Thank you for your understanding, and your well wishes. I will mark the campaign as inactive for now.
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Hey everybody, really sorry to have to do this but I will need to shelve this campaign for now. I've been struggling with my genocide-life balance, and as a result both my mental health and my creative drive have diminished to a point where I cannot give this game the attention and soul that it - and all of you, the players - deserve. I am very grateful for all the time, energy, creativity and humour that everyone has poured into this game. It is my hope that at some point things will improve and I will be able to pick it up again, but I cannot make that promise right now. It has been pleasure and a privilege to play with you all, I wish you nothing but the very best in every aspect of your lives, and hope to meet again on these boards. For full transparency, I am keeping some of my other game active as I find that I am having a slightly easier time with them - perhaps because of the themes or because they are less sandbox-y, who knows. So I am not going away entirely. I apologize for any disappointment or hurt I might cause through this decision.
"Dead? No, he- ... Dead." The old man is lost in thought for a long time, his bowl of stew forgotten. "Hm," is all he says in the end, and his weathered face is difficult to read. Meanwhile, the work proceeds apace around them, the former bandits seemingly excited by the idea of sleeping in a properly sheltered space rather than against crumbling walls and under leaking ceilings. Not all of them work equally enthusiastic, though. Norry 'Gorgon' Driper seems happy to use his considerable strength to lug around heavy bits of masonry and show off to the other bandits; Cragger Kench and Falgrim Sneeg work in silence, the latter showing some aptitude with carpentry; Jeb Megesen has taken up the role of the foreman, directing the others around (and avoiding much of the work in the process), while Topper has become the self-proclaimed architect of the settlement, making clumsy sketches and gushing over improbable building ideas. Meanwhile, Ayles Megesen has disappeared entirely.
Between Nidintu's and Roots-Sink-Deep's kindness, and Eskra's threats, the old man becomes a fraction less ornery and begins to devour the bows of stew offered. Once he's had three helpings and a mug of ale, he asks. "Who are you? Where's that wretched boy?" He raises his two index fingers next to his temples to mime horns or antlers. Further exploration of the cellar the old man was holed up in uncovers crates of trade goods - pelts, furs, tobacco, iron, bronze, weapons, armour, gear and tools. of 45 gp. In addition, one of the chests contains a pile of coins, while a large bag contains various pieces of jewelry.
With fearless Kressle lending a hand and Tristian employing the blessings of his goddess, the band makes short work of the restless dead. Afterwards, Tristian performs a service to lay their souls to rest, whoever they were. The old man struggles a bit as he is dragged out of his musty and smelly cellar, wincing at the sunlight. He is malnourished and sickly, so whatever resistance he puts up is quickly overcome. His voice is croaky with disuse, and he only employs it to curse at his captors.
Kressle seems slightly confused as Roots-Sink-Deep offers her the flowers, but once the gesture is explained to her she breaks into a huge grin. "Nobody's ever courted me! Aw, ye're very sweet, lil' one!" As Nidintu spins his tales, she listens raptly, here and there asking a question or chuckling at a joke or clever turn of phrase.
Tristan smiles at Xavin's question. "I am not versed in politics, but I hope that those ruling these lands think of the least powerful when they make the laws and apply them. I do not seek to convert people, but of course the more open their hearts to the mercy of the Dawnflower the happier I will be."
At the construction site, Topper seeks out Nidintu. "Boss, you said to sig houses into the hill, the trouble is... there's still the restless dead there. And another thing - we found a pit dug outside the walls, like a cellar, only... there was someone inside! Half dead of hunger and thirst, old man covered in bruises and scars. He tried to fight us, but we whacked him around the head a bit until he stopped. He won't talk, though."
Now that they have a charter, the Wildwood Band don't impose on Oleg and Svetlana's hospitality much longer, soon departing to establish their capital on the site of the former Stag Lord's Fort. They leave word at the trading outpost that any wishing to join the fledging kingdom should make their way south to the shores of the Tuskwater lake.
When they reach the stronghold of the former bandit lord, it becomes apparent that at least some of the former bandits have been hard at work clearing the rubble, digging refuse pits and expanding the shelter and kitchen areas.
