The morning of the Spring Market Festival dawns grey and cool, the last clouds from yesterday’s rains still wandering slowly eastward, but the golden sun creeping over the horizon promises warmth and light in the hours to come. The small village of Phaendar wakes with the brightening morning, its small handful of streets beginning to fill with merchants, travelers, farmers, and all the many tradesfolk who have assembled to sell and buy, swap and bargain. The large oval that is the Market Green in the town’s center – fully half the size of the entire town, close to 75 yards across its longest stretch – quickly accumulates wagons, tents, carts, and stalls of all shapes and sizes, along with food vendors, entertainers, shouting children, strolling sweethearts, bemused grandparents, and more.
A veritable maze of stalls fills the Market Green in the center of town and there seems to be no limit on things to see or do. In the very center of the green a maypole has been erected and is the site of particularly lively dancing. A large group of children are watching a puppet show, seemingly featuring a jester, a town guardsman, and a crocodile; while a juggler has also succeeded in drawing a fair sized crowd. As well as stalls selling practical items and foodstuffs, there are also a number of stalls selling curios and 'antiques', some with vastly exaggerated stories behind them.
This is the raucous setting in which you find yourselves on this Starday, the first day of Gozran. As you too walk the streets and alleys of Phaendar and its market festival, you see old friends, long-standing rivals, and strangers aplenty, all going about their lives in this sudden bloom of prosperity. While commerce aplenty happening in the Market Green, the festival events in the surrounding town are largely focused on four locations: the Phaendar Trading Company, which seems to be acting as a central clearinghouse of information on who and what can be found where in the festival and the Market Green, in addition to doing a brisk business in its own right; the Taproot Inn, which has offered its hospitality to many of the town’s visitors, and which is currently hosting an outdoor stage where a Varisian woman in exotic-looking silks and shawls is singing and dancing before a rapt audience; the Riverwood Shrine, where the faithful can offer their prayers to Desna, Erastil, the Green Faith or any other good- or neutral-aligned deity, and where the well-known Caydenite priestess (and ex-Chesnardo Ranger) called Aubrin the Green is demonstrating her archery skills to an ooh-ing and aah-ing crowd; and Oreld’s Fine Shop, an otherwise unremarkable alchemist’s shop that is home – today and tomorrow only! – to local celebrity Wee Patterson, the Tiniest Aurochs, a miniature aurochs the size of a large dog who acts as the Market Festival’s pint-sized mascot. A sketch artist sit nearby, charging 1 gp for a ten-minute charcoal sketch of you and Wee Patterson together, a memento you will no doubt treasure forever!
Father Emil arrived at the festival early, before the sun was up. He helped get the stage set up outside the Taproot Inn and then checked that the maypole was securely planted. His dog Ollie trotted along beside him, a border collie with a black patch around his right eye. Juno, his cat, and Splash, his otter explored nearby poking curious noses wherever a new scent was detected.
In the dim light, one might be forgiven for thinking Emil just another young man, being strong and limber. But as dawn graced the area, one could see the man had mostly grey hair, with modest growth of whiskers, also grey. He was in his fifties and seemed to know just about everyone except those who had come in from out of town. His pale blue eyes brimmed with wisdom and good humor. His hands were caloused and his skin brown and sun baked wherever it was exposed to the elements. His voice boomed out when he shouted greetings.
Once the people started to arrive from the village and surrounding farms, he gravitated toward the Riverwood Shrine, offering blessings to those who visited and entertaining people with stories from the Parables of Erastil as well as other tidbits of wisdom. He talked to those interested in knowing more about Erastil. When Aubrin demonstrated her longbow skill, Emil strung a longbow he had crafted himself and attempted to hit the target, mostly to show off her excellent skills by contrast to his modest ability to hit the target more often than not.
He eventually could be seen with small flowers woven into his nearly white hair by the Sandersen twins, Emma and Abba. He circulated the market every hour, conversing with the merchants and entertainers. Anyone he did not recognize, he kept an eye on at a discreet distance, on watch for con artists and charlatans.
Through it all, he looked completely at ease, in his element, respected and admired but rarely the center of attention. He knew most of the younger people, having either helped deliver them as babies, teach them hunting, crafting, or farming skills, tutored them in the parables of Erastil, babysat them, and eventually handfasted them so they could start a new generation.
