GM Two-Hands's page

"Good luck" She says to Moragul with a nod before closing the tavern door and taking up post at the large window. A heavy CLUNK confirms that the door has been barred again, and Moragul and Tern head off into the night. The pair move low and fast between the burning buildings and drifting smoke. The crackle of flames and distant clash of steel still echo around, but they manage to pass unseen, guided by a newfound sense of urgency.

Thess slips away from the rest of the refugees as Reknar calls to her, bow in hand. Her one good eye darts from the half-orc to the sentry, then back again "I'll try." she says, drawing an arrow and moving to join Valtyra and Macharius.

Craig fixes his gaze on the snarling wolf at the sentry’s side, his posture tense with anger.

Then—without a sound—Tern and Moragul melt out of the smokey night haze, appearing at the group’s flank like ghosts. Thess nearly looses her arrow in surprise, only to catch herself with a sharp breath.

Craig and Macharius finish packing the last of the fresh meat, wrapping their bounty in linen cloth salvaged from Kining's store. Macharius finishes cleaning the blood from his hatchet, casting a keen elven eye of the carcass one last time to make sure every useful cut has been salvaged.

Rauland stands motionless, almost seeming embarrassed as Valtyra tightens the last of the troublesome straps. "Thank you... it's trickier than it looks..." his voice trails off.

Kining emerges from her quarters, donned now in a suit of fitted scale armour. Her smithing hammer hangs at her side, and she now brandishes a stout, well oiled flail. She nods, listening to the group discuss the plan.

"Aye, priestling. Yer plan is sound; I'll stay back with this lot, I'm sure between me and the two farmhands there," she gestures toward Rauland and Thess "we can at least hold off any gobs stupid enough to try their luck. Long enough fer you four to come and give them a good kick up the backside, anyways." she state matter-of-factly. She turns her gaze to Thess, and heads back inside momentarily before returning with a small padded gambeson. Approaching the girl, she holds it up as if sizing a ballroom gown before pressing it into her hands. "Here girl. Ye've already lost an eye; lets try our best to keep the rest of ye intact, shall we?" her voice is stern, but somewhere underneath there is a hint of compassion. Thess heads inside and returns momentarily, suited up and ready to go.

You head off, leading the trail of refugees close behind. The sky boils with black smoke from the fires still burning, and the sounds of the enemy echo faintly — hobgoblins barking orders, goblins chittering with glee, bugbears snarling in the alleyways. The exertion of this night is starting to set in, a weary feeling that washes of each and every one of you. As you press on toward the shrine, a short way that somehow feels like miles, you each steal a glance toward one another. Realizing that there are others depending on you, you steel yourselves against the wave of fatigue. Sleep is for the weak anyway, and tonight you are fast becoming fledgling heroes. Narrowly avoiding the numerous patrols and skirmishes around, you reach the Riverwood Shrine.

A wooden deck surrounds the front of an octagonal structure with broad archways leading into a place of worship. To its left stands a moss-encrusted stone monument. Carved birds, branches, and fruits decorate the wooden supports of the temple’s entryway. A dead villager is curled up on the wooden deck before the temple, not too far from the corpse of a dead horse. A lone wolf prowls out front, pacing in circles but never straying too far from the wooden deck. It eyes the horse carcass hungrily. Not far behind, a rusty skinned hobgoblin leans against the wall of the shrine, longbow in hand. Every now and then she grunts at the wolf, tugging the heavy chain connected to an iron collar around its mangy neck.

Aelethea perception: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (11) + 7 = 18
Moragul perception: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (16) + 7 = 23
Tern perception: 1d20 ⇒ 3

Moragul As you are about to enter the tavern, you spy a large number of silhouettes to the south. The four at the front are unmistakeable; Craig, Macharius, Reknar and Valtyra seem to be headed to the Riverwood shrine, an ensemble of refugees in tow. The path toward the shrine is currently clear; if you leave now, your group could make it unnoticed and rejoin the others.

"Still got a few left," she mutters, checking her quiver with a glance. "But more won't go astray. Thanks."

When Craig and Reknar speak of keeping her out of the fight, she doesn’t argue, but there’s a flicker of defiance in her tense jaw.

She slips the arrows into the quiver and takes the offered backpack from Craig without comment. It's a little too big for her slight frame, but she starts fastening straps and buckles. She’s not moving like someone helpless. Not anymore.

"You ever used a blade before?"

Rauland shifts awkwardly under Reknar’s question. His eyes dart to the blade, then back to Reknar.

