The town smelled of ashes, burnt buildings, and death. The main avenue, where the ogre had been killed, was ruined. The bodies of the attackers luckily outnumbered the bodies of the townspeople and guards. Several groups of humans, elves, and dwarves moved about, clearing rubble and other debris, while others piled carcasses onto wagons to be taken outside of the city and burned. Here and there were other Dragonborn, much like Mikal’s new companion though of different hues. There were very few of the little folk, the halflings.
Mikal leaned against what was once the frame of a door, arms crossed and observed the aftermath. Behind him were timbers blackened with fire and the ashes of what used to be a government building. He had a grim expression on his face.
Footsteps betrayed the arrival of Peren, who stopped several paces to his left. “Poor bastards,” Mikal said without a glance at the elf. “Most of ‘em just had their entire lives uprooted in a matter of minutes. I don’t envy them.”
Peren said nothing. He simply observed alongside the human, hands in his pockets. Carts full of kobold and goblin bodies were pulled by horses and donkeys over the bridge, while empty carts made their way back into the city. The train seemed not to stop. A pillar of white smoke a half-mile outside of town rose into the sky, their destination.
Mikal gestured with a hand to the train. “There were this many attackers and the town council expects four of us to be able to deal with them?”
“There may be more to this than we are led to believe,” Peren responded, his voice light. “Our meeting with Rafelor is soon. We should ask him what he knows about the attack. And if he knows anything about their group, what they were after.”
Mikal pushed off of the door frame. “An attack of this magnitude should have been predicted.” They began walking towards the eastern side of town.
Peren nodded. “It is odd that they were so well coordinated. From the town guards I’ve spoken to, they were caught completely unaware. There are reports, I’m told. Of their estimated numbers. Total dead from both sides, and what creatures were seen fleeing the town.”
Mikal shook his head. “Rafelor better have some answers for us.”
“I would expect him too.”
The two walked together for several blocks before nearing the meeting location, a small square outside of Rafelor’s estate. The area was paved, patterned with white and colored square stones. A lone shade tree stood, surrounded by a short, square retaining wall made of the same stones and accentuating the pattern. Four benches sat beneath the tree, on either side of the short wall.
Sitting on one of the benches was the dwarf Adrik and the dragonborn, Balanor. Peren walked to Balanor, who stood at their arrival, and put a hand on his shoulder. “I see you’ve healed well,” he said.
“I have,” he said, returning the gesture. “I feel ten years younger as well.” Balanor gave a what would be considered a smile, bearing his draconic teeth.
“A positive side effect, for sure.”
Peren turned to Adrik. “Have you made the arrangements?”
“Aye,” he said, nodding. “We’ll have horses and provisions for some time, provided we come to an agreement. Have ye had time to do any shopping?”
Peren shook his head. “Even if I had, most of the shops are closed for repairs and to help the rest of the town. Not that I would have any money for it. I only have a few coins.”
Mikal scoffed. “Well we should be sure to receive payment from Rafelor. Adequate pay for the job.” The whole party nodded. “When are we to meet him?”
Peren looked for the bell tower. “He said he would be leaving his house just as the third bell struck. Should be any time now. He lives nearby.”
“How is it ye know that?”
“He had told me. Mikal was there as well.” The dwarf looked over to the human, who nodded.
After a few minutes, the bell tower rang out across the town. Three strikes came and went. A squirrel ran across the branches of the tree, shaking down several orange and yellow leaves. A few moments later, the door of a large house across the street opened, and from it stepped a half-elf in fine red garments trimmed in cloth of gold. His hair was short and brown, and he had a short, close-cut mustache and goatee.
The half-elf crossed the street and, with a solemn greeting to each of them, met their eyes in turn. “As I am sure you know, I am Councilmember Rafelor. I am considering something, and wished to speak with the lot of you in person, rather than send a messenger or other form of communication. It is legal, do not worry, but it is certainly not what the council of Kylith is wanting to do with our current resources.”
Balanor took a deep, measured breath. “What is it you would have us do?”
Council Member Rafelor raised a pointed finger. “Ah, before we get into that, I wanted to speak to you. Get to know your character and whether or not your killing of the ogre wasn’t simply blind luck.”
Mikal rolled his eyes and turned away, pacing behind the tree.
“What would ye like to know?” Adrik said, ignoring Mikal.
“Your history, what exploits you’ve accomplished in the past, your personal goals so that I may know you won’t side with the attackers. Things such as this.”
“Those bastards kill me kinfolk. You bet your arse I won’t side with the devils.”
Mikal continued to pace. “We defended the town,” he said. “Why would we then want to see its further destruction?”
Rafelor looked to Mikal, who now stood still, his arms crossed and staring at the council member with an annoyed look on his face. “The intentions of Man are ever-changing,” Rafelor said. A slight smile spread across the Council Member’s lips at the intended slight. “Especially in the landscape of Politics.” Mikal scoffed and continued his pacing.