Every so often, however, he would stroll away from the market and survey the surrounding area for signs of trouble. Even though it had been peaceful for a while, he liked to check on a regular basis. Spotting no problems he would return to the market.
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The front door of the Taproot Inn opens as a distinguished-looking guest exits. He is over six feet tall and slightly lanky. Though his height makes him a bit imposing, it is his face that makes him look grave and distinguished. He has black hair and wears a neatly-trimmed black beard. Though in his early thirties, his hair and beard are streaked with a small amount of silver.
His nondescript robes are black and well maintained, with subtle silver runes woven into the sleeve cuffs. He wears a worn and weathered longsword at his waist, but also carries a staff tipped in silver. He sniffs as he surveys the crowd.
He had arrived late last night. The bed at the Taproot Inn...left something to be desired. He had not been here (was it still home?) in some time, and had been running low on reasons to come anymore.
The memory of mother and father will always reside here, if nothing else...
Had his sister (well, half-sister, really) not lived here, he might have moved on entirely. Almas was home now, with its metropolitan sensibilities, culture, and food. The university offered intellectual stimulation, something that would be in short supply here. The wizard smiles at the thought.
Still, nostalgia creeps into his mind as he looks around. Most faces did not look very familiar, but some of the buildings looked the same. A flood of memories enters his mind as he squints into the sun.
His sister should be here soon.
The tiny halfling flit around the Taproom. She wanted more than anything to be outside watching all the interesting sights and sounds, but she’d promised Jett that she would help the others servers for at least a few hours before she knocked off and explored.
It was all she could do to stay focused on the drinks she was slinging as she heard the raucous clapping and singing accompanying the exotic Varisian woman. ”Two more ales,” she declared glumly. It was boring, but at least it was a job that would put a few silvers in her pocket this month.
Wren had always loved the festival. People from all over the surrounding areas made the journey, and all the interesting stories they told and hear they brought with them always tickled her fancy.
At midday, she smiled broadly, hugged Jett and walked out to see the sights. She watched the Varisian troupe for a few moments....it was amazing, of course, but there was one other event that she had to skedaddle to make on time. ”Has Wee Patterson started his visit,” she asked a young woman she recognized from the Inn. ”I can’t wait to see his little scruffy face! I’ve got to get to Oreld’s shop right this minute! I’ve saved up and I’m not leaving without a sketch this year,” she grinned broadly as she hurried across town to see the auroch.
Mid-morning, a bleary-eyed Caspan staggers down the stairs from the room in the Taproot Inn where he's been staying since his return to Phaendar. He rubs a gnarled hand across his thinning, short-cropped blond hair and blinks blearily around. A rope belt holds up his leather breeches, the frayed ends visible hanging out from under the dirty tunic -- it may have been white once, but now is more of a dingy gray, except for the beer stain on the front.
"What's with all the noise?" he says in a scratchy voice that sounds as if it doesn't get all that much use. "Wake a man up when he's trying to sleep. The Harvest Festival? Oh, yeah, forgot about that. It's today, is it?"
He glances out the window and a smile -- or maybe even a leer -- crosses his face as he sees the Varisian woman.
"Huh. Pretty. Hey, shortstuff, a couple beers!" he calls out to the halfling attendant as he makes his way outside.
Later, around midday, he sees Wren leave.
"Hey, wait, where you going? How'm'I going to get my beer now?" he calls after her. "Wee Patterson? So what am I missing? What's the deal with this ox?"
”Wee Patterson is better than 5,000 candles in the wind! You’ve got to see it for yourself! They are even doing sketches this year. And I’m getting myself one. And the name is Wren, not short stuff. There are plenty of servers still on working right now...I’m sure they’d be happy to help you. But my shift just ended and I’ve got the Festival to partake!”
She looks around at the Varisian performer one last time before heading off. ”I’m going to go see Wee Pat right now. You’re more than welcome to tag along. I’m sure once you see him that you’ll understand, and love him even more than I do. Apparently his tenders, Jerry and Tom let me sneak out into the corn maze last year. Took all night to gather him up again.”
The tall man with the dark hair and fancy clothes hears a voice behind him say, "So, ya came crawlin' back!"
He turns to see a grey haired farmer leaning on a nasty looking scythe and giving him a stern and disapproving look, but it lasts just long enough to cloud the man's handsome face before Emil breaks into a wide grin and extends a hand in greeting. "Just kiddin'! Welcome home, Thael! Last time I saw ya I could've still given ya a stern lickin'. Not so sure now. Tell me about where ya've been, what ya've seen, 'n' what brings ya back." Father Emil, the old cleric of Erastil gestures toward a nearby stall selling some kind of home brewed alcohol and pulls out enough coins to buy a few drinks.
