The tiny town of Phaendar in Nirmathas has persisted in some form or another for three centuries, ever since the construction of its eponymous bridge over the Marideth River made it a minor stopping point on Cheliax’s trade road to what were once the nation’s northern colonies. Over the years, the town’s population has rarely risen above a few hundred souls, and very little has changed even now, despite a war for independence raging just three days’ march to the south. Beyond its location as a crossroads between the Nesmian Plains and the Hollow Hills, Phaendar offers little military value. The lack of walls makes it impossible to hold; the flat land allows citizens to see armies approaching a day in advance and flee into the woods; and the river it overlooks is choked with rapids and barely navigable. Only someone wildly overambitious or a tactical genius would find any value in this exposed underbelly of a farm town. This is were you find yourself this particular day as the town is having a small festival. The 2-day affair, the Market festival as is it called in more or less a gathering of a bunch of traveling merchants, traders and craftsmen that all meet up at this spot once a year and put their wagons in a circle in the middle of town and they try to sell the wares they couldn't sell during the year of at a discount. The townspeople usually join in and there is food, music and drink as well as several stalls from the locals as well.
You're currently staying at the Inn called the Taproot Inn having traveled here with a merchant called Aubrin who was worried because hobgoblins had been sighted along the road in the area. The trip was uneventful however and you were not needed. In any case Aubrin has given you leave to do as you please for the next two days and paid you rooms at the Inn. He has also offered to hire you as security on the return trip as well if you interested.
.
Jasmine having ridden the Caravans for the past year,
and is/was part of the caravan with merchant Aubrin.
Jasmine served both as scout and entertainer for the Caravan as it traveled.
She even asked the Tavern owner if she could earn some coin for singing for the crowd in the tavern.
This way she'd have some more coin to spare for the festival.
Izithrael, or "Zith" as he's come to be known by those with lazy tongues, comes bumbling into the Taproot, his moss-covered toboggan which, from the looks of it, appears to be a poorly sewn corner of a potato sack, slipping sideways. As ever, he wears his signature golden mask, a tiny elk's head with a stunted muzzle and small, spring antlers indicative of a spike, a yearling bull elk.
"Aubrin! Aubrin!" he calls in a slightly nasal alto, "I've found that Irriseni Oolong tea you was asking after! I'd buried it last autumn and nearly forgotten! A wonder the possums hadn't found it, though I pity the poor little fellow who eats too much of this particular leaf." He cackles giddily as he presents a small packaged wrapped in large, dried leaves to the merchant. "Now remember, only a pinch for a cup, and don't be surprised if you catch a might case of the munchies once you've had a taste." He winks almost imperceptibly, given the mask covering most of his face. "You're in right luck, you know! If I were to be selling this at the Market, I'd fetch thrice the price we agreed on. But I like you, despite your breath."
Zith climbs up onto a seat beside the merchant, banging his little fist on the wood. "Yoohoo! An ale, if it please!"
He glances around the tavern, examining closely the faces both familiar and new.
Morde Chai had come to the town to trade furs and honey for a new batch of arrowheads and goose feathers. Spot was trotting next to him, carrying the trade goods on his strong back. The trip had been uneventful, but Morde prefered it that way. Uneventful was good!
After some hard barter with his friend Alsons from the haberdashery they had spit in their hands and finished the trade. It had been a good season and Morde had found some nice furs. It was even some extra coin there to take a meal at the Taproot.
Ordering Spot to stay friendly he opened the door and alas, his favorite spot was empty. Slowly making his way there he sat down with spot curling in the corner right next to him, yawning and putting his head on his paws.
Betto Calvus has had a good day. Himself, Pollia and the children had thoroughly enjoyed the festivities. But not wanting to spend too long away from the farm, and that they still had business in town, they agreed that Pollia would take the kids, horse and cart back in the evening, while Betto stays late. If someone happens to be heading that direction later, he would not object to a ride home, but if he must stay in the inn, no sweat off his back. His brothers and sisters lived not far from their farm, so Pollia would not be stuck if there was a problem.
