Since the girl did not offer her name, Reknar did the same - he looked around at Craig, Valtyra and Macharius, then nodded - ”Lets do this” - peered out the door to check the vicinity, and when he saw a chance to move away unnoticed, he motioned the group to move.
The door of the tavern shudders as Reknar pushes it open, the heat of the burning town rushing in like a living thing. Smoke curls through the air, thick and choking, carrying the stench of scorched wood and spilled blood. As you all step outside, it becomes clear that the town was a battlefield lost before the fight had even begun. The streets are a vision of ruin: bodies sprawled in the dirt, homes collapsing under the relentless hunger of fire, and in the distance, the screeching laughter of hobgoblins reveling in their dominance. Phaendar had been shattered in moments. There would be no reclaiming it tonight — maybe not ever.
You all press on, evading the enemy and reaching your goal. A signpost by the road announces the clapboard wooden shop and barnlike smithy sharing a single large, stone wall to be the Phaendar Trading Company. The smithy’s double doors stand open, revealing a large, still-glowing forge within. Two slaughtered goats and a dead horse fill an adjacent animal pen. Many fresh scratches and dents mar the trading post’s heavy wooden door, and a chair leg juts through one broken window. Small flames lick at the thatch rooftop where a red-hot iron has been tossed.
Eventually, you all make your way to your destination. Oreld’s Fine Shop — labeled with a small shingle hanging out front — is one of the few buildings in town made entirely of stone. Mortared white blocks form the walls of this odd shaped cottage. Scorch marks that shift in color from black to dark blue to glimmering violet mar one wall. The door to the shop stands open and bloody footprints lead inside.
Securing her weapons, Valtyra tries to blot out the smells of blood, smoke and fire as they work their way toward the smithy, internally dreading what they would find there. Now that they were out in the open, it was all so much worse than any of them could have imagined.
When they arrive her eyes widen at the sight of the dead animals. ”We need to get the iron off the roof before all the thatching goes up!” she says, quickly moving forward. ” Kining, are you here??”
Craig arched a brow as the elf's bypassing of group consensus, but then again he himself had said they couldn't dawdle too long. Sometimes risky or even unwise action is better than no action Grabbing that scroll, he moved on with the others that were heading towards market.
Macharius stiffens for a moment before nodding. "...got it.""I'm not the quietest, but I'll fight like hell."
Craig grunts an acknowledgement, gives a slight smile, at that and taps a finger near his own eye that was once blackened by Macharius as if agreeing and follows.
Since the girl did not offer her name, Reknar did the same - he looked around at Craig, Valtyra and Macharius, then nodded - ”Lets do this” - peered out the door to check the vicinity, and when he saw a chance to move away unnoticed, he motioned the group to move.
And Craig, long bow drawn, is already moving. He, like others, knows this small town's lay out by heart.
It breaks his heart to hear screams he can do nothing about, to see in the distance hobs what are killing his village's people. But he doesn't need his heart nearly as much as he needs his resolve so broken or not, he goes on.And he looks for one and if he can find it, a bucket or something else he can use to sling it up there.
"Unless Macharius wants to climb up there on Reknar's shoulders to use something to knock that ingot down maybe?" He looks for water to splash while he talks.
Aelethea and Shi'ra will approach the shop carefully, her bow drawn and an arrow knocked. She pauses outside the door listening for anything out of the ordinary before pushing the door open and stepping inside.
Tern will put his back to the outside of the door frame and let Aelethea go first.
Hopefully full cover helps that if there is anything inside. Outside that is frightening.
The thatch roof, still damp from the heavy rain a few days ago, seems to be resisting the flickering flames building up around the hot iron. For now, only the section in contact with the burning piece of metal is catching.
As you approach the building, you hear muffled voices coming from within the shopfront behind the clearly barred doors. You catch a glance inside the smithy, a place so familiar to you, and are shocked to see what appears to be a pile of living stone looking back at you. It trembles, its rocky form quaking as tiny pebbles tumble from its shoulders. Glowing amber eyes flicker with what could almost be fear, and it hunches low, pressing into the ground as if seeking refuge. A soft grinding of stone on stone escapes it—a nervous, whispering rasp, like shifting gravel. A few feet to it's front, the crushed body of a hobgoblin scout lies motionless, beaten and bloodied.
You easily scale the rough stone wall, finding yourself face to face with the burgeoning fire. From your newly gained vantage point, you notice a group of three hobs coming around the south side of the building.