The big man looks agonized for a moment as Wren offers her invitation.
Your ox, or beer and the pretty dancing girl; your ox, or beer and the pretty dancing girl; your ox, or beer and the pretty dancing girl...
He shakes his head to clear the thoughts out of it as he makes his decision.
"Yeah, I'm going to stay here. Beer and pretty dancing girl. Your little ox'll don't need me staring at it, and she just might," he decides, jerking a thumb at the Varisian woman. "Wouldn't want to be rude when she wants an audience."
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The tall man with the dark hair and fancy clothes hears a voice behind him say, "So, ya came crawlin' back!"
He turns to see a grey haired farmer leaning on a nasty looking scythe and giving him a stern and disapproving look, but it lasts just long enough to cloud the man's handsome face before Emil breaks into a wide grin and extends a hand in greeting. "Just kiddin'! Welcome home, Thael! Last time I saw ya I could've still given ya a stern lickin'. Not so sure now. Tell me about where ya've been, what ya've seen, 'n' what brings ya back." Father Emil, the old cleric of Erastil gestures toward a nearby stall selling some kind of home brewed alcohol and pulls out enough coins to buy a few drinks.
Thael turns on his heel to see the grey-haired farmer.
He looks familiar...Edwin? Egan? No...
"Emil? Father Emil?" Thael asks, recognizing the man. "It's...good to see you. I have been away for some time. Kyonin and Almas, primarily, studying magic and magical items. I've come a long way from this place," he adds.
Then, realizing that could be taken the wrong way, changes the subject. "I'm looking for my sister, Selde. Have you seen her?"
Wren looked up at the big human. ”Good luck, big guy. If she ends up throwing any of those neat scarves out to the crowd, get me one, and I’ll reimburse you next time I see you around the Inn. Those are really neat! She’s pretty, but she’s no Wee Pat, that’s for sure.”
Wren skips away, passing through the crowd, heading for Oreld’s. She kept thinking about those beautiful Varisian scarves as she headed across town. She had a bit of trouble dodging children and the random dog, which she would obviously stop and pet for a few seconds. I should buy some sausages for all the stray pups around here, she thought as she petted a particularly scruffy boy.
The crowd got even thicker as she neared the object of her affection. The line was wrapped around the building so she jumped into the next spot in line. I bet it’ll be an hour, she sighed.
It was a cool morning in the Fangwood. The forest was still damp with the previous day’s rains, and a light mist highlighted the rays of sunlight piercing through the canopy of trees. Selde Cathron hurriedly went about her preparations with a practised grace, whistling with the birds as she did so.
”Well, aren’t we chipper?” The gruff voice of her grandfather called out in Elvish.
Selde quickly turned in the direction of her voice. Her right cheek rosy with embarrassment. She took the time to raise her hood before responding. ”...Yes, I’m sorry, it’s just..the festival, and Thael. she meekly responded in Elvish.
”Hmph, still sure he’ll take time away from the city?”
”He said he would in his letter...he wouldn’t lie.” Selde said in a tone that was meant to be stern.
”We’ll see. The festival is making more noise than normal. Forest is all in a tissy. Go on ahead of me. I’m going to go out, check on things some.” he said, lighting his pipe. ”And be careful getting those furs to Evret.”
”Yes Grandfather, I will.” She replied as she finished fastening the furs to her Elk mount, Nur.
”And stay out of trouble.” The old elf grunted.
”Yes Grandfather, I always do.”
Talathel took a deep pull of his pipe. ”Hmm you do, don’t you? Well try to get in to some then. A little trouble never killed anyone.”
”...Yes Grandfather.” Selde said with a shake of her head.
”But no trouble with boys.” Talathel said, suddenly more Grandfather than Druid.
”I’m leaving now Grandfather.” Selde replied in an exasperated huff as she lept on to Nur and began to ride off.
---
After dropping off the furs, Selde quickly made her way to the Taproot Inn. The crowds had been even thicker than last year. Her going had been slow, and she was now late. The Inn was crowded, and it had been some years since Selde had last seen her brother. Stepping aside from the entrance, she found a corner to stand in. ”Umm...Thael?” She softly called out in Common.
