Chapter 2: The Farmhouse

The midday sun beats down upon the figures standing in the road. A light wind stirs the leaves in the scrawny trees to either side of the dusty track, a merciful reprieve from the oppressive heat. The buzzing of insects is periodically drowned out by the rushing sound of the wind. The bodies of dispatched hobgoblins lie strewn at the men and dwarf's feet, their blood mixing with the dust to form a cruel, red paste. The trio breathe the scorched air heavily, and remain wary. Their enemies have only just fallen. A small distance up the road, they can make out an abandoned farmhouse. They're still a few miles from the small town of Drellin's Ferry, and the question on everyone's mind is: What were bandits doing so far within the Vale?

Keith: I haven't been here too long in the Vale, but this isn't usually a problem around here, is it?

Corrigan: I don't think so. Why were they so keen on attacking us?

The driver of the wagon, the dwarf Gand, picks himself up out of the dust, his grey beard and eyebrows scorched, and his clothes ruined by dirt and flames.

Gand: Gods! I never seen the like!

Throrin walks to Gand and briefly inspects his wounds.

Gand: Ah, I'm fine, Throrin. A sight better 'n them damn goblins, at least.

Throrin slaps the elder dwarf on the back good-naturedly. Gand steps a short distance from the road and sits down in the tall grass near to a tree to rest.

Corrigan: Well, friends, best we'd try and figure out why we almost died here today, eh?

He cleans his blades and resheathes them, then checks his bowstring for good measure.

Keith nods.

Keith: Traveling around here wasn't supposed to be an issue.

He begins to search the bodies of the slain monsters, looking for some clue to their intentions. He gathers together a small pile of loot, including a few flasks of colorful liquid. He sits down next to it, and removes a leather-bound book from a small bag he carries, cross-referencing the liquids on an alchemists's chart.

Corrigan skirts the perimeter of the battlefield, noticing a vine-choked farmhouse a short distance from the road with a well-worn dirt path leading up to it.

Corrigan: There's a farmhouse there, to the south.

Keith looks up from his book.

Keith: Ah. Well, should we have a look?

Throrin isn't paying attention. He's bent over the alive, unconscious hobgoblin, trying to slap the prone creature awake. The hobgoblin coughs and rolls over, and begins to come to. Throrin places his boot over the goblin's upturned throat, and his hammer directly above its head. It awakens, staring up with its beady black eyes, unmoving.

Corrigan moves closer to Throrin.

Corrigan: Well, what do we have here?

Throrin: I haven't had the chance to ask, have I, Scrawny?

Corrigan raises an eyebrow at the insult.

The hobgoblin attempts to spit and curse, but Throrin's boot prevents it from uttering more than a gurgle.

Throrin speaks in guttural goblin once more.

Throrin: Who are you, worm?

He lets his boot up just enough to allow a reply.

Hobgoblin: I'll tell you nothing, filth!

Throrin: Will you, now? I could have both of your eyes out, one by one, and keep you alive. What do you say to that?

Hobgoblin: It matters not. I serve a master greater than pain.

Throrin: Aye, and I bet he's nothing more than an incestuous ball of the worst shit to crawl out of a demon's ass on a day of the runs!

Keith doesn't understand the language, but the aggressive tone of the dwarf makes itself plain enough to him.

Keith: Ahhh, perhaps you'd catch more flies with honey, master dwarf?

Throrin glares at the wizard.

Throrin: I am using honey, boy. You don't want to hear my insults.

There is a sudden rustle from off of the trail, and all heads turn to the source of the sound.

A figure emerges from the brush, tall and broad with muscle. It is a half-orc, and a hideous one, at that. His brown, leathery skin is covered in long, white scars, giving it the appearance of cooked bacon. He moves with an awkward, loping gait onto the road, his eyes black and squinted as if the sun were always shining directly into them. Chest-length black hair drapes over a series of dream-catcher necklaces and onto his armor, which is made of thick alligator hide. His ears are wide and long, more goblin than orc, and are covered in piercings and tattoos. Several bags and flasks hang from his belt, and in his hands is a wide greataxe of obvious elven design, filigreed with decorations of twining leaves and vines. His eyes are fixed on another figure in the road.