"A little," he says. "My father… he showed me some."

He swallows, mustering some bravery before taking one of the longswords from the Half-Orc:

"I won’t freeze up. If it comes to it, you can count on me. I promise."

He glances toward Thess—still busy with the pack—and something firms in his posture. He draws himself up a little straighter, though he doesn’t quite meet Reknar’s eyes. He takes the suit of studded leather, and gives his best shot at donning it. Clearly not familiar with the process, he begins to blush as he struggles to fasten the strap on his jerkin.

One more day to give Val the chance to pipe in, otherwise you're off to the shrine! You guys have Kining, Rauland, Thess, and 4 commoners in tow. If you guys could let me know the plan for them (head to the inn, follow you guys at a distance, follow closely etc) that would be awesome

Pippin tilts his head, big dark eyes watching the tapping finger. For a heartbeat, it looks like he might oblige—his talons flex slightly.

Then snap!—a sharp little lunge of his beak at Tern’s hand, missing by mere inches. Luckily, Tern jerks back instinctively and avoids the deadly strike.

Pippin fluffs up with exaggerated dignity, turning his back to the group and letting out a faint hoot that sounds suspiciously judgmental.

Laughter stirs among the commoners in the cellar. A gaunt older man near the back, calls out;

“Better company, you said? Looks like it’s got the same temperament as the hobbs out there…” he says, chuckling through gapped teeth.

One by one they emerge, grasping at bundles of their remaining worldly possessions. The gap tooth man turns to your group. "So, where'r we goin'? And what are we doing about poor ol' Vane?

Thess stands silently behind him, the bow still in her hand, though now it hangs low at her side. The ruin of her left eye is barely visible beneath the grubby improvised bandage,

She doesn’t speak until Reknar offers to help. At that, she hesitates—but not out of pride. Her shoulders stiffen, her hand twitches as if she might refuse the help and and wave it off.

But then Rauland turns to her, gives a small nod, and says gently, “Let 'em look, Thess. They won’t hurt you.”

Thess finally unwinds the cloth, her fingers clumsy with fatigue. The wound beneath is unmistakable. Not just swollen shut—the eye itself is gone, destroyed, a jagged red crater of torn flesh and bruising.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t cry. Just keeps still and lets the air touch it.

“I know it’s gone,” she says, quiet and calm in a way that sounds somehow worse than if she were screaming. “I just don’t want it to rot.”

Craig and Reknar begin their work in quiet tandem — Reknar carefully trims away the dead edges of flesh, working fast and sure, barely grazing the still-living tissue. His callused hands are steady as stone. Craig follows behind, pressing an herbal balm from the trading post store into the angry tear with practiced fingers. He is firm, but not aggressive — clearly the touch of someone who knows how to mend a wound.

The priest finishes the job, applying a final, neat wrap of linen to bandage the wound with a tight spiral and a careful tie. The bleeding's stopped. The swelling's already starting to ease under the mix of herbs and Craig’s steady hands. Thess blinks, slow and measured, the tension in her shoulders easing at last. She doesn’t say thank you. But she nods. Once.

Once we've heard from Val and Mac I'll move you guys along. Feel free to continue the roleplay with these two, each other, or Kining and the rest of the survivors.

Tern's soothing voice seems to quieten the whimpers coming from below. The cellar door opens slowly, revealing three wide-eyed refugees. "Is Vane...?" begins one before glancing back at the prone alchemist lying nearby the stretcher. "Are you going to take us away from here?" says another.

I've taken the liberty of botting Aelethea for now. Her search revealed the following items;
three vials of antiplague, five bottles of bloodblock, a bottle of fire ward gel, two flasks of defoliant, a well-used marble mortar and pestle (worth 50 gp), 2 clearly marked potions of cure light wounds, one unidentified potion, three alchemist’s fire, antitoxin, healer’s kit, two smokesticks, two tanglefoot bags, two thunderstones, rations equivalent to 3 provision points. I've added these to the loot sheet already too.
If you guys want to do anything else here feel free, otherwise you can decide where to head off to next :)

Craig, the animals each take 5 minutes to butcher, so if more than 1 person has survival it means that you can gain more provision points with the same amount of time.
Mac, no roll needed for the meat collection, it's an automatic success :)

Craig kneels beside Reknar, laying a firm hand on his chest. A soft, warm glow spreads from his palm as the worst of the wounds closed.