Thael turns on his heel to see the grey-haired farmer.
He looks familiar...Edwin? Egan? No...
"Emil? Father Emil?" Thael asks, recognizing the man. "It's...good to see you. I have been away for some time. Kyonin and Almas, primarily, studying magic and magical items. I've come a long way from this place," he adds.
Then, realizing that could be taken the wrong way, changes the subject. "I'm looking for my sister, Selde. Have you seen her?"
Father Emil listened with interest to the boy he had once tried in vain to interest in the joys of the small community. "Kyonin and Almas, hmmm. I'll want a full report on the forests of that Elven land, plus any news from the civilized world that might be of interest to our sleepy corner. Selde usually comes to festival, but I haven't seen her yet. If I see her, I'll tell her you're looking for her."
Sensing the boy ... er, young man is not interested in gabbing with an old coot, Emil pretends to see someone he needs to talk to and heads into the crowd. He finds himself approaching a crowd gathered around something low to the ground. "What's this? A tiny little aurochs." Emil waded through the crowd until he could see the wee beastie clearly. He studied the animal for signs of abuse or mistreatment.
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"Sister!" Thael says, a broad smile splitting his dark beard.
"It has been quite some time...look how you have grown!" he says. "Tell me how things have been here...I'm sure we have much to discuss. You will have seen him much more than I, but I ran into Father Emil, as you will see," he says, gesturing toward the cleric.
"The memories come flooding back," he adds.
In fact it took Wren an hour and ten minutes to get next to Wee Patterson. When she finally gets to her turn to pose for the sketch, Wrench recognizes the sketch artist as a young female human in her twenties, Sabel Gare, who passes through town every few months with her hawk Burguia.
Sabel has an angular face, with curly auburn hair and narrow amber eyes. All of her garments are well worn and look rather tattered. A hawk rests on Sabel's shoulder, watching the crowd with flow through the town.
Sabel motions the next person up and when she notices it is Wren she leaps from her stool and embraces the halfling in a big hug. The two begin to exchange warm pleasantries which only last a moment before the impatient and already drunk farmer Edward Drighte shouts out, "Just like in the Root! Always a talkin' and never a doin'. Get a move on, eh? The festival only be lastin' two days ya know!"
The crowd chuckles at Edward's joke and Sabel quickly hurries Wren next to Wee Patterson and begins her sketch. Perhaps it was the fact she felt hurried, or maybe she's quicker than they say, but Sabel only takes eight minutes to wrap Wren's charcoal sketch and get it into her hands. She mentions with a smile, "Let's catch up later tonight in the Root, mmkay? The fans await!"
Dropping back down into her chair to resume her work, Sabel waves Edward forward for his turn just as he begins to engage Father Emil in an argument.
-=-
Father Emil studies Wee Patterson from afar and doesn't see any signs of abuse, but does ascertain that the animal looks a little underfed, but not so much so that one would consider it a problem.
An unkempt man ahead of Emil in the who looks like he's spent some time with ale today looks over at him and motions behind him. "Line's back that way, Emil. Don't be thinkin' you's just gonna slip in unnoticed to get a sketch with Patterson ahead of me! Oh no you don't! I'm next, see here."
Edward Drighte pounds his chest a few times, nearly knocking himself off balance. He nods to Father Emil and then looks over at Wren and adds, "Stop holdin' us up already!"
Jillian comes around the bend laying her eyes on Pheander for the first time in five years. She stops a moment, setting down her sack of gear, to take in the sight as a smile graces her face. She can see the festival has already started and picks up her sack, lugging it over her left shoulder as a little bird comes to land on the right.
She wears a simple brown tunic, leather pants, and calf high boots, with her mother's choker around her neck. Her jet black hair is braided down to her lower back. Finishing the trek into town, she can't help but grin as she see's old friends and neighbors busy with the festival. As she makes her way through the town, nostalgia washes over her and it almost feels as if she had never left.
"Sister!" Thael says, a broad smile splitting his dark beard.
"It has been quite some time...look how you have grown!" he says. "Tell me how things have been here...I'm sure we have much to discuss. You will have seen him much more than I, but I ran into Father Emil, as you will see," he says, gesturing toward the cleric.
"The memories come flooding back," he adds.
