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The tiny town of Phaendar in Nirmathas has persisted in some form or another for 3 centuries, ever since the construction of its eponymous bridge over the Marideth River made it a minor stopping point on Cheliax’s trade road to what were once the nation’s northern colonies. Over the years, the town’s population has rarely risen above a few hundred souls, and very little has changed even now, despite a war for independence raging just 3 days' march to the south. Beyond its location as a crossroads between the Nesmian Plains and the Hollow Hills, Phaendar offers little military value. The lack of walls makes it impossible to hold; the flat land allows citizens to see armies approaching a day in advance and flee into the woods; and the river it overlooks is choked with rapids and barely navigable. Only someone wildly overambitious or a tactical genius would find any value in this exposed underbelly of a farm town.
Trade comes through the town over Phaendar Bridge, the only suitable place to traverse the swift, rapid-coursed river for 50 miles in either direction. The town of 400 residents rarely sees any excitement, making the Market Festival a major source of news, entertainment, and revenue. The 2-day affair, held once every 3 months, gathers farmers and herders from across the Nesmian Plains, as well as woodcutters from the nearby Fangwood and prospectors from the Hollow Hills, to trade for supplies and raw materials. Even traders from the “big city” of Tamran make their way to the event, swelling the town’s population to half again its normal size.
The majority of the activity of the Market Festival takes place, appropriately enough, in the Market Green, an oval--shaped courtyard surrounded by businesses and residences. Normally a wide open space where children play and families picnic, it is covered in stands and stalls and abuzz with activity during the Market Festival. Merchants hock their wares, traders display their goods, and restauranteurs take their operation outside. The mood is upbeat and friendly (and not at all foreboding).
Our heroes find themselves at the Market Festival for various reasons. Let's meet them, shall we?
On the outskirts of the Green, a beast steps around a patch of bushes. He appears to be not so much a wolf, as the ancient memory of wolves, when the world was younger and the animals more primal, when "apex" was synonymous for "nightmare." Well over 200 pounds, and easily half a foot longer than a normal wolf, he pads into the clearing, watching the humanoids caper about with curious, alert eyes. He looks unusually intelligent for an animal, and if he were feeling less sociable, one might catch the terrifying rows of wickedly sharp yellow fangs he is currently showing and feel a fear that humanoids had not felt in millenia: the fear felt by prey.
Instead, at the moment, he looks up to the statue of a woman standing next to him and his great tongue spills out the side of his mouth in a doggy grin. His expression is obvious to anyone looking: Play?
The statue of a woman... moves. Her onyx-black hair waves as her matching eyes turn down to look at the wolf. Her slate-gray, stony skin looks to be made of some sort of shale. She shakes her head at the great beast. When she speaks, her voice sounds like gravel tumbling down a mountainside in a strangely rhythmic and musical staccato.
"You are a wolf. One of the fiercest predators in the known world, and you're smiling at the sight of children? You are an embarrassment to your species." Seeing the wolf hasn't understood a word of that, she sighs. "Just try to behave yourself."
She isn't worried about Mac's behavior. She and the wolf have been together for almost two decades, and she has brought him into Phaendar on countless occasions since then. The wolf, she has pondered several times, was a full-grown adult when he pulled her from the river twenty years prior, and has neither aged nor slowed in that time. She doubts he is immortal, but still. She often wonders how much time she has left with him. It is a deeply uncomfortable thought, and one of the few which can bring her to tears.
She pushes it away from her mind and slips into the crowd. "A good knife," she says amiably to Mac. The wolf doesn't appear to be listening, sniffing at people's legs before hurrying back to her side and putting on that doofy grin again. "Lost my last one in that scuffle with the bear. Lucky to be alive after that nonsense. I don't think I did more than piss it off. Thankfully, after I stuck my knife in its neck, it decided I wasn't worth the trouble. Bugger still has it in him, I'll bet."
She sighs--more wistful than irritated--and heads to a weapon stall to see what is available.
A tall woman stands on the outskirts of Market Green, working up the courage to venture into the throng. She wears long red pants that have long since discolored to brown and a tattered green cloak whose hood cannot hope to hide what lies beneath: not the shock of brilliant red hair, nor the piercing green eyes, nor the pale face that over the years has become more freckle than pale.