A man in his early thirties with greying brown hair, he stands an imposing figure of 6' 1 tall", heavily muscled and tanned from years of outdoor labour. Scars cover his face and likely his chest also, what can be seen under his studded leather chest piece. With talk of hobgoblins returning to the area, and remembering how vicious they were the last time, he has seen fit to buy a few implements to defend himself and the farm better. Bear traps, a brutal iron shield, and cestii. Nothing certain, but better to spend the gold now than whenever the hobgoblins show their faces again.
It has been a while since he drank heavily, keeping himself to an ale or two in a night was a challenge, but worth it.
He walks into the Taproot, hollering over at some regulars he knows well on his way to the bar and the owner.
"An ale, you old sod, and quick about it!", he laughs as he says his familiar words of greeting to the tavern owner.
"Has Marco been in yet? I've to speak to him about that piece of land and he's meant to be here by now."
The Taproot—referred to simply as “the Root” by locals—is the only two-story building in town, and serves a wide variety of meals and alcohol gathered from travelers crossing the bridge. It’s also the largest indoor gathering place in town after the temple, and most of locals spend far more time in the Root during any given week than the temple. Ownership of the Taproot changes often as proprietors struggle or grow bored. It currently belongs to Jet (A midle-aged human female), a recent transplant to Phaendar of mixed Shoanti and Varisian descent with twin black braids, black eyes, and an iconic teal scarf worn around her waist and her husband Oleg a middle aged man with no-nonsense attitude and fierce pride.
"Who're you calling an old sod Scarface. This is the busiest day of the year I cant keep track of who comes and goes!" replies Oleg as he passes out another round of ales.
Besides the tavern there is Oreld's fine shop run by Oreld a kind hearted human merchant, the temple of Erastil run by the young human huntress Rhyna, the trading company is hosting the marketplace gathering is run by Kinnin blondebeard (female dwarf).
Filon walks down from the second floor, heading towards the exit. At 5'8 and 122 pounds, he was on the smaller side for an Elf. He wore clothing fit for his exploration but modified for his trade. His cloak was colored to match the spruces of the Fangwood. Besides typical adventuring gear, he wore a belt used to hold a number of important items for alchemy. His pockets and belt were full up of various odds and ends. His gloves here heavily singed from the application of his trade, and several small burn marks are apparent on his hands and face. Hidden from plain view, though obvious to anyone who had seen Filon with less than his full ensemble was horrible disfiguration to the vast majority of his left arm, with only the last few inches near his shoulder lacking any deformity. A terrible scar that had been acquired from exposure to some sort of unnatural fungal disease a few years back.
Filon's almond hair waved as he turned the corner and his emerald eyes surveyed the tavern before him. The trip with Aubrin and the other guards hadn't been bad, which was good as he had desperately hoped to avoid any fighting. Still, it had allowed him to sell off his current reserves of alchemical merchandise. It hadn't been for much, he had always had a soft heart and was often willing to sell low enough to resupply and keep himself fed. He groaned inwardly, he really ought to have insisted on more.
Oh well, nothing to be done about it. At least the Antiplague should give them good odds of surviving that infection.
As Filon walked out he waved to the other guards, listening to Zith as he walked by. "Munchies seems like a bit of an understatement." He smiled, finding humor in this.
Moving to the outside he looked around, surveying the festival. A few times in years past, he himself had brought excess goods to the festival.
It's too bad Merisiel wasn't able to meet me here, it's been almost a year since we've been able to meet up. We would have had a good time here.
Seeing the wagon's in a circle, Filon decides to head and see what deals might be had. Filon looks to see any merchant's he knew from years past, and heads to greet them.
"Greetings, it's been a few years, how fares your lot?"
Ordering an ale and some of the roasted fish and some of the vegetables from the pot, and some meat for spot, Morde leaned back and took a look at the other tavern patrons.
An elf, and by the look of it an educated man. Strange what the caravan brought us!