As the Wildwood Band works on establishing their fledgling kingdom, the fruits of their labour are already becoming apparent. In appreciation of establishing peaceful relations with the kobolds of the Sootscale tribe, the Swordlords of Restov send 40 gold pieces. Vekkel the hunter gifts them his composite longbow and three beacon shot arrows, as thanks for slaying the massive boar that took his leg.
I'm back! Ready to start building your kingdom?
Heads up that I will be on holiday from this Friday until September 1st. I'll try to post during this time, but frequency will be lower.
"Blessed news, indeed! I don't dare to go alone, but next time you're heading to the Temple of the Elk I would very much like to accompany you." The cleric of Erastil looks like a great weight was lifted from his shoulders, and spends the rest of the day humming happily to himself. A messenger is sent to inform Lady Jamandi Aldori and the swordlords of Restov of the Stag Lord's defeat and the other happenings in this strip of the Stolen Lands. A week later, a herald escorted by soldiers, together with a few settlers - early adopters, as it were, hardy men in wagons loaded with building materials and supplies - arrive at Oleg's Trading Post. The herald seeks out the Wildwood Band, handing them an official document with much pomp and fanfare. ========================= Kingdom Charter "Be it known that the bearers of this charter, having delivered the northern reaches of the Greenbelt from the scourge of banditry, having provided detailed maps of the lay of the land, and having done no small amount of work in the exploration of said land and in the removal or pacification of various creatures and local hazards, are hereby granted the right to rule. The nature and laws of rule are theirs to define, and the wellbeing of this new nation is theirs to protect. In accordance for providing a stable nation to the south of central Rostland, let there be a generous stipend of funds, support, and advice provided to this fledgling nation as a token of Restov and Brevoy's goodwill, such that future relations between kingdoms might be mutually beneficial. So witnessed under watchful eye of the Lordship of Restov." =========================
Jhod Kavken seems a little guarded at first, but the revelation that Nidintu-Bel is a follower of Erastil has him break into a smile. "Ah, I'm glad to see others of the Elk Father's faithful in these parts, although I'm afraid that I'm not familiar with the ones you mention. I- come from far away." He claps Nidintu on the arm and briefly places a gentle, rough-skinned palm on Roots's head. "I've heard there was a temple in these parts, abandoned and grown wild. Have you come across it since you've been here, by any chance?"
Jethal is a difficult one to read. She is unlike any elf that Eskra ever met. She seems very focused, and sharp as the blade of her scythe, but what moves her remains a mystery. Nidintu's words seem to get through to Harrim, who runs his fingers through his long beard thoughtfully as he listens. "Thank you for sharing that story, it has given me much to think about."
Back at Oleg's, the trading outpost seems to be undergoing some transformations. Carageorn's first squires and the other former bandits have been deepening the refuse pits and started building a second story for the guest house. There is now a notice board in front of the trading house, as well. Most notes seem to be written in Svetlana's beautiful script - requests from Oleg or other inhabitants of the area - but a few bear the official sigil of the Swordlords. There is a new visitor as well, a middle-aged human man with a balding head, bushy moustache and piercing blue eyes who introduces himself as Jhod Kavken, priest of Erastil.
The dwarf mulls over Xavin's question. "I suppose I'm partial to a good wine. Or a strong beer. Not the cheap stuff, mind you. I... well, I used to drink a lot. I sank to such lows after my exile. I was a pathetic sot, drowning my feelings of uselessness in cheap drinks... How ironic is it that the teaching of Groetus would bring sense to my life!" He seems to make an effort to moderate his drinking, only partaking in a mug or tankard before switching to non-alcoholic beverages. Jaethal seems intrigued by the other elf's approach to categorizing power. "Hm. Power is power, no matter the means to achieve it. I am not a spellcaster, but through dedication to my faith I am granted abilities that few others have." She gives Xavin an appraising look. "Is- hey! What are you doing, you overgrown flowerpot? Don't touch me!"
It could not be said that Harrim perks up, for surely such a thing is physically impossible for the morose dwarf. He does, however, look a sliver less depressed at the mention of rum, and gladly accepts the alcohol offered 0 even though it turns out that it was not, in fact, rum.
