Some say all roads once led to Xanaste, and that may have once been true, in ancient days long withered beneath the sun. Some say the Great Road was once but one of many, other highways extending to distant lands, even beyond the Wastes of Apheth or the dark-hearted Fenwood. Some say these Great Roads were paved with gold, lined with marble, protected by the Gods or the god-kings, such that no danger could touch travelers who sought the Holy City.
But now, these stories are little more than myth, and those who speak them little more than fools who dwell in days gone by. The Great Road is the only of its kind, and little deserving of a name whose meaning is as crumbled as the walls that once ran along its ways. In some places, cobbled stone remains yet, weathered and worn and weed-covered. For most of the Road's length, it is merely a wide swath of dirt and mud, a path beaten by countless trodding feet, carved with the ruts of countless wagons.
And as with all roads in these days, there is little safety to be had, especially where the Road nears the Wastes, and the wild places far from the walls of cities. Bandits and worse lurk in the creeping grasses and trees which line the way...
Brazod Stronglock hailed from Vixmyr, along the Great Road east of Xanaste. Like most cities along the Great Road it was filled with hedonistic humans and low on most everything else. It was in Vixmyr that Brazod and his charge joined the caravan.
Brazod introduced himself to the Caravan guards and spent most of his time conversing with them or watching his Elven prisoner. He avoided most of the others in the caravan, and discouraged any that took too much interest in his prisoner.
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Under a gray sky the caravan trundles, the wheels of the two wagons creaking as they turn, settled in the ruts dug by so many before them. This Road is acquainted of old with all manner of travelers. Pilgrims in the tens of thousands have walked these ways, seeking enlightenment and the promise of something beyond the unknowable black of death. Merchants have hawked their wares and sundries up and down the Road, and collective fortunes have traded hands along its length. Fugitives, refugees, soldiers, and brigands have ridden and marched and staggered from one end to the other. But the Road is not a friend to these travelers, nor any others. It sees them to their journey's end, be that end in a caravanserai, at a city gate, or face-down in the mud.
Early in the day, the caravan passed the Archway of Leukios, one of the few wayposts on this barren stretch of the Great Road to Xanaste. It is the final length between the Holy City and the nearest settlement of note on the Road, a trading town named Phonas. There, the wagoneers and guards took more water and what rations they could, rested the oxen, and drank half the coin they would make from this journey. The rest of the travelers were encouraged to make what comfort they could in the caravanserai, for this last leg of the journey is a dangerous one. Phonas is not far from the Wastes of Apheth, and here in the wild reaches beyond civilization, danger is ever lurking.
So as evening comes with gray skies, the caravan slows to settle for the night. The rains the day before slowed progress--one of the wagons mired in thick mud this morning, requiring great effort to free--and it would be unsafe to press on to the wayhouse after nightfall. So the wagoneers turn off the road to a small rise, and the few guards check their arms with a nervous air.
Woe to those less familiar with such trials of the Road...
”Curse this infernal damp, Robbet cussed to himself as he shakes out his hat and cloak. I can’t remember what it feels like to be dry. With an audible grunt the thick, well-muscled, man stretches his arms over his head trying to alleviate the aches and pains gained from pushing and pulling the wagons through the quagmire they called a road.
He retrieved a bucket of water from the back of a wagon and began to clean off the incrusted mud from his hands and face. In the fading light he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the bucket and smiled at his likeness. It was a grim smile that said he was not a man to be trifled with.
Robbet mused that while he was almost 50 years old he still had the vigor of a man half his age. He continued staring at his reflection and noted his eyes, they are same color of the sky right before a storm, but it is more than their color that draws his attention, his gaze appears knowing and penetrating. His eyes are set in a tanned, worn, almost sinister face which is framed by brown wavy hair, quickly turning gray, and a thick, well-groomed, beard the same color.
He chides himself, old fool, enough admiring yourself. With a rueful smile Robbet places his hat back on his head a dumps out the remaining water from the bucket and marches toward the campfire. He places the bucket upside down in front and the fire, paused for a second and pushes it a little closer to the blaze with his boot.
Robbet sat down on the over turned bucket in front of the smoky campfire. With an sigh the grizzled middle aged man begins to knock the caked on mud from his boots. He moves a little closer to the fire and smiles as he feels the warmth of the fire caress his damp body. He pauses a second longer and mutters a short prayer to ward off evil.
With the weak fire slowly warming him Robbet gazes through the hazy campfire to see which members of the caravan will join him.
