The party left Cragmaw Cavern with their
wagonload of recovered goods, Sildar propped up amid the crates, barrels, and
sacks. It was slow going as they alternately pushed and pulled the
heavily-laden cart down the pathway to the Triboar Trail, and eventually they
paid a passing farmer to hitch up his cows to the wagon to make it to Phandalin
before day’s end.
As the wagon made its way to Phandalin,
coming over the last rise to the north of town, Pip Stonehill took note of it
from his spot in the lookout tree and hopped down, racing back to the village
square as quickly as his feet could carry him. “It’s them, they’re coming!”
A gaggle of townsfolk, who had spent most
of the day loitering desultorily near the village square on the Townmaster’s
orders, straightened up and prepared to welcome the approaching heroes.
Townmaster Wester himself was in his most officious and resplendent jerkin and
wore a sash denoting his office, and he gestured furiously to a half-drunk bard
loafing beneath an apple tree. The bard began to crank his hurdy-gurdy and the
reedy music serenaded the adventurers as the wagon came to a creaking halt at
the edge of the square.
“Welcome, Champions of Phandalin!” Wester
beamed. “The good people of Phandalin have asked me to thank you properly for
dealing decisively with the Redbrand menace and for ending the goblin threat,
which some had not taken seriously enough in these parts.” Wester eyed the
crowd accusatorily. He reached for an object wrapped in cloth and made as if to
present it to the approaching heroes.
Varien took the hint and stepped forward.
“Now, when last I spoke, I mentioned that
Phandalin had no keys to the city to give to these brave men whose, er, bravery
we are celebrating today,” Beads of flop sweat were beginning to run down
Wester’s face. “And while that may be true, we have this treasured treasure to
bestow upon the heroes of Phandalin this day, which we believe will show our
town’s true appreciation.” He unwrapped the gift before handing it over to
Varien.
It was a longsword sheathed in a fine
scabbard with silver chasing. Its hilt was worked into the shape of a bird in
flight with wings outstretched, and on the hilt was written the word ‘Talon.’
Members of the party who had paid attention
in school recognized the sword as once belonging to a knight of some renown in
these parts who went by the name The Black Hawk.
“This sword once belonged to a true
Champion of Phandalin, Sir Aldith Tresendar, the Black Hawk, who died fighting
the orcish hordes as they swept down from the north. These heroes who stood
firm on Phandalin’s behalf when she most needed assistance will no doubt preserve
the Black Hawk’s memory. Please accept this token of our appreciation.”
Ragnar noted that Wester wasn’t a bad
public speaker, once he got going.
The crowd of townspeople clapped politely.
Varien gripped the sword by its hilt and
pulled it from the scabbard, and the ringing sound it made was like a tuning
fork. The vibration coursed through the paladin’s sword arm and the touch of
the weapon was enough to stir a martial spirit within him.
He raised the sword skyward and shouted,
“For Phandalin!” in a voice that echoed across the hills.
The crowd’s applause increased as though
someone had thrown a switch. Garlands and flowers were tossed at the
adventurers amid much whooping and hollering.
Sildar watched the whole scene play out
from the back of the wagon, sizing up the situation bemusedly.
Erwen sprouted colourful flowers from his
hands using druidcraft and tossed them to the children tugging at their
mothers’ skirts.
Xylon let loose a firebolt into the sky, where it popped satisfactorily. He scanned
the crowd and picked out Elsa, whose eyes were shining with a mixture of what
he hoped was pride and lust.
One of the cows pulling the party’s wagon
took this opportunity to defecate loudly and wetly.
Xylon leaned over to Bob. “Mind if I
separate from the group for a while? I’ve got some business to attend to.”
Bob nodded. “Come back quick, as we have a
castle to raid.”
Ragnar mingled with the appreciative crowd,
fending off backslaps and proffered handshakes until he was standing next to
Harbin Wester. He leaned down to the Townmaster and spoke in low tones.
“Look at your people. See their delight and
joy brought about against your wishes. Know that I am the world’s greatest
thief. See you next election.”
Then he was gone.
Wester gulped.
Varien helped Sildar down from the wagon.
The adventurer made his way painfully to the Townmaster and introduced himself.
“Sildar Hallwinter, late of Neverwinter,”
Sildar said. “Might I have a word with you in a private setting, Townmaster?”
Wester puffed up his chest at the thrill of
being recognized as townmaster. “Of course, my good sir. Right this way. And
did you say you were from Neverwinter?”
Varien sighed and picked up the box holding
Yeemik. “You've got a date with the town jail,” he hissed through one of the
airholes.
“Aw, c’mon!” came a muffled reply.
Ragnar found Erwen in the crowd. The druid
made a point of looking at anyone other than the rogue.
Ragnar cleared his throat. “Thank you for
the vines back in the cavern,” he said, and stuck out his hand. “No hard
feelings?”
It took Erwen a few moments to turn and
shake Ragnar’s hand in silence.
As Xylon paraded towards the Stonehill Inn
with Elsa on his arm, he again took note of the elven woman in cleric’s robes
standing near the Shrine of Luck opposite the inn. Something about the woman’s
countenance was picking away at his memory.