While her clothing has certainly seen better days, the longbow on her back is another story. It is the picture of expert craftsmanship, beautiful and deadly in equal measure.
She has good reasons for avoiding crowds. Those reasons led directly to her settling here, spending nearly as much time in the nearby Fangwood as she does in this sleepy town. However, the anonymity the town affords her also contributes to her current quandary: the local craftsmen are skilled but obtaining anything more exotic than a basic sword or shield means either venturing out to the big city (nope) or waiting for a Market Festival (also nope, but the lesser of two evils). She used the last of her cold iron arrows fighting off a group of mites last week, and she feels naked and vulnerable without them.
She can get cold iron arrows somewhere out on the Market Green. She just hopes she can do it quickly and get out.
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A young man, a local boy by his dress, stumbles from the back of a covered wagon, holding his bright red cheek and rushing off deeper into town looking thoroughly flummoxed. A few of the Varisians of the caravan watch him go with mild curiosity, but most of them know this drill by now.
An elderly Varisian woman steps off the driver's seat of the lead wagon. It is parked like all the others, but Mama Van can often be found smoking her cigarettes from the driver's seat, pondering the path forward even when they are not moving. She is rather unlike one would expect from a Varisian matriarch; most picture plump women with ample bosoms, their wagons rich with laughter and spiced foods. Not so with Vanaya Tandria. She is tall and thin, a whipcord of a woman even as she approaches her twilight years, light and quick on her feet (despite occasional protests about her knees) and damned scary with that shortbow of hers.
Her sharp green eyes move to the covered wagon where the ruckus occurred, and she begins moving there with a steady, agile gait despite her many years. She already knows what she'll find, so there's no need to rush.
Sure enough, a few moments later a Varisian woman in her early twenties practically bounces out of the wagon, thoughtlessly adjusting her bodice and fixing her hair as she does. She has the curves of a fertility goddess, with ample hips, and ample features, topped by a heart-shaped face and long, luxuriously curling hair the color of a moonless night. Her eyes settle on the matriarch of the caravan and she turns her chin up defiantly, though a keen eye can spot little pins of color on her cheeks.
"Miss Karela," Mama Van drawls as she saunters up. "Was the young man trying to get fresh with you?" A few of the newer caravaners try--and mostly fail--to be surreptitious while they listen in on the conversation.
Katia doesn't miss it, and doesn't back down. "Try?" she says casually while strapping her belt pouch onto her wide waistbelt. She wears a deep gray silk kimono-style padded number she'd purchased from a Tien merchant for her birthday last year, and it is belted down with a waistbelt that seems to do double duty as a corset. "He didn't 'try' anything. He very successfully, ah... got fresh with me, as you put it. Quite enjoyable. Not very skilled, but he made up for it with enthusiasm."
Mama Van raises her eyebrows in mock surprise. "Oh, I see. Then what did he do to necessitate the mark on his cheek?"
Katia sniffs disdainfully. "Offered an engagement ring, that's what. I am no man's bartering chip for his father's dowry."
Mama Van nods slowly, face somber, but the mask slowly begins to crack, and within moments the two women are laughing raucously. A few of the other Varisian women--wives, mostly--scowl at the behavior, while others chuckle and continue their chores.
"Oh, girl, I am glad we picked you up," Mama Van says as she finally catches her breath.
Katia chuckles, and the sound has an eerie, hauntingly beautiful tone to it. "Come on, now, Van. You know you only picked me up because my cleavage brings business to your caravan."
Mama Van snorts. "We did just fine before you and your t+@& came along, child. No, the harrowings. We haven't had someone with the actual talent in some years. Makes the others feel good to have a piece of the Old Ways with us." She pauses. "Plus your cleavage brings in extra business."
Katia smirks. "I'm off to the Market Green to sell a few readings. Plus I'm out of tea. Need anything?"
Mama Van shakes her head. "Just don't forget to be back by supper time. Welo is making stew again. I'm told he used something other than rabbit."
Katia rolls her eyes as she walks away. "If that man knows how to cook a meat other than coney, I'll die of shock." She waves to the older woman and makes her way into town, toward the massive throng of stalls and people at the Market Green.
