Matrim and Co.
Peering into the gloom of night, listening to the drums and wailing ululations of the goblins by the forest’s edge, the group considers their options. There is a moment of silence after Matrim suggests that the group hunker down in the gully, making ready to bolt at a moments notice, whilst he scouts the wild-sounding goblin festivities by the forest’s edge.
Terrence, in a small voice that tremors with uncertainty, offers to scout as well.
It is Father Talton, though, who offers in pointed words what everyone has been thinking. What could the goblins be up to? Each of the small group huddled on the hill consider that question in stoned silence.
It is T’alen who breaks the trance, however, definitively stating that the group is no match for the gathered goblins and assistance must be sought from the Thentic tribes. The sorcerer stands, turning his back to the group and the sounds of the Loddites to the north and picks his way down the hill to the beech grove below where his horse and supplies are.
Long after T’alen’s foot steps recede, however, the rest of the group sits in the darkness, pondering their options.
Finally it is Lornaal, scratching at the ground with the butt of his spear who speaks next:
So, what do we do?
Eyes turn to Matrim and Sebastian.
Alma and Cora
The ruin that was once the farmer lunges, quicker than you expected. It’s grasping hands flail towards you, black nails covered in soil and blood. As the creature strikes, you feel a coldness spread from its fingers, lapping at your very vitality. A scream is torn from your lips as the creature draws your life force through its terrible hands.
You stumble backwards, trying to regain your stance. You struggle to shrug off the brutal effects of the creature’s assault, but you feel weak and unsteady. It is your instincts and experience as an adventurer that allow you to focus and cast your spell, surrounding yourself with a host of mirror images.
As you charge across the farmyard next to the Mayor, Peter Frund, you hear a primal scream come from Alma as a shadowy figure lashes out at him. In the silvery moonlight that bathes the yard, you swear that Alma grows pale and his skin shrivels slightly. He back-peddles away from the door, revealing to you the grasping horror that was once the poor, defiled farmer.
Your belt pouch, banging clumsily against your thigh from your hastily donned equipment, calls your mind to action. You reach into the pouch, drawing out one of the mercurial vials of alchemical fire. Snatching your sling out you deposit the vial into its shaped, leather purse. At the back of your mind, the image of the tinder-dry, thatch-roofed barn and its unknown occupants being scorched to hell flits by as you begin to twirl the deadly missile above your head.
Fort Save against Negative Level: 8(d20) + 5 = 13 (unsuccessful)
What do you do?