Jaethal seems almost offended by Roots-Sink-Deep's attempt at conversation. "Seance? Do you take me for some superstitious fool?"
Coming to the conclusion that, if not strength, at least some measure of protection lies in numbers, Harrim and Jaethal join the Wildwood Band on their way towards Oleg's. Two more days of travel see them safely at the trading outpost, where both Svetlana and Oleg seem relieved that no more bandits have been adopted - and that Kressle is nowhere to be seen.
"I thought Tartuccio knifed you two in the back, left you for dead somewhere." Harrim sighs and nods ponderously, wipin his mouth with the back of his hand after taking a healthy swig from the bottle handed by Eskra. "Aye, that he did, but it seems that this world is not done with us after all. A pity, I was rather looking forward to the cessation of all this pointless toil and suffering..." Jaethal doesn't quite roll her eyes, but her expression is entirely devoid of patience at the dwarf's dispirited ramblings. "I am a little vexed that you robbed me of my vengeance, but also pleased that the arrogant knob found his end so soon after betraying me." She gives Xavin a sharp look. "Poor life choices are my domain of expertise, but I do not care to make the acquaintance of some thylacine or bear, thank you." Eventually, the two newcomers settle around the campfire, eating Nidintu's stew and stoically suffering through attempts at conversation - save if one stumbles by chance upon a topic that is of interest to them.
It is nearly midday when the Wildwood Band awakens, some of them sore-headed from the revelry of the night before. The rest of the not-quite-bandits are in a similar state, and protest at Kressle's efforts to get them on their feet - some going so far as to question her right to leadership before a swift flick of her axes reminds them why she's in charge. Fortunately, the damage does not seem to be permanent. With provisions replenished from the Stag Lord's pantry, the group sets out northwards back towards Oleg's outpost. It's quite a ways, almost a week of travel in the absence of roads and most of the terrain being sparsely wooded hills. On the third day, soon after stopping for the night, two figures approach the campfire. The contrast between the burly dwarf and the tall elven woman is almost comical, but there is nothing amusing about these two. Under their disheveled appearance, those who were present at Lady Jamandi's banquet recognize the dour worshipper of Groetus, Harrim, and the forbidding scythe-wielding elf, Jaethal. They were last seen leaving in the company of Tartuccio, the arrogant gnome - now deceased. "Hallo, travelers, have a you a drop of wine to spare? Ale, perhaps?" Harrim is first to speak, and Jaethal scoffs. "You haven't eaten in three days, but the first thing you ask for is booze? You're pathetic." Then the flicker of recognition passes over the dwarf's features. "Oh, I remember some of you. You still cling to this pointless existence, I see." The pale elf narrows her dark eyes. "You are not wrong. But I see some new faces as well." She inclines her head in greeting. "I am Jaethal. My exceedingly depressing companion is Harrim. We have been wandering these wilds for what feels like weeks, yet you are the first people to cross our path."
In the morning, the group is ready to head back to Oleg's trading post. Kressle comes up to Nidintu-Bel, pulling him aside. "Look, chief, best I stay behind with the rookies, eh? Old Oleg's not gonna be too 'appy to see me, and with a new batch o' bandits in tow, so's I stay 'ere and we get this place into shape, 'ow 'bout it?"
Tristian, on the other hand, is more interested in meeting Oleg and Svetlana, as well as the rest of the companions waiting at the trading post.
Heads up that I'll be on holiday from Friday until Monday and won't be able to post.
"Kn-knight?! Me? Oh yes, sir, I would like that very much! Sir Topper, that's me! Sir Topper the Red!" The poet-turned-bandit clears his throat. "Knights of the flowering vine,
He grins at Carageorn. "A two-for-one deal, sir! A squire and a troubadour, to sing of your noble and heroic deeds!" Kressle and a few of the other bandits snort at the bald-faced flattery. Cragger is silent, seemingly mulling over the offer. "A-alright," he says in the end. He holds himself sideways, his shoulders hunched, as if expecting a blow at any moment. Backhanded Jeb seems happy with the change in leadership, and Norry Driper's only concern seems to be that Auchs is dead and he now claim the nickname "Ox" - which he's apparently wanted for a long time. Falgreem Sneeg starts giving Nidintu-Bel beard-grooming tips and everyone seems to be getting along for now, although the soft smile on Ayles's face as he watches them is somewhat unnerving. The rest of the night passes uneventfully. The bandits don't post any guards, by all appearances leaving the responsibility for security and defense to the new management. They do huddle together to sleep, though, after divvying up the meager possessions that Jex the Snitch had left behind.
