Fang and Shackle (Inactive)

Game Master Kagehiro

"Powder's wet, Dread." Frig gritted out. He had his hands gripped around the neck of an all too skinny powder pouch.

"Yeah." What else was he going to say? He had his own gun held tight, the white oak grips warm to the touch. The rain had started only a few minutes ago, so sudden it'd taken them both by surprise...all their training and they'd not had a dry-satchel close to hand.

Dread adjusted himself, his seat squelching in the mud, his back aching from the roots they were hiding against. "They'll be on us soon, Frig, we're gonna have to move."

"Where to, Dread? You have a house nearby? Something with a dry bed?" In the dark and the rain, Dread couldn't see the blood in his friend's grin.

They both heard the dogs...and whatever else the Nirmathi rangers were using. Dread cursed and slipped his pistol into his belt and drew his short sword. Then his pack went into mud.

"Hope you don't think I'm carrying that..." The Halfling's voice, shrill and resonant was carried away by a fit of coughing.

Dread stood and grabbed up the only other living member of the 2nd Regiment Fusiliers, 1st Scouts. "Suck it up you pint sized dung eater," Even with him being a halfling, Dread was having difficulty managing the weight. He'd never been the strongest. Thin, shy of 6 feet, Dread wasn't the cut of an imposing figure.

The sounds of voices were getting clearer thru the driving rain. "Closer..." Frig managed before coughing again.

"Yeah." Dread pulled his hat a bit tighter to keep the rain out of his eyes. "Which way, Frig? I couldn't tell you if the Fort was right in front of me."

"Go left along the ravine. Maybe a few miles yet." He pointed at the pack his human comrade had dropped. "Better not have the gold you owe me in there, Dread."

Despite the situation, he grinned back at the Halfling. "Stop your belly aching. And your leaking, this is my last tabard."

Eldred "Dread" Pentwert charged into the darkness and the rain carrying his friend on his back. Behind him were the dead and the enemy. Ahead, the Fort and maybe some sanity.

Generally speaking, The Most Noble Order of the Exalted March is pretty upright and honorbound in their exploits. However, the Order is a relative newcomer to the scene, having only been established in the past couple of years. This makes coming up in the Order entirely a difficult prospect, so we have a couple of options here:

1.) You were initially training as an Officer in the Molthuni Imperial Army. Something about you impressed all the right people, as you soon found yourself extended an offer to join the newly established knightly Order, at the behest of the Order's head and founder (and cousin of the Imperial Governor to boot): Eodric Teldas.

2.) You joined the Order under unique circumstances (typically they would take on younger people and send them through the general Page -> Squire -> Knight process) but rose to a position of prominence relatively quickly. The ranking members in the Order run themselves ragged with the overwhelming tide of new recruits and ongoing war duties, and find themselves quickly promoting the most promising and prominent in order to simply meet the demands of training up and directing the younger members.

Or, if you have another thought in that regard, I'm all ears. Rest assured, your career isn't going to be spent training up cadets, no matter the circumstances of your joining. But those are a couple of ideas to get your foot in the door, at least.

Would you consider going the route of a scarred witch doctor ostracized from his tribe? There are plenty of Orcs that inhabit the Menador Mountains that form the southern boundary of Molthune. Perhaps as a shortcut to citizenship you were offered up as a field agent to the Consortium's Molthune based agenda.

That's not to say your original draft isn't tenable, it's just a harder sell as a full blooded Orc.

As gun wielding units is something of a recent development in Molthune, Eldred would likely have been part of the very first wave. Though the guns being supplied to the Imperial Army are being shipped exclusively out of Braganza (made by a Alkenstar native here on extended contract, Rud Nail-Spitter), he would have trained up in Korholm before shipping off to Fort Ramgate.

Now, Eldred being one of the few "veteran" gunslingers in the Imperial Army would be an excellent candidate to go recruiting in Braganza. That works nicely.

