Part One: Abduction in Tilletsville

The sleepy town of Tilletsville was nothing special, just a hamlet on the road to Mijae, a collection of farmhouses, a smithy and a few small shops. It had only one tavern, Sterling’s Tavern and Stables, and it was a cold dreary Irtus in the month of Low Sun when a motley group of men gathered there to discuss, drawn there by the promise of wealth by a man named Marton Ravenmane…

The name sounds made up, thought Wrathgar, certainly the largest of the men gathered awaiting their host around a table inside the tavern. He had a right to be suspicious. He was still not accustomed to the ways of these so-called civilized folk and he had been warned to be careful who to trust in a land where many a vagabond might stab you in the back just so they could run off with your gold. Indeed gold was the only reason he was here. True, he had his own agenda to fulfill, but to do so he also needed gold so he could survive in a region that no longer respected bartered goods and instead favoured gold.

Wrathgar’s belongings were meager. His armour was wolfskin hide that had been dried, hardened and shaped to fit his massive frame. He was a giant amongst men and his black beard coupled with his mane of black hair made the barbarian look all the more fearsome. The weapons he carried were equally fearsome, a huge grosseklinge sword strapped to his back with bits of leather, the battleaxe on his belt, a large razor-sharp dagger and then there was his pride and joy… a well-crafted composite longbow carved from bone and tamarack tree (a tree renowned for its tensile strength). It was made specifically for his strength; a lesser man would find it difficult just to string it.

Across from Wrathgar sat a skinny fellow with a beard and a jeweled signet ring. Wrathgar had not yet been introduced to him, but he had overheard his name was Valto Kenn… apparently he used to be a jeweler in the town of Durin’s Falls to the south, a town Wrathgar had passed through briefly on his way north. Valto did not appear very tough, but the daggers on his belt and the strange smell emanating from his belt pouches suggested he was some kind of magic user.

Beside Valto to his left was Prem Lal, a quiet fellow who claimed to be a healer. Between him and Wrathgar sat a skinny elf man, a finely carved elven bow slung across his back. Wrathgar could not help but like him immediately and frequently caught himself admiring the delicate designs of the bow.

To Valto’s right was another elf, but this one was both warrior and wizard who insisted on being called Mace Lazeurus. Finally rounding out the table was Hecht, a mere half-elf with a beard and a pipe which he puffed on furiously as he waited impatiently for three more people who had yet to arrive, the host and two others.

Wrathgar stayed silent as the group made small talk, seemingly wary to give out too much information. It was dangerous times. Goblyns had been raiding the roads to and from Tilletsville and there were rumours of evil doings in the nearby Dark Forest, a veritable jungle of dangerous monsters and hidden dangers. The group had already reached the conclusion that the goblyns in the Dark Forest likely was the reason for them being called together.

Sterling Argentium, the pudgy owner of the place, kept the group happy by ensuring a steady stream of heady drinks and platters of food… all graciously delivered by Janelle the cute and bosomy barmaid who was a busy girl tonight since the inn also had a group of four men gambling with bones in a corner and various peasants gathered for a pint and laughter with their neighbours. The peasants didn’t worry Wrathgar, but one of gamblers kept glancing at the group around the central table and seemed to be sizing the group up.

The door opened and a chill blasted throughout the room. All eyes went to the door and it was quickly shut by the tall figure standing there, snow crusted around his clothes. The man went to the bar and spoke to Sterling in lowered tones and at the end Sterling pointed at the men gathered around the table.

The man grunted in response, shook the snow from his red cloak and matching red robes and walked towards the table. He pulled back his cowl to reveal curly black hair and smiled amiably at the group gathered there. His emerald eyes sparkled in the fire light as he studied the group. “Greetings fellow travelers” he began at last. “What are you doing here, what do you seek?”

“Adventure and fame and fortune” replied Lazeurus with a wry smile. He made a motion with his hands as if asking for gold to be placed in them.

Before the man could reply however Hecht interrupted. “What are you doing here and who are you?”

“I am Marton Ravenmane and I too am looking for travel and adventure, and would be interested in joining your merry band, if that is amenable.” This seemed to confuse the group as they had been under the impression he was here to hire them, not to join them.

Instantly distrusting the man Prem Lal replied curtly “I’m afraid we are all filled up.”

Again Hecht ignored his companions. “Tell us of your experiences and adventures?”

“I’ve been into the Dark Forest with a party. I brought back some treasure, it was quite a haul. Unfortunately most of my companions didn’t make it back out,” explained Marton. He seemed to smile ever so slightly and Wrathgar could feel the tension around the table as every man there grew more cautious.