Balanor stepped forward with the intention to speak. Clearing his throat, Peren butted in. “Council Member,” the elf said. Rafelor turned to meet the elf’s eyes. “Please understand that we are not politicians. We do not have ulterior motives, and I think I speak for us all when I say we do not wish further harm upon the civilized races.”
Rafelor’s smile slowly faded as the elf spoke. He nodded. “You lot remind me of another group of individuals who, a few decades ago, repelled a similar invasion from our lands.”
“You speak of the Red Hand,” Balanor said, stepping forward.
“Indeed,” the half-elf replied. “Two or so decades ago, there was a similar threat to our town and the surrounding area. It, too, was repelled by a small group of individuals.”
“I know of this,” Balanor said. “I have read of it, but little else. I don’t think we should take full credit for the repulsion of the invaders to the town, however. There were several factors.”
Rafelor smiled again. “Take credit where credit is due, Dragon.”
The dwarf grunted. “Don’t argue with the man, Bal.” He turned to the Council Member. “I heard talk of a museum of sorts about the first attack. Would ye be able to point us in that direction?”
“There is indeed a museum,” Rafelor said. “I can give you directions to it if needed.”
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“We should talk compensation,” Mikal said abruptly. “What will we be receiving for doing this, and do we get paid in advance?”
Rafelor looked at the man confused. “I do not see why we should talk compensation when I have not tasked you with a job.”
“And you have other options?” Mikal asked.
Rafelor sighed. “I suppose not. I can provide you each with a healing tincture before you depart. My main task to you is to return any individual that may have been taken back to the city. Upon your return, you will be compensated with one hundred gold pieces to be split amongst yourselves.” He looked at Peren. “Do you find this acceptable?”
Peren looked to Mikal, who shrugged. He turned to the rest of his new-found companions who gave a slight and quick nod. “It is acceptable,” he said.
“Wonderful.” The half-elf gave a slight bow. “I was privy to a report that a Hobgoblin has been taken as a prisoner. If you wish to speak to the creature, give this to the guards watching over him.” He produced a small folded sheet of parchment closed in sealing wax and a sigil. “This will allow you access to ask whatever questions you see fit.”
Peren took the parchment and returned the bow. “Thank you, Councilmember Rafelor.”
“Now,” Rafelor said. “I must be going. Plenty more business to attend to.” He turned and took a few steps towards the street. “Oh,” he said, turning back to the group, “and if you do not provide swift results in returning these prisoners, there will be steps taken to replace you.”
“Understood,” Balanor said. “Good day, Rafelor.”
“Good day.”
After a few moments, the half-elf was out of sight and earshot. “That could have gone better,” Balanor said.
“Dragon, Balanor?” Mikal asked, looking at him, one eyebrow raised. “I thought you were some kind of lizardfolk.”
Balanor grunted. “Technically. Half-Dragon. It doesn’t happen how you think, and I’d rather not talk about it.”
Mikal smiled with the corner of his mouth. “To the museum or to the prisoner?”
“Well,” Peren said, “Rafelor did not give us directions before leaving. The prisoner will be held in the stocks in the town square. We can ask a guard there for directions after we finish with the Hobgoblin.”
Adrik began walking to the street. “Works for me,” he said.
Mikal scoffed in realization, looking to Peren. “The bastard didn’t give us any answers to the attack. What we were talking about before.”
“We also did not ask,” Peren said, a blank look on his face. “It seems his position as a politician is well earned, if he can steer conversations with such fluidity. And at such a young age, too.”
“How old is he?” Balanor asked.
“Sixty-Three,” Peren said casually.
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The four arrived in the town square to see a small group of humans, elves, and half-elves gathered in front of a line of four town guards. Each carried a short spear and wore chainmail covered in a tabard of Kylith - a white vest with a light blue trim that extended to their knees. At their hips were swords sheathed in wood and leather scabbards. Behind them were the stocks on a slightly raised platform.
In the stocks was the hobgoblin Rafelor spoke of. It was a large creature. Even though the creature was awkwardly bent over, its head and arms protruding from the holes of the stockade, it could still be seen that it would stand over a foot taller than the typical human male. Coarse brown fur covered its muscular body and brutish feline face. It wore sackcloth pants and a tunic with the insignia of a hand, fingers outstretched. Bandages covered portions of the creature's arms, legs, and a large section of its torso.
Peren led the three others around the small group of onlookers, who occasionally threw what he could only guess was rotten fruit and vegetables. They approached a guard, who held up a hand in warning but said nothing. Peren produced the note from Rafelor. “We come on behalf of Councilmember Rafelor. We wish to speak with the creature.”
The guard turned to another down the line, this one a half-elf. A chevron indicated that he was the man’s superior. “Dalen,” he called out, “this lot wants a word.” The half-elf looked and waved them over. “Present that there letter to Sergeant Dalen and he’ll escort ya.”
“Thank you,” Peren said. They walked over to the Sergeant and gave him the letter.