The three trudged along underneath the cloudy sky and shady trees, walking side by side as they had for 10 miles now. The sky was growing dimmer, and a strong breeze picked up coming head on into the children. Each of the children held a piece of bread in their hand, munching quietly as the farmland slowly rolled by them. Gruckalus spoke up then, "Wonder how far it is until the city. Y'know, papa said the city is full'a huge houses with all sortsa funny people livin' in 'em." For a second, no one added to that, then Bordana ventured, "I don't think we're close yet. It's probably like, a week away." At that Adurus stopped, the others turning to him as he whined, "A week of walking. Ughh, my feet hurt. We should stop now." Just then, a CRACK of thunder broke overhead. Gruckalus said, "I think we should keep goin'." Adurus raised no objection, and the trio carried on.

A few minutes later, the rain started to come down, just as they approached an old farmhouse. A light sprinkle quickly became a heavy pounding, and by the time the three had dashed into the rickety barn their hair and shoulders were well soaked. Without much conversation, they looked around the dark barn from the doorway, a place seemingly abandoned for at least a few years. A rat or two scurried along the floor in between cracking posts and pitiful piles of what might have once been hay. They ventured further into the room, staying instinctively close together as their eyes darted from one object to another. The further they went in, the darker it became, and the closer they huddled, until Adurus realized how scared he was acting and exclaimed, "C'mon, get off me. You aren't scared, are you?" Bordana forwned at him and said, "No way! You're the scaredy cat!" As the two started shouting at each other, Gruckalus calmly stated, "Hey, we can get a fire started. 'Ve got a flin' and steel in m' boot." The other two looked to him, looked to each other, and looked away, blushing. Then they started searching.

They worked together in the gloom and gathered up a small pile of the best hay they could find, adding some of the rotting wood on top. Gruckalus was the strongest of the three, so he pulled the boards apart from the rest of the rotting wood and broke the pieces into smaller bits across his knee. When the pile was big enough, Gruckalus removed his shoe, turned it and dumped the flint and steel out of it, then set about igniting the hay. The other two sat watching him. After a few moments of waiting, Bordana began to sing a little nursery song, her fragile-sounding voice barely audible above the pounding rain.

The Pale Lady comes into the town today
there's someone here she's gonna take away

The tinder caught a spark under Gruckalus's flint, a small puff of smoke rising as the fire slowly spread to the rest of the pile.

The cold moon's shining on the cobble street
and may-be you'll be the one she meets

As the flames danced onto the wood, Adurus gazed intently into them, the fire reflecting off his thoughtful green eyes in the dark room. Gruckalus sat back, removing a waterskin he had strapped around him and talking a few deep gulps.

If she comes to my door today
I'm not worried because I will say
You can't have me, I'm the-

Bordana cut herself off suddenly, gazing wide eyed at the ceiling beams. Adurus and Gruckalus looked to her questioningly. She whispered in a low, dreamy voice, still staring up, "What is that thing?" As the two boys turned their gaze upward, a low, creaking growl like a sickly dog started from up in the rafters, steady getting louder. In the gloom the children could barely make out the shape of a human head, the eyes of which opened and glowed with a sickly green light. Adurus exclaimed, "What the f-" but was drowned out by a terrible, keening shriek from the head in the rafters. It pitched forward and fell, unfurling batlike wings and opening wide its horrible maw, revealing rows of long, sharp, and blackened teeth. It's keening wail continued, and Bordana and Gruckalus froze in place as it descended swiftly among the children.

Adurus jumped up into action, looking around for a wepon. He reached down and grabbed a sturdy piece of wood from the fire, but as he did so he heard Gruckalus let out a terrible cry that was swiftly muffled. Looking up, Adurus saw that the monstrous head had attached itself to Gruckalus's face with tentacles along its sides, and was reaching it's long putrid tongue down his throat. Gruckalus was finally able to move, and he flailed his arms at the terrible creature, feebly trying to break its grip on his head. Adurus quickly dashed over to Gruckalus and with a hard swing smashed the abomination with his makeshift club. The creature's tongue unfurled out of its victim's throat and its tentacles detached from his head as it was send careening into the wall of the barn. Gruckalus quickly bent over and retched.