“Why, what happened?” queried Hecht.

“We were set upon by strange creatures. I had the good fortune to hide when they attacked the rest of my party. Luckily I was able to hide some of our treasure and make my escape unburdened by the weight. I plan on going back to get it sometime,” said Marton in an obvious attempt to win them over with greed. He too seemed to sense their overall distrust. “Well, it’s getting late and I must be off. If you do decide that you need my services, leave a letter with Sterling. I am in Tillitsville occasionally and I will find you.”

Marton pulled his red cowl back over his and went to the door, bravely sauntering back out into the cold and the drifting snow.

“He was the only survivor of his party?” remarked Hecht.

“I don’t trust that guy!” grumbled Prem.

For a moment there was a lull in the conversation and the group noticed the gamblers in the corner had paused in their game to watch. Aware they had been staring they went back to their game.

Hours later and just past midnight Sterling made the last call for food and drink and then began tidying up the bar for the night. Valto, Hecht and Wrathgar went upstairs to their rooms whilst Lazeurus, Ghostar and Prem got out their bedrolls and prepared to spend the night in the common room. The locals disappeared one by one and the group of rough looking gamblers placed their bedrolls in a semi-circle and lay down to sleep.

Shortly after 2 AM Lazeurus and Prem awoke suddenly, sensing something was amiss. There was noise coming from outside the inn and the smell of wood smoke was faint.

Upstairs in a room he had agreed to share with Hecht, Wrathgar also awoke and jumped to his feet. Wearing nothing at all he glanced out the window and saw the red glow of a farmhouse burning to the north. He jostled Hecht awake and grabbed his bow & quiver.

Downstairs Lazeurus and Prem were still groggy, but their grogginess quickly wore off when they realized the gamblers weren’t just awake, but also fully armed and drawing their weapons. Prem rolled over quickly and began shaking the still slumbering Ghostar awake while reaching for his flail. “Wake up you damn elf!”

Lazeurus didn’t wait, whipping out his two-handed sword and brandishing it before two of the men. The four gamblers advanced undaunted, whispering to each other.

With no armour on the trio’s situation was grim. Outnumbered one of the ruffians slashed Lazeurus across the forearm and he stifled a cry of pain. Thankfully Ghostar was now on his feet, shortsword in his hand. Prem’s flail made a bizarre wooshing sound and the chain rattled as he feinted to the right and then reversed his swing to bring it down heavily on the gambler’s ribs. The ruffian stumbled and fell down, then lay motionless as he bled internally from his smashed ribcage.

There were heavy footsteps on the staircase and Wrathgar appeared in the doorway of the staircase wearing not so much as a loincloth and two straps over his shoulder and chest for his quiver and grosseklinge. He reached for an arrow while upstairs Hecht still was calmly putting on his armour.

The shock of seeing Wrathgar there and his manly physique must have been a shock to one of the ruffians for he dropped his sword. Wrathgar shot an arrow at him but it bounced harmlessly off his armour. Ghostar meanwhile was grazed across the chest, but Prem was undaunted as his flail swung in precise orchestrated motions, catching another ruffian off guard and shattering his skull.

Ghostar, wounded and fully awake grabbed the moment and dodged in close to his opponent, gutting him and impaling him to the wall behind him.

The last gambler, his longsword lost somewhere on the floor, fell to his knees. “Please don’t kill me! Mercy, I beg of you!”

Valto came down the stairs, followed by a now armoured Hecht, trailed by a small female halfling dressed in black with a curious look in her eyes.

“Please let me goes, I’ll give yous guys everythings I have!” pleads the gambler, his speech slurred from sheer fright.

“Who are you and why did you attack us?” bellows Wrathgar, his eyes seeming to turn red in the firelight.

“My name is Ulger. I don’t know nuthin’!” yelps the man. “Da boss says we gots to cause trouble. We just bandits, we never attacked a town before! We is used to robbin’ fat merchants, but never no town!”

“Who sent you?!” yells Prem, kicking Ulger in the jaw so viciously he falls backwords.

Spitting out blood Ulger struggles to reply. “Things changed when we wuz visited by them robber fellas about 8 crescents ago. Creepy fellas with a big gigantic guy in a robe with them,” he says, motioning with his hands to show how big the fellow was. Wrathgar’s eyes went a bit wide at this, having fought ogres once before and barely escaping with his life.

