Chapter 10: The Battle of Vraath Keep

The group moves quickly up the trail to the ruined keep, a collection of shadows dwarfed by the tall trees and stacked wall of stone rising before them.

Draggert grips his axe and spits on the blade.

Corrigan nods towards the main doors where they lie in a decaying heap on the ground.

The party steps gingerly across the ruined doors and slips into the courtyard.

The collapsed doors creak loudly as Throrin’s heavy boots trod over them.

Draggert raises a fist to tell the others to stop. His pointed, green ears twitch in the direction of the low wooden stable building.
Draggert (whisper): I hear voices. Laughing. Inside.

Keith (whisper): What should we do?

Throrin strides up to the door and his voice booms.
Throrin: Never leave an enemy stronghold intact, that’s what!

Keith cringes and flexes his palms. Six images of the young wizard suddenly spring into being around him.

Throrin’s steel boot kicks the door in.

The door flies open with the shriek of ancient metal. The interior of the wooden building has a thin layer of filthy straw strewn across the floor. To the east, an open area contains a decrepit forge and a large mound of moldy hay. A battered table with four chairs sits in the middle of the room. Upon the table crawl a handful of large beetles. A stick with a caltrop tied to the end lies skewered through one of the insects. A strong animal smell pervades the air here. Throrin is just in time to see two well-armed goblins mount two large, snarling wargs.

Valandil looses an arrow reflexively at the first sight of the monsters. It strikes one of the wargs in the shoulder, and it yelps.

The goblins spur their mounts, and the wargs burst from the stable, snarling. The goblins whoop and holler as they draw shortbows and ride the creatures around the courtyard.

Draggert charges at one of the wargs. He swings his axe down in a hard chop, but the goblin rider drags hard on the reins and the monster barely avoids the blow.

Corrigan leaps into the fray, sliding past the wolf-thing’s snapping jaws as he draws both flashing blades and comes up behind it.

Keith fires two scorching rays of flame from his hands, but both go wide of the warg he is aiming at and strike the walls of the tower, leaving long, black scorch marks on the stone.

Jorr fires a couple of bad arrows and tries to get away from the attackers.

Throrin charges the other warg and completely misses with a wild hammer swing.

Valandil snaps off two quick shots at the goblin riding the warg nearest him. The creature screams as the arrows pierce his armor.

“For the Scaled Lady!” shrieks the goblin in front of Draggert. It casts its bow aside and draws a scimitar into a slash that Draggert blocks with the haft of his axe.

The warg twists its head around and bites at Corrigan, but the ranger’s new mithral armor protects him.

The other goblin fires an arrow at Keith. It strikes one of his images and causes it to slump dead to the ground where it fades away.

Draggert and Corrigan coordinate an attack on the warg. Draggert’s axe narrowly misses once again, but Corrigan’s blades slash the creature’s speckled hide.

Keith looks visibly terrified at the death of his image. He ducks behind a giant boulder and reads a scroll from his pack. A hazy disc of force appears in front of him to protect him from further attack.

There is a sudden, leathery flap of wings over the battle. A horrible beast with a body like an orange lion, batlike wings, and spines protruding from its tail and strangely human face flaps up onto the roof of the southeastern building.

Keith: Gods, they have a manticore?!

Jorr and Valandil loose more wild arrows, all far from their marks.

Throrin stows his hammer and draws a javelin. He takes a running start and flings the weapon up at the manticore. It sails over its head, but the dwarf has the beast’s attention.
Throrin: C’mon down and get a piece!

Even over the considerable din of the battle, the sounds of grunts, shouts, and scraping metal can be heard from the southwest.

Corrigan: I think we’re about to have company!

Draggert wedges his boot in the warg’s mouth as it bites at him. He swipes his heavy axe at the goblin rider, but the creature ducks. Draggert screams in frustration.

Corrigan follows up, darting in and out, blades flashing. The goblin rider tries to outmaneuver him, but Corrigan is too fast and his rhythm is too hard to follow. His longsword plunges into the warg’s body, striking its heart. The beast yelps and collapses, showering the packed earth beneath it in blood as it dies. The goblin falls from its saddle and lands hard on the ground.

Keith runs into the middle of the melee. He raises his hands and reality seems to bend around him. His allies are moving much faster now.

Valandil is a blur as he fires three arrows. The first two strike the remaining mounted goblin, slaying it. The last arrow hits the shoulder of the warg as the dead goblin’s body slides from its saddle.

The manticore flicks its tail and flings a volley of deadly spines down at Thorin. They clatter from the dwarf’s armor and shield and fall harmlessly to the ground.

The prone goblin tries to roll to his feet, but Draggert’s heavy axe is already slashing down. The goblin is cleaved entirely in half, showering Draggert’s boots with gore.

Suddenly, the southern doors swing open. Armed and armored hobgoblins begin filing out, longbows readied. They raise their weapons like a firing squad, unleashing a volley of whistling shafts at Draggert, but the magical field that Keith placed around him diverts the arrows harmlessly upward where they veer off into the trees.

Draggert, feeling extra spry, lurches forward, ducks low, and comes back up into the hobgoblins with an uppercut slash from his greataxe. The blow catches a hobgoblin on the brow, knocking his helmet off his head and sending it clattering across the courtyard. The monster stumbles, dazed.

Corrigan throws himself forward into a tumble, coming up on the other side of the hobgoblins near Draggert, his blades cutting intricate swaths through the air.

The final warg charges at Valandil, biting savagely into his leg and thrashing him back and forth like an elven ragdoll. He hammers at the monster’s head with his bow, and just barely manages to free his bleeding leg.

Valandil: Ah!! Blasted beast! You’ll pay for that!

Keith's heart hammers in his chest as he steps up to the group of hobgoblins. He opens his palm and blasts a cone of screaming color into their faces. Half of the creatures howl in pain and clutch their eyes. The others manage to avert their gaze at the last moment and continue to fight.

Corrigan shuts his eyes tightest of all, though he is out of the area of the spell.

An animal bellow rings out over the battlefield as another enemy emerges from the collapsed wall to the south. A minotaur, its large body covered in shaggy, black hair, hefts a greataxe to match Draggert’s own. A large gold ring hangs from its flaring nostrils. It stalks forward, eagerly swinging its greataxe in great arcs around its body. It fixes its eyes on Keith.

Throrin raises his shield higher, gesturing with his other hand and murmuring a blessing. A soft light suffuses his allies’ weapons.

The manticore flings another volley of spines down at the dwarf, but they, too, bounce from his armor. The monster roars in frustration.

Valandil backpedals, firing more arrows at the warg. The monster finally drops to the ground and moves no longer.

The remaining goblin skitters past Keith, startling him.

The two sighted hobgoblins are spurred on by the appearance of the minotaur. They cast aside their bows, draw longswords, and press the attack on Draggert.

The half-orc parries both blades with the haft of his axe, screaming orcish profanity as he brings the blade down and through one of the hobgoblins, the momentum of the killing stroke carrying straight through and into the other hobgoblin’s shoulder.

