Spare the Horses

In the blazing light of the burning building, while Cookie fusses over her two massive, but trembling, shire-horses and the Dwarf Banaal heals the burns of the injured ones, Locket looks over to his brothers.
“One dead ostler, two dead town guards, six dead assassins, and a, soon to be, razed to the ground barn.”
Chape responds with a shrug.
“It could’ve been worse. The adventurers helped us save all the horses, Cookie’s wagon’s hardly singed and all six of the gourd/barrels are safe and sound.”

It’s Ringo who considers the opposite viewpoint.
“But why are those assassins being so persistent? Why are the adventurers so important?!”
When the three Brothers volunteered for this mission, not one of them had considered it to be a dangerous task. Captain DeLeón had literally described it as just a ‘Simple babysitting job’.
Now though, with the obvious escalation of the Witches coven and still three days and one town to get through before completing their duty, each of the triplets feel the sinking dread of what may yet come…

Barn Burning Experience

As Scott pleaded mid-session, I checked everyone’s Orange Inn posts, and those in addition to the recent Assassination attempts, pushes you all up and over the line.

Congratulations everyone; you can all rise up to 8th level!

Fortu: 29,023xp (8th!) 

Banal: 28,398xp (8th!)

Liga Bur: 28,101xp (8th!)

Rifkin: 17,525xp (6th)

Triplets: 6,704xp (4th)

Modify your character sheets with new skills, HPs and class abilities etc. Also everyone enjoy that sweet bonus attribute point! Let me know where you stick it.

(David, this is your opportunity to check if Fortu’s magic +1 Strength medallion works in conjunction with his recently acquired +2 Gauntlets of Ogre power.  If not, take a point of strength and get him to 18 Strength as a base.)

Levels

1 : 0xp

2 : 1000xp

3 : 3000xp

4 : 6000xp

5 : 10,000xp

6 : 15,000xp

7 : 21,000xp

8 : 28,000xp

9 : 36,000xp

10: 45,000xp

The Scum that we Murder

The six men of the FarHaven garrison watch silently as the bloodsoaked Fortu and the Halfling; Liga Bur leave the terrified, supposed spy in their custody by the big wagon in the barn. After a few seconds, one of them gathers the confidence to speak.

“So… Did that big guy just do a murder?”

One of the others slowly nods his head.

“I think so. In the middle of the tavern. During the lunchtime rush period.”

The Sergeant coughs, both to clear his throat and reclaim some semblance of authority.

“No. The strange Halfling said that the two travellers pulled out their knives and drew first blood.”

The firsts soldier disagrees though.

“A fully armoured guy throws a punch with a mailed fist at two men sitting down in a bar, minding their own business. So what that he missed; wouldn’t you try to defend yourself?”

The Sergeant shakes his head and indicates the tied up survivor.

“I agree that Fortu’s actions seemed deliberately inflammatory and extremely… violent, but his instincts were right. This guy just confessed that they were indeed, spying on the adventurers.”

Another of the soldiers adds his voice to the conversation.

“So, not murder then?”

Taking in all the faces of the men in his command, the Sergeant makes his decision.

“We were placed here to oversee the construction of a beacon tower, make our presence felt and assist these adventurers, if they happpened to pass by this way. I’m not going to be the one who disobeyed Lord Urdurel’s directive, regardless of the adventurers’ actions.”

The six uniformed men all visibly relax, before the Sergeant speaks again.

“So, tomorrow morning, we’ll accompany the adventurers to this apparent signal point and allow the spy; Langet to post a false missive to his mysterious masters. Until then, let’s just get this man locked up in the garrison cell.”

As they leave, a small, bright-eyed, calico cat remains silent and hidden in the shadows for a few moments, before slinking casually out, unseen, through a narrow gap between two loose boards.

Filthy Rich & Banaal-Flap

Tracking arrows is hard enough, without having to worry about every single coin, so here’s the current individual gold and gem status, including new and old (for the last time) henchmen:

Fortu: Gold: 1,005gp + 6 gems (worth 25gp each)

Liga Bur: Gold: 930gp + 6 gems (worth 25gp each)

Rifkin: Gold: 372gp + 7 gems (worth 25gp each)

Henshaw: Gold: 9gp

Barbella: Gold: 473gp + 28 gems (worth 25gp each)

Doberman: Gold: 370gp + 2 gems (worth 25gp each)

Locket: Gold: 10gp

Chape: Gold: 10gp

Ringo: Gold: 10gp (+ 40gp of the Lord’s Guard’s money)

Cookie: Gold: 20gp

Banaal: -10gp bribe/damages paid to the innkeeper of the ‘Way-Out Inn’.

I mention this now, as the Party is currently in a fair sized village and heading towards a large town and then a city and, therefore has the rare (in my campaigns) opportunity to buy some stuff, including (possibly) magical potions etc!

Banaal was the only Party member to exploit this so far, when he replaced some of his used up expendables in Scarborough.

In answer to your unasked questions, yes Henshaw was honest and paid back his debts to Rifkin and Fortu in full. Doberman managed not to lose the majority of his money up his nose or in his ears and yes; Barbella was indeed a dirty thief, helping himself to extra gems and coins, whenever he got the chance.

I’ve actually got no idea what ‘starting money’ the Dwarven priest; Banaal currently has left over from his initial shop, recent shop and 10gp bar-room bribe. Fancy letting me know Assif and I’ll try to keep track of it for you?

