Bonegrit's ears perk up at once with Pyotr's, and his eyes shoot a direct line to the ring now fitted securely on Khozin's finger. The half-orc's eyes narrow. He carefully scrutinizes the half-elf with painstaking detail, by ear, eye, and nose. His tolerance for nonsense has been waning steadily since arising this morning. There's no telling how further misadventures at Dierik's expense might affect him.
"Nice ring there. Is Skaraben the betting kind or is this just some sort of loan?"
Khozin snickers. “He wanted to make sure I remember him whilst I’m out here,” claims the half-elf, then seeing he’s failing to convince, blurts out the truth.
“Or something like that. I stole it right off his finger whilst we were sharing some pots at The Pissing Post. That buffoon can’t hold his beer, but he still gulps it down like a fish gasping on the riverbank. A child could’ve filched this ring,” he says, twisting the band so the gems glitter all the more. Still, his crowing seems rather forced, and noticing both Pellius’ and Bonegrit’s attention glued on him, Khozin explains further.
“I despise Skaraben. He’s a wretched boor, a bully, and an honourless cur. He treats the Freedom Town as his own private playground, doing whatever he likes, taking whatever he will. He knows no-one can touch him save Abram.”
“When I first arrived I fell in with Skaraben. What can I say, he appreciated my wit, and perhaps was a little intrigued by my elven blood. I, meanwhile, thought I could benefit from a friend in a high place.”
“So I became one of his cronies, and we drank and wenched, mocking, cursing and fighting any who got in our way. I engaged in the charade, thinking there might be some profit in it, but all too soon as I was trapped. If Skaraben Sharpe thinks you are his friend, there’s very little you can do about it. The consequences of a falling out between friends are serious indeed, at least for the friend who isn’t Skaraben.”
The brashness in Khozin’s voice is fading, and he turns more thoughtful as he continues to contemplate the ring.
“But there’s one thing that means more to Skaraben. His little treasures, like this one. I’m done with the Freedom Town, and done with his companionship. I wanted a little revenge before I left.”
It’s clear to both Pellius and Bonegrit that Khozin is realising his actions may have been unduly hasty, and that the half-elf is secretly rather alarmed to realise he’s made an enemy of Skaraben Sharpe. They also can’t help noticing that in addition to the shiny bauble on Khozin’s finger, his money pouch seems substantially fatter than the first time they met him.
In unison, Pellius and Bonegrit turn to look back down their trail towards the Freedom Town. They immediately see seven riders on horseback following them. They’re still far distant, almost two miles off, but they’re moving swiftly in the direction of the little band of adventurers.
Khozin sees them too.
“By all Alseta’s warped thresholds,” he curses colourfully “I’m a dead man unless you defend me.”
"" Bonegrit doesn't often get animated, but this is a noteworthy blemish on such a record. "We're tryin' to save a man's life—the same man you sought to work for. An' you go 'round that cesspool and pissin' off one of the few people powerful enough to help or harm us. Defend you? I've half a mind to swat yer booze addled noggin' off the horse and hang you myself!"
Bonegrit spares a brief glance to the advance of the seven riders from Freedom Town. There are no words to adequately capture the orcs incredulity. His teeth grinding in frustration, sputters of heated breath exhaled through the space around his tusked jowls. "Sure! Let's just sink arrows into some o' the most powerful barkers in all Freedom Town! I reckon they wont mind or seek retribution against Dierik's caravan if his hirelings start thieving and murdering the Sharpes, yeah? I've seen some fools in my day, but yer the worst kind of stupid I've laid eyes on!"
Hearing the explanation, Alagor almost falls from his horse: "You've done "
Never a good rider, the young warrior has to slow down his horse in order to properly control it, after his initial outburst of disbelief. It takes him few moments to catch up with the rest of the group. By then, the burly half-orc has already said everything there was to be said, and Alagor simply continues to vent his frustration: "It did not occur to you that we need to return to this caravan?! That we do not stand one chance in Belkzen alone?! That..."
His sentence unfinished, Alagor simply do not know how to react. True, Khozin was his acquaintance and young man would stand for the half-elf in a different occasion. And yes, Skaraben Sharpe was all that Khozin said and more, but he just admitted that he simply stole the ring, with no thinking what next. And now Alagor knew, whatever he decides to do next, will leave some very bad taste in his mouth.