One of the hobgoblins has regained consciousness, and is attempting to surreptitiously make his escape into the undergrowth.

The half-orc steps forward, and sends his greataxe through the air in a wickedly-curved arc where it buries itself into the fleeing hobgoblin's back. The monster drops, and the half-orc strides over to pluck the weapon from between the body's shoulder blades. The half-orc turns and waves to the others in the road.

Draggert: Hello?

Throrin's eyes are wide in surprise.

Throrin: Gods, you're a big, ugly cuss!

He casts a final glance at the hobgoblin on the ground, and steps down hard with his boot almost as an afterthought. The hobgoblin's neck crunches inward with finality.

Draggert: I heard too much noise and came fast.

Keith motions to the half-orc and the hobgoblin he has just slain.

Keith: We missed one, I guess. I don't suppose you could have helped earlier? You're a half-orc, eh?

Corrigan has a strange expression on his face.

Corrigan: He looks familiar to me...

Throrin: All orcs looks the same, lad. Half are male and half are female, but the difference is wee.

Draggert smiles.

Draggert: Yes, haha. Most orcs do look the same.

Keith stifles a laugh, trying to maintain propriety.

Draggert looks at all of the corpses littering the road. He bends down to check one.

Draggert: Not sure if I seen these before. My eyes are much older than my body allows.

Corrigan: Are you a woodsman?

Draggert: Yes, I am a woodsman. I am Draggert.

Keith: Um, can we get out of here? We've turned this road into a graveyard.

Corrigan: I think we should check the farmhouse.

Throrin: What's this "we" stuff, junior?

Keith: Why are you so insistent on taking us to this farmhouse? That's a classic bandit ploy. I'm beginning to think you're a bandit, yourself.

Corrigan: I take only what I earn, my friend.

Draggert: Oh, we friends, then?

Corrigan: Besides, the only thing suspicious in that fight back there was your terrible aim with those spells.

Keith: Regardless, I'm going with you. I don't want you knocking off some kindly old lady and taking all of her possessions.

The group begins to move down the road toward the farmhouse.

Corrigan: Kindly old woman...

He nudges Draggert in the shoulder as they walk.

Corrigan: Can you believe this guy?

Draggert smiles.

Draggert: You all speak with so much speed.

Corrigan: It's a fast world, big guy. Gotta keep up.

Throrin: Bah, it's his tiny orcish mind. They can't keep up with anything.

Draggert: But I have a very large head.

Everyone regards Draggert's head for a moment, and they are again impressed with just how ugly he is.

Corrigan: True enough, and one that looks like you fell from the ugly tree and struck every branch on the way down.

In the distance, Gand waves at you as he settles against the tree and lights a pipe.

Draggert points.

Draggert: Who is that?

Keith: That's our driver.

Throrin: Our? Our?! What is with ye humans and wanting to group us all together!

Draggert: Who are your names?

Keith: My name is Keith.

Corrigan: I am Corrigan, most recently of Marth Forest.

Throrin: Throrin Ironhand, and I...

He mumbles a bit.

Throrin: I suppose I owe you all thanks.

Corrigan: What was that?

Throrin: You ruddy well heard me!

Corrigan: So, Draggert, are you from a tribe around here?

Draggert: I am from all tribes, Corrigan. I never stay rooted. I have been to Marth Forest many times.

Corrigan: I knew you looked familiar! I think we've met at some of the trading hubs there, on the outskirts.

Draggert: Yes. I remember one time I helped you clean an owl.

Corrigan: Of course! Well, it's good to be in your company again.

Draggert: Keith and dwarf man, this is Corrigan. He is very nice. I am very nice as well.

Throrin: I'll not be taking my opinions from the likes of you.

Keith is paying little attention to the conversation. He is referencing another book as he walks.

Draggert: Are you eating good meal and taking long sleep, dwarf man, Corrigan, and Keith? I see you still leave little tracks to follow, Corrigan. You are like spirits and the elven. They sound like orcs who are sick.

Corrigan looks like he has no idea what Draggert is talking about.

Corrigan: I can see you haven't lost your sense of humor.

Draggert laughs.

Draggert: You, Keith, you look very tiny like a hatched bird. That is a sign of soon death, useless body, or mystery power.