Robbet shifts uncomfortably on the bucket he is perched upon and mutters, ”You think the teamsters get paid extra to hit every bump on the road.”
Hedir looks up from his deck of tarot cards, absently turning another card over in his hands before swiping the whole array up and shuffling the cards back together. "It's a rough road, but one worth traveling," he says, half to himself and sounding rather cryptic. He flips the top card over again and looks at it for a moment. Then he looks up at the sky and squints. "It doesn't look like rain at least."
"Hard to say. Weather's harder to read around here." The speaker is Badurad Hummel, the caravaneer who's been guiding the wagons and travelers for weeks. He's a rugged man, even more so than Robbet, or any other member of the caravan. His clothing is like the region to which he's taken you: worn, dusty, and with bits and pieces cobbled from many cultures near and far. Generally, it suggests an outfit that's barely holding together, and you suspect if it were cleaned well, it would fall apart at the seams.
The man plants his spear butt-first in the ground and looks up himself. "You're from the northlands, yes? There, you can tell the clouds. You know a thunderhead from just gray. Here... I've seen rain in these parts with a clear sky above." He shakes his head and sighs. "Whatever happened in the Wastes, it did more than blast away the trees."
"Hummel? You might want to see this." Anso Kostas, Hummel's partner and the main scout for the caravan, shouts from the edge of the rise. Perhaps the thinnest dwarf any of you have seen, he gestures off in the distance, away from the road.
Hummel waves to the travelers and joins Kostas at the edge of the bluff. After a long moment, he nods and turns back. "Get the wagons together, folks. Anyone with arms and the sense to use them, give word. I fear we've a fight on our hands, or what might become one."
Nuriah had adjusted to the routines of the caravan easily, having not too long ago ventured into the Wastes on her family's own doomed caravan of hope.
She eyed the nearby Wastes with narrowed eyes, realizing she'd not been so close since she took up with Samn. Nodding, she silently thanked her friend for purposefully keeping her from this place for those years; she'd not been ready to face those memories.
As the caravan made its way along the trail, she helped where she could, cooking and helping keep the wagons moving. Only once had she needed to fend of unwelcome advances; a guard ,drunk on grass-wine, had pressed his esteem a bit to far. The large knight, Brunhard, and the elf , even the two lawmen, to her surprise, had helped persuade the man of his error.
After that , she became more comfortable around her fellow travellers, even going so far as to occasionally broach her focus in life; the exploration of the nature of death. She knew that that subject often made other uncomfortable, so she often kept her musings to herself.
Joining the elf and the lawman, Robbet at the campfire, Nuriah poked at the embers with a stick, lost in her own thoughts, before raising her head at Hummel's warning.
Squinting , she can make out the approaching riders, trying to glean some detail as to who they were.
"Riders..." she states, running back towards the wagons to help arrange them defensively.
Robbet stared into the fire lost in its warmth and the numbness of the road. He is startled by the warning raised by Hummel but is wise enough to retreat back to the wagons.
Hedir narrows his eyes as he looks into the distance and frowns. "I don't suppose that we are fortunate enough that they are simply more travelers," he grumbles. He absently toys with the top card of his deck, but doesn't flip it over before he tucks the set back into his cloak and stands from the back of the wagon. "Shall we prepare a defense then?"
Brunhard sits mulling the journey thus far, the mud and slow progress making him yearn for the salt spray and openness of the sea.
The burly knight was not one for idle conversation, but his companions were an interesting lot. He'd learned the elf, Hedir's parents were navigators - and took this as a strong portent that his path still had the Leviathan Queen's fickle blessing.
His musings are short lived when Hummel's shout goes up.
Rising to his feet, he instinctively grabs pike and shield, before attempting to follow the directions of both the zverg scout and the canny pilgrim Nuriah...
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Oblivious to where the threat lies, Brunhard grimaces, holding fast ready to meet the threat if need and buy the others time;
"By the Deep! I cannot see them... How many?"
"A fair number," Hedir deadpans. "A dozen, at the least. Armed and ready to fight it seems. Whether they are armed to attack us or not remains to be seen, but I have come to expect the worst through my life. That way you can be pleasantly surprised when things stop being miserable."
The heroes of our tale gather to see what may be seen. Brunhard and Robbet, their eyes set in the weather-worn faces of long years on the road, cannot pierce the veil of sand and heat, and the knight-jetsam catches only a stray gust of grit in his eyes, forcing him to wipe them clean with an oath. Nuriah's eyes, younger and more used to the Wastes, perceive the riders, though without much detail.
