket, she looks you directly in the eye for the first time.

“If you tell anyone, don't use my name unless you have to. But if you really need a witness, I'll speak.”

At the edge of the square, Rask appears. He pauses, looks around, then heads toward the inn as though the well means nothing to him.

Player: I'm afraid there may be no need for witnesses here. Don't worry, Mira. I'll get to the bottom of this. I don't believe that story about poisonous gases. I'm more concerned that something is being planned against the village, and the bell's tongue was removed so no one could raise the alarm. If you haven't seen me by the day after tomorrow, speak to Father Brann, if you trust him. God bless you!

Mira turns pale. The rope goes still in her hands. She looks at you as though no one has ever put that thought into words before.

“So no one could raise the alarm…” she whispers. “The bell was the only thing you could hear throughout the valley.” She takes a deep breath, presses her lips together, and meets your eyes. “Don't talk like that, sir. As though you won't come back.” She hesitates. “But if it happens… I'll tell Father. I don't think he's part of it. He's just… very frightened.”

She lifts the bucket and adds softly:

“May the Lord guide your steps.”

She heads toward the chapel, spilling a little water as she walks. Rask steps out of the Cuckoo Inn carrying a loaf of bread and looks toward the well. When he sees you, he offers no greeting. He studies you slowly, almost lazily, then sets off along the mountain road toward the mine.

The square gradually comes to life. Barlow sweeps outside the inn, hammer blows ring from the smithy again, and two women read the mayor's proclamation at the notice board.

The key

Player: I ask Barbara to make me a key like that one, if she still has the pattern. Then I'll enter the mine under cover of darkness.

Back at the smithy, Barbara is sorting iron. When you tell her what you want, her hands stop. She looks around as though the walls might have ears, goes to the door, peers outside, then closes and bars it.

“A key,” she says quietly. “To the mayor's mine gate.” For a while she says nothing. “Do you know what you're asking? If they find out it came from my workshop, I won't only lose the workshop.”

Her words are hard, but her voice shakes. She reaches toward a drawer on the back shelf, then withdraws her hand.

“Paul kept the original casting pattern, the one he used to make the keys. Yes, it's here.” She turns. “But I won't give it to a stranger just because he worked for me one afternoon. Being decent isn't proof. My son's life is at stake. If that pattern falls into the wrong hands, he could be the one who pays for it.”

Her eyes flick toward your palm again, but she says nothing about it.

“Tell me what you know. What you've seen. I don't want fine words. I want to know why you think the answer is in the mine. Convince me, and I won't ask where you heard it.”

Player: Your son disappeared there. The mayor even paid me to stop asking questions and leave the village as soon as possible. I know who removed the bell's tongue. And even if the mayor is right about poisonous gases—which I don't believe—I won't do any harm by going in. It's hardly a treasury. I'll lock the gate behind me, so make yourself a key as well, in case something happens to me. And get in touch with Mira.

Barbara remains silent for a long time. She rests her hands on the edge of the bench and glances toward the door as if someone might be listening.

“He paid you to leave,” she repeats slowly. “A man who ‘only has the village's interests at heart.’” She gives a bitter snort. “A man with a clear conscience doesn't pay strangers to stop asking questions. That means more to me than any pretty speech.” Her jaw tightens. “And what you said about treasure… I can see you're not going there for riches. But your last words convinced me: keep a key for myself. Someone who says that understands he might not come back.”

She opens the drawer and takes out two small sand molds and a casting pattern wrapped in cloth.

“I'll cast them this afternoon. They'll be ready by evening. It's a two-key lock; it needs both.” Her voice softens. “You take one, and I'll keep the other. If I haven't seen you by the third day, I'll go to Hartley and tell him everything I know.” She looks at you. “Mira… the bellringer's girl? You want me to find her? All right. But I won't ask what she knows until she wants to tell me.”

She wraps the pattern again and nods toward the fire.

“Stay nearby today, but keep out of sight. Rask went toward the mine this morning, and the men who bring me iron saw him eating at the inn around noon. I don't know what he's after, but I don't like having him so close.”

The day passes slowly. Between jobs, you check your equipment and listen to hammering and the hiss of hot metal from the back room. In the evening, Barbara emerges with two rough iron keys, still warm. She lays one in your palm and slips the other into her apron. The metal is heavier than it looks, its edge marked with fine, hurried chisel strokes.