Bordana snapped out of her trance then and drew a small kitchen knife from her side, holding it uncertainly toward the creature as it regained its composure and advanced again, this time toward Adurus. Not ready for the assault, Adurus held his club defensively in both hands, and was pushed to his back by the snapping abomination. He held the club inches from his throat, the creature's snapping jaws barely kept at bay, and squealed, "HELP!" Bordana rushed forward with the knife, her eyes barely open as she screamed and plunged it into the thing's back end twice. It keened again and flew upward and away from Adurus, and he regained his footing.

The monster circled around and came back at the pair, but this time Adurus was more ready for it. He planted his feet and delivered a solid swing with the club, splintering it and sending the head smashing into the fire. Its flesh ignited quickly, and the three children simply stared as it emitted the most horrible noises they'd ever heard, over and over until it was nothing more than a charred remain. Without another word all three children walked out of the barn and into the pouring rain.

The monster was a vargouille; a CR 2 monster, so definitely a fight for the lives of 3 commoners, but not impossible if luck is on their side. The outsider infected Gruckalus here, and if he didn't get magical healing very soon he'd become one of the monsters himself. But the tale of how he survived that one is for another time. ;)

I'm not personally huge on goblins (not exactly opposed either), but my reception would depend mostly on how well the backstory is written. Just to clarify in regards to the Hell on Wheels comparison (love the show, btw) the atmosphere surrounding "Building Season" is dead on, albeit with a much larger turnout instead of just the railroad workers. The city itself is actually kinda opulent, though. Braganza is the biggest center of Abadaran worship in the Lake Encarthan area. The city is kinda sprawling and growing increasingly massive. While the writeup slots it as a "Small City" settlement, the actual dimensions of the city itself are closer to "Large City". The city's leaders are obsessed with adding new structures and buildings, which hasn't met with much success in the past.

I dig the concept, though. I'm not completely sold on the goblin part, but a solid story could win me over.

Also, I'm not opposed to multiple Hobgoblins. They are more common in Molthune than elsewhere, as they make excellent soldiers and strategists.

While he doesn’t have the ropy muscles of a swordsmen or an archer, Eldred’s built up a constitution making him tougher than most. While he may not be able to deliver the best punch, he can take one. His body, while thin, is denser than oak. Eldred’s fingers, burned and scarred and calloused from his years training and being at Ramgate, could scratch a man’s face with barely a swipe. An exaggeration maybe, but do you go around rubbing your face against rocks? But what his fists can’t do, ole Lia can do much better...and louder.

He dresses in browns and greens, his military tabard - long since battle stained and mended - are the only real colors he flies. Eldred’s boots are well-worn, the soles a mass of mud and blood that serves as further reminder of the places he’s been and the things he’s seen.

He doesn’t speak a lot. Most of his words were used up in the fighting. His kind words leastways were spent upon the dead bodies of his comrades. He has a few of the other words left. Mostly curses.

Eldred isn’t a merciful man, he showed that on the battlefield. And the Imperial Army needed men for the butcher’s bill, men willing to do what was necessary to see order in the land. Men willing to do what was necessary to ensure the country continued to grow. Eldred wants to be for the Imperial Army, otherwise why did he leave home? But the things he’d seen at Ramgate...the things he’d been ordered to do...and the things he’d been willing to do. What did it mean about his loyalties? Was he on the right side? Or was it only his resolve that was the center of the question?

He sees himself as a bullet. A smooth ball of lead aimed at the heart of each and every problem towards which his superiors aimed. But Eldred was slowly seeing himself as more. He was seeing himself as the gun.

The years under the firm hand (and sometimes lash) of his father paid off. When recruitment caravans arrived in their village, Battos gave his son a choice. Stay on at the farm or have a more difficult but better life in the Army. Eldred, only 17 at the time, knew only the difficulty of living under the iron hand of his father. So he opted for the military. The younger Pentwert left behind his home and didn’t look back.