Khozin quails before half-orc’s outburst, and the Bonegrit’s bark spooks the half-elf’s horse a little, which awakes from its meandering trot and dances a few steps away, its rider’s attempts to control it quite futile.
This brings Khozin alongside Alagor. Looking too his friend, the rogue clearly hopes the warrior will stand by him.
"You've done what?!?"
At this reaction, panic starts to flutter behind his deep lavender eyes. He looks around at the others, seeking an ally amongst them.
"He really will kill me," he repeats dumbly.
Meanwhile, it’s clear the distant riders are moving fast; a swift canter as opposed to the steady trot of the party’s horses. At the current pace, the pursuers will overhaul them in less than half an hour.
Pellius looks at the fast- approaching riders and Signior prances about knowing things are about to get interesting. The horse snorts as if telling the magus that it is ready for anything. The magus pats him down and calms the beast before looking at the others.
His face betrays what he wants to say before he opens his mouth, "We have enough problems already. At the risk of sounding unloyal to my comrades, I say we see what the riders want but if it's the jewels back, I say we give it to them."
He sees Khozin's alarmed face and adds, "I'd even go as far as turning over the thief for proper punishment."
Signior's nose flares out and Pellius shakes his head, "We have no time to defend someone who just confessed his crime."
"What little I know is that returning the ring and the money will never be enough. Even his head may not suffice" - Alagor shivers a bit at that thought.
Reigning in his horse and slowing visibly, he almost shouts to Delkaneth so he could be heard: "If they're drunk, or lead by drunk and pissed off Skaraben, we're probably in for a fight. We should not give off the impression that we're runnin' from'em."
Coming off to a stop, Alagor spits at the ground, steeling himself for what is about to come: "So Khozin, how do we save your hide now?!"
I do not want to fight at all, but if the fight is inevitable, I'd better do it off the back of this beast. I'm more afraid of falling down and breakin' my neck, than of their swords
Khozin looks from one adventurer to the next, shaking his head in disbelief as first Pellius, then Delkaneth contemplate giving him up.
Abram Sharpe considers his nephew an annoying cur, but does little to curb Skaraben’s excesses for fear of unnecessary exacerbating the already tense balance of power between himself and Courthrin, Skaraben’s father. He holds little interest in Skaraben’s affairs, occasionally quietly admonishing the younger Sharpe when his antics go too far.
"Why do you shake your head, Khozin?! You though these people will simply fight and die for you? Even if we win/survive, what about the rest of the caravan? Should they die because of you too? Gimme the ring and the money and run...ride as fast as possible. I'll try to hold'em off...run, you fool!"
EDIT: Left-click and download the map to zoom in further. The numbers are a little unclear but they should serve.
Pyotr, who had dropped his horse behind the crowd to better keep an eye on their new charge, pulls forward as Alagor reins in. The sudden pressure of Hammer's enormous frame on the much smaller horse's flank pushes Alagor back into a trot.
"We have lost better than half the day in negotiations with the Sharpes. We should not lose another half an hour for this nonsense."
"Gimme the ring and the money and run...ride as fast as possible. I'll try to hold'em off...run, you fool!"
"That horse, its tack and bridle, and even the food it carries belong to the caravan, to Dierik Ironcoffer ultimately. We will not compound one crime with another."
Pyotr urges Hammer up beside the cleric and snatches the reins from his hand. "The Founder had the wisdom to turn a criminal over to our keeping for a crime he committed against the caravan. We thanked him and praised him for his decision. How can we do any less, now that the tables are turned?"
"He really will kill me," he repeats dumbly.
"And knowing that, you still slandered him and took his ring? I have met precious few true fools in my life, but you must surely count as one of them."
"Pyotr, it is not only that he will kill him. He will kill him in the most cruel, painful way, so he can make an example of'im! Stupid or not, he does not deserve that!"
"Pyotr, it is not only that he will kill him. He will kill him in the most cruel, painful way, so he can make an example of'im! Stupid or not, he does not deserve that!"