Keith raises his hands, invoking mystery power as the opportunistic goblin behind him stabs one of his images dead. He fires a crackling, black ray at the minotaur that saps the beast’s great strength, causing its axe swings to become sluggish.

Corrigan strikes one of the hobgoblins in the flank with one blade. The other finds the goblin assailing Keith, slaying it.

The minotaur roars, charging into the wizard and goring him with one of its long horns.

Jorr fires two expert shots that sink into the minotaur’s leg.

Valandil turns toward the minotaur, pulling a hunk of pork fat out of one of his pouches. He chants and flings it at the creature as it transmutes into a torrent of grease that showers the bovine humanoid. It roars in rage as it slips and falls down, covered in the stinking mess.

The manticore finally leaps from its perch, coming down to face Throrin one-on-one. It uses the momentum of its pounce to knock his shield aside, its other claw slicing into a weak point in his armor.

Throrin grunts and counters with a spell, healing his wound fully. He draws his heavy warhammer once more.

The hobgoblins turn on Corrigan, but he is too fast to hit.

Draggert roars, every bit as guttural a sound as the minotaur’s. He abandons all pretense of defense, raising his axe high overhead.

The prone minotaur twists its body and swings its powerful arms wide, pulling its greataxe out of the mud and into a surprise strike that smashes into Draggert’s belly armor, but it does not stop the half-orc.

Draggert slams his axe down on the minotaur’s shoulder, severing its arm and leaving the beast dying in the muck. He spins with the blow, the backswing slamming into one of the hobgoblins and flinging it to the ground like a broken toy.

Corrigan’s sword takes the life of another hobgoblin, leaving only one of the creatures left standing.

Keith limps behind Draggert, uncorking a flask and drinking from it as he moves.

Jorr feathers the remaining hobgoblin with arrows, but it survives. It falls back behind a boulder, drinking from a flask of its own.

Valandil turns towards the manticore and begins launching more arrows at it, checking his quiver as it begins to grow low.

Throrin and the manticore continue to battle one another at the rear of the courtyard. Throrin’s armor holds up as he smashes his hammer into the monster’s shoulder.

A final figure appears through the open tower door to the south. It is a lanky, 6-foot humanoid with shaggy brown hair- a bugbear. Its wide, flat ears stick up from behind an ornate headband, and it wears a sweeping red cape. It wears no armor, but hefts a spiked morningstar and wears a belt covered in flasks and rolled parchment. It raises its furry hands and a fork of white-hot lightning streaks out.

Draggert tries to block the lightning with his axe, but is jolted as the energy cascades over the blade and into him. The rest of the party behind him cries out in pain and anguish as they are scorched by the electricity.

Corrigan leaps aside, avoiding the worst of it.

Draggert steps up to the bugbear and swings his axe, but it glances from a field of magic force around him.

Corrigan tries to gain the enemy’s flank, but the bugbear is quick with its morningstar, and it strikes the ranger in the back as he maneuvers behind it.

Bugbear: You think to come here and kill my men? You stinking humans think you can stand up to the Red Hand?! We are LEGION! I, Wyrmlord Koth, will destroy you!

Keith coughs blood and limps away from the melee, hiding behind a crumbled section of wall.

Draggert and Corrigan converge on Wyrmlord Koth. The bugbear focuses on dodging Draggert’s heavy axe, Corrigan’s sword cutting a small wound as he leaps back.

Jorr has an arrow for both the manticore and the Wyrmlord. He hits the large, winged target, but the other arrow goes wide.

Valandil tries to reposition, but he slips in a puddle of his own grease and falls down into the mud. His arrows, aimed at the manticore, sail away harmlessly.

The manticore turns away from Throrin and launches a volley of tail spines at the prone elf, where they thunk ominously into the mud.

Throrin roars and takes advantage of the manticore’s lapse of attention, delivering two heavy blows to its body with his hammer.

The surviving hobgoblin drinks yet another potion from behind the boulder.

Wyrmlord Koth twists his fingers again, unleashing another bolt of crackling lightning. Draggert and Corrigan drive into him, avoiding the worst of the magic as it blasts around them. Jorr is not so lucky, and the errant bolt singes into his old, gnarled body.

Keith shudders as he hears the familiar spell crackle on the stone wall nearby.

Draggert reaches to his side, grabbing a flask embossed with a carving of a yak. He bites the cork out of it and chugs the healing draught within.

Corrigan’s blades begin to find their mark. He slashes two great cuts into the bugbear.

Keith gulps and musters his bravery. He reads a scroll.

Jorr fires two arrows at the bugbear.

Valandil sits up in the mud, but does not get up as he continues firing arrows at the spined, winged monster. He strikes it in the neck.

The manticore charges in a rage, ignoring Throrin’s hammer as it leaps upon the prone elf. It savages him, leaving him unconscious in the stinking mud as the magical grease dissipates.

Throrin: No one ignores me, you ugly freak!
Throrin bounds back up to the manticore, missing with his hammer but regaining the beast’s attention as he frowns at the collapsed elf in the muck.

The hobgoblin emerges from its hiding place, charging at Draggert, but the half-orc sidesteps the thrust.

Wyrmlord Koth turns to Corrigan and incants a spell.
Wyrmlord Koth: May your eyes be ever veiled!

Corrigan blinks as his vision goes momentarily black, but he shakes off the dark magic.

Draggert heaves his axe into the distracted bugbear, wounding him further.

Wyrmlord Koth is bloody and staggering, breathing heavily.

Jorr fires at the hobgoblin.

The manticore wheels back on Throrin, slashing and battering him with its claws.

Throrin raises his shield against the onslaught, once again healing the wound he sustained with his holy magic.

The manticore snarls.

Draggert, Corrigan, the hobgoblin, and Wyrmlord Koth are a whirl of footwork and heaving weapons.

Keith suddenly appears from invisibility in the midst of the fray, perfectly positioned, eyes ablaze as he channels the maximum amount of power he can into his spell. He twists his hands suddenly and a blossom of flame appears in the shimmering air, exploding outward with a deafening roar. The manticore is flung against the castle wall, burned and dying. Wyrmlord Koth screams as the flames blast the flesh from his bones. His charred corpse collapses to the ground.

Jorr’s mouth is agape as he sinks a final arrow into the last hobgoblin, killing it almost as an afterthought.
Jorr: Gods, son…

Corrigan chuckles in amazement.

Throrin eyes the mage for a moment, then he stows his weapon and crouches down to heal the elf.
Throrin: You’ll not die today, ye wee little pansy.

The group stands amidst the carnage, breathing heavily and checking weapons, watching for any more signs of movement.

Keith wills his hands to stop shaking and he composes himself once more.
Keith: Is everyone alright?

Draggert’s chest heaves up and down as his rage slowly subsides. His eyes roll back into his head, he spits a mouthful of blood, and he passes out.

Out in the forest, the cicadas sing their shrill, buzzing tune.