Keith looks doubtful.

Keith: I suppose I'll go with useless body?

Draggert: That is sad, Keith. I am pardoned for your fate.

The farmhouse is obviously long-abandoned, and the structure sags on weak supports. Its entire surface is covered in thick, knotted vines. The front door stands open, and the foul odor of sweat and grease that accompanies a cramped living space emanates from within.

Draggert sniffs.

Keith: Eww, that old dowager must be quite senile to live here. Easy pickings, eh, Corrigan? A shame there'll probably be no tea and cake.

He calls loudly.

Keith: Excuse me, ma'am!

Corrigan motions for Keith to shut up.

Keith smiles discreetly.

Corrigan and Throrin enter the structure.

The interior of the farmhouse looks more like a campsite than anything else. All the walls have long since been knocked down, and a crude fire pit has been hacked into the floor. The remains of a cooking fire, complete with iron pot, hangs over the pit. All around the room lie pallets and sleeping bags covered in hobgoblin fur. In one corner, several bodies of dead caravan guards lie heaped upon each other. On the eastern wall hangs a yellow banner, an old battle standard, with a wide, red hand painted upon it in what could be blood.

Corrigan turns the room over swiftly, grabbing a few things and snatching the banner from the wall. He heads back outside.

Throrin moves to the dead guards and says a few words over them, touching the hammer-shaped holy symbol of Moradin around his neck before he follows the human.

Corrigan displays the banner for everyone to see.

Draggert: Hmm. Their giant must be hurt to make blood handprint. Probably feel little pain.

Keith: It's an...orcish battle standard? How curious. The only thing with battle standards would be...

Corrigan: Armies. This is very, very bad.

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Chapter 1: The Ambush

The afternoon sun beats down on the dwarves in their heavy armor; the air is still and hot. The sparsely settled lands of the Vale are starting to grow monotonous, with a seemingly endless line of dusty flyspecks of towns. Drellin's Ferry lies a few miles ahead of the caravan. It's a settlement hard on the borders of the Witchwood, and the shipment of ore is due there today. Two armed caravan guards, Bronlin and Tharind, travel alongside Throrin, prince of Hammerhold. The three are mounted on ponies. They ride a small distance ahead of a large wooden wagon drawn by two tired oxen. The wagon rolls slowly along, throwing up dust along the road. The driver, a cheerful dwarf named Gand, bellows an old dwarven folktune into the dry air.

Throrin sings along in a horrible, out-of-tune bass voice.

The road crests a small rise and descends into a grove in a wide, shallow dell. An abandoned farmhouse, partially visible through the trees, stands on the right side of the road. You've passed a dozen spots much like this one already today.

A short distance behind the caravan, a handsome young man garbed in garish, red robes has been travelling the long road between Brindol and Drellin's Ferry for almost three days now. He feels grateful to his master Immerstal for lending him his own personal horse, a well-behaved red mare named Saula. He has been following a large wagon for a few miles now, and now the wagon dips down into a dell and out of sight ahead.

Just off the road, in the light underbrush, a weatherbeaten man keeps pace with the wagon, too, taking long, silent strides in the tall grass. His dark hair is tied back, and he is caked in the dust of the road. The dwarves haven't noticed him yet, which suits him. He's sticking close by to the armed guards for safety.

Throrin's head suddenly snaps up, his slumped posture going rigid in the saddle as he calls a halt to the caravan. His helmet's off from the heat, and he can hear something. In the underbrush, Corrigan has frozen, too. They begin to see the shadowy shapes of figures crouched along the edge of the road, hidden in the tall grass. There is the sound of the taut pull of a bowstring.

Saula trots along in the dust, carrying Keith over the lip of the dell to where he can see the caravan once more.

Crude, vulture-feathered arrows sing through the air, and the two dwarven caravan guards to either side of Throrin slump dead in the saddle.

Throrin: By Moradin's hammer!
Throrin hefts his shield and slides out of the saddle, taking cover behind the pony.

Corrigan draws his sword and slips quietly into the tallest grass.

Keith sees the carnage and guides Saula calmly foward, toward the battle. He speaks an incantation and moves his hands, and suddenly there are four images of Keith Waxloor sitting atop the horse, blurring and shifting in the sun.