"This Freedom Town is such a backwards place. Stealing a ring is a capital crime, while poisoning our leader is called 'disturbing the peace'. The Marshal wished to give Tharkon a mere slap on the wrist for his crimes. Cooler heads prevailed then, as they must now."
"Could we ever return to Freedom Town? Could we ever look our friend and ally Courthrin in the eye again, knowing that we could not offer equal justice to his son, as he offered us?"
Pyotr pulls Khozin's horse's reins and resumes his measured trot towards the Hungry Mountains.
Khozin keeps looking imploringly at Alagor as he hands the ring and his jingling money pouch across to Pyotr.
"For what it's worth, the coins ain't Skaraben's," he explains.
Despite Alagor's suggestion of flight, he makes no effort to run as Pyotr takes the reins of his mare.
In the distance, the riders slowly draw nearer.
Pellius shakes his head and readies for whatever is coming, "Come, it makes no sense to run. Running will make us look like guilty or like prey, which we are neither."
He glares back at Khozin, "Let's wait to see what they want and then we'll decide what to do but be prepared for anything."
With that, the magus turns Signior around to face the incoming riders and makes sure his sword is loose in the scabbard and his spell pouch is handy.
"Nothin' else for it now. Hopefully they'll settle fer words before goin' fer blood." In anticipation of the latter, Bonegrit keeps a bow and arrow ready, though not drawn nor aggressively presented. His left hand secures both bow and arrow across the crest of his saddle, merely watching on eagerly as he maneuvers Amiro towards the outer fringe of their group the side opposite of the approaching riders.
Pyotr wheels around the two horses, pulling them slightly out front of his companions. "We always reap what we sow... Why do so many refuse to learn that lesson?" Pyotr looks to Khozin though he hardly expects a response.
"The apple never falls far from the tree. Skaraben will see reason."
Skaraben and reason...yes, sure, especially with his pride hurt by the theft, and his haughtiness fueled by alcohol - once again Alagor spits to the ground distastefully. He dismounts his horse slowly, and makes sure that Tanladvir is within easy reach. Still, he does not draw his great sword, not wanting to further aggravate the incoming riders. With a bleak look on his face, he turns to Pyotr once again: "Look, I've no idea what those shiny knights taught you back in Vigil, but it doesn't work'ere. Sharpes are friends or allies of anyone but themselves, and even that is a strech. Do not be fooled thinking that reason or honour have a place'ere. 'tis Freedom town, in here ideals as those are sold for a bottle of Bronzefist’s Best, and that's considered a bargain! The only ideal...no, the only currency accepted here is power, and you either back it with gold, or your sword. Our only chance not to see blood spilled today is to try and buy our way out of this. Say my idiot friend Khozin here was drunk like a skunk when he did this, he wanted to make a joke or somethin'. And that once he got sober and understood what he has done, he run away fearing what mighty Skaraben would do to him. And then try to sweeten the deal with all this money. Speaking of that, where the hell did ya get all this money, eh Khozin?!?"
Problem after problem, and most of'em you can not solve by sword - Dalamad told me nicely, but I did not wanna listen...
Speaking of that, where the hell did ya get all this money, eh Khozin?!?"
“A few different people,” responds Khozin. “Come on Alagor, you know how I get coin. But still, I never rob anyone who can’t afford to be robbed, and doesn’t deserve to be robbed. Skaraben’s not the only one to fall into that category.”
“Look here guys. Think about this another way. By the sounds of it, your mushroom’s hidden down’s a place where a certain amount of imaginative thinking is gonna be needed. I know all about opening doors thanks to the Alseta’s teachings and the interests of my own profession. Defend me now, and this expertise is yours to put to work when we descend beneath the Hungry Mountains.”
Khozin definitely believes in his own abilities. Although he’s certainly a little worried about what’s to come, you sense he believes his companions will not abandon him to Skaraben’s clutches. In fact, it looks like he’s reckless enough to bank on it.
The riders draw nearer and nearer. As they get close enough to make out details, it becomes apparent that Skaraben does not ride with them. Instead, the seven men make up a rather ragtag crowd, garbed and armed differently, but all clearly warriors.
One of the riders peels off from the main group, driving his steed across a muddy gulch that cuts across this stretch of moor, then up onto a small hillock. There he dismounts, about a hundred feet from where the adventurers have paused. There is a longbow in his hand.