Chapter 9: Approaching the Keep

The trail winds up and down small forested hills, the dense canopy of the Witchwood shading out the increasingly hot morning sun. Suddenly, looming out of the shadowy woods ahead is a haunting sight, a ruined keep. The old castle sits on a small, rocky hillock, and you can catch glimpses of a broken tower between the trees. A moss-covered stone at the side of the road you're following marks a footpath that leads up to the keep.

Jorr crouches in the trampled brush near the mossy boulder.
Jorr (whisper): There she is.

Corrigan moves to crouch near Jorr, the rest of the group doing their best to stay hidden several paces back in the trees.

Corrigan: These are surely different woods than the ones I have encountered. What’s the plan?

Jorr: I got advice, but I ain’t in charge of no plans.

Keith: Okay. Advice, then?

Jorr: Well, these hobgobs ain't stupid. They're organized and well-armed.

Draggert is suddenly there, next to them, solemn and serious.
Draggert: We walk quiet to keep, then kill hobgoblins.

Jorr and Corrigan both stare at him for a long moment.

Corrigan: Simple enough.

Valandil: You know, I thought that was a great plan, too, and then I woke up full of arrows...

Jorr: As I said, they're organized and well-armed. I'd bet the string off my bow they got a lookout, probably up in the tower.

Draggert nods slowly.
Draggert: Ok. New plan. We walk to keep, then kill lookout.

Jorr ignores Draggert as he continues.
Jorr: Now, they do sleep during the day, so we might have a shot getting the drop on ‘em. But maybe not.

Draggert nods slowly.
Draggert: We walk quietly to keep, then.

Jorr looks at the trail and then the hillside.

Draggert looks at the trail and then the hillside.
Draggert’s face looks blank.

Jorr: We could head up this main path, being quiet like the orc says, and praying to Obad-Hai. Or, we could shimmy up that slope to the back of the keep and risk falling and breaking bones.

Draggert (quietly): Hehe. Obad-Hai. Sound funny.

Keith: Okay. Valandil, would you like to be in charge of the silent dispatching of the lookout, or would you, Corrigan, you sneakthief?

Valandil: I think I could manage it, as long as I can get a clear shot.

Throrin states plainly that he'll have none of climbing.

Keith: Well, I'd rather do it up close and personal. Corrigan, would you like to do so invisibly, then wait in the tower until we get there?

Corrigan: My pleasure.

Keith: And Draggert, when the time is right, I actually would like you to wade into the fray. I can protect you from the arrows.

Draggert: Fray?

Keith: It's wizard talk for fight.

Draggert: Ok.

Valandil: So that means you call yourself a wizard, then, boy?

Keith: I've been called one many more times that I've claimed it for myself.

Valandil chuckles quietly.
Valandil: Hmmm, when I was your age, just beginning my studies, no one would have dared call me a real wizard. We'll see if it's fitting.

Keith: Where can we hide while Corrigan eliminates the lookout, Jorr?

Jorr: Hmmm, I reckon here's about the only place out of eyeshot of those walls. I say we send him up to scout, and see if there even is a lookout before we go planning on killing one.

Jorr: You up for it?

Corrigan smirks
Corrigan: Always, my friend.

Keith: Well, Corrigan... can you do it quickly and quietly, without the aid of a spell? I don't believe it will last two trips.

Corrigan: Sure. I’ve made it through tighter spots than this.

Keith: Well, I guess we all wait here, then?

Corrigan draws his hood up and heads up the footpath, stepping silently into the brush on the side of it and vanishing like a ghost.

---

Draggert: While we stay, Keith, can Draggert look at your things?
Draggert points at Keith’s bag.

Keith shows Draggert his things, other than his spell scrolls and book, which includes many alchemical items

Draggert points to Keith’s spellbook.

Keith: Absolutely not, Draggert. Sorry.

Draggert: Why not? Draggert think he have one like that!

Keith: You can't even read!

Draggert’s voice drops a little, as though his feelings are hurt.
Draggert: Why you say that?

Keith’s tone is pompous.
Keith: Well, if you do have another like this, I should love to see it!

Draggert: You let me see Keith's first.

Keith sighs.

Draggert smiles

Keith: I'm going to show you one page, Draggert. One page.

Draggert speaks eagerly.
Draggert: Ok.

Keith shows him a page for a simple cantrip. There is a small, shaded diagram of a hand held in a particular position with the fingers splayed, surrounded by wispy runes in a strange language.

Draggert is mesmerized and keeps the memory.

Draggert: My turn.
Draggert pulls out a partially burnt and tattered spellbook with the name “Memnor” embossed on the front. There is a handprint singed into the binding.

Valandil looks over curiously, trying unsuccessfully to hide his interest.

---

Corrigan moves up the slope, through the undergrowth.

The old keep materializes out of the trees ahead. It is in very poor repair. The gatehouse is partially collapsed, as is a section of wall to the south. A small wooden building sits next to the remains of a long-abandoned garden in front of the structure. The walls surrounding the keep are about fifteen feet high, with a two-story tower looming in the southwest corner of the courtyard within. Large boulders lie strewn amid the ruins of the two watch towers, and a massive humanoid skeleton slumps amid the ruins in the northern one. This skeleton still wears tattered fragments of leather armor, and a large club lies next to its bony arm.

Corrigan carefully scouts the perimeter of the keep, keeping his eyes and ears strained to the limit. He hears nothing but the gentle buzz of the insects in the trees, and is almost chagrined to realize with certainty that there are no guards posted.

Nevertheless, Corrigan moves slowly and carefully to the tower to get a closer look.

The old tower is beginning to crumble, but is still quite sheer and well-built. A tiny window looks down from about 30 feet up the tower’s 40-foot edifice.

Corrigan creeps through the brush until he approaches the crumbled wall around the keep. He peers carefully out and around the broken wall, one hand warily resting on the hilt of his sword, and looks in at the courtyard.

The courtyard of hard-packed earth has an eerie air of desolation. Jagged boulders embedded in the ground seem to have been dropped here, or thrown with tremendous force from a great distance; many of the walls bear dents and cracks where they probably once struck. Two more massive skeletons lie at opposite ends of the area. One is propped up by the watchtower, and one is sprawled by the far end by a building that was probably once a stable. To the south, where a section of the keep's outer wall has collapsed, a third giant skeleton lies partially buried in the rubble.

Corrigan surveys it all, and then moves as quietly as he can back down the hillside.

---

Keith: Corrigan has certainly been gone a long time...

Draggert: I hope he not dead. If he is, we will bury him so birds do not take his flesh.

Keith: Draggert, you remember in that book, when I said the word morbid was bad, and elves didn't like it?

Draggert: Yes.

Keith: Do you remember what morbid means?

Draggert: You just say not to use that word.

Keith: Well, there's an elf here. And it's when you talk about our friends like they are dead.

Draggert: No...no. I say IF he is dead.

Keith: "Corrigan's guts are burning." That is morbid, Draggert.

Draggert: Ok.
Draggert: I hope he not dead.

Keith: Me, too.

Draggert: Specially by fire in his stomach.