"Ah fine so, just the ale then!"
When Betto gets his ale, he looks around, trying to spot Marco.
He sees a number of strangers and raises his ale.
"To travellers and traders all!"
It had been a long morning, with the village up and about with the festives and the exotic goods. At the very least, there was drink, which Radok desperately wanted after any day of work. The smithy was simply too hot some... well, all of the time.
The Taproot was cheap but good, and Radok found himself there along with the crowd regardless. The high spirits were a bit infectious, but Radok told himself to get a drink first.
"Oleg!" Radok yells at the bartender. Nothing. Must have not heard him with all the noise. Radok tries again, louder. "OLEG!" This time, it works. "An ale, please."
When he gets his ale, Radok lifts it with his left hand to his mouth. The cup wobbles slightly, but manages to make the distance. Looking around, he notes the faces he does not recognize. Perhaps there were more people than last year.
A. Oreld's fine shop
B. Phaendar trading company
C. Riverwood Shrine
D. Taproot Inn
E. Phaendar Bridge
The market green is were the traders have their wagons.
It's around this time that Aubrin makes her appearance which draws a cheer from the crowd.
Phaendar’s Market Festival draws a crowd from all over Nirmathas, many solely to hear Aubrin the Green—the retired Chernasardo Ranger-turned-Caydenite cleric—recount bawdy tales of the adventures of her youth. Outside, the celebration continues, as raucous shouts carry on the night air. Warmed by the firelight after a long day, any levity comes as a welcome reward to the rough, earthy souls of this riverside trade town.
"I'm too thirsty to be telling tales right now! Someone get me a tankard of ale!" she shouts
Jet passes her one. "The crowd was wondering when you would show up. Your usually one of the first to arrive."
"Heard stories of hobgoblins so I did a sweep but nothing to worry about. I didn't find anything for miles around." replies Aubrin grabbing the tankard and nearly downing the whole thing in one swig.
Betto raises his mug again in the vague direction of Aubrin as she recounts her stories. She's always good for a tale. A good sort!
Inside his hut an old man sits hunched over a cluttered writing desk
The scratching of a quill on parchment can be heard. The shutters are pulled but the sound of marriement can be heard close by. It's the sounds of the yearly festival. The man looks up from his work and you can see a weathered face, deep wrinkles intertwine with various scars from long ago, but beneath it all is a handsome, kind face. His spectacles slide slightly down his sharp nose and he prods them back into place with a long, inkstained finger.
"I really do want to go to the festival, but I must finish this work," He says to the seemingly empty room. "Yes, Yes, I am well aware that if I don't leave now I will miss the stories. But it's either tales from long past or "news" which is usually just gossip anyway. "
He finishes his muttering rant, dips the quill back into the ink pot, and leans back to observe his work. He is not dressed in a traditional robe that someone with his talents typically wears. His colleagues had ridiculed him for throwing off the robes in favor of sturdy pants and a thick wool shirt, but he had always felt more comfortable moving around without a dress like robe to tangle his feet.
"Is this really what I have become a crotchety old hermit, evading a celebration in favor of sitting home alone and writing? Come Luna, let us not miss this entire affair." he rises slowly from his chair and hobbles over to his walking staff. As he moves his joints begin to loosen and the deftness of his writing begins to be seen in the way he walks.
Filon, having briefly reacquainted himself with the other merchant turns his attention towards the noticeable raucous coming from the Taphouse. At first, he decides he wants nothing to do with all of that noise, it went against his sensibilities which were much more in favor of a quiet remote section of woods where one could listen to the natural world at work. He begins to turn away and then pauses briefly thinking Nothing ventured... and decides to head in at least for an ale.
Popping his head in the doorway to inspect the situation beforehand, Filon recognizes Aubrin as she stands centerfold and decides to slink along the wall to the bar. Sitting down Filon silently greets the man with the raised mug beside him by bowing his head and raising his fingers to his forehead while offering a brief smile. He really did not like the noise.