The two of you begin heading toward the pen, finding four buckets next to the trough. You both hear the same muffled sounds coming from within the barred storefront. As you both begin to fill the buckets and try to fight the fire, Reknar's ears prick up slightly. You swear you hear footsteps coming from the south side of the building...
As you press against the doorframe, your boot slips on some loose stones. You slide into the wooden frame with a dull THUD.
You hear a pained groaning sound near the door, and the sound of someone or something shuffling around the shop punctuated with the occasional smashing of glass. As you press the door slightly, you can see a gangly hobgoblin inside who appears to be looting through Oreld's stock. His faced is covered in burn scars, twisting the ruddy skin on his face into a permanent grimace. He holds a chain connected to an iron collar, which is locked around the neck of a man lying wounding just in front of the door. As Tern slips, the noise seems to be enough to rouse the hob's interest, and he turns toward the door with a scowl.
You a see middle aged Taldan with light brown skin, dark brown hair, and a neatly trimmed goatee lying just within the doorway, a javelin protruding from his stomach and an iron collar clapped around his neck.
"Mhhm." Moragul grumbles, advancing into the store with axe in hand. "Looks like you're all alone, gobby."
"HOBS! SOUTH SIDE!" He then calls out before raising his sword!
"HOBS! SOUTH SIDE!"
comes in a timely fashion
Dropping his bucket on the hot iron that just landed he draws his bow and fires as soon as the enemy comes into view. He's sure the hobs heard Machrius call out as well
Not seeing a weapon in the hob's hand Tern does the first thing that comes to mind. He charges the hobgoblin and tries to wrap him up.
"Get him!" the sorcerer pleads.
As Craig loosens an arrow, Reknar draws his longspear and steps protectively ahead of the cleric, and slightly to the side, in a position to intercept any attackers - "Keep those arrows flying - if they come closer, I'll skewer them" - he nodded - "We got this"
"I'm not an enemy. Are you here to protect the forge?"
She'd heard stories of dwarves having strong ties to earth-type magic. Maybe Kenning had some sort of hidden defenses in the forge.
With the hobgoblin now aware of their presence, Aelethea kicks the door in and fires her arrow, but the hob manages to duck away at the last second.
Hissing at her bad shot, Aelethea motions for Shi'ra to charge into the room "Shi'ra, ionsaí!"
The cat, fur abristle, rushes the hobgoblin. While spinning out of the way of Aelethea's arrow, the motion puts the hobgoblin out of position of Shi'ra's pounce as she lands where the gobbo had been moments before.
Mac throws the brand to the ground, burning his hand slightly but removing the source of heat from the roof. The fire remains, though it's intensity is greatly reduced.
Craig's shot spuds into the wooden fence as the hobs make their way around the corner. The lead scout fires at Craig, as the remaining two take pot shots at Reknar with their bows.
As Valtyra approaches the small elemental, it is obvious that it shares no common language with her. It recoils, not completely sure of Valtyra's intentions but seemingly relaxed by her calm tone. The small creature lumbers toward the south side of the smithy, turning it's eyes toward the stone wall.
Block 1, feel free to act
The hobgoblin steps back, narrowly avoiding Tern's attempt at a tackle as the arrow wooshes past. He draws a heavy mace from his belt, lashing out at the man with fury.
Overjoyed at the sound of bones breaking beneath his swing, he lets out a cackle. His joy is short lived, as he notices the menacing Half-orc making his way into the store.
"Mow them down Craig" - he encouraged his companion.
Althea drops her bow to the ground and draws her leafblade as she moves around the room to behind the desk, kicking the chair out of her way as she goes.
Shi'ra lunges for the hobgoblin, teeth and claws bared. She sinks her teeth deep into the Hobgoblin, drawing blood from it's exposed thigh.
Terns steps back from the hobgoblin clutching his shoulder. The joint felt horribly bruised and stiff, but worse still was his ribs just under the joint. "That'll teach me to think I'm clever." he choked out as he took a hesitant breath and found it painful. He extended two fingertips and repeated his cantrip from earlier, trying to throw acid into the hobgoblin.
The earth elemental rumbles across the smithy floor until it finally reaches the stone wall. It presses forward, rocky form melting into the surface as if sinking into liquid, rippling for a heartbeat before vanishing entirely. A faint tremor runs through the ground as it disappears into the earth.