"I grew tall but you grew old." Selde replied, barely above a whisper. "I hardly recognize you, look at that beard." Their blood had always caused differences between the siblings, but adulthood made that all the more apparent. Though they were only a handful of years apart, while Thael looked to have begun middle age early, Selde hardly looked 20. "Things have basically been the same here. I'd much rather hear about your time abroad."
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"You don't mean I look old," Thael retorts. "You mean I look distinguished. And I didn't mean you looked tall. I meant you looked like a tease," he says with a smile.
The wizard tells Selde about the time he had spent in his studies, both in Kyonin and Almas. He focuses on the wonderful things to see in bigger cities and the refined culture.
After a few minutes, he says "I had something I'm not sure you have seen...I thought I would show you father's blade. I brought it this time."
At his waist is a longsword scabbard and the wizard draws the blade. However, the worn and battered sword, when drawn, is broken half-way down the blade.
"This isn't of much use to me, but for some reason I like to wear it on occasion. It served him well until the day he died...that's when it broke, I believe," the wizard says. He holds it out for Selde to examine.
Selde was captivated by her brothers tales. For a time the bustle of the fair faded away as she was lost in the imagery of his words. Selde had missed her brother, his grandeur that had only grown with time. Holding her father's sword brought a sharp mix of feelings. She could picture his tall figure, the blade at his waist, remember the smell of earth and leather that he carried. But also the emptiness and guilt of his loss. A tear formed in her right eye before she quickly wiped it away. "I remember this sword, but I haven't seen it...since. You have the same nose as him, I didn't notice before."
Selde drifted off for a moment before coming to with a startle. "Oh, I have something to show you as well." Handing the sword back to Thael, she quickly went to Nur and returned with a small box. "I found this under some floor boards in the old house."
”Sabel, how in the worlds are you? Long time no see! Have you had any fun adventures recently? And Burggie is looking handsome as ever,” Wren says with a grin at the hawk, peering around on her friend’s shoulder.
”Somehow I’d forgotten you were doing the sketches! That’s such a neat talent. I wish I could draw like you. How has Wee Pat been doing today? Nobody’s been mean to him, have they? I’ll bonk someone on the nose if they pinched his ear or tried to hurt him!”.
As the conversation was proceeding, Wren was taken aback by ole drink Edward yelling at her. ”What, has Jett thrown you out again? When you are too drunk to stay in the Inn that’s a bad sign. Mind your own business....we were just catching up,” she mutters, but didn’t want to get Sabel in trouble. Wren knew she needed to make money so buy her provisions until she came back to town in a few months, so she sat down and took her sketch, pleased as a clam.
”So sorry that you have to try to make that one not look so ugly,” she says, jabbing her finger at Edward. ”See you next visit, Sabel! Bye Burggie!”
With that, Wren headed back toward the Inn, wanting to make sure her sketch didn’t get too rumpled before she was able to tack it up.
With everyone busy with the festival Jillian made her way to the Riverwood Shrine, hoping to find Nolean and Rhyna to let them know she had returned. She hadn’t sent a letter ahead hoping to surprise them, but was surprised herself to see the awe inspired crowd gathered outside. Looking over to Hunter, the bird on her shoulder, she noted ”Perhaps I should have planned better, rather than arriving in the midst of the festivities.” She shrugs then spends some time watching the archer while she keeps an eye out for Nolean and Rhyna.
Father Emil smiles and replies to the discontents waiting in line for a portrait souvenir, "Have no fear, my friends. I'll not delay you. I just wanted to see this wee wonder." He stepped aside to a position that could not be interpreted as waiting in the line for the portraits. "While you wait, perhaps you might want to hear the tale of the Stag of the Dunklewald. It seems there as a similarly small stag who struggled to stand out. The other deer adolescents teased him and refused to invite him to play in their games. ...."
As he talked, he noticed a slightly taller than the average village woman stroll in burdened down with gear and heading for the shrine. He knew her well, having helped Father Noelan instruct her in the faith of Erastil. She was striking looking, exotic for these parts, certainly. If he were younger, he might have been smitten with her as he had been with his first and only love, Grace. He made a mental note to head for the shrine to learn the news from the battle lines with Molthune, not that he relished reminders of his own experiences with the war zone.
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The celebration continus as the day winds down and the sun begins to set. As raucous shouts carry on the night air, you and dozens others make their way inside the Taproot Inn to hear Aubrin the Green, the retired Chernasardo Ranger turned Caydenite cleric, recount bawdy tales of adventure from her youth.