Another volley of arrows sing out, one striking the pony in the flank and driving the beast away. The others pepper Throrin, clattering from his heavy shield as he ducks behind it. One strikes him in the side, bruising through a weak spot in the chainmail.

Throrin: I knew I should have worn my helmet! Allfather preserve me...

Ahead on the road, two large hellhounds with blood-red fur appear. They bark savagely, flames licking like spittle from their mouths, the air around them shimmering with heat. The figures on the sides of the road stand to get a better aim. They are hobgoblins, tall and hairy, with pointed ears and sharp teeth, dressed in armor for war.

Throrin draws his warhammer and swears in dwarven as he falls back to the wagon for more cover.

Gand reacts, as well, screaming and leaping into the wagon from the driver's seat, terrified.
Keith reigns Saula in behind the wagon, his multiple images blurring as he works another spell. A shimmering field of force coalesces around him, then fades.

Corrigan moves slowly, quietly, deliberately, no stranger to gutting a few hobgoblin brigands. He reaches the first hobgoblin and leaps from the brush, flinging his longsword out at the creature. Its edge crashes into the chainmail at the monster's belly, the armor turning a killing stroke into an inconvenience. Hobgoblins don't normally wear chainmail. Corrigan doesn't think this is going to be his day.

The hobgoblin screams at Corrigan, hurling its longbow aside and drawing a crude, curved blade into an upswing that slices the human across his left shoulder. Another of the hobgoblins sees the fight, and rushes to join. Another volley of arrows thud into the wagon as Throrin ducks behind it.
Suddenly, the biggest hobgoblin of them all steps clearly onto the road ahead. He is over six feet tall, and he grips two curved, flashing blades. A red hand is painted on the chest of his horsehide armor, and the hellhounds heel at his command, barking and slavering flames. He points ahead at the wagon and Throrin and barks a simple command in goblin, "Kill." The hellhounds bound forward.

Throrin starts muttering and moving his gnarled shield-hand in an intricate pattern. He is shrouded in a pale nimbus of white light.

Throrin: Moradin, may your shield protect me against the nonbelievers and the defilers.

Throrin steps from behind the wagon, and shouts a few phrases of goblin.

Throrin: Your mothers were dung-spattered whores, and your fathers were spineless worms!

Keith swings down from Saula, slipping wordlessly behind the dwarf and casting a spell of resistance on him.

Corrigan spins, drawing another blade and dancing between the two hobgoblins assailing him. They come out unscathed, and counterattack. He parries one, but the other catches him a light blow to the back. Nope, not his day at all.

The hellhounds reach Throrin, belching burning cinders from their mouths in a fiery display that engulfs both dwarf and wagon for a moment. The dwarf manages to duck behind his shield, avoiding the brunt of the flames, but the oxen and wagon are not so lucky. The beasts of burden lie crisped and dead, and the wagon has caught fire. The bladebearing hobgoblin laughs a deep bellow.

Throrin: By the forges of Moradin, you beasts! I'll see you scrapping slag from my father's iron pits!
Throrin steps forward and slams his heavy hammer into one of the hellhounds, the creature yelping in pain.

Keith moves from behind the burning wagon and into the road. He speaks more words of power, casting his arm out and sending two bright, burning lines of flame streaking through the sky at the hobgoblin bladebearer. He leaps forward into a dive, rolling out of the way of both lines of fire and back onto his feet as he turns his forward momentum into an all-out charge at Throrin.

Corrigan turns and dodges, parrying the hobgoblins and fighting for his life.

Throrin catches a lunging hellhound on his shield, shoving it away as the other snaps at his legs. Arrows continue to bounce from his armor, and he doesn't see the bladebearer until he's upon him, burying one of his flashing swords between Throrin's ribs.

Throrin screams out, blooded, and swings his hammer down on the wounded hellhound's head. There is a sickening noise, and the beast slumps to the ground dead.

Keith steps gingerly away from the melee, moving his hands in a comically-inviting gesture at the bladebearer as a crackling ray of black energy strikes him. It slows considerably, its sword thrusts growing sluggish and weak.