Kressle looks dubious at the idea of heading to Restov. "They'll prob'ly try ta 'ang me even if ye put in a good word fer me." She smirks. "I'd rather we go back to Oleg's, so's I can work my feme- f- womanly wiles on 'im." She twirls both her hatchets and sinks the blades in a nearby log with a flick of her wrists. "I jest, I jest." Tristian rubs his neck. "I'm relieved we got out of that fight earlier without any of you getting seriously hurt. And I will be glad to offer my services as a cleric to your newfound kingdom!"
As the newly expanded Wildwood Band celebrates their victory, the bandits who fled earlier return with various degrees of sheepishness - all but one. As one could expect, the Stag Lord's favourite snitch has wisely decided that the death of his protector is not a healthy development for him and has decided to seek his fortune elsewhere. The rest are winded after being chased by an angry owlbear, but also curious to get a better look at the ones who defeated their much-feared leader with such seeming ease.
Akiros listens with interest. "You're looking to build a place? Start a new kingdom with support from Restov, talk about trade and industry... you're not really bandits, are you? That's... better, actually. I wouldn't mind a fresh start, if you'd let me join." Almost as an afterthought, he reaches a hand up to the slim chain around his neck and snaps it off, letting it and the stag amulet fall to the ground. "I know we haven't known each other for long, but you seem..." He hesitates, about to say something, then lifts one shoulder in a sort of shrug. "You seem to have a purpose beyond drinking yourselves into a stupour."
The bandits who are not dead have scattered in mortal fear of the enraged owlbear; faint screams and roars can still be heard from towards the forest line. Perhaps some of them will return to the fort, or perhaps they will try their luck elsewhere. Searching the fort itself and the bodies of the Stag Lord and his lieutenants yield a few items of interest. Loot (spoilered for length):
The remaining lieutenant manages to avoid the worst of the fiery ball, but he stands no chance against the combined might of Nidintu-Bel and Carageorn. Probably for the best, as burning to death or being eaten by an owlbear are not nice ways to go. Akiros sighs and sheathes his blade. "Let's just stand back. The owlbear has done us no harm, and it is understandably angry for having been kept captive. Let it go free, and if on its way it makes a snack of some of the Stag Lord's former minions, they brought it upon themselves." The rest of the bandits continue to run, and once the owlbear gets free of the mud pit it gallops after them on all fours.
Carageorn strikes down another bandit leader (after he had been softened up by the others, but probably not something the fey warrior would want to acknowledge right now). The sight of the huge man being felled gives the other bandits pause. Besides, they have bigger problems to worry about. The plant creature the Roots-Sink-Deep has summoned manages to somehow smash the padlock holding the jury-rigged gate to the owlbear pen closed, and the majestic beast seems ready for a little rampage, as a treat.
It bursts out of its enclosure with a roar that shakes the fort and sends a few loose stones tumbling from the ruined walls. It struggles a little with the mud pit, and lets loose a blood-curdling shriek out of frustration.
Somehow, the bandits do not wet their trousers and faint; perhaps they are too stupid to comprehend the hell of beak and claw that is about to be unleashed upon them, or perhaps they are braver than anyone gave them credit for. Still, they are not foolish enough to try and fight the owlbear, so they make a prudent retreat for now, heading for the gates. Two of them manage to get it open, and the rest wisely flee through it. Akiros stands his ground, but Dovan's already pale complexion goes bone white and he staggers backwards half a step, almost dropping his rapier.
Xavin gets up in Dovan's face and tries to whack the lieutenant before darting back, but the man nimbly leans out of the way of the attack. The elf can see him direct a chilling half-smile at him, his expression a clear promise of painful retribution in the very near future. "Stand down, all! He was rotten, and now we are free of him. I've seen what these folks can do, don't throw your lives away out of some misplaced sense of loyalty to a dead man!"