But it is Hedir Starsoul, the Elf, whose keen vision proves true. Amid the sand and stone he sees them: fourteen riders, Men astride lean horses. Their clothes look ragged and worn, their skin leathery, their horses hungry. Five spears in the air are crafted from the hardy wood of this region, likely tipped with crude iron. The weapons the others no doubt carry would be much the same: simple, savage, and no less deadly than a Maker-made sword, in the right hands. Though he knows not who they are, their intent grows clearer by the moment.
It is not long, however, before that intent is made fully known. As the wagons begin to shift, men straining against their weight to avoid the wasted time of hitching the oxen, the riders break from their stillness. The main bulk of them make for the caravan, eight horses charging forward, with three split to either side, circling about as though to surround and strike from the flanks.
Kostas the Dwarf calls a warning as he sees this, and Hummel's curse is loud and bitter. "Less than ten blades against over a dozen. You worship the Hooded One?" He looks to Nuriah and holds up a symbol of her god, one of many icons the man has carried on his person. Hummel's religion is one of pragmatism, it seems. "Bless us and pray he stands on our side, and not the Shallows God."
Nuriah smiles at Hummel, nodding, and closes her eyes for a serene moment, "You do well to honor my Lord. He is with us always, but He stands apart." she says gently, so as to soften any dismay the man may feel that he can find no succor from her God; at least while still alive.
With efficient movement, Nuriah ties off a bundle that had been close to falling off a nearby wagon, pulls her ax from her belt and with a final adjustment of her tunic, stands ready for the assault.
"Almost certainly armed for us," Hedir adds as the riders close in on them. "Let's not disappoint them." He clicks his tongue as he absently draws out a small pouch from his cloak. "Indeed. Let's hope no one visits the Dark Queen's realm tonight."
Robbet turned his head to the side and spat as he made ready, ”Won’t be the first time I’ve helped bandits on their journey to the Hooded one.”
”Fear not friends for Robbet Reeve and his stout cudgel stand at your side,” the man proclaimed as he holds a cudgel in one hand and dirk in his other hand.
Brunhard listens to the others speak - his heavy jaw set as he holds position outwith the wagons protective barrier. Squinting, he blinks, clearing the dust from his eye that leaves a salty tear to track down his scarred cheek.
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He frowns, not recognising this Hooded One deity that they speak of, so instead focusses on more pressing matters on this mortal coil;
"You say ten blades against over a dozen Master Hummel. Remember that amongst we ten, you have a knyght... Worth a balance of six of theirs at least..."
Brunhard's low voice is neither boastful, nor frenzied - merely uttering pragmatic words of a man disciplined in the violence he may be required to commit...
In actions well-versed the hulking warrior readies his wooden shield, whilst gripping the long pike in his other heavy hand.
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As the heroes gather, the riders come on. Hummel glances askew at Brunhard Schölhamer and nods grimly. The man lifts his spear and moves to stand by a nearby rock, only perhaps knee-high, but still something to provide a sense of security. The few guards of the caravan move to similar positions, raising what weapons they have: simple rapiers, and one with no more than a length of hardwood, shorn with iron at the ends. The staff-wielder is the only among them with more than thick clothing for armor, and his is only a pair of leather bracers with a vest of heavy hide. Fearful muttering is heard from the common travelers as they huddle amid the wagons, with plaintive shouting from one of the merchants, bemoaning Fate.
As the riders draw near, their numbers and mien become plain. From their look, Nuriah, more familiar with the threats of the Wastes, knows them to be simple brigands, Wastemen who prey on travelers who draw too near these ruined lands. They are aligned with Chaos, to be sure, and as deadly as any desperate Men--but no more nor less than Men. They neither possess power over, nor are Touched, by the Wyld Magicks of the Wastes, for the most; most who become corrupted by those accursed powers walk their own paths, for they are cast out by their Untouched fellows.
As the thunderous rumbling of hooves shakes the earth beneath their feet, the time for action comes for the caravan's defenders. The brigands charge headlong into the fray; those against them must stand strong, or break!
Hedir raises a hand as the warriors close in on them, their clothing marking them as followers of the darker gods. "Truly, the fey lords test us today," he grumbles, clearly unimpressed with the marauders' garb. He draws a small silvery dart from his pouch and lifts his hand. "Silfur ör fljúga satt!" The dart sparks and flickers, but nothing seems to happen. "Witch queen's frozen..."