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. “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, ‘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 flinders. A cry of agony pierces the chaos. Aubrin lies on the floor, gasping and clutching at the blood gushing from a wound in her chest. A ballista bolt still quivers in the wall behind her. Three 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, above the flames and humble rooftops, rises a tower of black stone.
Seeing no signs of Nolean or Rhyna at the temple, she follows the crowd to the Taproot Inn figuring she will find them later in the evening. She picks out a quite corner to sit with her gear and listen into the stories. Ordering an ale, she watches with amusement as Aubrin recounts her tale.
When the door explodes and a ballista bolt flies through the tavern, Jillian jumps to her feet. She thinks "By the Gods! Did I bring the war back home with me?". Snapping back to the here and now she shouts out "To arms!"
Seeing the sight outside and the hobgoblins entering she rummages through her sack and pulls out her sword then moves to put herself between the enemy and the others while Hunter flies up into the rafters to watch the scene below.
She looks out behind the present threat to try and gauge what is going on outside.
Huh. Guess it wasn't true ... is Caspan's first thought as his suddenly sobering, slightly ale-addled brain takes a moment to catch up to the horror of the situation.
It had been a lovely day for Selde. Being with her brother brought a public social comfort she hadn't felt for years. Though she mostly remained quite, she enjoyed sitting in conversation. Catching up with neighbors as Thael did, listening to the stories being swapped, sharing drinks and food.
Aubrin's story about the bear and bees was one of her favorites. Though the funny parts of the story were different when the bear told it. The bolt striking the older woman's chest caught Selde completely off guard. Thankfully her reflexes held true, and in a blink Selde had drawn her bow and taken position behind the bar.
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A hundred different things passed through Thael's mind as what had started as a good day was turned upside down.
Though he had used spells before in training, the practical application of the spells he had prepared seemed suddenly incredibly relevant.
Aside from training, I have never been in battle...
Still, Thael's reflexes were sharp. Whatever elven blood he had made him quicker than most humans. He saw his backpack rustle and a tiny draconic head emerge. He hadn't even shown Selde his familiar yet...he had been saving that for some kind of wizard grand finale at the end of the evening.
Fight or flight? Father and Mother stayed to fight. I cannot leave Selde, either.
Thael's elven grandfather, Caranthir, had taught him many things. His spell selection reflected many of those lessons. Versatility was more important than attack spells, so Thael only had one spell that might damage his opponents. But he did have several that would slow them down. But...his mentor had also taught him to conserve his spells for when they were truly needed...
Running out of time to think, he casts a simple cantrip on the hobgoblin closest to Selde, hoping to protect his sister.
Thael finds the minds of these hobgoblin tougher than he imagined as it shrugs off the mental assault. Shaking his head, the hobgoblin just grunts as the attack fails.
The soldiers brandish their longswords menacingly. Looking at Jillian one shouts "Surrender, you lousy wretches, and we will spare your miserable lives!"
Turning to Caspan the second hobgoblin shouts, "Resist, and we will gut you like pigs!"
To Selde the third one stumbles over his words, unprepared for his intimidation speach and just adds, "Uh. Uh. Die! Yes! I mean, or surrender."
Caspan's heart starts to pound as the gravity of the situation hits him. Sweat beading on his brow, he glances at the badly injured Aubrin. Blood. So much blood. He hasn't seen anything like this since ...
The smell was the main memory of being in the Molthuni prison, urine and despair. Or maybe those were the same smells; it was hard to tell. But beyond that, there was the noise, and the lack of it at night. It was forbidden then, and breaking that rule would land you in the hole. Even snoring too loud could get you punished, as if a man had any control over that.
Ironically, that's how they knew something was wrong, when they were woken in the middle of the night by the bolt being thrown in the lock of their door, a noise that seemed to echo, loud as the thunk of the headman's ax in the courtyard hitting flesh, bone and finally the heavy wood below.
This was no headman, though, but rather three figures dressed all in black, even if their intent was the same.
Caspan leaped to his feet, followed a moment later by the other man in the small cell. Both groggy from sleep, unarmed, unarmored, unprepared. They were outnumbered, and that was even without accounting for Pharasma's judging presence in that cell with the five mortals ...
Caspan blinks, the blood flowing every more quickly in his veins, seeming to wash away the last lingering residue of alcohol. But just like in another place, another time, doing nothing means dying painfully. He clenches his fists. A good offense is better than a bad defense.