Outside, Mac stands over the fallen horse, hefting his axe with both hands. He goes to work, hacking through the carcasses with a mix of determination and brute force. It's not pretty — more splintered bone than clean cuts — but he gets the job done. Eventually, he manages to salvage enough meat to make it worthwhile, though it's clear finesse wasn’t part of his plan. That's 4 extra provision points to be added to the tally when I calculate it later on.

Inside the store, Valtyra moves with focus, gathering supplies off half-toppled shelves — dried goods, spare tools, anything that might help. Her hands are quick, efficient, as she moves through the shop which she knows all too well.
Val, if there are specifics you want please let me know, otherwise I'll just add some pertinent supplies to the loot list.

Then, you hear the smithy doors creak open.

A fit looking young man not older than seventeen steps out, clearly one used to hard labour on one of the outlying farms. He holds an everburning torch high in one hand, its flickering light catching the nervous edge in his expression. A long knife hangs at his belt, and his posture is tense.

Behind him trails a girl, perhaps fifteen, her steps slow and unsteady. A blood-soaked cloth is tied across the left side of her face, crudely bandaged. Despite the injury, she clutches a shortbow tightly in her hand, her good eye looking sharp and alert.

The boy looks over the group — the corpses of the hobgoblins, the wounded being tended, the butchered horse — and swallows hard.

“I saw what you did,” he calls out, voice steady but edged with urgency. “You killed them. All of them.”

He steps closer, holding the torch out before him like a peace offering. “I’m Rauland. This is my sister, Thess. We’ve been hiding in the smithy since the attack. She was hit when something exploded nearby — alchemist’s fire, I think. Shrapnel caught her in the face. I… I didn’t know what else to do. I just kept us hidden.”

Thess said nothing, her good eye locked onto the group. Her grip on the bow hasn’t loosened.

Rauland’s voice dropped. “We want to come with you. We can fight. We’ll pull our weight. I just—” he looked back at Thess, his jaw tightening, “—I have to look after my sister. Please. Don’t leave us behind.”

As you are all pretty local to the area, you would probably recognize these two. They come from a small farm not far from the outskirts of town.

This pretty much concludes all of the main interactions at the Trading Post. If someone would like to respond to young Rauland and Thess, go for it. Once you guys are ready to move along let me know; I'm happy for you to roleplay amongst yourselves to decide if you'll head to the shrine, cut back to the others at Oreld's or beeline straight back to the Inn. Also, I'm assuming that you while collecting goods, Val filled the water canteens. When you've decided a plan of action, I'll write up a little conclusion post for this area before moving things along. You guys have done great work so far, I've been enjoying reading your interactions with the NPCs and each other!

Within the next rom lies a workshop and what looks to be a part-time clinic, with a comfortable bedroom just beyond that. The workshop has shelves upon shelves of miscellaneous alchemical supplies and concotions, as well as equipment used to brew and mix ingredients. A cellar door here has a rug hastily kicked over it, easy enough to spot for those who know to look for it. As you enter the room, you can hear the muffled sound of crying coming from beneath the floorboards.

Anyone who inspects the workroom can make an Appraise, Craft (alchemy) or Spellcraft check to select some key ingredients for use in crafting alchemical items later on.

Kining's glare is sharp at first, but it fades fast. The lines in her face seem deeper in the firelight, and her eyes drift past Craig and Valtyra to the rising smoke curling from the rooftops.

“Hells…” she sighs.

She turns away for a moment, hiding the flicker of pain in her expression as she looks at what’s left of her forge.

“I hammered every blade in that store with these two hands. Burned through more coal than the town’s got patience for. And now you’re askin’ me to strip it bare, walk away like it’s already gone... and it is, ain’t it?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer.

“Right. Fine. But we do this smart. Take what’s worth carrying, leave the dead weight. Nails, wedges, axes, fletching tools—you know what’s needed, girl.”

She nods sharply to Valtyra, tossing her the singed keyring from her belt.

Then she steps up to Craig, looking him in the eye.

“You got a silver tongue, priestling. But this ain’t about talk. You keep those supplies safe. You keep her safe.” She nods toward Valtyra. “Don’t make me regret handin’ over my life’s work to a lad I once caught piss-drunk in my rain barrel.”

She turns finally to face Macharius as he asks about the raised floor.

"Ain’t like I got any other use for it right now... If you’re fixin’ to get yourself killed, you might as well take it. It’s got more life left in it than most of us.” She says, turning and walking toward the trapdoor before thumping it open with her fist. She reaches down into the opening, drawing out a small buckler bearing the countenance of a roaring bear. “That was my brother’s. Last thing of his I’ve got left. Made it m’self, years back... she muses before handing it over.