Nuriah watches the approach of the raiders for some moments, before pressing her back against one of the wagons, waiting for a particularly ambitious brigand to come past, her axe at the ready.
Brunhard holds firm in his spearhead position, grim set - shield readied and pike poised...
"They may test us Master Starsoul... but know we will surely test flesh and will of these corrupt wretches..."
The big knight bellows an oath;
"Queen of the Depths! Guide my pike! Let it bite deep like your shark children and send these scum into the purgatory that awaits them!"
Roobet holds his cudgel tightly as he waits for the banidits to close the distance taking comfort it the familiar way it sits in his hand, "Wait for them to come to us lads and follow my lead."
The thunder of the riders fills the ears of all who ready for the fight, and the brigands shout and curse as they come within striking range. They separate and seek out their own targets as they come, for this battle will be one of pitched melee, no organized skirmish. Each of our heroes save Brunhard spy one brigand approaching; the knight, the most well-armed of the defenders, draws two to himself.
Hedir sees his foe bearing down, a short blade in hand. The brigand slashes down with fury, and the sword will surely bite into flesh should the Elf not move swiftly.
Nuriah readies her axe, but the enemy comes swiftly with an axe of his own! He gives a battle cry as the weapon swings in, too quick to avoid. The pilgrim feels the bite of crude iron, and blood wells from high on one arm.
Brunhard bears the largest threat, and the two brigands who approach him lash out with spear and sword. The latter is fast, too quick to dodge or block, but it finds little purchase against his armor. The spear, however, will drive into his side, unless he should knock it from its path.
Robbet Reeve, cudgel in hand, stands fast as a brigand charges in, spear leveled. But the horse stumbles, the iron tip waves, and the thrust is wild, piercing only air above the man's shoulder.
All around, the battle is joined. The other guards hold their own for the time, and startled shouts fill the air as the first blood is spilled to the ground.
TURN II
As the brigands bear down on him Brunhard instinctively ducks as a heavy blade swings wide of his coifed head, offering an oath to his Goddess;
"By the Deep!"
The stabbing spear is another matter, and he meets it with a clash of his shield;
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As the big knight's skill successfully turns away the rusty spear-tip , he pauses in the chaos - exhibiting a deathly calm...
...before countering with his vicious thrust of his own pike .
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Hedir dives forward as the slash comes perilously close to his back. He can feel the air move as the blade passes within inches of his skin. "Down you go!" he roars, the silver dart sparking again for a moment before a bolt of arcane power erupts from his hand and slams into the rider attempting to cut him down.
Seizing his opening Robbet quickly swings his cudgel at the brigand.
He returns the bandits shout with an ear piercing scream of his own, ARR
With a wild frenzy he continues to swing his cudgel with reckless abandon
Traits
+I am the Law - You may flip the results to succeed at Intimidate Tests. When you succeed, it is always considered a Critical Success. Furthermore, you always influence a number of people with the Intimidate Skill equal to three times your [BB] – this includes use of Litany of Hatred during combat.
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Talents:
+ MENACING DEMEANOR Effect: When you succeed at an Intimidate Test, you inflict 1D10+1 mental Peril.
Nuriah's eyes widen at the ferocity and quickness of the brigand, but she takes her time to steady herself, waiting for the right moment to swing her axe.
With a crazed look in his eyes Robbet heartily turns his war scream into a rallying call to his companions, ”Have hart my friends Reeve and his cudgel are at hand.”
Robbet squares up to his opponent and swings his oaken cudgel at the man's head.
Nuriah curses when her swing is easily avoided by the brigand, but his menacing visage brings her back to the moment, allowing the momentum of the axe to assist her in bringing it back around, but this time aiming to poke the man in the forehead with the top of her axe-head..
Whatever the result of her stunt, she brings her axe back and attempts to split the man's skull in the same spot...
As the combat rages, Brunhard keeps his pike and shield raised, once again seeking an opportunity to skewer one of his foes .
When one of the scurrilous bandits present an opening, the knight takes it - pike flashing forward
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It is often in the first clash of a battle that the victor is decided--not always through the swift death of one or the other engaged, but in the sudden understanding of skill. The brigands are savage, and fast, but they are not trained warriors. Though Nuriah is struck with an axe, the other heroes avoid their attackers' blows.
Robbet quickly brings his cudgel to bear as his fearsome cry sends terror to the enemy; his first strike catches the rider in the stomach, and the second is a powerful blow to the chest, knocking him from his horse. The brigand lands at a bad angle, and lies still on the ground in a broken heap; his horse, braying wildly, takes its leave of the engagement.