Valandil: Hahaha, are you trying to trick the poor fellow? Telling him he shouldn't use words, then using them? You should be ashamed of yourself! It's alright, Draggert, your friend isn't dead, and I won't be mad if you talk about dead people.

Keith: Have you heard of a baelnorn, elf?

Valandil: Of course I have. What about it?

Keith: Nothing...just the bizarre dichotomy of elves and death struck me.

Valandil: Of course, and the foolishness of humans just now struck me.

Corrigan returns at last, appearing rather suddenly out of the green undergrowth.
Corrigan: There are no guards, as far as I can tell.

Draggert: That mean no hobgoblins either?

Corrigan shrugs.
Corrigan: The keep is strewn with the skeletons of huge creatures, though. Looked like giants.

Keith: Well... I trust you, I guess. Must be the forest giants from the story. We should go up there, then? And plan further?

Draggert stands.

Jorr grunts absentmindedly.

Valandil: I must have killed more than I remembered...they were everywhere when I came last. Perhaps you just didn't look hard enough, boy. I suppose we should go in together and check.

Corrigan: Return with me, then. I didn’t check inside the buildings that still stand.

Keith: Okay. Steel yourselves, everyone.

Draggert brushes dirt from the dreamcatcher woven into his long hair.
Draggert: Let’s go.

Jorr stuffs a wad of chaw into his mouth, draws his bow and knocks an arrow.
Jorr: Well, I'm ready.

Valandil: Let me do some quick preparations before we set out.
Valandil speaks a few arcane syllables and passes his hands over himself. A ghostly suit of blueish chainmail appears on his form and slowly fades from view. He draws his bow and is ready to set out.

Keith: Good idea.
Keith casts the same spell, though the suit of armor that envelops him is an embroidered jerkin that fades from view.

Keith: Also, Draggert, I would really feel better if you came here, a moment.
Keith waves his hands over Draggert and speaks some words. He pulls an arrowhead from a pouch and encloses it in his fist. When the spell is finished, the arrowhead is gone.

Valandil: Humph, completely unnecessary, but what can one expect of a human boy who claims to be a wizard? Shall we go?

Throrin grips his hammer in one hand and his shield in the other. He has been quiet, scowling. He doesn’t like any of this. He follows the others up the hill.

Chapter 8: A Stranger in the Forest

Draggert kneels before a bundle of fresh sticks and kindling, napping flint and steel together and nursing the young, fragile flame that starts up. Soon, the party sits around a roaring fire.

All around, the hum of insects mingles with the swaying hush of the trees in a light breeze, and the pop of the flames licking the dead wood. The forest canopy crowds around, leaving a small hole where the stars shine in a black sky. The temperature drops to bearable, almost pleasant levels.

Jorr sits down last, with a groan, having scouted the perimeter of the camp several times in the dark.
Jorr: It's clear. Hopefully that fire'll keep the ogres and owlbears away.

Keith lays out several books and writing supplies near to the fire.
Keith: I really must study. Draggert, do you want me to read some of that book to you, first?

Throrin has removed his armor, looking half the size without it. He sets about the task of polishing it and his shield by the firelight, hammering out small dents with his road armorer's kit.

Draggert sits cross-legged near Keith. He uses a bone needle and a ball of strong twine to sew up the puncture marks in his gatorhide armor.

Keith tries to translate some of the more difficult passages into something Draggert can understand.

Draggert nods along with Keith as he reads.
Draggert: Oh. I should only shake elf's hand if he offers, and then only shake gentle and not hard to crush bone like Draggert usually shake?

Throrin scoffs at the lesson.
Throrin: Listen to me, Draggert. The only thing you need to know about elves is they aren't all they're cracked up to be. They look pretty, sure, but they have no concept of honor or teamwork.

Draggert: Really? I only meet two elves. One save me from sinking death sand. Other help out in big bar fight.

Keith frowns at Throrin.
Keith: They're not all bad. They're about as alright as anyone else, really.

Throrin: Well, at least if we dwarves don't like ye, you'll know it. We're honest folk. Elves will smile and embrace you when you're around, and then slide a dagger in your back while you sleep.

Draggert: I have elf axe as gift. It good and light.

Throrin scoffs again.
Throrin: Bah, for an axe you can't beat dwarven for balance and sharpness! Second only to orcish, surprisingly enough, though it'd be cruder and heavier. Elves make good swords, though, especially the small and light ones. Still, they're best used for skewering rats.

Corrigan and Jorr sit a ways apart from the fire, the better to keep watch out into the still, darkened trees. When they speak, their voices are low.

Jorr: I can tell you know how to run a trail. You're a fellow woodsman.

Corrigan: I've been called that before, yes.

Jorr: Well, it's always good to see someone who knows their stuff.

Corrigan: How long have you been out here?

Jorr suddenly looks much older. In the orange tint of the firelight, you can see deep creases and wrinkles on his eyes and forehead.
Jorr: A good, long while. Since I was about your age, probably, so...about twenty years?

Corrigan seems impressed.
Corrigan: I don't imagine you get much company?

Jorr: Nah. I got my dogs, though. I had a city life once. A wife, house, and all that. It wasn't for me. I prefer to be alone. It just makes life a hell of a lot simpler.

Corrigan nods and casts a glance at the others around the fire.
Corrigan: I can definitely understand that. You know, you remind me of an old friend of mine. I'll watch your back on the field.

Jorr nods appreciatively.

The fire gives a violent pop, sending a shower of warm embers drifting high up to the canopy where they fizzle into emptiness. It seems to silence everyone and, one by one, each of them retires for the night.

The warm summer night passes uneventfully, and the rays of dawn find the party all awake. The air is humid, with the ozone tang that hints a heavy rain is not far off. Corrigan pours water onto the last coals of the fire, as Jorr unwraps a handkerchief full of cold biscuits and bacon.

Jorr: Eat up. We got a date with some wretched hobgobs here soon, I'll wager.

The group nods their collective assent, eating fast and donning armor, readying weapons.

Keith mutters.
Keith: Nothing we haven't handled before, I suppose.
He does his best to smooth his hair and his robes out before travel begins.

The group sets out into the deep Witchwood once more, and they have only been travelling a few hours when they see a figure on the trail ahead. It is humanoid, and walking towards them with an awkward, shambling gait.

Keith squints.
Keith: It's an elf, I think. He looks wounded.

Draggert growls.
Draggert: It could be trick.

Throrin spits, and scowls down the trail.

The group stands, tense and waiting, until the figure is close. It is a male elf, around five feet tall, with a slim build and short, disheveled black hair. He has a slight tan, blue eyes, and might pass for a human save for his prominent pointed ears. He is currently smeared in dried blood, multiple arrows protruding from his side and back. He stumbles along, barely coherent.

Keith: Oh my goodness!
Keith rushes up to the man.

Elf: Help...

Draggert moves to stand near Keith. The elf collapses to his knees in front of them. They stare at his wounds for a time, unsure how to proceed. Keith grabs onto one of the arrow shafts, and the elf cries out immediately. He releases it.

Keith: These are hobgoblin arrows. Draggert, could you rip them out?