Oona shakes her head at the merchant. "No no, the one with the deer antler handle. Let me see that one." She tests the balance on her forefinger. "Hmm. A little heavy on the back end, by maybe half an ounce, but good weight overall." She tests the edge and finds it suitably sharp, but not razor-sharp. That's good; cutting sinew and hide with an ultra-sharp knife will only dull it that much quicker. "Alright, I'll take this, and two whetstones please--Mac! Stop pestering the jerky dealer. Come!"
Mac looks up from where he's been sitting near the jerked meat vendor next door, staring longingly at the jerked goods hanging from hooks overhead. He gives his companion a morose stare before shuffling to plant his butt grumpily next to her.
She sighs, pays for her purchases, then buys a small bag of jerked venison from the vendor, muttering an apology for Mac pestering him, and feeds a few pieces to the wolf. Mac looks like two wildly differing opinions are battling for supremacy in his wolf brain: one side is overjoyed at chewing on the delicious treat, and the other side is both alarmed and dismayed at the amount of work he has to put into chewing it. The former seems to be winning out, however. Oona shakes her head and chews thoughtfully on a piece of venison jerky. "Let's replenish my arrows, then we'll look around and see if there are any caravans heading out after the Market needing extra eyes. We're a bit low on funds, for my taste."
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Katia thanks the old man at the vendor stall and pockets her dried leaves. He gave her an odd look when she ordered a month supply of midnight tea, but sold it to her nonetheless. She really aught to try her hand at growing some herself. It might be able to be potted, and she'd save a bundle. Ah well. She takes the valerian root she bought and puts it in a different pouch. That will have to be ground and powdered rather than steeped, but Mother always said it was the best cure for pain she'd found, and Katia believed it. The root did wonders for her migraines.
Her purchases complete, she finds a spot of grass where there is slightly less foot traffic, not too close to other vendors but not so far from the Green that she seems unapproachable, and begins setting up.
Katia rolls out an ornate but threadbare rug and places the small, low table she uses for her readings. After a moment's hesitation, she also pulls out a do-rag and bundles her hair up in it so it spills through it out the back. Play the part, Katia. If you don't give them what they expect, you don't make money. She sets out two candles and lights them; the effect is stronger in the darkened space of her covered wagon in the caravan, but even in broad daylight people expect candles at a harrow reading, so she obliges. The small wooden table is designed specifically to perform a reading, with nine rectangular spots etched artfully into its surface in a three-by-three grid, and gold tracery lining the outside edge of the surface, all polished to a fine grain and coated in a beautiful finish. It had been Mama Van's birthday gift last year.
She pulls out her spare harrow deck--she never gives readings with her mother's deck unless she intends to give the reading her full power--and shuffles absently while giving her best sultry, mysterious gaze to the nearby Market-goers. A small wooden plaque leaning against the leg of the table reads, in simple but concise lettering:
KNOW YOUR FUTURE
HARROW READINGS 5 SP
Early on, Katia had made two terrible mistakes: she charged a full gold piece, and she told the truth.
Nobody wanted to pay a gold piece for a reading, and nobody wanted to pay anything for a true reading. So she cut her price in half and learned to tell people what they wanted to hear. You will find true love. Great wealth awaits you in the future. A surprise looms! It seems ill-omened at first, but will turn out to be a great boon!
She's getting quite good at spinning b@*&#*$&. For her fellow Varisians in the caravan, of course, she gives true readings, when she can; the magic comes and goes. But for others, she rarely gives a true reading. Once in a while, though, someone comes along that she feels compelled to show the truth. Usually someone with a strong constitution; the future is mostly unhappy for most people. She doubts she will meet such an individual today. For now, she will settle for a few silver in her pocket to buy something nice.
To the casual observer, the dozens of stalls and stands would seem laid out haphazardly, with no rhyme or reason, no plan. But Freyja sees an odd order to it, an unconscious organization that the vendors and proprietors and restauranteurs just seem to fall into. It takes her only a minute or so of walking around until she senses exactly where the fletcher's stand will be. She rounds a corner and her suspicion is confirmed; a small smirk manages to creep its way onto her face.
The smirk becomes an involuntary smile when she sees the wolf and his master at the very stand she is headed for. She has never met the master -- the first oread she has ever seen -- but she has admired the wolf from afar for as long as she has called Phaendar home. He is a beautiful beast, and huge!