He would learn to regret that decision when he received a letter many years later regarding the demise of his father. He had been in training at Korholm, laid up in the medic’s tent with a bloody gash to the right side of his face as a result of a pistol misfire. A messenger delivered two letters and a wolf-hide bound parcel, all tied together with twine.

To Eldred Pentwert, son of Battos,

Your father is dead. He was attacked and killed just outside the Backar, a pack of wolves and other animals.
You will find a token of your father’s esteem with this letter. Wield it well.

Then a second letter, this one penned by his father...

To my son,

If you’re reading this, then I’ve moved on from this world. My hope is I went down with a fight, not at the plow. You’ll never know how hard it was to send you away, but I knew it was for the best.
You’ll be a hard man, I made sure the seed was planted. The Army will make sure it takes hold and grows. Be sure you don’t get so tough you break.
I hope as you grow, you’ll come to forgive me.
Your father, Bottos Pentwert.

Eldred closed the letter and his heart to the pain that had sprung up. Instead, he inspected the small parcel, noting that the messenger service had already opened it to verify the contents. Inside the box was a sheathed dagger. It wasn’t a weapon of controversy, but it was honed. Obviously old, judging by the worn, ironwood handle, but the blade was well-maintained. On the steel, just shy of the hilt guard was an engraving. From what he knew of metal, it appeared etched more recently than the forging of the blade itself.

For my son, a keen edge is life.

_______________________________________

In the years that followed, Eldred completed his training in Korholm. While others in the newly formed regiment had lost fingers or been killed at the hands of their own foolishness, Eldred had excelled in the use of the pistol. Bearing the weapon assigned him by the Imperial Army and the scar along the right side of his face, he was given his first orders: Assignment to Fort Ramgate.

Some of the soldiers had taken to calling it the Dark Gate. Nothing that passed through the doors of that place ever shined again. Not the guns, not the swords...especially not the soldiers. But Eldred found himself in the company of the 2nd Regiment Fusiliers, 1st Scouts, the only group of souls he’d ever call his friends while he was at the Dark Gate.

And he saw them die, one by one.

There were no guarantees, not in that place. But there seemed to be one; Eldred Pentwert somehow always came back. Some in his company thought it luck, others thought it a curse and actively sought reassignment within the Fort. A few took to calling him “Dread” because while his comrades dreaded heading into the field with him, his officers dreaded not sending him. Eldred was good with a gun. Steady under pressure. And he was willing to go as far if not farther than their enemies. Nothing shook the gunslinger’s resolve. Not the Nirmathi nor whatever horrors those tree-hugging mystics threw at him. Looking at “Black Powder Fortune” Trait if I qualify

Over time, as he saw the last of the original regiment fall, Eldred volunteered for the more dangerous missions. Especially the reconnoiters where he could depart on his own. It was after the 20th such mission that his officers decided that Eldred’s skill with a gun couldn’t be wasted on a single suicide mission. Before they lost him completely, the grizzled soldier needed to pass on what he’d learned.

Two things happened next; Eldred had achieved his 10th year of service in the Army. Far more than was required to earn his citizenship. The second was an assignment to the city of Braganza. He would aid in recruitment efforts and aid the local constabulary in keeping the peace during the Building Season.

Eldred had sat on the end of his rack staring down at the last (and only gift) his father had ever given him. For my son, a keen edge is life. He decided then and there that he would continue his service to the Army. To do otherwise would mean finding a place in normal society. That in turn would mean reconciling his life in the Army...the things he’d seen and done, with being an upright citizen.

He sheathed his dagger, packed up ole Lia and some bullets along with the rest of his gear and moved on to his next assignment; Braganza.

Looking at the Rud’s Wastewares Trait if I qualify

"Powder's wet, Dread." Frig gritted out. He had his hands gripped around the neck of an all too skinny powder pouch.