The remaining six continue forwards, reining in their horses about twenty foot short of Khozin and his companions. All but Bonegrit will recognise one of the band as Commor, Yevender’s somewhat half-witted squire, now armoured in splint mail and carrying a lance and shield. Unlike the other riders, his horse is armoured in scale mail barding.
Maxal; A short, ugly chap, carrying a rapier, a swordbreaker dagger like the one possessed by Tharkon, and a rather vicious demeanour.
Indarl; A slender, rather handsome young man, with a battle axe swinging loosely from his hand. He carries a curious shield – it appears to have been made from a single, horizontal slice of a broad tree trunk, its many rings holding testament this tree was an old giant when felled.
Tarkh; A hulking brute with massive muscles, a jutting jaw, wearing a suit of chain mail and carrying a short sword and shield.
Tanerit; A middle-aged man who remains in his prime, he wears a breastplate and carries a beautifully made glaive that appears to have been forged from a single piece of adamantine.
Jerath; A rail-thin man wearing well-made chain mail; he carries a pair of kukris at his belt and a brace of javelins in a quiver over his back.
Blaeth; The distant archer.
The arriving warriors have their weapons stowed for now, with the exception of the man with a battle axe; he holds the weapon in his hand, but loosely so that it does not appear a threat. Seeing Pyotr holding Khozin’s reins he addresses the half-orc.
“We’re here for that one,” he explains, pointing out Khozin, “And we’ve got no quarrel with you if you hand him over along with the ring he stole.”
The other men size up the adventurers with the air of men well used to combat. All remain on their horses.
Despite their spokesman’s words, Skaraben’s cronies carry a palpable aura of belligerence. It’s likely that they wouldn’t be happier than if this encounter descended into violence. Most of the gang are out for blood.
Pyotr watches the riders close. As they grow closer, it becomes clear that Skaraben is not among them. Pyotr is surprised to pick out the familiar face of Commor. This does not look like a deputation out for justice...
“We’re here for that one,” he explains, pointing out Khozin, “And we’ve got no quarrel with you if you hand him over along with the ring he stole.”
"Under whose authority?" Pyotr challenges. "I understood Marshal Oswald to be responsible for maintaining the peace in Freedom Town.
"I have custody of both the criminal and the evidence. I will see them both handed over to the proper authority. But, at this moment I have a duty that cannot be delayed, and Khozin is pledged to assist in that duty."
Pellius dismounts and heads near Alagor as he listens intently for the response from the riders. He would have offered the ring in exchange but maybe that was Pyotr's tactic when they demanded more.
He isn't sure what to think of these men but he figures that Alagor would know some of them. In any case, he knows that they aren't going to go back empty-handed. He hopes that the ring and a promise would be enough.
In a relaxed stance of a weathered soldier, the magus waits to see how this ordeal develops.
Frowning around the jut of his unsightly tusks, Bonegrit mutters low enough so that only those nearby can hear him plainly. "Easy goes it; they're out fer blood. Don't mind the archer. They do somethin' half as foolish as they look an' he'll be pinned to the ground an' sucklin' Pharasma's teets before his friends can miss him."
While the riders are approaching, Alagor picks up some familiar faces. He briefly informs his fiends on what little he knows about each of the riders he recognized.
Hearing that Pyotr decided to choose the position of power (), Alagor just nods lightly, grim satisfaction clearly written on his face. He makes just two slow, menacing steps forward, his great sword still strapped on the back lightly tapping on his armor, as if to emphasize on Pyotr's words.
The only noticeable arcane emanation Del’s detects radiates unsurprisingly from the beautifully made glaive, which possesses a moderate aura of transmutation.
As the riders array themselves before the adventurers, Alagor quickly reels off what he knows about some of their adversaries.
• Maxal is a skilled tracker who fights with rapier and dagger at once. He likes disarm his opponents and toy with them before he kills them. He has a woman back in the Freedom Town who he beats relentlessly.
• Indarl is fast and agile. He’s originally from a land far to the south, and claims his curious shield was gifted to him by an elf. Indarl’s most famous ability is a talk sweet enough to make the whores of the Freedom Town share themselves for not a single coin.