Draggert frowns and reaches for one of the black-feathered arrow shafts.

Throrin: Don't touch him!
He spits and curses under his breath as he approaches.
Throrin: Damned idiot. In these woods alone! What did I just tell them about elves?

Throrin holds out a calloused hand and says a prayer. A blue light suffuses the elf as the arrows slide gently from his flesh, clattering to the damp ground. He blesses him once more, until all of his wounds are closed up with fresh, pink skin. Throrin stands aside and crosses his arms on his chest, scowling at the elf the entire time.

The elf gingerly feels the places where the arrows were. Satisfied, he stands up straight and speaks.
Elf: Thank you very much, strangers. I am Valandil, trailworn traveler and bow-for-hire. I ran afoul of some damned hobgoblins up at Vraath Keep yesterday. I got a few of them, but they volleyed me good and left me for dead. Luckily, I regained consciousness and slipped away.

Draggert squints at the elf's face.
Draggert: Wait, you! You in town with big bell, eight full moons back?

Valandil looks at Draggert, recognition flaring up in his bright, blue eyes.
Valandil: Yes! You're that brute that started that tavern brawl!

Draggert laughs a big belly laugh.
Draggert: I no start! You know I no start!

Valandil opens his mouth, pointing at a prominent gap in his front teeth.
Valandil: Well, I got in a bit of trouble in that fight, no matter who started it.

Draggert digs in his bag with vigor, pulling out a small piece of twine wrapped around a single front tooth.

Valandil frowns.
Valandil: Oh, wow, you kept it?! How crude.

Draggert nods happily.
Draggert: It make good trade for telling story.

Draggert turns excitedly to the rest of the party.
Draggert: Everyone, this no trick. This other elf friend from town! We eat rainbow colored bread and Draggert make joke there might be gold on bottom.

Valandil chuckles.
Valandil: Oh boy, not my finest hour, that.

Keith introduces himself in elven.
Keith (Elven): Good sir, since we so fortuitously met you here, might we offer you the prospect of revenge? We plan to give those hobgoblins up at the keep a sound beating.

Valandil nods.
Valandil: I would like nothing better. Well met to all of you, then. What was your name again? Draggert?

Valandil moves to each member of the group, introducing himself and shaking hands.

Throrin looks at the elf's hand as it is offered. He nods to him, nothing more.

Jorr: Nice to meet you and all, but we'd best get going. Goblins and their kind are lazy and sluggish in the early hours. Now is our time to strike.

In agreement, the group continues down the road, one member stronger.

Chapter 7: Swift Creek

As the group travels north through the woods, Draggert tells everyone the legend of Vraath Keep.

Draggert: Amery Vraath was young noble with nice castle called Vraath Keep. He live here in Witchwood with other people who follow and live in big castle where different tribe like A'chook cannot attack. Castle so big that Amery get big head and too proud, and he try to kill forest giant tribe. Forest giants big men with tusks like strongest boar, bigger than Draggert's, and green moss skin like smartest toad. He attack forest giant tribe and kill many, but Amery's big head mostly empty because he not know there two tribes and he only kill one. On night when sky was dark and full of storm and rain, forest giants come to keep with big rocks and trees. They break walls like old turtle shell and kill people hiding inside. Amery Vraath never seen again. He still haunts old, ruined keep in the forest until his bones are found and put down into ground.

Keith frowns throughout the story.

Jorr cuts in.
Jorr: Up ahead's Swift Creek. It turns the forest into a nasty swamp for a spell. Keep your wits about you.

Draggert keeps his voice low.
Draggert: Throrin, you can read dwarf letters?

Throrin: I don't ruddy well just look at them and dream.

Draggert rummages in his sagging backpack and withdraws yet another item. It is a bent, old shovel.
Draggert: I have a shovel with dwarven handwords on it. You can have as gift.
He hands the shovel to Throrin.

Keith cuts in, speaking in dwarven.
Keith (Dwarven): I believe Draggert is "a few rivets short of a masterpiece." Is that the saying?

Throrin grins, nodding to Keith as he looks over the shovel.
Throrin (Dwarven): As close as I've heard any of you short-lived folks speak it.

Throrin reads the runes on the shovel closely.
Throrin: Draggert, this is...it's called "the seeking spade." Where did you get this?

Draggert: I help save dwarf men who get buried in old mine shaft that collapse because of screaming woman.

Throrin looks at Draggert for a long moment.
Throrin: You know, you're alright...for a half-orc. I thank ye, Draggert, on behalf of my kinsman, and I accept this noble gift. How did you bend it?

Draggert shrugs.
Draggert: I had to move very big rock.

Throrin sighs.
Throrin: Well, I suppose orcs can't be trusted with nice things, no matter their intentions.

A wide expanse of dark water has flooded the woodland in this low valley. Trees still protrude from the calm, dark waters here and there, but many swaths of land seem to be little more than pools of algae-choked water. The trill of frogs and the whine of insects fills the air. The forest road leads right down to the edge of the bog, up to a rickety-looking causeway made of thick planks of wood lashed together with mossy rope. The wooden causeway runs for several hundred feet through the bog, only a foot or so above the water.

Throrin: Agh, this looks like a good place to get ambushed, if you ask me.
Throrin unhooks his hammer from his belt loop.

Corrigan draws his swords quietly.

Keith: Really? But you can see a long way. There's nothing.

Draggert: Could be enemy under bridge, or hiding in water with flower tubes.

The group pauses for a moment, listening to the trill of frogs and the buzz of insects. Then, they step onto the walkway with Draggert at the front. They haven't gone far when they notice a half-submerged caravan stuck in the muck a short distance out into the swamp, the canvas tarp across its top rumpled and rotting, one wheel protruding from the murk.

Draggert gets as close as he can to the edge of the walkway, peering at the caravan.

The bog below Draggert gives a massive, rippling lurch and a blurred shape bursts upward, sending a murky spray of swamp water into the air. A snakelike head hangs on the end of a long, powerful neck attached to a bloated body, where still more necks attach until the creature stretches out six long, whipping snake heads, all covered in dull green scales, to attack. The monster must be the size of a horse-drawn cart!

Corrigan: HYDRA!

Draggert is caught completely by surprise. The six heads lash down, each striking with blinding speed. Draggert flings his axe up, parrying one of the heads as two more nip at his legs. He stumbles back, and another of the heads bites savagely into his side, its needle teeth tearing through his armor. He screams, beating at it ineffectively with the haft of his axe. The head lifts him from his feet and twists downward, flinging Draggert onto the boardwalk where he lands with a heavy thud and does not move.

Corrigan rushes forward, rolling under one of the striking heads and swinging his sword upward at it, just as it snakes out of reach.

Jorr looses an arrow into the monster's body with a wet thwup.

Throrin mutters a prayer to Moradin that they might triumph. A warm glow suffuses he and his allies.

Keith points his index finger, firing a smoking, black ray that strikes the body of the beast, sapping its strength.