Sterling comes through the backdoor and begins shouting for the barmaid Janelle. “It’s easy to pull out your fancy swords and poke around with it, but who’s gotta clean up the mess, me that’s who!”

Prem shoves Ulger towards the innkeep with his bloody flail. “Go help him!”

As Ulger and Sterling clean up the mess and drag the bodies outside, the rest of the party hurriedly don their armour and grab their gear. Prem ties a rope around Ulger’s neck and says “You’re coming with us.”

Outside villagers are running about in the dead of winter wearing little more than pajamas and cloaks, running with buckets full of water and shovels for tossing snow on the flames. To the north the fiery farmhouse creates an eerie glow that illuminates the sky as green northern lights dance above, combined with the pale light of the white moon Zath.

To the north the party hears horses galloping and the sounds of combat. A town guardsmen heading north pauses when he sees the group gathered outside of the inn. “We’ve lost one of our men, but took three of them bastards with us. Looks like you caught one of them as well. They rode up and attacked old farmer Crawnail. He took one of them with him and his daughter managed to slip out and alert us before they torched the place. It’s not like the bandits to be raiding towns for no reason and Crawnail had nothing of value except his daughter…” he trailed off.

“Here,” says Prem, jostling Ulger forward. “Lock this guy up somewhere. We’ll go help the villagers.”

In the distance the party spots the town captain of the guard, a man named Kerish Enn, shouting orders. Valto starts running towards him and the party chases after him.

As they near him they hear a woman’s high-pitched scream, again to the north but this time coming from the direction of a shrine dedicated to Jalne, an agricultural deity. Kerish Enn shouts when he hears her screams, his voice taking on a panicked tone.

Lazeurus and Valto ran north, flanking to the west while Ghostar and Prem do the same on the eastern side. Wrathgar ran straight down the middle, making a beeline towards the screams. Hecht trails behind, moving slowly. The halfling followed the barbarian and proceeded to climb on top of one of the buildings, but from there she spots several horses tied up nearby and four men wearing red cloaks and robes struggling with a woman in white robes and bearing the ox symbol of Jalne.

One of the cloaked men bitch slaps the priestess, but she continues to struggle. The halfling narrows her eyes as she draws forth a bow and shoots an arrow in the man’s thigh. He looks back and spots the wee one and curses at her. He turns about and punches the priestess in the stomach, doubling her over. He then picks up the semi-comatose woman and tosses her over his shoulder.

Hecht spots the horses too. “There are horses stabled near the shrine!” he shouts.

Ghostar spots them and begins shooting arrows at them. The half ling keeps shooting too, but loses her balance as some of the roof thatching gives way. She recovered her balance and shoots another time, but accidentally shoots the priestess in the thigh!

The red robed men leap onto their horses and spur them towards the north east. Chanting is heard from various directions as Valto and Hecht speak strange words and cast spells in the direction of the red cloaked riders. Two of the horsemen and their mounts crash forwards in a deep slumber. One of the horses breaks its leg and traps the rider beneath its weight. The other rider and horse are stunned by their fall.

Meanwhile Prem enters the shrine to Jalne and proceeds to swipe the contents of the tithe plate, an act of sacrilege. For safekeeping he whispers to himself.

The half ling and Ghostar keep shooting at the kidnapper, hitting him in the back and again in the leg. Unfortunately another two arrows embed themselves in the priestess and she goes completely limp.

Valto runs to one of the sleeping riders and pulls back the cowl to reveal a half-orc. He begins to tie up the man and puts the injured horse out of its misery.

Hecht grabs the reins of the uninjured horse and hands them to Wrathgar as he comes running up. The barbarian vaults into the saddle and spurs the horse in pursuit, chasing after the red cloaked men.

Ghostar and the halfling manage to shoot the kidnapper twice more. Ghostar’s arrow hits the man in the back and he slumps backwards in his saddle, but the horse continues to race towards the woods.

Meanwhile the stunned man regains his senses and lunges towards Lazeurus, smacking the elf heavily in the gut with his mace. Lazeurus goes down, bleeding from a severe wound to his stomach. The man beckons at Hecht, who realizes he should have subdued the man when he had the chance.

Hecht charges at the man, smacking him down with a cruel swipe from his morningstar to the man’s forehead. As he falls the cowl of his hood falls back and reveals a human. The blow was not deadly however and Hecht begins trussing the man up. While he does so he notices a strange round medallion with the symbol of a ram’s head on it. It is not the symbol of any god he has heard of… perhaps a demon of some kind… The half-elf tucks the medallion into his pocket for later.