Corrigan reaches into a tumble, feinting a blow to the nearest hobgoblin's head which actually turns into a brutal slash at its chest. His momentum is sufficient to pierce the chainmail, and it howls in pain as it goes down.

The hobgoblins alongside the road realize that their arrows are ineffective. They cast their bows aside, charging into melee with the dwarf, who is now beset by enemies on all sides.

Throrin: Haha! I was wondering when you maggots would find your manhood!

The hellhound comes at Throrin again, distracting his shield as the bladebearer lands a strong blow to the plate at Throrin's neck. The dwarf is beginning to breathe very hard. Corrigan dodges the hobgoblin attacking him, glad to be against one foe now, and not two.

Throrin casts an incantation behind his shield, and a soft glow mends his wounds and stops his bleeding.

Keith seems at a loss, stepping to the tall grass just off the road as he hurls another spell, a smoking arrow of acid that smacks into the bladebearer's chest armor and sizzles there.

Corrigan leaves off the hobgoblin fighting him, emerging from the brush and onto the road to aid the beset dwarf.

The fracas is complete chaos now, the din of battle ringing in the air as Throrin and Corrigan block, dodge, and parry, both coming out unscathed under numerous attacks. The remaining hound once again breathes flames onto the warriors and the smoking wagon.

Throrin begins spitting and cursing in a fury.
Throrin: You fight like gnomish children! I'd ravish your women when I kill you all, but I fear their diseases more than your blades!

Gand suddenly bursts from the back of the burning wagon. His earth-tone tunic has caught fire. He runs around screaming and drops on the ground in an attempt to put himself out. The wagon continues to burn, and shifts suddenly on its weak supports. It looks like it's about to collapse at any moment.

Keith sees an opportunity. He steels himself and approaches close to the fight, raising his hands and speaking words of power. A blinding cascade of colored lights blast from Keith's hands, knocking many of the hobgoblins completely senseless. The bladebearer shuts his eyes just in time, and is unharmed.

Corrigan, too, is caught in the blast. His head snaps back and he drops his weapons, stunned. Not. His. Day.

The bladebearer screams and throws himself at Keith, swinging his sword into one of the blurred images of the wizard, which promptly vanishes upon being struck.

The remaining hobgoblins howl and converge on Throrin, but they cannot get through the dwarf's formidable armor. He feels only an inconvenient pressure under the force of their blows.

Throrin: Hahahaha! Damned mud rutters!
Throrin wheels towards the bladebearer once more, coming up from behind to strike a resounding blow to the hobgoblin's back with his heavy hammer.
Throrin: Good morning, nancy-ass!

The bladebearer wheels on Throrin as the wagon collapses in a cloud of smoke, ash, and sparks.
Keith aims more carefully this time, leaving out the stunned Corrigan as he releases an impressive burst of flame onto his remaining opponents. The hobgoblin force is reduced to charred corpses. All save the bladebearer, who nimbly leaps aside.

Corrigan slowly comes to his senses, fumbling in the dust for his dropped swords.

The bladebearer lands another blow to Throrin's chest, but Keith's strength-sapping magic has made his attacks much weaker. The hell hound gnashes at Throrin's legs ineffectually.

Throrin raises his shield and speaks loud, dwarven words as he recites a prayer.
Throrin: May you mimic the earth, and stand still as the stones!

The bladebearer sneers at the dwarf, raising his blades, but then he goes completely rigid, paralyzed by the dwarf's magic.

Keith points an extended finger at the hell hound, projecting a thin, blue line of extreme cold. The hound yelps as the ray touches it, fleeing into the underbrush.

Corrigan's eyes weep and water as he finds the hilt of one sword. He hefts it in both hands, turning on the bladebearer and screaming into a lunging strike. The sword bites completely through the hobgoblin's motionless body, and it falls.

Throrin's breath heaves as he turns to the two humans, his mane of wild brown hair and beard blowing in the wind. Corrigan lays flat on the ground, exhausted. Keith is completely unharmed, not even his hair mussed. Throrin spits a gobbet of phlegm onto the fallen hobgoblin leader. He moves to another of the creatures lying in the dust of the road and bends down to it.

Keith: Is that one still alive?

Throrin: Aye. And it's a good thing. I've got some questions for him.

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