The hydra roars, a peculiar frog-like sound, and surges half onto the causeway, its heavy feet causing the wood to creak and groan. It lashes out at Corrigan, its teeth grazing his shoulder. The rest of its heads batter and smash into the armored dwarf, but Throrin stays on his feet, screaming defiantly.

Corrigan suddenly leaps from the causeway and into the bog, fetid water rising to his chest, he kicks his legs and swims underneath the hydra's body, swords splashing as he strikes up at it.

Jorr backpedals well out of reach of the monster, loosing another arrow.

Throrin steps over the fallen half-orc, fending off the hydra's heads with his wide, steel shield. He speaks a few words of prayer, touching Draggert's back and suffusing him with healing magic. Draggert's eyes open, angry and bloodshot.

Keith follows Jorr, speaking an incantation and sending two burning lances of fire out from his hand. They strike the hydra's body, inflicting smoking, charred wounds in its scaly flesh.

Three of the hydra's heads snake beneath its body, biting and thrashing at Corrigan. The ranger is quick, even deep in the murk, and he twists in the water and dodges them all, frustrating the monster. The other three batter Throrin with savage bites, the third head biting straight down and onto the dwarf's shield where it is raised to catch in the beast's mouth, fending off a devastating bite to the dwarf's head.

Draggert rolls suddenly across the wooden boards, on his back, and swings his axe with the momentum, cleaving a deep, bloody rend into the Hydra's exposed belly. He screams as loud as the monster.

The hydra sags from the force of Draggert's blow, and Corrigan at last finds his mark. His swords flash upward in three beautiful strokes, liver, gut, and heart. He swims out of the way as the beast gives a final, shuddering breath and collapses dead into the swamp.

Keith bites his nails.
Keith: Heck of a job, everyone! Well done.

Jorr: Very impressive.

Throrin: Damnation! I didn't even get to crack a skull.

Draggert stands, covered in fresh blood. The mad look in his eyes slowly subsides.

Corrigan climbs back onto the walkway, and offers Draggert a stoppered potion.

Draggert takes it, drinking it down.

Keith: Draggert, you alright?

Draggert says nothing. He digs in his alligator skin bag, taking out another potion. He drinks it.

Throrin: You took a beating, ye hairy bastard.

Corrigan and Keith move to check out the wagon.

Draggert searches his bag, finds another potion, and drinks it quietly.

The wagon is old and mostly empty. Near the front, you find a few corpses gone waxy from too long sitting in the bog. One of them, completely submerged in the deep muck, offers up a glint of shining metal.

Corrigan reaches deep and pulls hard, withdrawing a beautiful shirt of glinting chain that slides easily from the body of its former owner. The armor looks brand new, completely unaffected by the slimy bog.

Throrin falls on his ass on the walkway.
Throrin: Mithral silver!

Corrigan whistles softly in amazement.
Corrigan: Now this is treasure.
He heads back up onto the walkway, stowing the armor in his bag for now.

Draggert takes a deep breath and then examines the fallen hydra, trying to figure out the best way to skin the beast.

Jorr shifts uncomfortably on his feet. He looks around continually at the swamp.

Keith: What's wrong, Jorr?

Jorr: Just remembering this old bit of woodsman's wisdom that, in summer, hydras sometimes nest in pairs.

Keith: Um, guys! I think we should get going!

Draggert gives up on the hydra corpse. It's too big.

The party swiftly moves down the boardwalk, across the causeway, and deeper into the forest. They traverse a few more miles, until nightfall closes in around them.

Chapter 6: Into the Witchwood

After a hasty breakfast of buttered biscuits at the inn, the party makes their way across Drellin's Ferry to the town's namesake, a large flat-bottomed ferryboat resting on the broad, sluggish Elsir River on the town's western side. Beyond the crossing lies the Dawn Way and the Witchwood. The ferryman tips his hat as the party approaches, accepting no payment from those on official town business. He hooks a draft horse up to a rope-and-pulley mechanism and bids the group climb aboard the barge. The ferry is exceedingly slow, hefting along through the water and passing by several large, stone pylons jutting from the surface.

Throrin: Dwarf-made those pillars, and still strong.

Keith nods.
Keith: A shame the locals let the bridge wash out in the floods.

Throrin touches the stone of his hammer's head and says a silent prayer to Moradin.
Throrin: Aye, it were better when the vale was ruled by my people.

The ferry finally bumps against the bank on the opposite shore, where another ferryman waves goodbye to the party as they travel past the final few outlying farms and houses of the town.

As the group travels, Draggert tells them all the story of the Ghostwood Spoon.
Draggert: Several seasons past I was in lake to remove stench and filth. I removed cloth and armor. I did not kill great gator with Arv'Gallin yet, and cloth and armor not made for water. I walked back and forth in water until no longer feel sticky and tight, when all of a sudden extra smooth is under Draggert's foot. I reach into water and feel stick, but when Draggert pull hand out of water there is no stick, but Draggert still feel stick! Draggert knows his eyes are bad, but not as bad as sick bat or dying mole. Hahahahaha. Draggert think it must be someone trying to trick him, or keep his mind working so they can attack. Draggert runs to land and picks up old Ar'chook tribe axe that was very old and very bad when Draggert finally sees stick! But it is no stick, it is spoon! Draggert figure out that spoon disappear when it gets wet, so Draggert hold extra tight when eating soup.
Draggert nods sagely at that last bit.

The western road leading into town is clear, so the group turns onto a small trail beneath the green canopy of the Witchwood, its broad branches teeming with life in the warm summer morning. Birdsong and the buzzing of cicadas fills the air.

Draggert steps out in front.
Draggert: Draggert can lead.

Throrin nods.
Throrin: I'll take up the rear. Loud as I am, the further from the front, the better.

Corrigan smirks.
Corrigan: Excellent. We'll keep our ears open for your girlish screams in case you are attacked.

Draggert: But Corrigan, he has deep voice.

Keith adjusts his pack on his back, clearly straining a bit beneath its weight.
Keith: No need to slow down on my account.

The group moves through the forest, Draggert loping nimbly around stumps and through bushes as he follows the small trail where it meanders through the high summer undergrowth. Burs snag in your clothes and briars scrape past your faces. More than once, one of the half-orc's "shortcuts" leads you through pools of standing water and over large boulders. After several hours of travel, the temperature rises greatly. By the time you arrive at the small cabin on the side of the trail that must be the woodsman's, you are hot, tired, and very sweaty. A ramshackle front porch is littered with fishing baskets and skinning frames. The cabin overlooks a dark bayou lake, with old gray cedar trees draped in moss rising out of the water. An old skiff is tied up on the shore nearby, and a little smoke curls from the fieldstone chimney.

Keith steps forward gingerly and goes to knock on the door.

As Keith approaches the front porch, the sound of deep, ferocious barking rends the air. Three massive hounds bound from the back of the cabin and come running towards Keith. They stop just a foot away from him and bark savagely, saliva slavering over their jaws and splashing onto Keith's well-tailored robes.

Corrigan's hands go immediately to his blades.

Draggert grabs onto his axe and growls back.

Keith freezes, stuttering something in an attempt at words.