• Tarkh is supposedly the strongest man in the Freedom Town.
• Tanerit has had a long and successful career as a mercenary all around the shores of Lake Encarthan. Much of this success is believed to have been built on the properties of his enchanted glaive, which chimes every time it strikes, sometimes at a pitch so perfect it can shatter weapons and armour into fragments.
"I have custody of both the criminal and the evidence. I will see them both handed over to the proper authority. But, at this moment I have a duty that cannot be delayed, and Khozin is pledged to assist in that duty."
Apparently rather taken off guard by Pyotr’s confident response, Indarl struggles to think of an appropriate response.
“Well, erm, I’m afraid … sorry, but … what was your question again?”
His tongue-tiedness draws chuckles and laughs of derision from his companions, and Indarl falls into an embarrassed silence, which is then filled by the ugly Maxal.
“As it happens lads,” he says, his voice as pleasant as a heavy chair being dragged across slate tiles, “We are, in fact, deputies of good Marshall Oswot, who has instructed us in no uncertain terms to recover both loot and convicted without delay. So, although it duly grieves me to inconvenience you, you’d better hand over both right now, as we won’t be asking again, nicely or not.”
Maxal’s claim about being a deputy is clearly a convenient lie invented to suit the situation. He can't even remember the name of the Marshall he alledgedly serves!
As both parties size each other up, Oswald’s alleged 'deputies' drop their hands to the hilts of their weapons. Having seen Alagor and Pellius dismount, Indarl likewise slips off his horse. The unknown warrior with the kukris facing Delkaneth does likewise.
Agtharda watches the exchange, silent as ever. Khozin’s lavender eyes flicker between Pyotr and Maxal, the faintest flicker of a smile just a hint on his lips.
“As it happens lads,” he says, his voice as pleasant as a heavy chair being dragged across slate tiles, “We are, in fact, deputies of good Marshall Oswot, who has instructed us in no uncertain terms to recover both loot and convicted without delay. So, although it duly grieves me to inconvenience you, you’d better hand over both right now, as we won’t be asking again, nicely or not.”
"You are lying..." Pyotr's eyes narrow dangerously. He whispers back to Khozin, "For your own sake, do not run."
As the "deputies" put hands to weapon hilts, Pyotr drops his lance into a readied position. "This is a fool's errand. The last band of mercenaries that attacked us walked home with nothing more than the shirts on their backs. They were fortunate that we left them that much. This armor testifies to that."
Alagor moves slowly but steadily towards the rapier wielding man. He did not want to make any sudden moves not to provoke their sudden response. His unfaltering gaze is leveled straight at his opponents eyes. Calmly warrior grips the fingers of his locked gauntlet around the hilt of his large blade, and draws it from the scabbard in a practiced move. For a moment this sharp sound is the only thing that could be heard between them. "I am Alagor Faelan, and I was taught by Dalamad, of the Order of the Descending Blade. I wield the tarnished blade Tanladvir."
The moment he pronounced the name of the sword Alagor leaps into action. He begins to feint several strikes at the empty space in front of him, one after another, each one harder and more complex than the one before. Barely a few moments has passed but Alagor has already managed to land numerous vicious blows against a score of imaginary opponents. Suddenly, after a perticularly complex set of thrusts and counter thrusts, he stops and with same even voice, declares: "Maxal, I call you a lying cowardly bastard, and a bad one at that. Now, either drop your weapons at once, or I will make sure you never hurt another woman!"
Digging knees into Amiro's sides, Bonegrit nudges the horse closer to Agtharda. Seizing her reins, he mutters in a voice all gravel and anxiety, "Best get you behind; it's 'bout to turn ugly." Making sure she is out of the way of the struggle that is about to take place, Bonegrit turns back around to take stock of the situation ahead of him. Seeing Alagor's display ahead, he realizes fighting is a foregone conclusion. He vaults off of the side of Amiro, ducking behind the bulk of the destrier to retrieve two of his best arrows before whispering something in the Dort Charger's ears, pointing towards Agtharda atop her steed behind.
Some of the Freedom Town thugs are looking nervous now that it appears a battle is inevitable, particularly Indarl.