Hedir draws back in time to avoid the first slash, and once more performs the brief ritual of his spell. This time, the dart flies from his hand and strikes the rider high in one thigh, bringing a shout of pain and surprise. He wheels about and slashes once more, but his balance betrays him, and the wicked blade sails over the Elf's head.
Nuriah, having missed with her first attack, curses and brings it about for a different tactic. The end of her axe rises toward the man's head as he returns for another strike, but it is a glancing blow, and he avoids the next swing she offers. His own axe whirls about before coming in fast; unless the pilgrim proves quicker, it is sure to strike.
The hedge knight, Brunhard, also fares well against the first tide. His shield easily knocks aside the spear thrust, and his own return with his pike pierces the brigand's side, drawing blood and a cry of pain. His second thrust misses the mark as the brigands wheel about and dismount; it is easier to surround a foe on foot. Little do they know they face a trained knight, however; the huge man is not surprised, and easily sidesteps one attack, and twists in hopes of avoiding the other.
All around the heroes, the sounds of battle grow more pitched. Hummel turns aside an axe at the cost of his spear's haft; Kostas dodges the swipe of a sickle, and plants a dirk firmly into his attacker's side. The staff-wielding guard is fiercely engaged with a pair of brigands; the others are hard-pressed in their own melees, paltry training just holding against savage ferocity. Accompanying it all is the thunder and rumble of the earth, shifting beneath the warriors' feet...
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Surrounded, Brunhard once again uses his bulwark to ward off an attack. With a nod to himself he again holds the fighting stance; seeking an opening.. .
Aiming his attention at the wounded man, the big knight speaks - his voice flat and matter-of -fact;
"You who bear the bite of my pike. Come. Show me your death."
Confronting a Hedge Knight is a dangerous prospect and many foes quickly find themselves pinned down by their valorous onslaught.
Effect: Select one foe in combat. That foe is left Defenceless to all Melee Attacks and Called Shots made with melee weapons you make against them until they are defeated. You may select another foe once the current one is defeated.
Mirthlessly, Brunhard stabs his pike into the desert-wretch ;
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Nuriah gasps as the Bandit's axe blade scores a fiery line down her shoulder. She fights off her dismay at her own ineffectual attacks as the desert dweller's axe makes another deadly approach, her own axe handle rising to meet it....
Using the momentum from her adversary's blow, Nuriah allows her axe to disengage, then swing around to threaten the brigand...
Robbet yells with glee as he dispatched his foe, ”Keep it up lads.”
He looks around the fray, sees Nuriah injured, and charges toward her opponent swinging his cudgel before him.
Hedir continues to try to keep clear of the rider's blade as he draws another dart and incants another spell. Another silver bolt hammers into the man's gut, attempting to unseat him and finally put an end to his opponent.
Brunhard once more turns aside his enemies' strikes, and returns with one of his own. The deadly challenge of the knight is joined by blood as his pike drives through the brigand's shoulder, and the man shrieks and jerks free, only to topple from his horse. He pushes to his feet in terror and thrusts wildly at Brunhard, even as his ally slices down with his blade. But neither blow has strength enough to pierce his armor and skin, and the mountain of a knight stands strong amid the chaos.
Nuriah, fighting through the pain of her wound, proves that in these dark days even pilgrims know well the trials of combat. The haft of her axe turns aside the brigands' own, and she deftly brings her weapon about in a fierce chop. The head buries itself in the rider's thigh, and he lets out a guttural shout as he falls, dragged down by the weight of the weapon. Even as he tries to rise, Robbet charges in, his cudgel dropping with fervor. A hideous crack comes from high on the brigand's back, and he drops to lie still on the dusty ground.
Hedir incants again, the will of the very gods flowing through his words and hands. Another flash of silver splits the distance to his attacker, and the brigand gives a strangled cry as the dart lodges in his neck. One hand comes up to fumble with the missile, and he is too occupied in his pain to make any assault.
Around the party, the battle continues--and not fully in their favor. Those with the chance to see might bear witness as Hummel's broken spear betrays him; his opponent knocks his wild thrust aside and knocks him to the ground. The brigand's axe comes up with terrible intent, and lands deep in the man's chest, eliciting a horridly short scream. Kostas is holding his own, but one of the guards falls to a well-placed spear, leaving the others further pressed.
