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.

x

x