Filon turns towards... ...Oleg was his name I believe. he raises his good arm to try and motion for Oleg to move towards him for an ale. He struggles though, amongst the crowd and noise, to draw attention to himself. His ears turning slightly red in slight embarrassment.
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You all spend the next few hours having drinks eating food and mingling with the other visitors at the tavern.
Aubrin is in the middle of yet another tale "So there I am, thinking, when will I ever be able to talk to a bear again? So before the grizzly can stand back up, I turn to it and say- in bear mind you "All I need is the honey. You can keep the bees!" The
room erupts into laughter as Aubrin finishes her winding story and takes another draught from her tankard. "But it’s fine now. All's good. She named a cub after me. Someday I’m going to have to check in on little "Ow Oh Gods That’s Too Many Bees”. Crowd members share their own boasts and jokes, but eventually someone tops off Aubrin’s tankard and pushes her back into the center of the room.
“All right, all right! Don’t shove,” she slurs a bit. “Okay, Cayden strike me down if this isn’t true—“ The front door explodes into splinters. A cry of agony pierces the chaos. Aubrin lies on the floor, gasping and clutching at the blood gushing from a wound at her shoulder were her right arm used to be attached.
A ballista bolt still quivers in the wall behind her and it's pinning Oleg to the wall having hit him right in the chest.
Two hobgoblins in military dress stand beyond the shattered door, blades drawn. Behind them, lit by the glow of burning homes, dozens—perhaps hundreds—of hobgoblin soldiers march the street. Phaendar burns, shouts of celebration now replaced by the panicked screams of the frightened and dying. Behind them, right in the middle of the green market rises a tower of black stone seemingly rising up out out of the ground.
Jasmine surprised at the event and it's meaning, but it mostly goes in one ear and out the other.
"Oh nuts I was going to sing and dance some more and then buy some sweets.
Why'd these Hobs have to mess with my plans."
And Charges one with Katana but also positioning herself with the wall to hinder shots from the outside.
"What in Hell?" Radok shouts, throwing his ale to the ground. Hobgoblins? How did no one see them coming? The land's flat for miles!
Radok quickly moves in, as the hobgoblins block the only way out. Raising his stone fist, he swings it in a hook on the hobgoblin's chin. "You'll pay for this!" he yells.
The stone arm flies over the hobgoblin's shoulder, as Radok curses.
Morde quickly takes his bow and returns fire at the left hobgoblin.
. Then he yells, "SPOT, arrow!"
200 pounds of enraged muscle and sinew, one moment ago sitting docile next to his master run forward and the young grizzly bites into the the same enemy as his master.
Betto is shocked.
Hobgoblins!?!? What?!?!
But in an instant, his old reflexes are kicking in, and he kicks off. There's no time to pull out gear from his backpack and knapsack, time for bare fists!
Betto flings his ale mug away he charges any hobgoblin he has room to reach and punches.
There have been small raids in the 40 odd years he has lived here, but nothing like this. Zelik peers out his window and sees a hobgoblin carrying a woman over his shoulder. “I don’t recognize her, must be the wife of some trader,” he thinks as he runs to his back bedroom to grab up his pack, the same pack he carried years ago. The straps have been replaced multiple times, and its more patches that original cloth, but there is still enough of the pale canvas to call it a Kalsgardian soldiers pack. He quickly stuffs some gear in the back and grabs the crossbow leaning next to his nightstand. ”Haven’t had much use of this,” he says out loud and grabs a quiver of what is most likely rusty bolts. ”Luna, have you seen my spell book,” The moth flutters in looking the same as she had the day he summoned her. As he passed the mirror he glanced at himself. “When did I get so old?” he wonders as he looks over the grey, almost white hair, and wrinkles that cover his face. As he grabs his walking stick he becomes acutely aware of his aging joints and wonders if this is the battle that will finally reunite him with all of his fallen comrades. ”Luna, it looks like we must go out the back,” he calls as he sees a group of invaders running down the street.