Akiros strides in full view of the other bandits, but out of range of Dovan's rapier. The other lieutenant sneers at him. "I don't believe you. You're the dead man, AKiros. I've been waiting for a long time to take you down." Dovan shifts his gaze to his right and up, at a point on the half-collapsed roof. "Get him, Auchs!" The third lieutenant roars and launches himself off the roof into the middle of the group, his massive bulk landing heavily and sending tremors through the ground.
He begins to swing his club, yelling wordlessly. The powerful blow lands on Bithisarea, and the magus feels the wind knocked out of her.
Nidintu's axe almost severs the Stag Lord's neck, just as Carageorn's sword finds his heart. The lifeless body slumps backwards on the bed, blood oozing from his wounds to stain the furs dark red. Roused by the shouting and the sounds of battle, the other bandits converge towards the site where their leader has just been slain, some with more alacrity than others. Dovan, one of the lieutenants, is the first to reach the scene, cursing as he trudges through the muddy pit that Roots-Sink-Deep has conjured. Initiative rolls:
Sliced by Nidintu's axe and burned almost to a crisp by the combined electrifying attacks of Bithisarea and Roots-Sink-Deep, the Stag Lord casts about wildly like a trapped animal. His eyes fall on his bow leaning against the wall, but in these tight quarters it is a poor weapon. Instead, he bellows. as he swings his sword in wide arcs.
Even drunk, the Stag Lord seems to have the constitution of a mammoth. While the magical lights momentarily add to his confusion, a quick shake of the head dissipates any lasting effects. He gropes for the longsword lying by his bedside, unsheathing it and swinging blindly in front of him.
Akiros receives two slashes across his upper legs for his trouble, and seems a little taken aback at his former boss's reaction speed. Rallying himself, he grits his teeth, cursing. "Damn you, why must you make it hard!"
He manages to get the tip of his own sword under the Stag Lord's guard, scoring a bloody line across his chest.
Someone accidentally kicks one of the empty bottles, sending it clattering loudly against a wall. The Stag Lord stops snoring abruptly, snorts, mumbles. "You really don' learn, Cragger, d'ya... I'll killya this time." Initiatives!:
Akiros rolls his shoulders once, unsheathing his sword and using the blade to push aside the thick, musty curtain. The gloom beyond stinks of unwashed body and alcohol fumes strong enough to make one's eyes water. The thin light filtering from outside lands on the layers of animal hide covering the walls, the ragged bed in the corner draped with threadbare silks and thick furs and a stout chest that serves as furniture, cluttered with empty liquor bottles. A few more bottles lie scattered about the floor, making moving about in stealth precarious. On the bed, the Stag Lord lies sprawled face up as he snores. For once he is not wearing his famous helmet, and his bare face ripples with horrific scars as if the skin has been melted. The scars extend on his neck, arms and chest, leaving bare patches where the hair doesn't grow.
The lieutenant seems to mull over the arguments, then nods. "Your way seems better. I was tired of the pointless cruelty, anyway." He tilts his head towards the fur curtain behind which the Stag Lord continues to snore. "Now is the best time to strike, while he's drunk. But after that... be careful. Dovan and Aurochs will likely not join willingly. And some of the others enjoy the current state of affairs." He puts a hand on the pommel of his sword, ready to draw it.
Nothing drags a man into deep sleep quite like a full belly, and the bandits are no exception; even the sentries in the towers seem to be dozing off, so Nidintu-Bel's momentary fumble goes unnoticed. Tristian trails behind the group, constantly looking over his shoulder. The Sarenite is clearly nervous as he whispers to Nidintu, "I know they're bandits, but please spare them if they surrender. Perhaps their path can still be turned towards the light." Carefully making their way towards the Stag Lord's quarters and nudgin aside the ragged curtain hanging in the doorway, they discover that not everyone has gone to sleep; Akiros is sitting cross-legged on a bedroll and writing in a weather-worn journal by the light of a small lantern sitting on a crate next to him. He raises his head as the curtain moves, putting a finger to his lips before setting aside his writing and rising to his feet. Drunken snores resonate from deeper in the ramshackle building. Akiros moves towards Nidintu-Bel at a steady, leisurely pace. He makes no move to draw the sword belted at his hip, and there is genuine curiosity in his tone as he asks, "Who are you, really?" Kressle curses at that, reaching for her hatchets, but Akiros raises a hand to motion her to stillness without taking his eyes off the tiefling.