She shoulders past them toward the store entrance, already barking orders like it’s another day in the forge:

“Move it! We’ve got maybe ten minutes ‘fore the bastards are knockin’ down the back door.”

The keys that Kining threw to Valtyra give access to all of the contents of the store as well as the shed and crane lock at her worksite on the bridge.

Kining's store contains the following useful items:
a longsword
two battleaxes
an alchemical silver rapier
a masterwork light steel shield
a masterwork backpack
a climber’s kit
eight waterskins

The shield she handed over to Macharius is a +1 buckler.

In addition, any reasonable basic equipment you might be looking for is likely available (crafting kits, basic spices, tools etc).

The smithy itself is still yet to be searched, and there are the freshly slain horse and goats still in the pen. Anyone with Survival can take 5 minutes to carve some meat for extra provision points if you so desire.

Among the clutter, Tern spots what he needs:
– Two sturdy broom handles leaning against the back wall.
– A heavy canvas apron, large and surprisingly clean, hanging from a peg.
– A bundle of cordage coiled near a burnt workbench.
– A leather harness, stiff from disuse, half-buried under a fallen shelf.

Tern lays the canvas flat, places the broom handles lengthwise on either side, and folds the edges over the poles. He lashes them tightly using lengths of cord and strips from the harness, double-knotting the ends with steady hands.

The result isn’t pretty, but it looks solid—enough to bear a body through the forest if it has to. Vane lets out a sharp breath as Tern lowers the stretcher beside him.

Tern, you've crafted a workable stretcher using the tools at hand. It'll hold together for now, though rough terrain or a heavy jostle might test its limits. You can move one unconscious or injured person with assistance from another, or drag it solo using the harness at reduced speed. If you guys use the aid another action the bonus to the perception and disarm becomes +8, meaning a success requires a roll of 10 and 7 without accounting for stats. I'm sure Aelethea can handle it with her 18 DEX and +7 perception, we'll give one more day for a response before I figure out how to approach this :)

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?”

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."

So gang, to disable the trap I need a Perception DC 18; and a Disable Device DC 15. Due to Vane's fine instructions, whoever decided to attempt the checks can do so with a +6 circumstance bonus.

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.

Combat is over team, epic finish too I might add! Feel free to act as you will.

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.

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!"

Haven't had a chance to update the map, but the Hob that Craig shot is the last remaining. He is currently fleeing south, due to his wounded condition he has only managed to make it 40ft with his full action. Rek, I can't see the map right now but if that guy is in your reach feel free to make an AoO. Craig and Val, your turn!

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.

It's up to Reknar now to take his turn before the remaining hobs. I messed up before, so Rek is going to take his AoO from the hobgoblin archers before taking his turn in full. This could swing the tide and end the fight!

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…

Combat is over guys, well done. Feel free to act as you will, the stage is all yours.

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.

Craig, Val, you guys are up!

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. Mac takes 2 damage from the hot iron. Fire damage: 2d4 ⇒ (1, 1) = 2

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. Craig takes 2 damage from the hobgoblin longbow.
Attack Craig: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (12) + 3 = 15 Damage: 1d8 ⇒ 2
Attack Reknar: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (8) + 3 = 11
Attack Reknar: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (10) + 3 = 13

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.
Elemental Sense Motive: 1d20 ⇒ 2
Valtyra Diplomacy: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (17) + 1 = 18

I Should have established this earlier, but here is the initiative order moving forward.
Block 1 - Mac, Rek
Block 2 - Hobs, Elemental
Block 3 - Craig, Val

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.
Melty Hob attack: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (10) + 2 = 12 Damage: 1d8 + 1 ⇒ (7) + 1 = 8
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.

Back to you gang!

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.

Valtyra
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.

Mac
Mac Perception: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (19) + 7 = 26
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.

Craig and Rek
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...

Gonna assume Moragul is hanging near Tern for now.

Melty Hob perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (12) + 5 = 17

Tern
As you press against the doorframe, your boot slips on some loose stones. You slide into the wooden frame with a dull THUD.

Aelethea
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.

Anyone who enters or looks inside
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.

Initiative Aelethea: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (11) + 6 = 17
Initiative Tern: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (19) + 2 = 21
Initiative Moragul: 1d20 + 0 ⇒ (19) + 0 = 19
Initiative Melty Hob: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (2) + 3 = 5

I'm going to say he heard you Tern, but he hasn't seen any of you yet. We'll stick with block initiative here, so PC's first followed by the hob. Feel free to act in any order!

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.