”I never wanted this,” he whispers as he uses his staff to nudge open the back door. an heads to the tavern where he has the best hope of finding a resistance.
Filon stands up abruptly, somewhat taken back by the intrusion.
"Beth yn enw Erastil !? Milwyr Hobgoblin?"
He then takes his mostly empty mug and throws it at the closer of the two Hobgoblins.
"Wha-? Aubrin!" Zith slides down from the bench to the floor beneath the table, only needing to crouch slightly to fit. The eyes behind the mask grow wide at the feral hobgoblins, and the mystifying tower that rises up into the sky like a malignant growth.
Silently, he draws his sling, the one he uses to chuck walnuts at nosy children, from his back pocket and, seizing a piece of debris from the floor, tries to divest one of the hobgoblins of an eye.
The two hobgoblins at the door go down under a barrage of attacks and Aubrin grabs a table and flips it over making a barricade at the door.
“It... it sounds like there’s an army outside the door. How did they fall on us without being seen? These damn plains are so flat you can see an elk from two days off, let alone an army!” She winces and presses her hands against the bloody hole at her shoulder. “They sound large. Too large to fight on the ground like honest fools. We need to gather what/who we can, cross the bridge, and hide out in the Fangwood. I—I know a few secrets that may keep us safe. Should probably figure out how to take down the bridge while we’re at it, else they’ll just march themselves across before we have the chance to hide.”
Betto gives the hobgoblin he was punching a good kick in the ribs.
"Better safe than sorry!"
Then he thinks, and turns to Adrian with worry in his voice:
"You can find a way to the Calvus farms, yes? They are all near each other. I have to everyone there to safety!"
The hobgoblin soldiers were a silver pin on their soldier with a matching insignia on it. That you can recognize with a successful DC 16 Knowledge (history) or Knowledge (local) check.
Jet is checking on Oleg and confirms he is dead.
"Lost my good arm...Cant use my bow...Maybe able to clumsily swing a sword..Don't know if I can manage a spell...I can try guide you but I wont be much good in a fight." says Aubrin. "Lets go out the back and we can try and check the Phaendar trading company building and the Riverwood Shrine and see if we can gather some healing supplies or something we can use to destroy the bridge. That should slow them down enough for us to escape with as many people as we can gather."
Jasmine looks at the hobs as she cleans the blood from her blade
"Um, I think I know this pin....."
The insignia is the emblem of the Ironfang Legion, a mercenary army responsible for the Ramgate Massacre 2 years ago, but absent from the battlefield ever since.
With a smile and a cheery disposition at recalling it
"Oh silly me, I remember now, it is the Ironfang Legion.."
Betto's face is grim.
"They're Ironfangs alright." He spits on the nearest corpse and kicks it again for good measure. "A party attacked my farm and the ones near it a few years back. Tough sods. Organised. Thought we'd beaten them back for good."
Zelik quietly makes his way through the streets moving as swiftly as his old legs can carry him. He hides behind the corner of a house as a patrol goes by. He looks both ways before darting across the lane. He ends up on the backside of the inn where he decides that he has a moment to adjust the straps on his pack and catch his breath.
Luna flutters above his staff waiting to aid her master and life long friend.
"Or more survivors!" Zith suggests hopefully to Aubrin, wondering at how so much blood could come out of a person and leave them breathing. "Aubrin, are you sure you're up to it?"
"Escaping into the woods is a capital idea. Their paths are crooked and crossed, and those unfamiliar with them would have a time chasing anything that wasn't tied up in front of them. Blowing up the bridge, though..." He glances woefully at the destruction in the street. The town is already lost. "They shan't have it for themselves. Let's do it! Supplies we'll gather first, then...kaboom."
Jasmine quickly replies to Izithrael's words
"So there is going to be a Fireworks display.....?
The healing magic closes the wound and stops the bleeding. Aubrin breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank you that's much better"
You look outside.