Throrin adjusts his helmet, barely able to see what's happening up ahead.

The front door suddenly bangs open, revealing a rough-shaven, middle-aged man with a balding white pate. He grips a shortbow, arrow nocked, though pointing down.
Man: Oy! Off 'em, louts! Maisie! Carlisle! Boartusk! I say OFF 'EM!

The dogs stop barking, circling around to stand closer to the porch, hackles still raised.

Man: Who are you, then? Out with it quick. The dogs aren't too patient.

Draggert: Draggert, Corrigan, Keith, and Throrin. He is dwarf.
Draggert points at each in turn.

Man cringes.
Man: You're an ugly cuss, and an orc to boot.. What do you want? Armed folks at my door means either thieves or fools or both.

Keith: Please sir, we came here for help! Wiston sent us!

Man: Oh, Wiston, was it?
He relaxes noticeably, and calls the dogs completely off with a sharp whistle. They crawl beneath the porch.
Man: Alright, then. Name's Jorr. If Wiston sent you, you're probably alright. Come on in.

The group cautiously mounts the porch, filing into the small cabin. Draggert remains outside, sitting on the steps of the porch, content to wait in the fresh air, and also to keep watch.

The cabin is close, hot, and smells of wood smoke. Two wooden benches flank a rectangular table covered in scrimshaw art, fletching tools, and tobacco-smoking supplies. Deer heads and stuffed snakes crowd the walls, while a massive boar's head is mounted over a modest hearth. A pot of coffee bubbles over the morning's coals. Everyone crowds the benches and table as they sit down.

Jorr lays his shortbow on the table, next to some arrows he is not quite finished fletching with goose feathers.
Jorr: Alright, what do you want to know?

Keith: The road, mainly. We're supposed to make sure it's clear. It's hobgoblins we're after.

Jorr: Well, the road ain't clear. It's hobgoblins, all right. That and more. I see worg riders raiding the roads at all hours of the day and night. These aren't the stupid, weak variety of goblin. These are well trained, and a decent bowshot. All of them have quality weapons and armor. It's not good, not good at all. The main force of them is in and out of the Witchwood, but I do my best to stay hidden. Still, it's probably only a matter of time before they find me.

Keith: Well, we're here to help, Jorr. Say the word and we can let the sparks fly.

Jorr: They might be holed up at Vraath Keep, about five miles north. Been seeing weird lights up near there at night. But if you ask me, my money's on Skull Gorge. It's an old dwarf bridge across a canyon, half a day north of the wood. I figure they came down out of the Wyrmsmokes, and they're garrisoning that old bridge fort, blocking travel.

Draggert's voice drifts into the window.
Draggert: I heard story about Vraath Keep from Arv'Gallin. Haunted!

Jorr shrugs.
Jorr: Might be worth a look, on the way to the gorge.

Throrin grumbles.
Throrin: It makes me blood boil, thinking of them goblins crawling all over my ancestor's works.

Keith: All of it north, then? Well, it looks like we have some objectives. We can reach that keep by the end of the day. Ready, everyone?

Jorr stands suddenly, grabbing his bow and slinging it across his back. He starts stuffing a backpack full of supplies.
Jorr: I'm coming with you. I don't want these damn hobgoblins in my home. I'd have done something sooner if I'd had the manpower. Now it seems I do.

Keith nods.
Keith: Yes, why don't you!

Together, the group exits the cabin and files down the steps. Jorr stoops underneath the porch and says something to his dogs.

Draggert: You are coming, woodman? You take payment?

Jorr stands and approaches Draggert.
Jorr: I didn't ask for any, but I'll take mercenary coin if you've any to spare.

Draggert nods, digging in a belt pouch for something. He drops three gold crowns and twelve silver-dipped stag's antler tips into Jorr's hand.
Draggert: Three human monies, and twelve Grogor tribe monies. Too bad Grogor tribe all dead now.

Jorr looks with interest at the strange coin, and pockets it all.

Throrin approaches and hands the man ten more gold crowns without saying a word.

Jorr mutters his thanks.

Together, the party sets off to the north.

Chapter 5: A Proposal at the Old Bridge Inn

The Old Bridge Inn is a large and comfortable establishment, all awash in the golden glow of a massive fireplace. The large cooking stone in the kitchen sizzles and gives off delicious smells. The bar itself is of an old and heavy oak, and boasts a fine assortment of ales, liquors, and wines. The taproom seems at least half full, most folks worriedly talking about the town's recent troubles. Still, an atmosphere of cheer and comfort pervades all here. The bartender is a halfling man with an easy demeanor and broad smile. His hair is in neat cornrows. Three maids serve the tables.

Keith sits exhaustedly at a table.

Draggert tests the strength of a chair next to Keith carefully, and sits.

Corrigan sits in a shadowy corner, his hood up.

Throrin climbs a stool at the bar and sits there, letting his feet dangle.

Draggert: Keith.

Keith sighs resignedly.
Keith: Yes?

Draggert: Do you wish to trade, give, or receive gifts or tales?
He waits for a response.

Keith fishes a sunrod out of his pocket. He thinks twice before finally deciding to place it in the giant half-orc's hand.
Keith: You seen one of these?

Draggert: Yes. You snap them and they are sunny.
He seems pleased.
Draggert: Do you read human language, Keith?

Keith: It's pretty much all I do.

Draggert hands Keith a book. The title reads "Elven Ethics."
Draggert: You may have this if you read it out loud. I need what is in this book. I was told so.

Keith scoffs.
Keith: It's comedy, Draggert.

Draggert: My elf friend Lorathaul say I must know book inside and out. Lorathual pull me from sinking death sand. I show him cave of goblin. We kill goblins, count monies, and eat. He give me great big elf axe because his smaller arm no longer work because of sky-colored goblin with invisible mystery power. Lorathaul gave me book and said I must know inside and out or other elves would kill me.

Keith: Mystery power, eh? Come with me, Draggert.
Keith stands and leads the half-orc outside onto the town green. He points a hand up at the sky, makes a few subtle motions and says a few ominous words.

Draggert prepares for trouble.

A fork of blue lightning very suddenly pierced the sky in Drellin's Ferry that night. The locals who saw it said it must have been a bad omen, for there was not a storm for miles.

Draggert jumps, then stares at Keith.
Draggert: You use mystery power, Keith? Did you make lightning?

Keith winks at Draggert, slowly walking back to the inn, suddenly feeling even more tired.
Keith: The answer, Draggert, is that powers are not a mystery to some, at all.

Draggert follows Keith back inside.

The halfling barkeep has stools of his own set up on the serving side of the human-sized bar. He leaps adeptly from stool to stool as he serves drinks.

Halfling Barkeep: What'll you have, sir? I have a dwarven stout.

Throrin: You're reading my stomach, little cousin.

The barkeep smiles and flits between stools, sliding Throrin the mug down the bar without spilling a drop.

Throrin takes several long draughts, then belches loudly.

