Craddock the Mad (Ranger lvl 1)
Crush The Half-Orc1 AC1 HP6
Kure Acolyte (Cleric 1)
Lornan Calihye Level 1 1/2 Elf AC 9
Slash the Bard 1
Ulrag
Fireseek 5, 576 CY
The biting wind carried an edge that cut through even the thickest cloaks as the caravan trudged through the muddy trail. Flanked by dense woods on one side and rolling hills on the other, the lowlands offered a relatively easier passage for the ox-drawn carts, but the oppressive weather made progress slow and morale fragile.
The adventurers moved in tense silence, their eyes scanning the forest's edges for any hint of movement. Craddock the Mad, ever vigilant, rode ahead while the others kept their weapons within easy reach, their recent encounters still fresh in their minds. The rhythmic clatter of wagon wheels and the occasional lowing of oxen were the only sounds to break the uneasy quiet.
As the road narrowed and twisted between the hills, a lone figure emerged from the shadows, blocking their path. His voice rang out over the wind, sharp and commanding:
"Surrender, in the name of the Abbey!"
The man stood tall, clad in dark, tattered garb that bore faint symbols of a wave cresting into a spire—a sigil that sent a chill through Craddock’s spine. Behind him, more figures melted out of the trees, their bows drawn, their faces obscured by the shadows of their hoods.
The adventurers exchanged quick glances. The demand was clear, but surrender was not an option. Slash the Bard took a half step forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade, his voice low but resolute. "We’ll take our chances."
The bandit leader sneered, raising a hand to signal the attack. Chaos erupted as arrows flew and steel clashed. Crush, the half-orc fighter, surged forward with a roar, his axe cleaving through one of the assailants. Craddock loosed arrows from the rear, his shots finding their mark even in the chaos. Kure, the young cleric, stood firm, channeling divine energy to shield his companions and keep them on their feet.
The battle was fierce and short. The bandits, despite their initial advantage, were unprepared for the ferocity of the adventurers' resistance. Realizing they were outmatched, the leader barked an order to retreat, and the remaining bandits vanished into the trees, leaping onto waiting horses and disappearing as swiftly as they had come.
When the dust settled, the grim toll became clear. Three of the ox-cart drivers lay dead, their blood mingling with the muddy road. Among the bandits, two bodies remained—a testament to the group’s resolve. Their attire and symbols confirmed Craddock's suspicions: these men were agents of the Abbey of the Elemental God of Water.
Craddock knelt by the tracks left by the fleeing bandits, his sharp eyes discerning their path despite the softening snow. "Northwest," he muttered, rising and turning to the others. "They’re heading northwest, but they’ll regroup before long."
The caravan pressed onward, heavy with the weight of loss and the growing awareness of the dangers they faced. The name of the Abbey lingered in their minds, a grim reminder of the forces gathering against them.
The path to Hommlet had become a trial of endurance and will, and the adventurers knew that the worst was yet to come.
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