Seizing the lull around him Robbet gazes around trying to gage the ebb and flow of the melee.
The Reeve rushes back into the scrum with his trusty Oak Cudgel in hand toward the foe engaged with the elf he knows as Hedir. "Fear not friend for Robbet Reeve is at hand," he announces as he brings his cudgel down towards the brigand's head.
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Ignorant to all else but combat Brunhard ignores the chopping blade, instead focusing his attention on the foe standing before him. He maintains his fighting crouch, shield raised and pike poised...
"I am impressed. You still stand..."
Seeking to end one foe Brunhard attempts to skewer his wounded foe;
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Nuriah ticks her axe back and forth a few times to dislodge it from the Bandit's leg, turning her head to smile thanks to Robbet.
Then hearing Hummel's choked off scream, hustles over to deal with his attacker...
Hedir grits his teeth. "Just go down already," he growls as the dart in his hand sparks and flickers before streaking forward and hammering into the brigand's shoulder, sending the man's weapon tumbling from his nerveless fingers. "Does anyone else feel that?" he questions aloud, feeling the ground rumbling beneath his feet.
As the battle continues to rage, our heroes make up for the threat to the guards. Robbet the Reeve lunges from one foe to the next, lunging for the rider pressing his Elvish companion. The cudgel once more strikes true, the force of Robbet's charge lending it killing strength. The rider falls gracelessly from the horse, gore seeping to the dust from his crushed skull. In turn, Hedir turns and sends an eldritch bolt to the nearest enemy. Brunhard sees the wounded man before him collapse, a silver dart in his back, and so the knight turns to face his other foe. The brigand leaps wildly to one side in avoidance of the pike and swings with his sword, a well-placed slash that comes near to Brunhard's pike arm. Amid the chaos, Nuriah charges for the man standing over Hummel, and her axe comes down with vicious fury. The bandit shrieks as the axe plants deep in his back, and his body stiffens before collapsing to the ground, another corpse atop Hummel's own.
All about, the screams of the common folk continue, although the bandits have lessened their wild shouts. Kostas finally ends his foe, a dirk ripping out the man's throat, and the staff-wielding guard knocks a man from his horse and slams one iron-shod cap heavily onto the brigand's skull. As the free horses bray and gallop off, the remaining bandits seem at the breaking point...
And then the earth shifts and erupts in a spray of stone and dirt, hurtling into the air and blinding all upon the field. Horses are knocked to their sides, riders' legs pinned and shattered beneath their bulk; those few who keep their feet rear and scream wildly. The bucking ground threatens to knock any and all near it to their backs, and is of little good cheer even if it signals an end to the battle.
”What the ...” Robbet yells as he try’s to maintain his balance on the shifting ground.
TURN V
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The brigand's wild swing finds Brunhard's pike arm extended and vulnerable, and its blade bites deep.
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He pulls back his arm with a grimace, and a curse - its words lost as he is knocked prone!
Through the cloud of dust and debris, the big knight scowls rising slowly back to his feet
"What in the Leviathan's name happened?! Do these wretches command magicks o'er the wasteland itself?"
Hedir grits his teeth as the ground beneath their feet bucks and he's able to maintain his footing for just a moment before a more violent tremor throws him flat on his face. "Definitely felt that one," he grumbles, pushing himself back up to see what's going on. "I don't think this is their magic. Not unless they're far stronger than their appearance suggests."
In the chaotic bucking and explosion of earth, precious few keep their feet. Those horses still upright lose their riders, and Robbet Reeve is among less the small handful not knocked to the ground. All eyes turn to the source of the sudden upheaval, but precious little can be seen. One horse and rider, caught close to the eruption, are both letting out panicked screams, and a wet tearing and crunching can be heard as well. Amid the sprays of dirt are flashes of blood, and glimpses that suggest some great beast with writhing masses of hardened flesh.
Finally, amid the frantic shouting, the voice of Kostas rings clear: fearful, nearly panicking, but comprehensible.
"EARTHEN GNOME!"
The name is only vaguely familiar to some, and does little to quell the fears of all present. Those brigands who can are already scrambling away, seeking their feet and running for their lives. Those pinned beneath fallen mounts let out piteous screams; one turns to a bloodcurdling shriek as the churning mass of beast and earth moves in his direction, apparently finished with its first prey.
"Get moving!" Kostas shouts. The dwarf has managed to take to his feet, and waves and points in the direction of the Great Road. "Grab what you can and run! Leave the wagons, leave the oxen!"