“The lock is on the left,” she says quietly. “The smaller one first, then the larger. Take your time. Paul says it grinds.”

Outside, darkness gathers. A cold wind blows down from the mountain, and the moon rises along the horizon.

Player: After checking my tools and weapons, I rest for a while. Then I visit the tavern, but only to eat and listen to the other people talking. I don't ask questions. Once night falls, I head for the mine, taking a roundabout route.

In the attic, you inspect your equipment, tools, and weapon. The only thing missing is a lamp for the dark mine. When you go downstairs, Barbara has left a small shuttered oil lantern on the kitchen table for you. She turns away without a word. You rest until sunset.

Warmth, the smell of rich food, and quiet conversation greet you at the Cuckoo Inn. You sit at a corner table. Dora brings you soup and bread. There are dark circles under her eyes, and she says no more than necessary. You eat without asking questions and listen.

By the window, one woman tells another, “I had the same dream again. The bell was ringing, but not in the tower…” The other simply nods.

Behind the counter, Barlow mutters to Dora, “The mayor's men drank on his account again. Third week running, and old Voss hasn't even asked about it.”

In a corner, Black Jack the carter is half asleep over his mug. Suddenly he mumbles, “…there was a lantern… and the key rattled…” His companion shakes him awake and says something sharply under his breath. Jack falls silent.

Rask isn't here. Barlow remarks in passing that “the big fellow went up the mountain again today.”

Once the last guests have quietened down, you leave. Instead of crossing the square, you circle past the mill, following the stream and the birch grove where little moonlight reaches the ground. For a moment, you see a light in the mill and an old man at the window. You don't stop, and he doesn't move. No one follows you.

An hour later, you reach the mine gate. It is thick, iron-bound, with two keyholes. A rough wooden guard hut stands beside it. A lantern burns on a barrel outside, and Rask sits nearby with his sword across his knees, whittling a piece of wood. He is awake but bored, glancing regularly toward the trees. From the shadow of the birches, you are twenty paces away. He hasn't noticed you.

Into Deepwell

Player: I wait. Perhaps he'll fall asleep or step away to relieve himself. If I get an opening, I'll go in.

Crouching beneath the birches, you watch the gate. The moon moves slowly across the sky. The lantern flickers on the barrel, and after a while you can barely feel your fingers in the cold. Rask doesn't fall asleep. He carves, scrapes, yawns, and occasionally looks toward the gate.

Half an hour passes before he stands, cracks his neck, sheathes his sword, and walks behind the hut. You hear him humming tunelessly. Then the sound comes from beyond the wooden wall, outside the lantern's light.

This is your chance. You cover the twenty paces in a crouch, your footsteps almost silent on the soft ground. You insert the key into the smaller hole and turn it gently. A clean, delicate click. At the larger keyhole, the lock grinds just as Paul warned, and you hold your breath. The humming stops. Then Rask clears his throat, and a boot scrapes over gravel.

You ease the gate open, slip inside, and hook the lock back onto the iron fitting so it looks fastened from a distance. You pull the gate shut. You cannot lock it from this side, but it is closed, and in the lantern light Rask sees nothing suspicious. A moment later, you hear him settle back onto the barrel and resume whittling.

For a while you stand in darkness, letting your eyes adjust. Then you light your lantern, opening the shutter only enough to cast its light ahead along the walls.

The entrance passage on Deepwell's first level is broad: the silver mine's old main tunnel, supported by rotten but still-standing beams. The air is cold and dry, with a faint earthy smell. It neither stings nor chokes you, and you feel no dizziness. There is no apparent sign of the poisonous gas Voss described.

Fresh bootprints crowd the muddy floor, all leading deeper underground. Wooden carts stand along a narrow track by the wall. One has overturned, spilling a barrel's worth of heavy stone. To the right, fallen rock partly blocks a side passage. Yet the rubble's edges are clean and free of settled dust: someone has recently moved it to clear a way through.

Your palm is hot and tingling, almost painfully so. From below comes the same dull, rhythmic hum you heard in the square, only closer and stronger. It isn't loud, but you feel it in your chest.

Player: I take the side passage.

The passage is narrow and low. Twice you duck to avoid striking your head. The rubble has indeed been shifted within the past few days. After twenty paces, the tunnel widens into an old miners' rest chamber.

