Wind: Light air (E)(1-3 MPH | 1-3 KN)
Precipitation: None
Clouds: Clear
Dog, Ranger of the Gnarley Forest
Irving, the Reluctant, Paladin of St. Cuthbert
Dixon, Dwarven Fighter
Slash the Bard
Oleg the half elven Cleric/Magic-User/Thief of St. Cuthbert
Chapter 3 / Episode 7 – Bugbears in the Night
Coldeven 22, 576 CY – Morning
Weather: Cold, clear skies. Temperature: 22.2°F to 47.3°F. Light breeze from the east.
The embers of the campfire still glowed faintly as the party stirred to life, breath steaming in the cold morning air. After a full night’s rest beneath the skeletal canopy of the Gnarley Forest, they broke camp with practiced efficiency. Maps were consulted, rations checked, and the plan to reach Narwhal—two to three days away—was confirmed. Dog, as always, would range ahead, keeping their trail as quiet and concealed as possible.
They traveled through the crisp and biting air of the morning until midday, the trees beginning to thin enough to grant a clear view towards the east and their destination. Although the winter had relaxed its grip on the Gnarley Forest, it had not yet surrendered to full spring. The light snow present in many parts of the forest began to appear less frequently , as the thick forest canopy no longer blocked the invading sunlight. Dog crossed a hunter's path at noon, the lack of snow cover providing a wealth of information to his keenly honed senses.
Dog paused crouching low, fingertips brushing the earth, his finely tuned senses noting much that a less-skilled hunter might have missed. The still-damp earth bore the sign of fresh hoofprints. The tracks angled north… toward the Abbey ruins they had only just left behind. With a grim smile, the ranger conveyed his findings to the party members following: they weren’t alone in these woods. Now alert to the danger of a surprise encounter, the heroes cautiously pressed onwards to the east for the remainder of the day.
Night Falls, Danger Rises
As dusk approached, the party made camp, choosing a small clearing sequestered by ridgelines from both the weather and prying eyes. The group agreed on a watch rotation—Terry first, then Slash, Dixon, and Irving—keeping the fire low enough to stay warm without drawing attention. Horses were tied deeper into the woods under Slash’s care, the snow crunching softly underfoot as he led them out of sight. As daylight surrendered to the restful darkness of a chill early spring evening, the party began their evening vigil, well prepared for any unwanted guests that might deign to visit... or so they thought.
The night was still when Dixon caught a flicker of movement to the east. Shadows shifting amid the trees belied the calm of the forest air.. He woke Slash without a word. The bard, still half in dreams, stiffened when he too caught the sound: heavy, deliberate footfalls.
A thick bank of unnatural fog began to creep into the clearing, carrying with it guttural voices in a harsh, unfamiliar tongue.
“Bugbears,” Dog whispered, bow already in hand.
The Ambush
They came in numbers—eight tall, broad-shouldered brutes with mottled fur and crude armor, their weapons glinting dully in the firelight. Each bore the mark of the Water Temple upon their shields and banners, a grim reminder of the cult’s growing reach.
The fight began before the fog had fully rolled in. Dog loosed an arrow, the shaft thudding into the leader’s chest. Dixon advanced, hammer spinning in his grip before slamming into another foe’s shoulder. Irving moved to shield Oleg, mace swinging in an arc that crushed bone and dropped a bugbear where it stood.
The enemy pressed hard, their leader barking orders in a deep, growling voice—until Slash’s voice cut across the clearing, chanting the words to an Entangle spell. Vines, roots, and brambles erupted from the earth, ensnaring half the bugbear force where they stood. Panic rippled through their ranks as several were dragged to the ground, struggling against the living earth.
The leader—an imposing brute with a thick French-accented growl—tore free and hurled his polearm at Dog. The weapon grazed the ranger’s side, drawing blood but not slowing his aim.
Turning the Tide
With the advantage theirs, the party cut down the trapped bugbears one by one. Dixon’s hammer smashed skulls, Irving’s mace finished wounded foes, and Dog’s arrows found every gap in their crude armor. The last of them—a bugbear priest—fell to Oleg’s magic, his body twisting unnaturally as life left him.
When the fog began to lift, the battlefield was still. The smell of blood and damp earth filled the clearing.
Aftermath and Discovery
Looting the fallen, they found the priest carried a periapt of wound closure, its chain cold to the touch. Without hesitation, the group agreed Dog should wear it—front-line fighters lived or died by moments, and such a relic could mean the difference between one more breath or none at all.
Dog knelt once more, inspecting the tracks the bugbears had left behind. The trail led north—back toward the Abbey. Whether they had been sent from there or were merely using it as a waypoint, it was clear the cult’s shadow still lingered over the ruins.
As dawn’s first light crept into the forest, the decision was made. They would continue east toward Narwhal, keeping wary eyes on the treeline. Two days of travel lay ahead, and the memory of the bugbear ambush hung over them like a warning.
XP Gained: 510 each
Treasure: Periapt of Wound Closure (given to Dog)