The last remaining rider grabs the reins of the horse with his injured comrade and the even more direly injured priestess and then spurs his horse in an effort to get out of range. Ghostar manages to shoot the horse in the rump.

Into the woods they ride with Wrathgar in pursuit. With the blood of two injured people plus a horse, it should be easy to track. The woods were very dark however and the light of the moon scarcely makes its way through the branches. Soon he cannot even see the trail in front of him because of the thick canopy of the Dark Forest.

With much regret he reins in his horse and heads back to town, wishing he had been blessed with the keen eyesight of an elf. He return to find the group gathered around their prisoners. The halfling female introduces herself as Caedo.

“I don’t know how the priestess can still be alive,” says Ghostar, shaking his head at the folly of the situation. “She should be dead with that many arrows sticking out of her.”

Behind him a group of men approach, led by the figure of Kerish Enn, the man the group had seen earlier shouting orders. His tabard is smeared with blood and his face and armour are stained from smoke, except in spots where tears or sweat have run down his face clearing a path. His shield bears the symbol of a longsword, indicating his position in the town. His sword is unsheathed and trembles in his hand as he begins to speak…

“I wanted to thank y’all on behalf of our citizens. Ya’ll helped us out and we appreciate that. Them bastards got away with Ghennifer, our village healer and soothsayer. If y’all can bring her back alive, the folks here in Tillitsville are willing to pay 250 Golden Crowns to whoever helps bring her back. So what do y’all think?”

His words surprise the group for a moment, fearful that he might have seen all the arrows sticking out of the priestess or might have overheard their conversation. For a moment there is no sound but the distant crackle of the burning farmhouse.

Caedo steps out of the shadows from behind Wrathgar.

Kerish seems a bit surprised at her sudden appearance. “Oh, I didn’t see you there little lady.”

The group takes a moment to discuss and at length Wrathgar steps forward: “We require horses for the humans and a pony for the halfling. We will need food and supplies too. Can these be provided?”

“Certainly” replies Kerish Enn. “We will gather them and have them waiting for you in Sterling’s stables tomorrow morning.” He pauses and peers with interest at the captured men. “I see you have captured one of them. We can take him and hold him with the other one you captured. Any pertinent information we receive will be shared with you as well.”

“I can track the remaining rider, but I need someone to help me spot the trail in the dark. Who will help me?” asks Wrathgar. “My horse can carry two of us and we will leave markings so the others can follow us the morning.”

The group is silent except for Ghostar. “I will join you.” The rest of them head back to the inn, weary from the night’s misadventures. Wrathgar helps Ghostar up onto his new horse and two ride off to begin following the trail.

The two ride in silence, Wrathgar using a torch to aid his eyesight and Ghostar using his keen eyes to help keep track of the bloody trail. As they press onwards light begins to seep over the eastern horizon and trail becomes easier to see.

Every hundred yards or so Wrathgar chops off a limb from a tree and stakes it in the snow marking their trail. The trail of the horses stops only once, and the footprints suggest the rider switched horses and perhaps changed loads.

The gnarled trees around them grow ever thicker and the canopy above taller. Wrathgar suggests they pause to rest and Ghostar agrees. The barbarian shoots a pair of snow rabbits and the pair are soon enjoying the tender meat as they regain their strength and let the warmth of their campfire seep into their bones.

Elsewhere in the Dark Forest the lone rider picks his way along a forgotten path known by very few. His horse is skittish as if sensing danger and the rider dismounts as a group of figures robed in red gather around. One of the red robed men comes forward as the others begin to chant in ominous tones.

The man clashes his wrists together and his metal bracelets make a strange ringing noise. He mutters strange words as he gingerly removes the arrows and carves strange sigils on the skin of the priestess who looks so pale from blood loss she most certainly must be dead.

A moment later she moans and cries out loud. Hands grab a hold of her and bind her arms behind her back. One of them shoves a dirty rag in her mouth.

“She lives!” declares the leader, his voice thickly accented. He grabs hold of her face and jerks her about to face him as he pulls back the cowl from his face. “You belong to me now Ghennifer Raintree. I need you alive… for the time being!” And then he laughs, a hideous chortling laugh that made Ghennifer realize the bitter cold around her, the sharp nails and strong hands that held her in place and increasingly aware of the sheer number of red cloaked men that surrounded her, all chanting or whooping with fanatical glee.

The tears streamed down Ghennifer’s face as she stared up at him, her body paralyzed with terror and hope dwindling in her heart.