The wolf notices her approach and turns to face her. His mouth opens into a smile and his tail wags and Freyja knows that she is lost; there is no way that she will not be greeting this wolf, and that means speaking to his master as well.
Not everyone is out to get you. No one even knows you're alive! She hates that rational side of her brain because she is absolutely positive that it is going to get her captured -- or worse -- one day.
Still. She can't make a living without risk. And this wolf is cute!
She reaches the fletcher and somehow manages to resist the urge to go directly to the wolf. She catches the strange rock woman's attention. "Hello. May I pet your wolf?"
"Let me see ones with the ostrich feathers. Mm... They're a little heavier than I prefer. Throws off my aim. Let me see the hawk feather fletching." She glances at the young befreckled woman bemusedly. "You may. He is used to humans."
She looks at the wolf. "Try not to go completely comatose if she rubs your belly. Keep some dignity."
As if on cue, Mac flops onto his back and presents his belly for rubs. His disturbingly large size and primeval appearance make his dog-like behavior that much more odd.
Freyja laughs when the wolf flops over -- a full, boisterous sound that seems to erupt from her body -- only to be clipped short, as if it surprised even her. Yep, this is all they'd have to do to get me. Bring a cute damn dog. Despite herself, she spends a full minute loving on the animal, and reveling in it. There is nothing quite like the unabashed, unconditional love and companionship of an animal. No judgment, no ulterior motives. Maybe one day she will have one of her own.
You are here for a reason.
Reluctantly, she stands. "Thank you. What is his name?"
Katia has a near constant stream of business during the Festival. The setting, the theatrics, and the ability for others to see readees get told good news are all too much to resist (the cleavage also helps). One of the customers, a dark-haired Varisian-Shoanti woman named Jet, is so pleased with her reading that she invites Katia to the Taproot Inn -- which she owns -- for complimentary dinner and drinks once the festival closes at sundown.
"McAnally," she replies, studying the woman more carefully now. She's fairly certain she has seen the girl before, either around town or its outskirts. She seems awfully squirrelly, but Oona decides not to press. "I call him Mac, for short. And I am Oona." She doesn't ask for her name, letting her choose to accept the silence or respond as she chooses.
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Katia takes a break in the early afternoon, packing up her things to grab a light lunch at one of the vendor stalls; she smiles politely to the current few stragglers and explains she'll return in an hour for more harrowings.
She picks a grilled corn on the cob and some sort of meat on a stick. It's a bit gamy but the spices are exquisite. She takes her time wandering the stalls, enjoying the multitude of wares and people that usually aren't seen in Phaendar. She's been to the town only a handful of times, and almost always during the Festival. She came once during the off-season, and the difference was startling. It looked like any other tiny, fragile frontier town like one could find almost anywhere in the lawless lands of Nirmathas. Full or empty, though, she thinks to herself, at least my skin color gets me much fewer looks out here. Hells, there's a statue walking around and hardly anyone notices.
She blinks, backs up, and looks again. Okay, yes. That is definitely a woman made of stone talking to a woman made of freckles. She shakes her head in wonderment and continues on, chewing enthusiastically on her corn.
Freyja blushes hard at the question Oona didn't ask, but doesn't shy away. Anyone who has the affection of a beast this impressive cannot be bad, right? "My name is Freyja." The way she pronounces it makes it clear that there is a 'j' in her name, without actually making a 'j' sound. "And begging your pardon" -- she blushes even harder -- "but I find that owl feathers fly most true." She turns to the merchant. "Twenty cold iron arrows, owl, please."
After both women complete their transactions, Freyja starts to walk away, then stops. She turns, looks at Mac, then at Oona. "I have a range set up just inside the wood. If you would like to come and shoot sometime." It seems almost painful for her to get the words out, but also an enormous relief, like kneading a particularly tight muscle. "It is quiet and no one bothers me there."
Every instinct in her body is telling her to run. Her muscles are coiled like a cat ready to pounce. She feels it and she hopes it is not as obvious to Oona as it feels to her. She is certain that Mac senses it; is their bond such that Oona can sense what Mac senses? ohgodswhyisntsheansweringme?
Oona watches Freyja with an unreadable expression. "I do not get enough archery practice. I should like that, thank you." She nods at the owl-fletched feathers she purchased at the young woman's suggestion. "I look forward to trying these out. I'll see you soon, then."