"Yeah." What else was he going to say? He had his ole Lia held tight, the white oak grips warm to the touch. The rain had started only a few minutes ago, so sudden it'd taken them both by surprise...all their training and they'd not had a dry-satchel close to hand. Idiots.

Dread adjusted himself, his seat squelching in the mud, his back aching from the roots they were hiding against. "They'll be on us soon, Frig, we're gonna have to move."

"Where to, Dread? You have a house nearby? Something with a dry bed?" In the dark and the rain, Dread couldn't see the blood in his friend's grin.

They both heard the dogs...and whatever other light-blinded creatures the Nirmathi rangers were using. Dread cursed and slipped his pistol into his belt and drew his short sword. Then his pack went into mud.

"Hope you don't think I'm carrying that..." The Halfling's voice, shrill and resonant was carried away by a fit of coughing.

Dread stood and grabbed up the only other living member of the 2nd Regiment Fusiliers, 1st Scouts. "Suck it up you pint sized dung eater," Even with Frig being a halfling, Dread was having difficulty managing the weight. He'd never been the strongest. Thin, shy of 6 feet, Dread wasn't the cut of an imposing figure. He was just hard.

The sounds of voices were drifting thru the driving rain. Some shouts in elvish...other languages Dread didn’t know.

"Closer..." Frig managed before coughing again.

"Yeah. Probably following that girlish chokin’ you got going on." Dread pulled his hat a bit tighter to keep the rain out of his eyes. "Which way, Frig? I couldn't tell you if the Fort was right in front of me."

"Go left along the ravine. Maybe a few miles yet." He pointed at the pack his human comrade had dropped. "Better not have the gold you owe me in there, Dread."

Despite the situation, he grinned back at the Halfling. "Stop your belly aching. And your leaking, this is my last tabard."

”Smells like orc, piss. Who’ve you been humpin’?”

”Heh.” Eldred "Dread" Pentwert charged into the darkness and the rain carrying his friend on his back. Behind him were the dead and the enemy. Ahead, the Fort and maybe some sanity.
_______________________________________

Something crashed onto the bar top next to him, waking him from his memory. The rain that had been pounding down on him so many years ago drifted away and the raucous noise of the Painted Bodice rushed in to fill the void. Eldred looked up and saw his scarred face staring back at him in the bar’s cracked wall mirror. Next to his image was a large man, a mercenary by the cut of him, had a fist on the bar.

”My friends over there wanna see me split yer face, stranger.” The mercenary’s breath was rank with tobacco and the local swill.

Eldred barely shrugged a shoulder, feeling the comforting weight of ole Lia in her harness under his long coat. He turned an eye towards the stinking man, looking him over, then returned it to the wall mirror. ”Got enough blades to do the job, friend?”

Another slam of the fist on the bar top. ”Don’t need a blade ta cut ya, friend” He squeezed his fist enough to cause the knuckles to crack audibly. ”I can take care o’ business just fine on my onesies.”

”Hmm…I see you ain’t got Army colors, friend.”

”Don’t need ‘em to squash the likes of you.”

Eldred’s left hand squeezed just slightly on the handle of his mug. ”Colors are for me, friend…” He swept the mug from the bar and across the mercenary’s face in a single motion, smashing the crockery and the remaining beer over him.

In the same motion, his right hand drew his gun. Ole Lia’s barrel was kissing the mercenary’s chin in an instant. ”If you’re not wearin’ colors, I got every right to send your brains into the rafters. Won’t even have to sign off on the bullet at the quartermaster’s office...plus I’ll be saving space in the jail.”

His changed position caused his long coat to come open, revealing his travel-worn tabard marking Eldred a soldier. ”Now, if you’re smart, you’ll back down and let me reminisce for a while.”

Judging by the puddle growing at the feet of the mercenary, he knew the feel of a gun. His hands climbed as he backed away. ”Sorry, friend. Didn’t mean to disturb ya…”

Eldred cocked ole Lia’s hammer. ”Call me ‘friend’ again. I’ll let ya know how much you disturb me.”