"This is a fool's errand. The last band of mercenaries that attacked us walked home with nothing more than the shirts on their backs. They were fortunate that we left them that much. This armor testifies to that."
"Quod non finem elit."
Indarl furrows his brow at Del’s words. He glances at his companions, who just shrug, similarly bemused. At his side, Tanerit speaks.
“Come on now boys, where’re those bragging words I heard as we rode out. If you’re men it’s time to prove it. Let’s claim that shiny armour for ourselves. I get first dibs on the codpiece.”
The building tension explodes the moment Tancladvir scrapes free of its scabbard.
Initiative for Round 1
Enemy initiatives
NPC initiatives
PC initiatives
Initiative Order
Bonegrit
Indarl
Tarkh & Khozin
Alagor – begins dazzling display
Delkaneth
Jerath
Pellius & Tanerit
Blaeth
Commor
Agtharda
Pyotr
Maxal
It came down to blows, doesn't it always with this sort of men.
Something Alagor said resonates with the magus. ... hurt another woman. Not sure if he is right or not, it is the best he has. Pellius chants for a moment and his blade sharpens as if on queu. A second later and it becomes covered in sharp, bluish icicles. The magus then steps forward and slashes at the alleged woman-beater Maxal.
On hit: The blade digs deep into the man's side and the bluish ice seeps into the wound, hardening the man's muscles.
On miss: The man's armor was enough to repel the flimsy attack and Pellius curses and readies a parry.
As all upon the field begin reaching for weapons or otherwise springing to action, Bonegrit follows suit. Turning behind, he briefly yells, "Hug yer horse's mane and stay back," in Agtharda's direction. Even before his caution is voiced, one of his arrows are drawn and ready to take to the sky. The ranger steps out from behind Amiro and releases an arrow at the archer among their number: Blaeth. That the ranger's reaction time is quicker bodes well. Bonegrit remains under the impression their foes lack seasoning—likely most of them are simply ruffians with important friends and little to resist them in their home town. Bonegrit and his companions are an entirely different affair. Traveling in the company of men and caravans with a destination that carves a path through the orc infested wastes of Belkzen, a paltry cadre of street thugs and brawlers are about as threatening as a litter of kittens. His first arrow no sooner kisses air than another replaces it on bowstring, yanked and released just as quickly to join its twin in approach towards their distant target.
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Bonegrit’s arrows arc into the sky and fall upon his opposite number on the hillock. The first strikes the man soundly in the shoulder, and his cry is the first to echo across the battlefield. The second also hits home, scraping along the man’s ribs.
As battle is joined, Indarl charges past Pellius and Pyotr before they can draw their weapons, his eyes wild with fear as he scrambles past the big half-orc. He swings his axe at Khozin, but it's a clumsy swing that completely misses.
Likewise, massive Tarkh manoeuvres his horse around those of his companions and brings it up to Alagor as the warrior begins his weapons drill. With the muscles of his massive arm driving the blade, Tarkh stabs down, , finding a way past the spinning greatsword and sinking deep into Alagor’s side.
Khozin, meanwhile, pulls out a knife from somewhere and slashes back at his attacker, drawing a line of red from Indarl’s jawbone to eyebrow.
And then, suddenly, something happens. The coarse, struggling vegetation upon which the steeds of Skaraben’s cronies stand explodes into unnatural growth, the low grasses sprouting thorns and grasping the legs of the horses.
Tarkh's horse neighs in terror as the thorns around its fetters draw blood, and Commor and Maxal are themselves entangled by the reaching weeds.
The man with the kukris strides towards Delkaneth, drawing forth a javelin and hurling it at the Chelaxian. It falls short, but still succeeds in driving into the tip of Del's foot.
Here is an updated map of the battlefield.
Initiative Order
Bonegrit
Indarl
Tarkh & Khozin
Alagor
Delkaneth
Jerath
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Pellius & Tanerit
Blaeth
Commor
Agtharda
Pyotr
Maxal
The normally imperturbable Torshen's Hammer rears suddenly as the field before him explodes into a forest of thorns. Pyotr manages to keep his seat, and rather than calming the animal, plants his heels into Hammer's sides. Hammer kicks forward with a burst, and Pyotr drives his lance into Alagor's attacker.