She leaves the young woman and heads off into the Festival. Once out of earshot, she says to Mac, "She is... what is that human expression? An 'odd duck.' Yes, I think that's it. Definitely an odd duck. I've never seen someone so on edge before."
Mac gives her a soulful expression that a more generous person might mistake as the infinite wisdom of canines, to look sympathetic and understanding. Oona knows better; she rolls her eyes and feeds him another piece of jerky, which Mac begins gleefully chewing in an awkward staccato rhythm as they walk.
Freyja can't help but smile to herself as she walks (as quickly as she can without looking like she is walking quickly) out of the festival. She has nearly reached the edge when she spots a woman advertising psychic readings. Feeling a surge of confidence from her interaction with Oona and Mac, she thinks, oh, what the hell? and takes a place in line.
When she reaches the front of the line, she takes a seat. "Hello. So, how does this work?"
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Katia turns to the new customer with her customary sultry expression, heavy-lidded eyes and slightly-exaggerated accent. "I require you to--" She stops very suddenly, and gives the woman a hard look. Huh. Yes. This one.
She slips her standard harrow deck into her pocket and draws out Mother's deck. To any with a talent for magic, a faint vibration of power emanates from it. "I need you," she says very carefully, "to ask a question. Be warned; the Harrowing does not always bring good tidings."
Well, this was a bad idea.
Freyja hesitates. She knows the question she has to ask, but she has not spoken of it aloud since... since it happened. She opens her mouth, then closes it again. She blinks away the tears that well up in her eyes.
She looks around, then leans in and, in a voice barely above a whisper, says, "Will they find me?"
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Katia eyes the woman with an appraising look. That question has haunted her for four years. Her husband--well; calling him a proper husband would be a particularly vulgar joke. "Owner" was more fitting. Her owner had many influential friends. Were any of them the type to seek revenge for his death, rather than loot his corpse? (Metaphorically speaking; she didn't leave enough of an actual corpse to loot.)
She finds herself staring at the woman with an intensity she reserves for particular people; her sultry gaze returns, but this time unconsciously. Stop it, Katia. She's clearly trouble. The witch clears her throat and looks down at the cards as she shuffles them, taking a few breaths and counting to ten.
She then pulls nine cards from the deck, splays them out in her fingers with the card backs facing the girl, and says, "Choose." She places a subtle emphasis on the word, giving it special weight and power.
Freyja wants nothing more than to stand up, gather her few belongings, and move on to the next smudge-on-a-map town that she finds. But she stays. She has been avoiding this too long. It is time.
She starts to reach for the last card, but shakes her head and pulls the first.
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Katia flips the Chosen card over, revealing a picture of a buxom halfling woman holding a newborn infant that is clearly tainted by infernal powers. "The Midwife," Katia muses. "We shall see what that means."
Her hands practically blur over the cards as she shuffles the nine back in, finally setting out nine cards in a three-by-three pattern with one smooth, practiced motion. She places them face-up and pointing toward the young woman receiving the Harrowing. Katia scans the cards carefully for several silent moments, before pointing first to the bottom left card.
On the card is depicted a queen ant, complete with golden crown, a tight bodice showing bizarrely human cleavage, and several grubs attending her. "The Queen Mother. Something in your past severed your ties to society as a whole, and you long for that sense of belonging to a group."
She points next to the central card, depicting a semi-reptilian fowl covered in violent shades of green and yellow, with bright red eyes. "The Peacock, perfectly aligned. A change is coming, a large one, and on a scale much bigger than just you. Something is about to happen that may reshape society, at least nearby." Katia frowns. Something about the Peacock is particularly menacing, but she can't put her finger on it. "Whatever this great change, you will also be swept up in it. You must adapt or it will overwhelm you."
She points to the card just above it, in the top middle slot, showing a jester haranguing a child at a festival; ominous shades of purple are in abundance. "The Carnival. The card of illusions and false dreams. You are currently following a path you have set for yourself, but it will shortly be made most imprudent to continue that course. If you change it, you may benefit greatly."