Benches have been carved along its stone walls. In the center is a dead fire, its ashes not quite cold. Three straw mattresses lie on the floor, and a battered chest stands in the corner. Nearby are a broken clay jug, a pewter spoon from a tavern, and a snapped mining chisel engraved with a tiny G.

Above the fire pit, a black vein runs through the rock. Near it, your palm almost burns. The material is dark and faintly glossy, neither silver nor coal. A broken piece, palm-sized and heavy, lies on a bench. When your lantern falls on it, the surface seems to swallow the light rather than reflect it. Here the humming in your chest is strongest. You can almost hear it inside the wall.

The chest holds scraps of bread, bandages, an empty water flask, and a folded rag with a message scrawled in pencil:

“Emery stayed below. P. says not to touch the stone, but the master told us to bring it up. I don't like this. —G.”

At the far end of the chamber, a narrow passage slopes downward. Drag marks run along the floor beside the wall, as though something—or someone—has been hauled through. A cold draft rises from below. So does the hum.

Player: I follow the tracks.

The passage is steep, the rock wet and slippery beneath your feet. The drag marks form two narrow tracks, as if something was pulled on ropes or a stretcher. Bootprints run alongside them. Thirty paces farther on, the slope ends at a wooden ladder descending into a vertical shaft. Its rungs are new, the timber still pale. You hang the lantern around your neck to free your hands and climb down.

The second level

At the bottom, everything changes. The walls are no longer rough-cut rock but smooth blocks of ancient masonry, much older than the mine. The air is cooler and heavier. The hum has become a deep, slow pulse, more a pressure in your ears than a sound. Your palm seems to beat in time with it. For a moment, you feel that the depths know you are here.

The tracks lead along a vaulted corridor. Faded bell motifs decorate its arches, like the stamp on the notice board. After sixty paces, the corridor forks.

To the right is a short, dry passage ending at a wooden door with iron bars. The drag marks lead there. From behind the door come uneven breathing and an occasional muffled cough.

Straight ahead, the main corridor continues toward a faint, warm glow, perhaps a fire or lantern. Stone scrapes somewhere in that direction. Someone whistles softly, then stops.

A thin black vein threads the vaulted wall. Whenever your lantern touches it, the tingling in your palm intensifies.

The barred door is fifteen paces away. The light down the main corridor is at least forty.

Player: I put out the lantern and rely on the light already down here.

You blow out the flame, and darkness drops over you so thickly that you cannot see your own hand. The lantern glass ticks as it cools. The metal clicks once. Then all is quiet except for the slow humming below.

After a few moments, your eyes adjust. The distant glow reveals the corridor's outlines: the curve of the vault, the edges of the masonry, the dark mouths of the two passages. The light is faint but steady, perhaps the embers of a well-built fire. The way to the barred door is completely dark, but the smooth wall guides your hand. Under your fingertips, carved bells stand out from the stone.

Now you see something your lantern had hidden. Between you and the fire, a slender silhouette stands against the wall. It is motionless and no longer whistling. The silence doesn't suggest boredom. The figure appears to be listening, its face turned precisely toward the spot where your lantern was burning.

Behind the barred door, someone coughs again, closer this time, as though they have moved up to the bars. A young, hoarse voice whispers one question:

“Who's there?”

Player: I slip into a shadow where the figure won't see me even if he comes close. Carefully, I draw my weapon and wait.

To the left of the junction, a recess lies between the wall and a fallen support beam. You settle into it, your back against cold stone, and slowly draw your sword without a sound. Your palm seems to tremble now rather than tingle, but your hand remains steady. You hold your breath in the darkness.

The figure moves. Slowly, almost sliding along the wall, it approaches. Its footsteps are barely audible; soft material pads the soles of its boots. At the junction, it stops three paces from you. Backlit by the fire, its shape becomes clear: slender, tightly clothed, a short, narrow blade in one hand. It lifts its nose as though sniffing the air.

“Oil,” it says almost inaudibly, seemingly to itself. “Freshly extinguished lamp oil.” The figure tilts its head without looking toward you. “Not the usual smell when someone comes creeping down here with the rats.” The voice is soft and mocking, almost friendly.

The hoarse voice speaks again from behind the bars.

“Thorn? Is that you? Who ar...