Also, 50 gp weighs 1lb for encumbrance (20lbs+ worth of gold for Richie-rich Fortu) but fortunately, you currently have two horses, a mule, a riding dog and a two cart-horse-powered (Burt & Ernie) wagon.

The Brutalist

Fingers frozen mid-chord, Rifkin watches in horror as one of the men facing Fortu, flops to the floor in bloody, bisected pieces. A knife in each of his, now entirely separated, hands.

He’d obviously been a villain; his words and actions had clearly demonstrated that, but still…

Fortu simply hadn’t liked the way they were dressed or how they were sitting and confronted them on a mere suspicion. The, potentially paranoid, suspicion that these two men were working against him. A reasonable man might have tried to subtly question them. A logical man might have restrained himself from trying to punch them with a mailed fist in a public bar. A sane man wouldn’t have drawn his enormous Bastard sword and cleaved the first of them in two!

The second of the men surrendered immediately. Rifkin couldn’t blame him. Fortu had cut through his partner as if he’d been made of butter!

Then, ignoring all the screaming locals and a hissing cat, Fortu had then grabbed the remaining man by his throat and marched him to the town stables, where several soldiers of the FarHaven garrison were currently guarding Cookie’s wagon and Estrid’s barrels.

The Dwarf; Banaal had tried to pacify the barkeep with a generous (but not ostentatious) bribe, while the pragmatic Liga Bur had hurried out after Fortu to help calm/explain the situation to the hamlet guards.

Blinking, Rifkin attempts to regain control of his rapid breathing. 

Since joining this ragtag group over half-a-year ago, he’d seen many terrible, terrifying things. Brutal violence and graphic injury, but this?

Did it matter that Fortu’s confrontational instincts had been absolutely correct? Is it justifiable to use extreme and deadly force against evil people or is it somehow, equally evil?

Despite himself, Rifkin feels the beginnings of a song composing itself in his head and he whispers the title out loud…

“The Butcher of FarHaven.”

From Scrapper to Mapper

Turning over the smoothed down but formally crumpled sheet of parchment, Captain DeLeón traces his elegantly manicured fingertip over the crudely hand-drawn map.

“Bitboh wood… Scarp Burrow… The Tannery.”

The spelling is shaky and the penmanship appalling, but the map is still interesting, if not entirely accurate. Rather than miles, the distances seem to be measured in something called ‘horse-ride-days’. A few of the scribbled annotations like; ‘Rattman’ are less fun though, as beside ‘Scarp Burrow’, the mapper’s scrawled; ‘Captain De Liar!’ and ‘Posho De-Dick-face’.

Pushing aside his annoyance at the unsubtle slurs, he’s curious why the amateur cartographer had written ‘Scarp Burrow’ rather than the commonly accepted ‘Scarborough’ though, as no one’s referred to this village by its original name for almost thirty years.

The map is freshly drawn, so what does it mean?

Unfortunately, Captain DeLeón‘s men had confirmed that, whoever made the map, left with the adventurer group. It certainly wasn’t any of his men or Cookie the wagoneer and it was highly unlikely that the educated Dwarf; Banaal or the urbane ‘Slightly-Elf’; Rifkin had anything to do with it. That left the earthy smelling, cauliflower-eared Halfling and the scar-faced, heavily-armoured Human Gladiator. Considering the last conversation he’d had with them, his money was on Fortu.

Glancing down at the map again, Captain DeLeón finds himself suddenly sniggering, despite his earlier annoyance, as he notices the arrow pointing East towards…

‘FART-Haven!’

Nature vs Nurture

The two gods, so different in physical stature and appearance yet equal in power, regard each-other coldly. Yondalla; highest of the Halfling gods, looks up at her single-eyed Orcish opposite and meets his gaze, eyes to eye.

“He’s my champion Gruumsh. How dare you think you have any influence here?”

The large, battle scarred Orcish god snarls.

“Your champion? He’s been raised among Orcs since infancy. He has no knowledge, exposure or understanding of what it is to be Halfling.”

Stepping forward and deliberately invading Gruumsh’s space, Yondalla’s voice hardens.

“It’s not just his body that makes him Halfling. His soul belongs to me. It’s what dragged him, unwittingly, back to the Halfling lands!”

Gruumsh chuckles throatily.

“Ex-Halfling lands, you mean. His small body is scarred and battered by his harsh Orcish upbringing. His weak Halfling flesh toughened and forged strong by Orcish discipline. Don’t bore me with prattle of ‘Halfling Souls’. Despite your obvious machinations, his heart and spirit belong to the Dark-Star tribe. My Dark-Star tribe.”

Yondalla flares angrily.

“Your Dark-Star tribe?! They’re done. Gone. That tribe, like so many of your tribes, is lost. Almost entirely wiped out by the Demon army!”

Gruumsh, stung by the remark, squats low to put their heads on the same level. Snub and snout noses almost touching.

“They fought hard and died bravely. They never surrendered and won their forever places by my side.”

The Halfling goddess’ scowl drops.

“I’m sorry but that just isn’t true, is it? The Demon Prince has corrupted your captured Orcs and blackened their souls to his own purpose.”

Old One-Eye slowly straightens up.

“And that is why I’ll keep my hand on the shoulder of ‘our’ little champion.”

Refusing to allow herself to be intimidated, the Halfling goddess holds her space.

“A champion can not have two… Patrons.”

The mighty Gruumsh shrugs.

“Why not? It seems to be working out pretty well for the Human Gladiator.”