Session 22 (Part Two)
Of Gnolls and Men and Halflings…
Once they were beyond the bounds of civilization, it quickly became clear that Junior Tribune Metallus was an Imperial pain in the arse. His incessant whining about the quality of the food, the lack of creature comforts and his rustic companions soon earned him a place at the rear of the column. His unwavering air of morale superiority and complete obliviousness to it’s irritating effects quickly grated on many nerves. The grizzled Optio, Bato, took his commander’s complaints and insults with stoic silence, but the occasional eye roll and grimace let the others know his feelings for the young officer. The rest of the party alternately did their best to humor and ignore the Emorian.
Their mounts made the journey pass quickly, but there where many chafed thighs and hobbling gaits by the end of the second day. As they passed into the broad river valley with the ruined hamlet and stone bridge, hairs began rising on neck napes. Scouting flights by Severus and Quintus revealed their line of march was being shadowed by leather-clad gnolls and their enormous wolf companions. In addition, they caught an odd rippling in the air from time to time that betrayed a magical scrying sensor. They pressed on despite a general sense of foreboding.
Three days out from the Two-Headed Stag, they crossed the northern ridge of the river valley and looked down upon the gently rolling hills and occasional copse of trees that carpeted the land toward the hill-ringed ruins of Greenspires. Visible on the northern horizon was the cloud-topped crown of Dragonspire Mountain. Sextus reined his mount in for a moment, “Ah…only four or five more days, at most.”
They made good time through the grasslands, spending but one night in a cozy thicket before climbing the hills towards Greenspires. The gnolls still followed and flanked them, but kept half-a-league or more distant. Rowan, irritated at their constant presence and anxious to sink an arrow or ten into gnoll-hide, groused, “Damn cowards, just let ‘em come within range of my trusty Scythian bow!”
A bit of ground fog greeted them on the following morn, slowing their ascent towards the ruined town. They were nearing the crest when Quintus jerked his mount to a sudden stop.
“Something is wrong ahead,” the sorcerer’s eyebrows knit together in concentration. “Severus is sending me confused images of some type of battle.”
“Look,” Rowan called, pointing at the hilltop.
Several thin streams of smoke rose lazily into the air. Then, a breath of wind wafted the pungent smell of wood smoke across the ridge.
“By Osirian, isn’t anything ever easy for us?” Quintus asked the heavens.
The faint ringing of steel on steel was the only answer.
“To the summit,” the elder Scipio called.
(DM’s Note: The town of Greenspire was built at the conjunction of the Great Western (Trade) Road and the Oar Road, in a low-lying area surrounded by a ring of brush-crowned hills. The remains of the town are not visible unless you are atop the hills around the town.)
Blades were loosened and armor straps tightened as they gained the ridge. Below them, chaos and blood reigned. The tattered flags of half-a-dozen halfling trading houses rose above burning wagons, howling gnolls and grimly battling guards. A score of wagons were formed in a rough laager around the cracked fountain at the center of the crossroads. Several were burning and the broken bodies of halfling and human were strewn about liberally.
Rowan barely suppressed an urge to charge down into the midst of his hated enemies, dropping to one knee to study the situation instead.
“Look…they have already repelled one assault at least,” the ranger said, pointing to crumpled gnoll corpses piled in front of the wagon wall. “But the gnolls are regrouping and mean to strike from the east and north.”
Two large knots of the canine creatures were visible through the swirling smoke, beating weapons against their shields and yelping loudly. Crimson and black banners waved madly in their front ranks.
Cragen squinted at the battle lines. “Not much time…”
Quintus nodded.
“Agreed. Rowan, let’s take the near group…the ones to the east. Lead the others through the ruins and I will support you with spells from above. Do NOT charge them until you see my fireball hit,” he said, looking pointedly at Röse.
The big Brigante's face split in a wolfish grin and he spoke a word, enlarging his magic axe to its largest size. Quintus closed his eyes, concentrating for a moment. His form shimmered and rudimentary wings sprouted from his back. He shot Sextus a stern look.
“We are almost home, brother…take care that you remain in one piece. I would hate to have to explain anything to mother.”
Sextus waved off his concern even as a gleam crept into his eyes. The bard glanced at the Emorians. Bato was calmly checking his equipment…spear, scutum, gladius and pugio. The Junior Tribune was visibly shaking and Sextus thought he heard the young man’s teeth chattering. Rowan and Röse smiled grimly at each other and the barbarian clapped Cragen on the shoulder. The dwarf hefted his hammer and settled his helm tightly on his head.