The sergeant opened it, read it through briefly, and folded it back up. Stuffing it in a pocket inside his tabard, he assessed the party. “Very well,” he said in a voice that was too smooth and light to have come from a guard. “Follow me,” he said and led them through to the stocks. “We need him to be healthy and well treated for trial,” he said, stopping ten paces away. He lowered his voice before continuing. “Do not be too rough with him. If you threaten him, make sure you keep it as a threat only. Anything that I might take as intent will be met with your immediate removal. The last thing we need now is mob violence.”
Balanor looked at the others and confirmed that it was understood. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
The four approached the hobgoblin. His face was defiant and prideful. A low, guttural growl came from the creature. “I ain’t sayin nothin’ to you lot. Not unless you let me out of this cursed contraption.”
“Not happenin’,” Adrik said. “Not yet, anyway.”
Balanor stepped close and bent over to come face to face with the Hobgoblin. Inches from his nose, he said quietly, “You’re going to tell us what we want to know, or you’ll rot in these stocks. Understand?” Balanor let a puff of black smoke escape his nostrils. The hobgoblin lost his defiance and simply nodded. “Good.” The half-dragon straightened and stepped back. “What is it we should call you?”
“Morrik,” he said. “My name is Morrik.”
Mikal found a stool nearby and sat himself down. He leaned over, elbows on his knees, and observed only.
“That insignia on your tunic,” Peren began. “What is it?”
“It is the symbol of the Red Hand of Vord.” Morrik’s face looked to regain some of its pride. “Vord and his followers think themselves as descendants of the first Red Hand. The group that terrorized this countryside decades ago.”
“Do you also believe you are descended from them?”
“I am not that deluded.”
Adrik grunted. “If ye understand that there is nary a connection to the first Red Hand, why did ye follow Vord?”
“That is not why I had initially begun to follow him. He was a strong leader. Once he had met his black market trader, he had begun to grow more and more prideful, to the point of not being able to see reason. He lost my respect as a leader, and now I’m here. He should have never attacked this town.”
Balanor leaned against a leg of the stockade. “Where is Vord’s encampment? He took prisoners. We’ve been tasked with bringing them back. Work with us, and we may be able to get you out of these stocks and into a proper cell.”
Morrik’s face lit up, and he awkwardly bent his neck to try and look at Balanor. “I would do damn near anything to get out of these things. I’ll work with you, sure. Vord doesn’t use an encampment. Leastways not for him and his command. He holes himself up with his lieutenants in the catacombs of Alterwood Keep these days. A dark and dank ruin of a castle no longer fit for habitation. Though his lieutenants are rarely there anymore, he keeps to the company of his undead allies these days.”
“How do we know we can trust this?” Peren asked.
“What else have I got to lose?” Morrik asked.
“You’re head,” Mikal quipped.
The group and Morrik all turned to Mikal for a moment before resuming their interrogation.
“Can ye show us how to get there?” Adrik asked.
Morrik nodded as best he could. “Aye,” he said. “I can draw you a map of how to get there, where to turn off of the Old North Road, and what signs to look for.”
“Can ye tell us anything else? What is Vord’s endgame?”
“I know little of Vord’s plans, save for what he’s said to his followers. I do know this: he has plans to raise an army, now that he has arms and armor of good quality. He wants to carve his own land, become the leader of a nation. He’s just gone about it in the wrong way.”
“Can you tell us any of the black market dealer you mentioned previously?”
“I know nothing other than that he represented an organization known as The Black Arrow.”
“Hm,” the half-dragon grunted. “We will talk with the guards. Try and get you into a cell. And we’ll still need that map.”
Morrik looked to Balanor, then to the ground. He nodded again, best he could, and said nothing more.
Balanor managed to convince the guards to remove the hobgoblin from the stocks and transfer him to a cell. It took a bit of convincing, but after the sergeant learned that Morrik would be helping them with the larger threat, he became more compliant.
The map they had been given by Morrik was crude at best. It showed the Old North Road and meager directions to Alterwood Keep. Several words were misspelled on the map and even a few markers were in goblinoid, though with the small drawings next to them he was able to decipher what it was.
Mikal suggested that the group go to the Museum after to learn more about the original Red Hand. That maybe it would lend some insight into what they could expect going to Alterwood. Balanor thought it was one of the better ideas Mikal had so far.
It turned out to be a small, single room building with the single curator Rafelor had mentioned. They were, however, unable to gain any real information on the Red Hand. The museum was more for relics from the previous group that had dealt with the organization, and how they managed to beat back the horde of creatures berating the town.
They did learn that there were some items missing, and that if they were able to return any or all of them, there would be a reward. These included an Ornate, Gilded helm, a ceremonial longsword filigreed with platinum and gold, three shields with the symbol of the Red Hand, iron gauntlets that the curator said were extensively and intricately inlaid with precious metals, and a battle standard.
That evening, they were to leave for Alterwood Keep.