A heads-up that I will be travelling for work for most of next week and will be unable to post.
Falgrim clears his throat. "I meant news from a bit closer to here, but thank you nonetheless." The bandits eat, and listen to tales until the fire begins to burn down. Then one of the lieutenants - Dovan of Nisroch - stands up and stretches. "Well, thank you for the delivery, and for the meal. Ayles, Gorgon, you take the watch now. Rest of you, get some sleep." He turns, striding into the one structure with four walls and a roof and disappears inside. One of the other lieutenants, the large one called Auchs, calls after him. "I get to play with the pr'soners tomorrow, yeah? You promised!" By the look full of dark glee he gives Bithisarea and Tristian, 'play' may not be quite what he has in mind. The third lieutenant gives him a disgusted look, then climbs to his feet as well. "I'll help you clean up," he offers. "The meal was very welcome, and so was the company." There is something... almost wistful in his tone, and he has a faraway look for a brief moment. The rest of the bandits soon find their own sleeping spots, leaving the Wildwood band to fend off for themselves.
The bandits gathered around Nidintu-Bel enjoy the food of the stories, until he starts making veiled jabs at the Stag Lord. An uncomfortable silence descends, and suddenly they no longer meet his eye. Whether they privately agree or not, clearly they fear their leader enough not to voice agreement with the newcomer's shocking opinions. He does get the feeling that a couple of them at least frown thoughtfully, and Dovan, one of the lieutenants, gives him a long look as he licks the gravy from the knife he's been using to slice the pastries (which do not need slicing, of course). "You said you come from up north, what news?" The sudden change of topic comes from Falgrim Sneeg, an older Varisian man with graying hair and an unruly beard. Those who met Kesten Garess at Oleg's trading post remember that this is the man that the noble-turned-mercenary is seeking to capture.
Akiros turns his face to look at the proffered bowl, then at Roots-Sink-Deep. He doesn't raise an eyebrow, but the vibe is definitely there. Just as he begins to turn away, Xavin sits on his other side, and the elf's overtures seem to be better received. "I'm glad someone noticed," he replies dryly. "I don't share 'my story' with newcomers though. Or with anyone, for that matter." He glances back at the leshy, then at Nidintu. "That your mentor? Seems like an interesting character." He falls silent, watching the tiefling and seemingly lost in thought.
The owlbear seems rather unfriendly, perhaps on account of being held captive for several weeks now. It hisses menacingly at Roots as the leshy approaches. Cragger warms up to Nidintu-Bel, even though he is not related to Vasilo he enjoys listening to the stories, especially the ones involving booze. The meal is a success as well, and the bandits praise the food as they ask for second and third servings. Even the lieutenants come to get some venison pasties, giving the Wildwood Band an opportunity to assess them from up close and perhaps talk to them. Sarea's observant eyes notice the patterns - the deference that the rank-and-file bandits show Akiros, the newest lieutenant; the venomous glances that Dovan, the previous holder of the Stag Lord's second-in-command title shoots Akiros; how Auchs, the third lieutenant, seems to be wavering between Akiros and Dovan, much to the latter's annoyance. All of this she notices, as well as the the patterns of guards and patrols - there are two guards in the watchtowers at all times, taking turns among themselves every couple of hours.
Sorry to hear about your health issues, and I wish you and your family the best! Thank you for taking the time to let us know how you are doing. You are welcome to return at any time once things get easier for you.
