14.5 // Fert’s Test

Fert awakens with a jolt, confused and aching. His wrists are shackled and chained to the wall above him, with no slack to sit or even kneel. His shoulders scream in agony—he’s been hanging unconscious. But for how long?

He attempts to cast a spell. Nothing. Of course. This must be the Kept, the prison where spellcasting is suppressed. Magic items, though—those still work. He checks his ear. His earring is still there. No message received. He sends one out. It works. Definitely the Kept. Definitely late evening. Everyone’s still asleep. It hasn’t been long since his capture.

Fert scans his surroundings. The room is dark, lit only by a glowing brazier swinging from the ceiling. Shadows dance over bloodstained wooden tables, some outfitted with straps. A place of pain. Of despair. From beyond the cell door, a murmur of activity—indistinct echoes. Impossible to tell how far or how close.

With nothing else to do, nowhere to go, Fert closes his eyes and begins to meditate, seeking guidance from Chauntea.

Then a voice—broken, familiar—slithers from the shadows.

“Grangul, my son. Sin of the tribe. Shame of our blood. Famine-bringer. Matron-murderer. The stone has blessed us with reunion. I will be your father—and your redemption.”

Fert doesn’t bite. He killed his father years ago—burned him alive. This was some trick. A good one. The figure’s stance, his voice—it all felt too familiar.

The speaker steps into the brazier’s light. A Goliath man, his face hidden beneath wrapped bandages and a hooded robe. A pendant of the Onyx Order hangs from his neck. He introduces himself as the Arch-Bishop of Flesh and invites Fert to atone—by becoming one with the stone.

Fert snarls back, demanding to know why his tribe has abandoned their oath to Chauntea.

The man—“his father”—claims Chauntea left them when Fert murdered his own mother. He smirks at the accusation, taunting him. Fert’s jaw tightens. That was no choice—it was forced. His father made him do it.

Fert narrows his eyes and asks why “his father” won’t say her name. The Arch-Bishop winces at the question. Fert demands it. Again. And again. Louder each time.

Annoyed, the Arch-Bishop snaps for a deacon to silence him. A robed figure enters and tries to gag Fert. He resists, headbutting the deacon and continues shouting “what’s her name?!”

More cultists swarm in. They pin him. The Arch-Bishop steps forward, revealing more of his ruined body. It was his father—charred and ruined, but the wraps weren’t bandages. They were strips of flayed flesh.

Tools glint in his father’s hands.

Now gagged and restrained, Fert retreats inward. He finds himself in a memory—his mother’s secret garden. They had planted a tree there, just the two of them. This dream always ends the same: his father finds them, hacks the tree, and forces the unthinkable.

But not this time.

The steel at his flesh disappears. The father in the dream vanishes. The tree remains.

(CJ rolled a Nat 20)

His dreams shift. Moments of peace. His family. A rare smile from his father. Fert finds strength in that stillness. Then—clarity. His father’s presence, the corruption, is defeated. Frustrated, now gone — retreated.

A voice—small and pure—whispers through the cracks of his consciousness.

“Are you okay?”

Fert, still meditating but no longer lost in it, keeps his eyes closed. “Who’s speaking?”

The voice chirps back, “Neb. We met at my house. My mom made carrot stew. You saved my dad, Lionel Lightfoot.”

“How… how did you do that?” Neb continues, his voice soft. “You didn’t flinch. Didn’t scream. You just… stood there.”

Fert opens his eyes, pain flaring like lightning. His body has been flayed—one long strip from the back of his left heel, over his scalp, and down to the top of his left foot. In front of him stands a small Harengon boy, face wrapped in cloth to cover a hurt eye.

Neb explains he’s small enough to slip between the bars. “To be brave,” he says, “you gotta be scared. And right now… I’m really brave.”

Chained. Flayed. But not alone.

Fert has made a friend and unexpected ally in the depths of the Kept.