Quintus took to the air awkwardly and mentally instructed Severus to orbit the periphery of the battle and warn him of any other groups approaching. As the elder Scipio flew ahead on unsteady wings, the companions moved rapidly through the ruins, angling to the northeast. Sextus’s rich baritone voice rose above the sounds of battle rejoined just as arrows from hidden gnoll scouts began to fall amongst them…
To Be Continued…
Next: Session 22 (Part Three) – The Charge
Of Gnolls and Men and Halflings…
Once they were beyond the bounds of civilization, it quickly became clear that Junior Tribune Metallus was an Imperial pain in the arse. His incessant whining about the quality of the food, the lack of creature comforts and his rustic companions soon earned him a place at the rear of the column. His unwavering air of morale superiority and complete obliviousness to it’s irritating effects quickly grated on many nerves. The grizzled Optio, Bato, took his commander’s complaints and insults with stoic silence, but the occasional eye roll and grimace let the others know his feelings for the young officer. The rest of the party alternately did their best to humor and ignore the Emorian.
Their mounts made the journey pass quickly, but there where many chafed thighs and hobbling gaits by the end of the second day. As they passed into the broad river valley with the ruined hamlet and stone bridge, hairs began rising on neck napes. Scouting flights by Severus and Quintus revealed their line of march was being shadowed by leather-clad gnolls and their enormous wolf companions. In addition, they caught an odd rippling in the air from time to time that betrayed a magical scrying sensor. They pressed on despite a general sense of foreboding.
Three days out from the Two-Headed Stag, they crossed the northern ridge of the river valley and looked down upon the gently rolling hills and occasional copse of trees that carpeted the land toward the hill-ringed ruins of Greenspires. Visible on the northern horizon was the cloud-topped crown of Dragonspire Mountain. Sextus reined his mount in for a moment, “Ah…only four or five more days, at most.”
They made good time through the grasslands, spending but one night in a cozy thicket before climbing the hills towards Greenspires. The gnolls still followed and flanked them, but kept half-a-league or more distant. Rowan, irritated at their constant presence and anxious to sink an arrow or ten into gnoll-hide, groused, “Damn cowards, just let ‘em come within range of my trusty Scythian bow!”
A bit of ground fog greeted them on the following morn, slowing their ascent towards the ruined town. They were nearing the crest when Quintus jerked his mount to a sudden stop.
“Something is wrong ahead,” the sorcerer’s eyebrows knit together in concentration. “Severus is sending me confused images of some type of battle.”
“Look,” Rowan called, pointing at the hilltop.
Several thin streams of smoke rose lazily into the air. Then, a breath of wind wafted the pungent smell of wood smoke across the ridge.
“By Osirian, isn’t anything ever easy for us?” Quintus asked the heavens.
The faint ringing of steel on steel was the only answer.
“To the summit,” the elder Scipio called.
(DM’s Note: The town of Greenspire was built at the conjunction of the Great Western (Trade) Road and the Oar Road, in a low-lying area surrounded by a ring of brush-crowned hills. The remains of the town are not visible unless you are atop the hills around the town.)
Blades were loosened and armor straps tightened as they gained the ridge. Below them, chaos and blood reigned. The tattered flags of half-a-dozen halfling trading houses rose above burning wagons, howling gnolls and grimly battling guards. A score of wagons were formed in a rough laager around the cracked fountain at the center of the crossroads. Several were burning and the broken bodies of halfling and human were strewn about liberally.
Rowan barely suppressed an urge to charge down into the midst of his hated enemies, dropping to one knee to study the situation instead.
“Look…they have already repelled one assault at least,” the ranger said, pointing to crumpled gnoll corpses piled in front of the wagon wall. “But the gnolls are regrouping and mean to strike from the east and north.”
Two large knots of the canine creatures were visible through the swirling smoke, beating weapons against their shields and yelping loudly. Crimson and black banners waved madly in their front ranks.
Cragen squinted at the battle lines. “Not much time…”
Quintus nodded.
“Agreed. Rowan, let’s take the near group…the ones to the east. Lead the others through the ruins and I will support you with spells from above. Do NOT charge them until you see my fireball hit,” he said, looking pointedly at Röse.
The big Brigante's face split in a wolfish grin and he spoke a word, enlarging his magic axe to its largest size. Quintus closed his eyes, concentrating for a moment. His form shimmered and rudimentary wings sprouted from his back. He shot Sextus a stern look.
“We are almost home, brother…take care that you remain in one piece. I would hate to have to explain anything to mother.”
Sextus waved off his concern even as a gleam crept into his eyes. The bard glanced at the Emorians. Bato was calmly checking his equipment…spear, scutum, gladius and pugio. The Junior Tribune was visibly shaking and Sextus thought he heard the young man’s teeth chattering. Rowan and Röse smiled grimly at each other and the barbarian clapped Cragen on the shoulder. The dwarf hefted his hammer and settled his helm tightly on his head.
Quintus took to the air awkwardly and mentally instructed Severus to orbit the periphery of the battle and warn him of any other groups approaching. As the elder Scipio flew ahead on unsteady wings, the companions moved rapidly through the ruins, angling to the northeast. Sextus’s rich baritone voice rose above the sounds of battle rejoined just as arrows from hidden gnoll scouts began to fall amongst them…
To Be Continued…
Next: Session 22 (Part Three) – The Charge
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