Sodden and cut, the mercenary backed away and rejoined his friends. Shortly afterwards, spotting that there were other soldiers in the tavern, they made a hasty exit.

”A bit slow on the draw, Pentwert. Thought I taught you better than that.”

It was a voice he’d not heard in a long time. One that very nearly brought a grin to his face. But when he turned around on his seat, safetying his weapon and holstering it, he saw the back of the mercenary leaving the bar. His scowl remained.

”Been a while, Soldier.” The old man standing before him squinted at the sash across Eldred’s chest. ”Sorry, Corporal.”

Eldred slipped from his barstool and stood at attention, knuckling his brow then his chest in salute. ”Sergeant Major Keppish, glad to see you’re still this side of the dirt.”

The old man returned the salute and nodded for Eldred to reclaim his seat. He moved up and joined him at the bar, taking the seat opposite from where the mercenary had pissed the floor. ”Got word you were bein’ assigned here.”

”Problem?” He signaled the barkeep to bring him another ale, gesturing for him to add a second for Keppish.

”No. Just glad to see someone with experience in the city. Too many greens running about. Plus, I need someone with an eye for the Fusiliers.”

Eldred shrugged, taking a sip of the ale the barkeeper brought. ”What do I have to do?”

He grew up a laborer; the lash made him docile and obedient. Hard work and Arzazel’s orc heritage strengthened his frame. His master thought the idea of a beast of burden reading and writing was entertaining, so he indulged his youngest when she practiced being the stern instructor with the younger half-orc. Arzazel learned to read and write. Near puberty, he was sold to the pit fighters.

The next several years were more difficult. His worth measured in his survival in the pits. He learned to fight dirty with and without weapons killing as quickly as possible. He didn’t see the sun much, so he lost track of seasons and time.

His life changed the day he met Thelton Henderthane. Thelton is distantly related to his namesake noble Chelish house and uses his surname with relish against the ignorant. He is also a rising star in the Aspis Consortium and addicted to pit fighting. One night, Thelton found himself backstage among the chained fighters looking for a private place to read a secret missive. Light barely leaked into the barracks preventing him from reading. Arzazel reading the missive to him finally stopped Thelton’s caustic cursing for not bringing a light. Thelton saw potential in a literate, blood-splattered brute. Several weeks later after barely surviving a brutal loss, Arzazel was sold to Thelton at a cut-rate deal. Arzazel still suspects that Thelton arranged the fight to reduce his price.

After getting healed and cleaned, Arzazel worked as Thelton’s bodyguard over the past year. He learned Thelton’s business and gained his confidence. He was a Silver Agent. When the opportunity arose to position a new Bronze Agent in Molthune, Thelton earned points by volunteering his guy.

Arzazel got his freedom and some gear from Thelton. His orders and Molthune paperwork came from the Gold Agent who Arzazel realized that he had already met several times. He just arrived in Braganza and checked in with his Silver Agent contact.

To Do No Harm. Four simple words, whose meaning when taken individually are insignificant. When taken together, they are a phrase used by the healers to submit themselves to an oath to help their fellow beings, be they commoner or noble, child hood friend or enemy. Often times, the line between healing and harming blurs, especially by those who seek to abuse those of this oath.

A middle child of a moderately well to do family, Ezekial Somrivatram was a brilliant student at the Andoren Alchemical Society as well as occasional visitor to the Almas University. An accomplished alchemist and budding doctor, Ezekial was part of a fraternity the two universities shared, one that sponsored safaris, hunts, and expeditions to various parts of the world. Seeking to expand his knowledge as well as his skills as a field doctor.

It was during these trips that he came to a simple solution; as an alchemist and a doctor, his job was the most boring at times and the most intense. As such, he took to cooking while on these expeditions, reasoning that if he wasn't being used for his medical skills, he might as well be useful for his culinary. In addition, Ezekial is studying the use of the crossbow. While not a great shot, he has worked on extractions that will help his skills nonetheless. As time went on, he also became an invited guest to several academic parties, trading stories on the expeditions he was part of, and the stories of his medical experiences in the field.

