Craddock the Mad (Ranger lvl 1)
Crush The Half-Orc1 AC1 HP6
Lornan Calihye Level 1 1/2 Elf AC 9
Slash the Bard 1
Greyhawk Calendar
Fireseek 4, 576 CY
The forest canopy loomed thick overhead, blanketing the caravan in perpetual twilight. The cold bit deeper as the day wore on, and the path grew rougher and steeper, the wagons jolting and creaking over the uneven terrain. The horses, though hardy, began to labor under the strain, and a tense quiet settled over the group.
Craddock the Mad, ever the vigilant ranger, scouted ahead, his eyes scanning for signs of danger. Slash the Bard rode closer to the wagons, his songs now replaced by uneasy silence. The camaraderie of the caravan had turned to watchful apprehension as the shadows lengthened, and the first flakes of snow began to fall.
As the caravan wound around a bend in the trail, a sharp cry shattered the stillness. Evard, one of the drovers, collapsed to the ground, an arrow protruding from his chest. Chaos erupted as the group rushed to his side. Slash knelt beside the stricken man, who gripped his tunic weakly.
"Sing me a requiem," Evard whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling with pain and the inevitability of death. His eyes closed as the last breath left his body.
Craddock quickly scanned the area for signs of the attackers. The falling snow had already begun to obscure any tracks, and the surrounding woods were eerily silent. No movement, no sound—only the growing realization that they were not alone.
He retrieved the arrow from Evard's chest, turning it over in his hands. The craftsmanship was unmistakable—military grade, precise and deadly.
"This isn't the work of common brigands," Craddock muttered, his voice low but resolute.
The group pressed on for several more miles as the snow intensified, its relentless fall muffling the forest. Finally, they made camp, their breaths visible in the frigid air. The tension was palpable as the adventurers prepared for the night, their weapons close at hand.
During the first watch, a sharp whistle broke the quiet, followed by a pained grunt. Crush, the formidable half-orc fighter, staggered back, clutching his thigh where an arrow jutted from the flesh. Blood stained the snow beneath him as he grimaced in pain.
Lornan Calihye, the half-elven adventurer, leapt onto his horse and rode in a wide circle around the camp, his eyes scanning the darkness for movement. But the attackers seemed to melt into the shadows as if the forest itself was aiding their escape.
Craddock knelt beside the arrow embedded in Crush’s leg, carefully inspecting it. His suspicions were confirmed—it was identical to the one that had killed Evard. Whoever was hunting them was methodical, professional, and relentless.
As the night deepened, the group huddled close, their weapons drawn, their breaths steadying but their hearts heavy. The snowfall lightened, revealing a stark, silent forest that felt more alive than it should.
"They're toying with us," Lornan said grimly, his gaze fixed on the darkness.
Craddock’s voice carried the weight of their realization: "We are being hunted."
The cold, unforgiving night stretched on, and the group prepared themselves for whatever was to come. Their journey to Hommlet had become a deadly game of survival, and the stakes were only growing higher.
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