Backhanded Jeb is all too happy to run his mouth and prove the suitability of his nickname. Through him, the Wildwood Band learns a little about every bandit currently in the fort. Aside from Akiros, the Stag Lord has two other lieutenants. The rank-and0file bandits usually follow orders from these three without hesitation; only when an order directly contradicts the Stag Lord's commands (implied or otherwise) do the bandits question a lieutenant. Akiros Ismort (L): Akiros doesn't talk about his past, but the other bandits figure he's not from the River Kingdoms, by his accent. He has only been with the Stag Lord for a few months, but already his commanding presence has earned the leader's favour; Akiros is now second-in-command. Dovan from Nisroch (L): The previous second-in-command man of the Stag Lord, Dovan is a mystery to the bandits - a dark, tattooed figure with an obvious taste for pain and cruelty. All they know of him is that he claims to hail from Nisroch. Auchs (L): A lumbering lummox of a man, Auchs is the biggest one among the bandits. Illiterate and rather simpleminded, he takes pleasure in "disciplining" other bandits when the Stag Lord or his other lieutenants order him to. Auchs is rarely far from Dovan' side, the two having travelled together for a while before joining the Stag Lord. Ayles Megesen: Ayles is a soft-spoken man whose calm demeanor should not be taken for passivity. Ayles enjoys the act of torture the most among the bandits,
Cragger Kench: A former cutpurse, Cragger was beaten senseless by the Stag Lord for stealing and drinking a bottle of his liquor. His injuries have left him resentful and cautious with concern to provoking his leader's wrath - causing him to take long pauses before speaking. Falgrim Sneeg: An older Varisian man with graying hair and an unruly beard. A former mercenary, he possesses an unnerving calm in the face of violence. Norry "Gorgon" Driper: Smaller than only Auchs, Norry tends to snort and rumble like an enraged bull, and sports rancid breath that his fellow bandits claim
Jex the Snitch: The least popular with the men but perhaps the Stag Lord's favorite minion is this aptly nicknamed man. His penchant for reporting the other
Topper Red: Topper Red was a struggling street poet from Pitax. He fled that city when an affair turned sour, and he eventually joined the Stag Lord's ranks while romanticizing the thrilling life of a lawless brigand. As the half-ruined building is explored more, a surprising discovery is made on the eastern side. In an area that is little more than an atrociously smelling cave dug out of a pile of rubble, an owlbear paces back and forth, occasionally scratching at the thick portcullis blocking the exit. Large, bloody bones, likely from horses or elk, lie scattered on the ground. Noticing the attention on the creature, Backhanded Jeb is all too happy to make the introductions. "Oh, that's Beaky! We brought it down during a week two weeks ago, but the Stag Lord took a liking to it, and instead of killing it ordered us to haul its unconscious ass back here. Do you know how much an owlbear weighs? Word of warning, at night it likes to roar and hoot, you can hardly sleep a wink."
The bandit speaking to Nidintu backs away while rubbing his shoulder. "Alright, old timer!" He brightens up as the former brigand mentions cooking. "Well, there ain't any sort of real kitchen, but I'll show you around to the firepit. About time we ate something other than Topper's slop!" He offers a hand to shake. "I'm Jeb. Backhanded Jeb, they call me, on account of me powerful left hook, see." "Don't lissen ta him! 'e's called that 'cause 'e talks outta both sides o'is mouth!" bellows down the bandit in the guard tower, a giant of a man. Soon enough, the commotion attracts the Stag Lord himself. He emerges from his room, a towering hulk made even taller by the antlered helm on his head. His bare torso is covered in scars and fine dark hairs. He wears mostly leathers and furs, with a sword sheathed on his belt. Almost nothing of his face is visible under the bone helm, save for the glimmer of his eyes and glimpses of a full-lipped mouth nested amidst a lush black beard. His hair hangs unbound in greasy curls on top of the fur cape on his shoulders. "Kressle! Once again, she delivers! Take note, you lazy scum, this is how you do banditry." His speech is a little slurred, but his deep voice booms across the camp. A scrawny bandit rushes to hand the Stag Lord a jug of booze, his posture servile. "Ahhhh, that's more like it! And I see you got new recruits, well done! The hostages I have no need of, you can kill them." With that, he turns around and begins to stride away, only to stop halfway and glance over his shoulder. "Oh, right. See Akiros for your reward. He'll find you a spot to spend the night as well. He's my second in command." Backhanded Jeb grins up at Nidintu-Bel. "Boss likes you. Most importantly, he's got his booze now and will lay off our backs for a day or two. Come, I'll give you a tour." The space underneath the intact stone ceiling has been converted into a common area of sorts. The edges of this drafty room are crammed with small goods. Dirty bowls and utensils lie on the floor next to a few crumpled bedrolls, and a chamber pot sits tucked into a corner. Despite the draft, a noticeable stink of unwashed bodies and stale food lies heavy in the air. A large iron gate is wedged behind a ten-foot-wide gap in the western wall. Chips of ancient plaster flake from the walls, exposing the stone construction; whatever plaster still clings to the stonework is covered with strange and erratic scribbles and pictographs. The floor is hard-packed earth. In the southeastern corner, a pile of rubble fallen from the platform twenty feet above blocks passage to another room. The other half of the stone structure is a space mostly open to the elements, where the ceiling has almost entirely collapsed although the walls are still standing. The only remaining bit of roof covers a corner that is being used for storage. Past that, a shallow, stone-lined cooking pit contains as and partially burnt logs.