The hobgoblin's words make him pause for a second. Death was here again, but no one tells him what to do. No one!
"Who you calling pig, pig nose!" he grunts as he lurches forward, throwing a fist.
Unfortunately, the alcohol and fear are still coursing through him, and he hits nothing but air.
HP 12/12
AC 12, touch 12, flat-footed 12
Fort +4, Ref +4, Will +0
CMD 16
Martial Flexibility: 0/4
Effects: Unarmored, shaken, 2 rounds (–2 penalty on attack rolls, saving throws, skill checks, and ability checks)
Wren picked up a mug of ale and tossed to at the yellow tinged hobgoblin. ”Take this you awful so and so,” she yelled. As the mug flew through the air, she attempted to guide it with her mind and improve her chances at hitting the warrior, just as she practiced when she was throwing green apples in the woods.
RTA
Damage
"This is bad." Selde thought "There are too many people in town for a small attack, but a large one should have had a warning." As the Hobgoblin attempted to intimidate her, Selde took a moment to aim before letting an arrow fly.
The Hobgoblin's words failed to distract her, and her arrow flew true. The implications of the Hobgoblins presence would have to wait, for now she would have to deal with the problem at hand.
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Thael mentally chastises himself for the failure of his spell. His Amiladar--elven for Grandfather--would not have seen this error without a disapproving look or a rebuke.
It's not that a spell wouldn't fail, but Thael thought his chance to use his bigger spells may be gone now that the inn had erupted in melee.
He tries the same cantrip, this time on the one with the purple cloak.
Wren's mug of ale flies past the goblin and crashes into the far wall behind the hobgoblin, splattering ale all along the wall.
Caspan's attempted assault is unsuccessful, but Selde's arrow strikes home in yellow cloaked hobgoblin. It staggers a half step from the impact, completely surprised at the retaliation from the half-elf.
Thael's second attempt at dazing the purple cloaked hobgoblin meets with the same results as his first. The intruder shakes his head briefly and raises his sword. "Kill them !" he shouts.
Aubrin holds her hands to her belly, trying to stop the massive wound from bleeding her out. She coughs up blood and looks like she is on the verge of losing consciousness.
Jillian tightens her grip on her sword and glares at the hobgoblins. Knowing her tunic won't do much against their blades but still wanting to ensure they can't get around her, she takes up a defensive stance.
She shouts to the others "Someone tend to Aubrin." Trying to draw their attention to her, she looks to the nearest hobgoblins and blusters "We shall see who perishes here tonight."
Emil flinches at the sudden violence so close to him, but seeing the blood from Aubrin's wound focuses his will and without thinking about the risk, he steps closer to Abby, transforms the spell energy he has invested in a Comprehend Languages spell into positive energy and touches her with his foot, letting the energy flow to her while keeping upright and armed with his scythe.
"Some of my best friends are pigs. You could learn something from them," he says defiantly, hoping he can embody some of the courage of wild boar he has encountered.
The crowd in the Taproot Inn makes a collective gasp at the sudden violence. Cries of "Get me out of here!", "Aubrin, NO!", "Is there a backdoor!" and "Please not me!" can be heard amid the chaos.
Father Emil's healing stops Aubrin's bleeding just in time. She gasps loudly, inhaling a sharp breath as the wounds close. She looks up at the Erastil cleric to thank him, but no words come from her mouth. She closes her eyes and grunts in pain, it's clear that this ballista bold has done some serious internal damage to her body that is likely going to take quite some time to heal. She meekly squeaks out, "Thanks Father."
The purple cloaked hobgoblin moves five feet to his east and slices his longsword across Jillian's neck, critically striking her. With the swipe across her throat, she drops to the floor unconscious before him. He raises his bloody sword and all three hobgoblins begin cheering and screaming. He shouts "YES! WE SHALL SEE INDEED!"
Looking to kill the aasimar paladin and get her out of the way, the red cloaked hobgoblin steps up and tries to jam his longsword through Jillian's heart. Fortunately for Jillian however, Wren's thrown ale flows underneath his feet and as he throws his momentum forward he slips in the spilled beverage and tumbles to the ground alongside Jillian. The purple cloaked hobgoblin begins laughing at the falling companion, ridiculing him in goblin tongue.
Distracted by the antics on his left, the yellow cloaked hobgoblin swings too high and misses Caspan.