From the south, the three hobgoblins tighten up their formation in response to Reknar's deadly spear thrusts. Their bows already drawn as the leader barks a sharp command and all three archers unleash their shots—each one aimed at Reknar. The first two arrows whistle past harmlessly, but the third makes contact, clipping the half-orc in the shoulder.
Meanwhile, Macharius stands atop the roof, his silhouette outlined by the flickering glow of flames consuming the thatch. Without hesitation, he swings his axe, hacking away at the burning material before the fire can spread further. Each strike sends smoldering straw tumbling down, smoke billowing into the night air. With determined efficiency, he carves away the worst of the blaze, beating out the remaining embers with his boot.
These hobgoblins have clearly survived an encounter with something dangerous. Purple bruises and swelling on their faces and exposed forearms suggest something has bludgeoned them pretty aggressively; your soldierly instincts indicate that this group are licking their wounds, and won't take much to put down.
Hearing Craig's urgent call, Valtyra spins on her heel, thoughts of the earth creature abandoned for now as she races back to the others. As she bursts through the door, the sight of the strange battle happening through the gaps in the wooden fence makes the threat clear, her hand going to her hip, drawing a throwing axe as she comes to a stop, directing that momentum into her throw.
Once again Moragul calls on nature to grant him strength and size, quickly growing to tower over the others and bringing his axe down on the gob.
Macharius leaps from the rooftop, his axe flashing in the dim light of the moon as he descends like a thunderbolt. The unfortunate hobgoblin beneath him barely has time to register the shadow falling upon it before the weapon cleaves through its skull, killing it instantly.
Nearby, Craig calls out, his voice sharp with urgency. Even as he shouts, he raises his longbow and looses an arrow. The shaft flies true, burying itself deep into another hobgoblin’s thigh. The creature snarls in pain, stumbling back as dark blood seeps from the wound.
At Craig’s call, Valtyra bursts from the smithy, her eyes locked on the remaining foe. With a fluid motion, she hurls a throwing axe through the air. The weapon spins end over end before slamming into the hobgoblin’s side, biting deep. It howls in agony, staggering as it clutches the gaping wound.
Moragul stalks forward, his steps slow and deliberate like those of an executioner heading toward the chopping block. The wounded hobgoblin snarls defiantly, but there is no escape. With a brutal swing, Moragul buries his axe in the creature’s chest, silencing its cries in an instant.
The battle should be over, but a ragged breath draws attention. Vane Oreld lies nearby, barely clinging to life, his wounds grievous. Blood pools around him, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. If aid does not come soon, it may be too late…
Reknar continues trying to skewer the hobgoblin in front of him - "You should have surrendered"
The third and final hobgoblin turns his head left to right, frantically assessing the situation. He looks down at his wounded thigh, then turns on his heels and begins limping off as fast as he can. He shouts something in the goblin tongue.
"Bragz'nik, zaga! Urg'zok—Grimka, Hulsk—grotz'bak!"
"We can't let him get away" He gives chase and then fires at the fellow's back. He's not happy being a back shooter, but he's not feeling too guilty about it either. Erastil, guide my aim not for my sake, but for the sake of the survivors we've yet to save!
Tern clutches his chest, slowly taking in painful breaths as he looked down at the wounded shopkeeper. He grimaced as he went down to a knee beside him. "You're going to be okay Oreld. he told him, "Your wound's not so bad. Just relax and hold on." Despite his comforting words he looked to his two temporary companions for help.
I'm helping!
Aelethea kneels down beside Orled, draws her dagger and begins cutting strips off her cloak. She begins wrapping the worst of his wounds in an attempt to stop the bleeding.
"I need some help or we're going to lose him" she shouts to the others.
Goodberry is a useful spell Moragul always keeps prepared as he does so much traveling through the forest. The enchanted berries are both nourishing and can heal injuries. After setting aside his axe, the druid fishes out some berries harvested en route out of a pouch and, chanting a few words in Sylvan, waves a sprig of holly over the collected berries, mildly enchanting them with restorative magic. "Here. Give him one of these."
Valtyra strides forward, her hand automatically drawing another axe on her belt, an intense look of focus coming across her face as she runs through every detail of throwing an axe, over and over in her mind. Flashing back to the hours spent training with her father.