Katia looks at the final column, the column for the future, and frowns. She points to the bottom-most card, where a skulking figure holds a poisoned dagger. "The Snakebite. It represents the death of ideas, of freedom. It is the poisoning of love, empathy, and understanding. The poisoning of a friend's mind against his brother. Something will happen to destroy freedom. Perhaps yours, perhaps..." She shakes her head, frowning. She feels something particularly potent and ugly radiating from this card, but has no idea what it could mean.
After another moment of thought, she points to the top right card. A man in chains is dangling head-first toward a vat of boiling wax. "The Waxworks, and it is misaligned. This is actually a good thing, here. In the future, perhaps very soon in fact, you will gain great momentum and energy at a critical moment. Use it well, and the life you save may well be your own."
She meets the young woman's eyes with a little more intensity than she intended. "You chose the Midwife. A great and terrible change is coming to these lands, one that may very well swallow up the notions of freedom and individualism this country reveres. But you will be in the center of it, and you will have the opportunity to turn the tides. You, like the Midwife, will abet the creation of something new. Something important. An idea."
She looses a deep, weary sigh and sweeps up the cards. "That is... all I have for today." She gathers up the deck and sticks it in its special spot in her belt pouch, a small water-tight compartment to hold Mother's deck, and begins gathering her things. Something in the cards has clearly shaken her.
Freyja sits through the reading in silence, attempting to keep her emotions off of her face. When the reading is over, she nods, barely able to meet Katia's eyes. She squeaks out a "thank you" and quickly walks away.
She makes a beeline for her little shack on the edge of town when an urge she hasn't felt in quite some time overwhelms her: she needs a damn drink. She left her comfort zone far behind today and her nerves are shot. It's worth braving the crowds one last time to drink a pint or six of ale. And a decent meal would be nice, while she's at it.
She sighs heavily and turns around to head towards the Taproot. The Festival isn't over yet so it's not too busy; she sits at a table tucked far in a corner, orders some stew and an ale with orders to keep them coming, pulls her hood further down over her face, and thinks.
The sun has started to set and vendors are making final preparations to pack up and shut down.
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When Katia arrives back at the caravan, she hurriedly stows her rug and Harrow table. After a moment's consideration, she grabs her satchel, crossbow, and dagger.
When she comes out, Mama Van is looking at her strangely from her usual position at the driver's seat, a rolled cigarette between her lips. Her sharp eyes raise their brows inquisitively at Katia.
The witch shrugs. "I am going out tonight. I felt like being prepared, just in case."
Mama Van watches, but doesn't comment.
Katia turns back to her at the last moment, moving to stand as close to her as possible from the ground, and mutters, "I saw something in the cards. Maybe it's nothing, but... Perhaps you had best prep the caravan to be sure. You should eave at sunrise, whether or not I'm with you. I can catch up, if needs must."
"Dammit girl, what are you--"
Katia raises a hand. "Please, Van. It's probably nothing. Just... be ready. Please."
She hustles off into town, to get a drink at the Taproot Inn. She has the feeling she's going to need it.
As the vendors break down their stalls and prepare to leave, Oona gives Mac a firm pat on the flank; she hardly has to bend down to do it. "Let's go, fur-face. I need a hot meal. Maybe we can get you something bloody." She heads to the Taproot, wondering what Jet will have on the menu tonight.
Phaendar’s Market Festival draws a crowd from all over Nirmathas, many solely to hear Aubrin the Green -- the retired Chernasardo Ranger-turned-Caydenite cleric -- recount bawdy tales of adventure from her youth. Outside, the celebration continues, as raucous shouts carry on the night air. Warmed by the firelight after a long day, any levity comes as a welcome reward to the rough, earthy souls of this riverside trade town.
"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.
Two hobgoblins in military dress stand beyond the shattered door, blades drawn. Behind them, lit by the glow of burning homes, dozens -- perhaps hundreds -- of hobgoblin soldiers march the street. Phaendar burns, shouts of celebration now replaced by the panicked screams of the frightened and dying. Behind them, above the flames and humble rooftops, rises a tower of black stone.
Katia (16/16 hp)
Freyja (22/22 hp)
Hobgoblin 1 (0 damage)
Oona (20/20 hp)
Hobgoblin 2 (0 damage)
Welcome to Ironfang Invasion. Bold may act.