Corrigan sinks into his chair, overhearing a conversation being held at the table above him, on the small upper-level balcony. A middle-aged man with a serious face and a salt-and-pepper beard talks forcefully with a red-haired woman in a chain shirt. They are arguing about what to do about the town's recent troubles. The man is in favor of speaking to "the strangers" in town, while the woman explains that she doesn't trust them. The man counters that Sergeant Hersk vouched for at least one of them, and that if anyone is going to get hurt, it might as well be strangers.

Corrigan arches an eyebrow, and stands up. He moves to the bar near Throrin just as Keith and Draggert reenter the room. He motions for the others to come close.

Draggert approaches.
Draggert: You drink good, Throrin, like fish dying on land.

Throrin finishes his stout in one long pull.
Throrin: Just lubricating my wind pipe.

Corrigan: I just overheard an interesting conversation up in the balcony. But first, have any of you ever seen this image?
Corrigan withdraws a charcoal sketch of the symbol of the five-headed lizard from the green earlier.

Throrin: That be the unholy symbol o' Tiamat, lad. Or at least damned close.

Corrigan: Tiamat?

Throrin: Aye, the evil dragon goddess. Where'd ye find that?

Corrigan: A friend gave it to me. There must be a connection between this dragon goddess and the symbol of the red hand.
He puts the drawing away, shaking his head and feeling uneasy.
Corrigan: Anyway, there's a man and a woman talking about us up in the balcony. It seems he wants our help, but the lady doesn't trust outsiders.

Throrin: Wise of her.

Draggert: I will be here long season. I can help.

Keith: That might be Norro, the town speaker. I'll go see.
Keith stands and makes his way to the balcony area, the others following behind.

The older man looks up and his conversation stops abruptly as Keith and the others reach the top of the small balcony, crowding around the end of a long table, the only seating available above the common room.

Older man: And here they are at last! Welcome to Drellin's Ferry, strangers. I am town speaker Norro Wiston, and this is the captain of my guard, Anitah Soranna. Please, have a seat. We were just discussing a proposal we may have for you.

Captain Sorannah's expression darkens perceptibly as the group sits down and she shoots Wiston a nasty look.

Keith extends a hand to shake Wiston's.
Keith: Keith Waxloor, apprentice to Immerstal the Red of Brindol.

Speaker Wiston: Ah! Excellent.
He gives Captain Sorannah a superior glance.
Speaker Wiston: We would welcome the help of a talented mage, as any apprentice of Immerstal's must no doubt be. And, to be frank, the lot of you are quite well-armed, and you seem capable. Sergeant Hersk tells me you defeated a sizable force of hobgoblin bandits on the road. Our town is besieged by these hobgoblin brutes. They raid our distant farms and harry any attempts to pass nearby roads. They are a pox on safety, prosperity, and commerce in my lands.

Captain Sorannah interrupts the speaker.
Captain Sorannah: We've dealt with their kind ourselves plenty of times before, but this force is different. It's large and organized. My scouts think it's likely that a large tribe might be on its way down out of the Wyrmsmoke Mountains. It may even be large enough to sack the town.

Keith looks out of the small, square-cut window on the balcony at the quaint, tiny lights of the town at night, hearths and oil lamps burning in cozy cottages.
Keith: A bustling metropolis like this, eh? I certainly understand your concern.

Captain Sorannah frowns at Keith, as the speaker cuts back in.

Speaker Wiston: There may not be an immediate threat to our homes, but the road to the west is our lifeblood. If the Dawn Way is not kept open, trade into all of Elsir Vale will suffer, and we will suffer first. We need to repel the raiders from our town if they come, but we also need to keep that road open. That's where you come in. If you help us, you'd be helping an awful lot of people.

Corrigan: Of course, but what's in it for us?

Captain Sorannah gives Speaker Wiston the most telling look of all. She speaks a touch too loud, a note of bitterness in her voice.
Captain Sorannah: Of course we don't expect you to help us out of the kindness of your own hearts. We can pay each of you five hundred gold crowns.

Keith frowns.
Keith: For a warrior as fine as Corrigan? I'd say seven hundred is more his going rate.

Throrin practically shouts.
Throrin: Noble endeavors are their own reward! Making widows of goblin whores is entertainment, no payment needed.

Captain Sorannah: You'll be facing off against dozens of hobgoblin warriors. I insist you take some payment.

Throrin stands so that he is as tall as the captain is seated.
Throrin: I'm no money hungry mercenary, wench! You insult my honor and the honor of Clan Hammerfist!

Captain Sorannah stands, too, her hand going to the hilt of her blade.
Captain Sorannah: I have not defended this town tirelessly for seven years to be called wench by some up-jumped dwarven sellsword!

Throrin: Sellsword?! I carry the royal blood of Othrek Hammerhand!

Speaker Wiston stands, as well, and speaks with sudden, powerful authority.
Speaker Wiston: Enough! You will take the offer of five hundred crowns, or you will be on your way at dawn.

Draggert watches all of this quietly, his black eyes wet and blinking.

The group slowly calms down, mumbling a general assent to the speaker's offer. Captain Sorannah stalks off to the window as Throrin sits back down.

Speaker Wiston is once more calm and composed. He sits.
Speaker Wiston: Excellent. In the morning, you will head west down the Dawn Road. If you see any brigands, deal with them. The captain's scouts believe the hobgoblins have a base in the Witchwood, an old ruin called Vraath Keep. There used to be a woodsman off the Witch Trail. Jovy might've been his name? I can't remember. He hasn't been to town in weeks, might already be dead. If not, he can show you the way to Vraath Keep. Once everything is clear and dealt with, report back to me for the other half of your payment. Here's the first half.
Speaker Wiston plinks down several pouches of coin, already counted out in advance.

The group grasps the pouches, divvying them out in equal measure. Corrigan counts the contents, just to be sure. Throrin eyes his pouch distastefully, but accepts it.

Keith: Very well. I think I'll retire. I need to prepare for this journey, and there's a map of the stars I need to study. Goodnight.
Keith rises and heads down the steps and into the back rooms of the inn.

Captain Sorannah leaves, saying nothing beyond the scowl on her face.

Throrin mutters.
Throrin: Bloody she-wolf...

Speaker Wiston rises, and accompanies the rest of you down the stairs before taking his leave. Draggert, Corrigan, and Throrin linger a moment more in the common room. It's late, and many of the patrons have gone home, changing the atmosphere to a quiet stillness interrupted only by the crackling of a log in the hearth and the sound of the bartender getting everything cleaned up for the night.

Draggert leans in to the others, nearly whispering.
Draggert: Do any of you wish to trade, give or receive stories or gifts?

Corrigan smirks.
Corrigan: Sure, Draggert, I'll take a gift.

Draggert smiles and rifles around in his pack. He produces a white, wooden spoon. He presses it gingerly into Corrigan's hand.
Draggert: Here. It is made of ghostwood. It disappears when wet.

Corrigan doesn't really believe him, but he takes the spoon.
Corrigan: Thanks, Draggert.

Draggert smiles, and he goes to sleep on the common room floor, by the cozy fire. The others retire to their rooms for the night.