Move, Throw, Release... just like you practiced a thousand times...all weapons work essentially the same
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Craig exhales slowly, drawing his bowstring taut as he utters a quiet prayer to Erastil, the words barely audible over his heavy breathing. Old Deadeye guides his hand, and as he releases the arrow, it whistles through the air, striking true —burrowing into the crippled hobgoblin’s hip with a meaty THUNK. The creature staggers, snarling through gritted teeth, but before it can regain its footing, Valtyra steps forward.
With a sharp inhale, she lets fly a handaxe; an impossible, arcing shot that cuts the distance. The weapon spins end over end in a deadly whirl. It tumbles through the air, once, twice — then a third rotation before finding its mark. The axehead cleaves into the hobgoblin’s back with a wet CRACK, burying itself between its shoulders. The brute stiffens, a shuddering breath escaping its lips, before its legs give out beneath it. It collapses in a heap, the axe’s haft still quivering from the force of the throw.
A heartbeat of silence follows, before the low din of the battle raging on elsewhere becomes apparent once more.
Vane lies on the shop floor, his breath shallow and his skin clammy with shock. Tern kneels beside him, his voice steady and comforting despite the urgency in his eyes.
Aelethea steps in to lend aid. She works quickly, her hands pressing torn cloth against the wound in his chest. She lacks the skill of a practiced healer however, and blood seeps between her fingers and the cloth as she fights to slow its escape.
Moragul takes one of the goodberries and firmly pushes it between Vane’s lips, rubbing his throat to coax him into swallowing it. The unconscious man doesn’t resist — he can’t — but the magic takes hold all the same. A faint color returns to his cheeks. His breathing steadies, the ghost of a sigh escaping his lips. His eyes snap open, and he groans as he slowly sits up with a wince. He squints at the party, then at the dead hobgoblin, before grabbing at his stomach.
"By Erastil's beard, I feel fuller than a harvest barrel! How many healing tonics did you use?" he mutters. "I mean... thanks for the rescue. This bastard came outta nowhere, one minute I'm dealing with a few customers, the next it seems like th' whole town is afire! I jammed those other folks down in the cellar 'n locked it up, but I wasn't staying down there, no sir! I wadn't about to let no looters in here, but as soon as I got back inside and set up that trap on the door back there, that feller spotted me and must've thought I looked like right good target practice. Next I know, I'm down here with that spike stickin' in my belly!" Vane says, clearly exacerbated and a little overfull from his surprise goodberry.
"Praise Erastil, and a mighty big thanks to you, Valtyra," Craig says, moving to the body to take out the arrows he put in it for later, as well as other gear. He then starts to drag the body back towards the others asking her "You find anyone in the shop needing help or healing?" He reminds himself he needs to look over everyone's injuries
"Good job gang" - Reknar spat blood, taking a moment to regain his balance and check the nasty arrow wounds, while leaning hard against the fence - "That was too close for my taste though" - he growled, shaking it off and moving to the storefront - "I heard someone calling for help in here"
"Then we better get to them..." He starts to say then he appraises Reknar's wounds, "Shoot, Reknar, you look about as pale as Widow Glym's white picket fence first week of spring." He also notices Macharius burned hand, not as bad but still there, and his own injuries.
"Gather round," He says moving them from the hobgoblins. He doesn't to have one of them revive on him while he means the healing for others. That would risk alarms, Once they are all together, he puts his hand on his holy symbol.
Channeling is an odd thing. An academic versed in such might say it's just positive or negative energy being allowed through to harm or heal, but it is allowed passage by a god or godddess, and a god's will shapes a thing, always. So the energy that issues forth is not just healing, it is Erastill's healing. It feels warm, like a hearthfire in a chilly season, it smells kind, like crops come in on their freshest, and one might feel for a moment as if their family were their full of life, support and care but it's faint, all too faint.
Seeing he barely touched Reknar's injuries, he frowns, "Sorry, Reknar. Thought I'd be economical about it and touch us all up but it didn't do you much good. Want me to do it right?"
He then moves to follow Reknar.
"There was a...rock creature inside, acted a bit scared, definitely not on the same side as the hobgoblins. It sort of...melded through the wall just before you called for me." she tells the others, warning them of wheat they might find.
See Oreld... I told you everything would be fine." Tern says sarcastically with a sidelong look to Aelethea, "Anyway, I hate to break this to you, but we're fleeing the town and taking all the supplies and people with us we can. Can you disable the trap and show Moragul what to start grabbing? We have very little time. We split away from the larger group to come and rescue what we can."