The ballista bolt that passed directly through Aubrin missed Freyja's head by mere inches. She looks up and sees what is coming through the door, and a look of unbridled hatred covers her face. F~!+ING hobgoblins. Die. She jumps to her feet, pulling her bow off of her back in a smooth, practiced movement. In a shout that would surprise those of you that just met her, she bellows, "EVERYBODY GET BACK!" This seems to snap several of the bar patrons out of their stunned reverie and people begin scrambling to their feet.
Freyja moves to the center of the inn to line up a better shot.
The first hobgoblin looks at the gathered crowd and snarls, saliva dripping out of the side of its mouth. In broken Common, it shouts, "Everyone on ground! You fight, you die!"
Katia (16/16 hp)
Freyja (22/22 hp)
Hobgoblin 1 (0 damage)
Oona (20/20 hp)
Hobgoblin 2 (0 damage)
Bold may act.
Oona kicks the stool next to her away, moving forward and drawing her scythe. "Correction," she says coldly. "I fight, you die." She glances at Mac and says, with almost casual disdain, "Attack."
Mac bolts forward, fangs bared in a snarl so deep, so low and gutteral, it sounds like a peat bog about to rupture, and bites at the hobgoblin near the door.
Hobgoblin 2 looks like he is ready to repeat a similar warning as the other one, but then a ... rock ... woman? ... gets in his face and tells her wolf to attack his friend. "Okay, you all die." He swings his longsword in a vicious strike at Oona's left shoulder. It hits her and leaves an nasty gash all the way to the bone .
Most of the inn patrons start making their way to the back of the room.
Katia (16/16 hp)
Freyja (22/22 hp)
Hobgoblin 1 (0 damage)
Oona (11/20 hp)
Mac (24/24 hp)
Hobgoblin 2 (0 damage)
Bold may act.
Freyja sees Oona's grievous injury but she has a better shot at the other hobgoblin. With impossible speed, she draws and fires two arrows.
The first shot misses but Freyja is able to make an adjustment on the second. The arrow buries itself nearly to the fletching in the hobgoblin's chest.
Aubrin is still extremely hurt but Katia's healing has at least stopped the bleeding. She is still stunned but no longer in danger of bleeding out.
The hobgoblin in front of Mac swings his sword and connects, tearing a large chunk of flesh from his flank .
Katia (16/16 hp)
Freyja (22/22 hp)
Hobgoblin 1 (0 damage)
Oona (11/20 hp)
Mac (15/24 hp)
Hobgoblin 2 (11 damage)
Bold may act.
Oona lashes out with her scythe at the hobgoblin in front of her.
Mac yelps in pain, then snarls and goes in for another pass at the hobgoblin's legs.
Oona's scythe puts a huge gash in the hobgoblin's chest, and it immediately retaliates with a longsword through her side . Mac is still dreaming of jerky that he doesn't have to kill to eat.
Katia (16/16 hp)
Freyja (22/22 hp)
Hobgoblin 1 (11 damage)
Oona (3/20 hp)
Mac (15/24 hp)
Hobgoblin 2 (8 damage)
Bold may act.
Freyja takes another two shots at #1.
Both miss terribly :(
The hobgoblin recoils at Katia's gaze and yells something in goblin.
It swings its sword at Mac and, for the first time this combat, misses. Terribly.
Katia (16/16 hp)
Freyja (22/22 hp)
Hobgoblin 1 (11 damage, -2 to hit [1 round])
Oona (3/20 hp)
Mac (15/24 hp)
Hobgoblin 2 (8 damage)
Bold may act.
Oona, blood trickling from several horrid wounds, looks unperturbed, and swings again at the hobgoblin in front of her.
Sensing his companion in danger, Mac barks at the hobgoblin, a wild, aggressive sound that fills the entire inn, and bites at its leg again.
Oona is barely standing and the hobgoblin easily blocks her swing. Mac manages to clamp down on #1's leg but it twists out of Mac's jaws before Mac can take him down.
Then #2, who might as well be the final boss, strikes Oona down with another vicious slash across the chest .
Katia (16/16 hp)
Freyja (22/22 hp)
Hobgoblin 1 (13 damage, -2 to hit [1 round])
Oona (-4/20 hp)
Mac (15/24 hp)
Hobgoblin 2 (8 damage)
Bold may act.