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Message: <blockquote data-quote="arwink" data-source="post: 4740608" data-attributes="member: 2292">Session One, Part OneThe soft whir of slings spinning cuts through the thick rattle of the rainfall on the wagon, a small hail of stone bullets following soon after, though the rain makes accuracy near impossible. The cry goes up from all three wagons – Raiders! To Arms! – and the small unit of raw recruits standing guard on the midst of the line are scanning the hills for targets. There are three of them, black shapes against the rainfall, wild-men of the Flint Hills with their savage dogs at heel. Others surge from further away, attacking the wagons before and after, but the unit’s orders are clear – you guard your wagon and trust your fellows to do the same.The dawn-priest, Eirik, unleashes a blast of thunder alongside his cry of warning. Ling Hou is less pyrotechnic, slinging the star-knife of his homeland in an underhanded throw that slices foliage and little else. Rain falls, heavy and fast, as melee is joined – the kobold, Lik, leaping from wagon to ledge with his curved dragon-blade drawn and ready, disemboweling the first attacker who meets him with an efficient swipe of the blade; Vlad Kalamgrove calls on his heritage to summon bolts of fire that ignite the landscape. Accuracy is difficult in the thick rain, luring the wild-men in with axes and dogs to harry the young soldiers and panic the horses. One closes on Lik, slashing wildly, but the kobold is small and fast to dodge, retaliating with precise slashes of his sword that are far more accurate than the wild man’s chaotic swings.  The other leaps for the wagon, finding himself at the mercy of an angry priest who meets his axe with shield and shortsword. Knives and mage-fire make short work of the dogs, and their owners last only seconds longer. There is an all-clear called from the wagon behind them – Ollandra in the driver’s seat, ready to push the horses; her summoned hound seated next to her for a few scant seconds before it faded into starlight. Ahead the battle is even shorter; Father Osterbolger, a priest and veteran soldier, has made short work of the few men who attacked the line. He prays, voicing a tonal chant to his patron saint that unleashes a burst of healing energy to soothe the horses savaged by dog bites. The call goes down the line – press on, fast and steady. There is a quick scramble for loot before the caravan starts off, everyone on alert with Father Osterbolger’s earlier returning unbidden: if there’s trouble on this trip, it’ll be in the Flint Hills. There are bandits and wild-men aplenty in those parts, and these supplies will be a tempting target with winter coming on.</blockquote>

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