The warmth of Erastil's divine energy radiates from Craig's holy symbol, granting a slight reprieve from the painful wounds sustained during the battle.
Valtyra moves with practiced efficiency, kneeling beside the fallen hobgoblins to retrieve her axes before rifling through their gear. Her sharp eyes scan for anything useful—coin, weapons, or perhaps a clue as to where this army of goblinoids appeared from..
Reknar, his senses still keen from battle, catches the sound of movement from within the shop front. Wood scrapes against wood—the unmistakable sound of a heavy beam being dragged away from the door. A moment later, it creaks open just enough for a wary eye to peek through.
Then, with a grunt, the door swings fully open, revealing Kining, the forge’s no-nonsense dwarven owner. Soot-streaked and still gripping a hefty smith’s hammer, she eyes the scene with a hard glare, as if expecting more trouble. Behind her, four nervous commoners clutch makeshift weapons — a hammer, a poker, tongs and a carving knife — the fear still evident in their wide eyes. The interior of the shop is drab and dominated by sacks of seed, bolts of cloth, barrels of nails, and staples like flour and salt. Kining’s small bedroom is off to one side, and shows even less decoration than the glum shop.
“Well, took ye long enough,” Kining grumbles, her voice as gruff as ever. But there’s a subtle shift in her posture—a loosening of the tension in her shoulders, a flicker of relief behind her sharp gaze. Her eyes flick to the fallen hobgoblins, then back to the warriors. “Guess I owe you a drink. Or a few." She catches sight of Valtyra rummaging through the hobgoblin corpses. "Damn it, girl, is this really the time fer lootin’?!" she barks, stomping forward, her soot-streaked face twisted in frustration."Ye just pulled me out of a burnin’ building, an’ now ye wanna play grave robber?" After a beat, she sighs. "Hells… maybe ye got the right idea. If they got steel worth takin', best it go to someone who knows how to use it." You can see that the usually dour woman is especially irritable at the situation, exacerbated even more so by her dwarven grudge against goblinoids.
One of the commoners exhales shakily, lowering his weapon. “Are… are they all gone?”
"By Old Deadeye’s damn antlers, lad, ya really think I’m in any shape to be fiddlin’ with a trap? Hells, I barely got outta that last mess with my guts still inside me!" He winces, trying in vain to stand. "But lucky for you, I ain’t so banged up I can’t give instructions. Just don’t go blunderin’ it, ‘less you want yer skin sloughin’ off like a a snake sheddin’ on a hot rock.!"
Vane groans, adjusting himself and pointing weakly toward the door. "Right, so here’s the deal. There’s a string looped ‘round the knob—tug too fast, an’ you’re gettin’ a faceful o’ acid, an’ so’s anyone dumb enough to be standin’ behind ya."
He sucks in a breath, gritting his teeth. "You gotta ease that door open real slow, just a crack. Reach in with somethin’ thin—knife, wire, whatever ya got—an’ slip it ‘round the string. Cut it or unloop it real careful-like, no sudden pulls, or it'll trigger anyway."
"Well, that sounds entirely outside my area of expertise." Tern remarks, "I suppose I'll just have to make do fixing a stretcher for you since you've become an invalid."
He then begins to collect supplies to do just that.
He groans as he hunches down to work. "Don't suppose you have anymore of those berries?" he asks hopefully.
Craig processes all this as fast as he can "If that Rock creature don't cause trouble for us, I say we don't do much agin it."
Kining grumbles and gripes . Craig can't blame her for a sour mood; no sane person would be happy about their lives besieged, but he arches a brow as he realizes , "Ma'am, no offense, but if you'd be so kind to help us gather things from your store we'll need to survive when we leave Phaendar, it might help more of us, including yourself, stay alive in the days to come." He suggests "Sides, it's either going with us or the hobs will take it. They're efficient, they're methodical, and they don't strike me as the sort to leave good gear a wasting once they've taken the town all."
One of the commoners exhales shakily, lowering his weapon. “Are… are they all gone?”
"No sir. The ones here are dead but the whole town is swarming. We're gathering folks up at the taproot and getting ready for an exodus across the bridge. It makes me sick to my heart but Phandear ain't safe no more. Erastil says never to leave your community in need, but the place ain't near as important as the people. There's another group of us out and about gathering more, but we're hard pressed."
Moragul hands Tern four of the berries. "Maybe let the cat go first next time." Moragul suggest in a gravelly voice.