HP 12/12
AC 12, touch 12, flat-footed 12
Fort +4, Ref +4, Will +0
CMD 16
Martial Flexibility: 1/4
Effects: Unarmored, shaken, 1 round (–2 penalty on attack rolls, saving throws, skill checks, and ability checks), martial flexibility (Power Attack) 1/10
Seeing the stranger fall, fear gives Caspan strength.
She's dead! It's just like last time! We gotta get out of here!
He lashes out again, knuckles cracking as he slams his fist into the nearest hobgoblin. His knuckles crack as he hits the soldier's helmet, hopefully hard enough to do some damage to the creature wearing it.
"Someone help her!" he yells out.
Caspan's power fist comes close to hurting the hobgoblin, but unfortunately all that the creature in front of him gets from the assault is a headache.
Apparently hobgoblins are more willful than anyone could have expected. The color explosion from Thael's fingertips sends the combatant in front of Caspan to the ground, but the one standing before Jillian somehow fights through it and stays on his feet.
That corner of the inn was way too crowded for Wren to use any of her more direct Druidic magic. Instead, she calls upon the blessings of the Green Mother to bolster her new friends’ attacks against the awful creatures. ”Please bless us and make our attacks as strong and swift as a lion’s!”
"This is bad, this is bad, this is bad!" Selde's mind raced as she took aim at the Hobgoblin that was still standing.
Unfortunately this effected her aim, and her arrow sailed in to the wall behind the Hobgoblin.
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Jillian grasps at her neck as her sword crashes to the floor beside her. Falling to the floor, she lays in a pool of her own blood as things begin to go dark. Her last thought before passing out At least I am home...
Father Emil's heart sinks as he sees a paladin of Erastil and a woman he has known since her birth cut down by the most brutal enemies in the land. Fear should be gripping him, but instead the violence motivates him to be sure no one dies on his watch. He repeats the process, moving forward, still holding his scythe at the ready, drawing magic he had prayed would bless the assembled festival celebration and turning into a surge of positive energy. "Blessed be the healing power of Erastil," he murmurs and rests a foot on Jillian's outstretched arm. He feels the energy flow into her and sees her wounds close and stop bleeding.
Selde's shot misses as Jillian's returns back to consciouness.
With the yellow cloaked hobgoblin out of commission for the moment, the purple one to his left turns his attention to Caspan. He commands "Time to die, human!" as he swings his sword towards the brawler. His blade swipes across the brawlers chest, but Caspan leans back just enough to make the blade miss by an inch.
The red cloaked hobgoblin grumbles as he picks himself off the floor, now covered in ale. He scrambles to his feet and quickly moves towards Father Emil with the intent to do him in in a few seconds.
Wren uses another minor magic, this time on the one with the purplish armor. ”Look up here, you big meanie,” she calls out from the bar. Once she catches the eye of the hobgoblin, she says a few quick words, hoping she could put him in a trance for a few seconds.
As Wren attempted to entrance the Hobgoblin, Selde lined up another shot. A silent prayer to Erastil on her lips as she released the arrow.
Once more the purple cloaked hobgoblin fights through the attempts to daze him. He looks over to Wren as if he's going to respond, but the attention of his gaze changes when Selde's arrow pierces his right shoulder. He grimaces and looks down at his wound before glaring at the archer.
"You're next!" he threatens.
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As the hobgoblin approaches Emil to the normally mile mannered cleric grips his scythe and turns the pointy end toward the wall and swings with the steady practiced arc of a farmer who has done this all his life.
The scythe drives straight through the hobgoblin's black heart and drives a little way into the wall. Emil grunts and pulls the scythe out to continue the harvest of hobgoblin souls, feeling sad to turn his usually peaceful scythe into an instrument of death. The hobgoblin slides down the wall into a heap.
He steps over the fallen and moves around the table to approach the one remaining hobgoblin not on the floor and blinded. "Leave now," he says with a calm voice that somehow conveys more menace with his scythe covered in black blood.
HP 12/12
AC 12, touch 12, flat-footed 12
Fort +4, Ref +4, Will +0
CMD 16
Martial Flexibility: 1/4
Effects: Unarmored, martial flexibility (Power Attack) 2/10, bless (+1/+1)
Caspan's eyes widen as the older man scythes down the one hobgoblin.
"Nice," he grunts, bringing his boot down with crushing force on the head of the prone, blinded attacker next to him.
"And that's what you get!"