Hobgoblins battle with townsfolk in every direction, and from the sounds of battle, the whole of Phaendar is under attack. Bodies lie on the ground everywhere, run through by hobgoblin blades and left where they fell. A wolf howls in the distance, its eerie cry echoed by the screams of the dying.
The bulk of the hobgoblins are coming out of the tower in the center of town and as such their forces are concentrated in the Market green.
You figure you can make a run for it and make to either the Phaendar trading company building or the Riverwood Shrine unseen if you hurry and use the back alleys.
Radok impatiently yells "I don't care exactly what these hobgoblins are. Come on! We can come up with the rest of the plan as we go. Right now, we need to leave, fast."
"We should go to the Shrine first. We'll need all the help we can get to heal the injured."
"Looks like they are coming from that tower... must be magical?"
Filon pauses and considers, somewhat stricken by all of the devastation and his head swirling as he tries to remain focused and not panic. Hearing Jasmine and Betto chatter.
"The Ironfang Legion... here? I've only heard tales.
I, uh, agree. Between the Shrine and the trading company, the shrine seems closer. Better to be careful I think, and grab who we can as we go."
The Elf draws out his shorbow and seems ready to go.
You decide to go to the temple first.
A wooden deck surrounds the front of an octagonal structure with broad archways leading into a place of worship. To its left stands a moss-encrusted stone monument. Carved birds, branches, and fruits decorate the wooden supports of the temple’s entryway. A dead villager is curled up on the wooden deck before the temple and it's doors are broken down.
You hear sounds of combat inside.
As the group bursts out of the inn Zelik is startled and leaps back holding his staff out in front of himself, but he quickly realizes that these folks are not the invaders. In fact he recognizes a few of them.
"Radok, is that you? Why of course it is, you aren't the most inconspicuous fellow in town now are you? It seems that we are under attack. Have you seen Edgrin?" As more file out he sees that they include a few townsfolk, though none that he knows particularly well.
"Come now we have very little time, where are we off to?" he asks having seamlessly inserted himself into the group. "Ah to the shrine then, an excellent idea Mr... I do not believe I caught your name... No matter now is neither the time nor place for such pleasantries. We shall make time to become greater acquainted. Given that we survive that is." it is at that moment that Zelik realizes that he has been prattling on for far to long and so exclaims "Well, what are we waiting for. Off we go."
Upon reaching the desecrated temple Zelik lets out a sigh with a bit of a wheeze, for keeping up with this young folks is easier imagined than actually actioned. "pity" he says with melancholy in his voice, "shall we see if we can assist?"
Earlier:
Morde nods towards Aubrin and adds."Where is your bow? With the Hobgoblins assaulting the city, maybe an extra bow and some arrows can come handy!" He picks it up and stashes it in his quiver.
Then
With a low whistle he calls spot to his side and follows the others towards the temple. "We have to help them. Those savages are merciless!"
Radok looks at the old man in confusion. He seemed awfully calm for an elderly caught in a war zone. "Yes, Zelik, it is I. I haven't seen Edgrin, unfortunately, but that can wait while we try to get out of here alive. Please." The half-orc says, teeth clenched.
Seeing the dead body on the steps, Radok rushes into the shrine, hoping to aid those still inside.
"My stuff is in the shack next to the temple" says Aubrin
Betto is fuming. In an instant, hobgoblins have overrun the town.
"If they're coming from that tower, maybe the outlying farms are still safe, we'll go there after!"
And then he hears sounds of combat from the shrine.
He runs in, fists tightly bunched, eager to get some vengeance.
"If we are going to enter the shrine perhaps this will serve as a bit of a distraction" he waves his hands and inside the shrine, high in the air appears an angelic, faintly female looking creature. She glows with a bright golden hue and appears to have long flowing hair. "Giselle," whispers the aging wizard.
You enter the temple and see a young human cleric fighting against a hobgoblin female wearing furs and wielding two axes one in each hand. It seems clear the hobgoblin is the stronger of the two.
A large wolf pounces and lands in front of you growling blocking your path to go help.
You can roll init.
Hobgoblin ranger init