Meta Ruins of Myvolia

A Night in Veniset 4

Blood on the snow




With one fluid motion you draw an arrow, notch it to your bow, pull and release. You repeat the action twice more. The first arrow thuds into the bundled figure’s chest, knocking him back a step. The second drives him to his knees while the third buries deep in his throat, laying him flat on the icy square.

There is a moment of stillness as the men of Veniset look, aghast, comprehension slow to dawn. Dozens of eyes turn to where you stand, the string of your bow still humming a menacing knell.


The choking roar comes from Captain Gregor as he strides forward, looking with disbelief from the corpse to you.


You stand by the bonfire warming your hands, your mind lost to private thoughts. You have finished memorizing what spells you thought necessary for the coming night and now must wait for an opportunity to put your arcane powers to use.

A young village lad, wrapped in a lamb skin cloak runs to your side, his breath issuing about his face in great clouds. In a small voice he bids you to return with him to the church where Terrence claims to have found something useful in the crypts. Turning towards the building you see the first arrow slam into the chest of an approaching man wrapped in winter furs. Looking in the direction that the arrow came from you see Matrim release two more arrows.

Your keen mind works fast as you cast your cloak open, preparing to weave your hands through an offensive spell if necessary. You watch as the figure falls prone on the cold ground, noting that no blood issues from any of the deep wounds. A wight then, you think.

Captain Gregor’s furious words do not catch you off guard. Already you had realized how bad this must look. It is difficult to tell one man from another in their heavy winter dress and Matrim’s assault on the individual seems almost random and unprovoked to those who have not already dealt with these cunning undead. You scan the two score of men stationed about the square, wondering if an others have already breathed their last. For the moment, the real danger seems to lie in regaining the trust of the villagers, for amidst their murmured voices you hear words like, murdered and killed ’im fer no reason.

Terrence and Talton

Talton and Father Sim emerge from the crypt, hauling up another heavy load of gear. Already a formidable stack of arrows and melee weapons have been piled in the chapel. The door to the church bursts open and a young boy runs in, his voice squeaking with excitement:

One o’ the outsiders just feathered a man o’ the village! ’E’s dead in tha’ square! I saw it all.

The boy’s mother drags him over to her pew, bidding him to calm down. Even so, the words draw a rumble through the gathered women.

Father Sim looks to Talton.

Perhaps we should see what has happened. The people are very stressed just now and a misunderstanding could cause a calamity.

Emerging into the square they see Captain Gregor and Mayor Cultiss standing over the body of a bundled man with three arrows buried in him. Several of the village men have gathered nearby, keeping a cautious distance from Matrim and T’alen.

The Logging Camp

Alma removes the restraining hand from Lornaal’s shoulder as the verdict of a fight seems now inevitable. He smiles as he checks his stance, adopting a calm, but ready posture.

I can offer Quarter to any who surrender once enough of you have died to bring clarity to the others…. I make no promise for the restraint of my berserker friend.

Lornaal’s eyes narrow as he watches the loggers approach, waiting for them to get closer before switching his grip on the spear and sending it hurtling towards a burly opponent with an axe. The spear takes the man full in the chest, the tip bursting from his back in a spray of blood. A death scream issues from his lips as the bearded logger falls to the group, mortally wounded.

As Lornaal draws his axe, the crowd of men use the moment to charge forward.

Alma waits for them to draw close before unsheathing his sword and cutting down a pair of men with a single deadly arc of honed steel and blood.

The men, undeterred for the moment, attack with their axes and picks.

While Lornaal is able to turn aside several of the attackers, one thick-chested Grewhanian manages to slip past his defences, his pick biting into the northman’s shoulder and drawing from Lornaal a cry of rage.

Alma fares better, side stepping and blocking the attacks of the loggers who crowd around him. Only Ulof, wielding his axe with an unexpected amount of skill, even comes close to striking Alma. It is only the Cyonian’s quick reflexes that save him from a fearsome injury as he narrowly avoids the blade.

Attacks against Lornaal

8, 15, 10, 21(crit)

1 successful: 6+4+1= 11 damage

Attacks against Alma

16, 12, 8, 22 (Ulof)

0 successful


Wild_Gazebo optimus_mush

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