The lookout in the tower signals to someone behind the palisade, and soon enough the double gates scrape open, pulled by two bandits, allowing passage inside the fort. Past the gates, the layout becomes more apparent. The palisade is built around the remains of a rectangular building. The thick stone walls support a platform of heavy stone that has partially collapsed long ago. Sediment collects in the cracks of the remaining roof, sprouting clumps of grass, patches of moss and here and there a flowering weed. The palisade is built around this structure, and wooden walls and walkways have been added. Three watchtowers, each about 20 feet high, stand in three of the corners of the compound except for the northwest one. Peaked roofs shelter the bandits standing guard inside, and raised walkways connect them. In the yard, two horses are hitched in cramped conditions under the tower to the left of the gate; they both seem skittish and nicker anxiously as the cart trundles inside. "That tribute better be booze, he's almost through the last of the liquor," grumbles one of the bandits who had opened the gate, then stops short as he lays eyes on Nidintu-Bel. "Whoa, you're a big one and no mistake! Who recruited you?"
With introductions made, the Wildwood Band plus one Varisian witch, Kressle and Tristian make the rest of the way to the Stag Lord's fort. A narrow path of hard-packed earth winds up the hillside approaching the Stag Lord’s fort, about 30 feet wide and 300 feet long which provides no cover. The remaining hillside surrounding the fort is devoid of shrubbery save for isolated thorny vines and a few large boulders. Kressle tilts her head towards the hillside. "I wouldn't step off the path if I was you. There's unquiet dead lurkin' in the dirt. Don't right know the story of what this place used to be, maybe an old battle or somesuch." Indeed, the bandits standing watch in the peak-roofed tower to the left of the gate does not bother keeping an eye on the hillside, instead focusing all their attention on the road. Sekrit:
A 15-foot high palisade surrounds the fort, consisting of vertical logs sharpened into spikes at the top. A large, double gate opens in the southern wall to meet the path. Just southeast of the fort, Eskra and Nidintu notice something odd with the ground - a slightly sunken section.
Sounds good, and yes, it applies.
With a stunned expression on his face, the driver topples sideways on the seat, unconscious. The other two take a few moments to realize what happened, during which time they are also taken out - one way or another.
The driver looks at the Wildwood band with newfound respect. He grumbles a bit about handing over their prisoner, but eventually complies, cowed into submission by the imposing figures of Nidintu-Bel, Kressle and Xavin, Eskra's unnerving words, and the plain strange presence of Roots-Sink-Deep. Kressle pulls Nidintu apart to whisper. "Look, boss, we can't have these three come to the fort with us. If there's a fight, that's three more on their side. We can't cut them loose neither. I say we kill'em here."
"Whoa, whoa, who are you? I don't recognize you..." The bandit driving the cart bristles at Nidintu's confident approach, just as the others bristle at the term 'bandits'. At that moment, Kressle strides forward, unslinging her axes and twirling them in her hands menacingly. "Ya wouldn't recognize yer own mum, ya festering turd-picking rot-brain! These people are with me!"
The three bandits back down immediately, as Kressle's reputation apparently precedes her. "Aye, mam, new recruits eh? I see you snagged one of them noble-borns as well, gods know why they're suddenly traipsin' all over this land." He jerks a thumb over his shoulder at the woman tied to the cart. "We're bringing the monthly tribute to the Stag Lord." He eyes the obvious lack of cart or heavily laden mounts that the other group exhibits, but wisely refrains from commenting.
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