After two years and several expeditions, Ezekial felt that he saw it all. Despite his young age, he has mended bones, healed scraps, cleaned infections, removed barbs, arrows, and spears from fellow adventurers, and seen the after affects of several diseases. With such field experience, he was on the verge of becoming a rising star in the alchemical and medical science world. But nothing prepared him for betrayal and political intrigue.

One of the staunch abolitionists of Andoran wanted an experienced field doctor. The abolitionist's travels were around the world, from Mwangi to Lastwall, and an experienced doctor would be a welcome addition.

Unfortunately, the expedition faced numerous hardships along the way, and it didn't help that several would be rulers just paid lip service to the abolitionist. Between Cheliax, Nidal, and the various factions wishing to keep Andoran out of their business, the expedition suffered several hardships.

It was on their way through the Shrikewood befell the expedition. While well guarded, the expedition was attacked by a large group of bandits in the area. During this attack, the abolitionist was injured when a stray bolt hit the man. No sooner was the abolitionist was hit than a squad of Molthune rangers arrived, helping drive off the bandits.

Unfortunately, the troubles didn't end for the expedition. Once Ezekial treated the abolitionist, the man died from an apparent allergic reaction to the medicine. An investigation revealed that the abolitionist was poisoned using three different substance; a common medical herb, an unactivated substance on the projectile, and a third ingested ingredient. This last ingredient was benign unless imbibed by a person, and was lethal when mixed with the two other substances in the man's blood stream.

Suspicious, Ezekial went to the expedition leader. Unfortunately, with little evidence to go, the expedition leader didn't investigate it much further. The order was for sent out for the expedition to go to Canorate to deliver correspondence between the Andoran government and the Imperial Governor. Fortunately, the evidence soon appeared...

A day after the attack, the expedition and the ranger squad were attacked again. This time, Ezekial and the guards spotted a hooded assassin, who fired upon the expedition leader. Though the leader was hit, the arrow failed to pierce the armor. Realizing the ruse was discovered, the assassin fired another arrow at one of the guides and fled, leaving the bandits to their fates.

As the guide lay dying, a search revealed the third substance one that acted as a catalyst that killed the abolitionist. Realizing that the expedition was still in danger, the expedition leader, the Molthune commander, a few trusted guards, and Ezekial quickly rode to Canorate.

Once the rest of expedition was in Canorate, Ezekial was released from his post and given his pay. Hearing of the construction in Braganza, Ezekial is heading there to seek out his fortune.

Original Stat Rolls:
4d6 ⇒ (3, 1, 6, 1) = 11 Final Score 10
4d6 ⇒ (3, 5, 3, 5) = 16 Final Score 13
4d6 ⇒ (2, 4, 6, 4) = 16 Final Score 14
4d6 ⇒ (6, 2, 2, 2) = 12 Final Score 10
4d6 ⇒ (2, 2, 3, 6) = 13 Final Score 11
4d6 ⇒ (6, 3, 2, 1) = 12 Final Score 11

7th Roll: 4d6 ⇒ (1, 1, 6, 6) = 14 Final Score 13

Result:
Dropped the first "10"...
4d6 ⇒ (3, 5, 3, 5) = 16 Final Score 13
4d6 ⇒ (2, 4, 6, 4) = 16 Final Score 14
4d6 ⇒ (6, 2, 2, 2) = 12 Final Score 10
4d6 ⇒ (2, 2, 3, 6) = 13 Final Score 11
4d6 ⇒ (6, 3, 2, 1) = 12 Final Score 11
4d6 ⇒ (1, 1, 6, 6) = 14 Final Score 13

Final Stats:
Dropped the Int 10, replaced with the 11 in Cha
Put the "7th Roll" on Cha (to play up his Intimidate)
Str 10
Dex 13
Con 14
Int 11
Wis 13
Cha 13