He patted Elsa’s behind, saying that she
should go on ahead as he had something to take care of first.
Then he walked across the square towards
the Shrine of Luck. The woman watched him walk over, her arms crossed.
Xylon grabbed the cleric’s arm and pulled
her alongside him as he continued walking into the alley behind the shrine.
Then he pushed the woman angrily against the wall.
“What are you doing here spying on me, sister ?” he hissed in Elven. “I told you
and the family that I never wanted to see you again.”
The cleric met Xylon’s accusatory gaze with
a fierceness in her eyes. In Elven, she replied, “And what makes you think I’m
here to spy on you, my brother ?”
Xylon let go of his sister’s arm. “What am
I supposed to think? The two of us being here in this small village at the same
time is not a coincidence. Mother sent you, didn’t she?”
“There you go, making everything about
you,” Xylon’s sister Zenith said sharply. “I happen to have business here that
has nothing to do with you or our family, which you left broken in the wake of
your departure.”
Xylon’s eyes widened. “What’s this? ‘Broken’?
I thought you agreed with my decision. Mother and Father wanted me to take the
Crown, Zenith. A crown bathed in the blood of slave trading and human
trafficking.”
“Human trafficking?” Zenith said. “That is
a loaded term for a noble enterprise, but then again you were always soft on
humankind.” Her lips curled in a cruel sneer. “After all, I’ve seen the way you
lust after that barmaid. Brother, there’s slumming below your station, and then
there’s wallowing in the muck.” Her nose wrinkled in disgust.
Xylon rolled his eyes as he realized that
he and his estranged sister were falling right back into their traditional
roles as each other’s foils in the family court.
“I told you before I left, the Crown is
yours,” Xylon said. “You should be back at court. What in the name of all
Faerun are you doing in a place like this?”
Zenith poked a finger into Xylon’s chest.
“Maybe you're not the only one who doesn’t want to bear the full weight of
responsibility just yet. I am here on behalf of the Harpers.”
Xylon was aghast. “The Harpers? Since when
are you an adventuress? And since when did you care about anything other than palace
gossip?”
“Whatever,” Zenith said, her tone a little
more petulant than was normally proper for a cleric of Tymora. “I want to see
more of the world before I fulfill the family obligation, and you know as well
as I do that the Harpers aim to do some good. But if you blow my cover here, I
will make life difficult for you.”
“Your cover?” Xylon sniggered.
“Around here I am known as Sister Garaele,
and don’t you forget it.” Zenith said. “Cleric of Tymora and caretaker of the
Shrine of Luck.”
“And don’t you forget what I told mother
and father. I am done with this family and its kingdom and I never want to see
you again,” Xylon fixed his sister with a fiery stare. “Leave town, Zenith.” He
turned around and stalked away.
“Whatever!” Zenith repeated. “ Fine! I was
here first!” Then she composed herself and retreated into the shrine to pray.
Later, even as he set about bedding a
willing Elsa in his room at the inn, Xylon found that he couldn’t shake the
encounter with his sister from his mind. It was a stark reminder of all he had
left behind as he had struck out on a life of adventure. Xylon wilted as he
realized that sexual desire couldn’t compete with plain old family drama for
his attention and energy.
“Uh, Elsa, maybe now’s not the best time,”
Xylon mumbled. “I just need someone to cuddle.”
Ragnar stopped in at the woodworker’s shop
to find Mirna Dendrar sitting near a table laden with the tools of her dead
husband’s trade. A partially-completed hobbyhorse lay on the workbench.
“This is what he was working on, when-”
Mirna’s voice caught. She sighed and looked away towards Ragnar. “It was nice
of you to check in on us.”
“Mrs. Dendrar, I’ve been thinking of all
those alchemical supplies in the ruined manor,” Ragnar said. “I think if we
move that equipment to your workshop here, you can pick up where your family
left off in Thundertree, and make a new life for yourself and your kids.”
Mirna sniffed, but was intrigued at the
proposition. “It might help pass the time.”
Ragnar passed Mirna an alchemical flask he
had picked up from Glasstaff’s laboratory. “All we would ask in return is a few
vials of antitoxin when we return to Phandalin, to protect against spider bites
and the like.”
Mirna nodded, her eyes on the flask. “If
memory serves, it might take me a tenday to properly distill that sort of
thing.”
“That’s why you’re the alchemist and I’m
the adventurer.”
“I’ll need some materials to get started,”
Mirna continued. “My family left everything in Thundertree when they fled.”
“As I recall, Glasstaff’s stores were well
stocked,” Ragnar said, reaching into his coin purse. “But here’s some seed
money. Do your son and daughter have enough food to eat, and books to read?”
Mirna took the gold from Ragnar’s hand.
“They’re getting along as well as can be expected, what with their father being
butchered in the street and fed to a monster,” she said with the bitterness of
the bereaved. “But thanks to you his killers met swift justice.”
Ragnar nodded sadly. “Thank you for your
bravery. We’ll have the supplies delivered to your business as soon as
possible.” He excused himself.
Mirna stood, looking at the flask as she
turned it over in her hands. “Damn Redbrands,” she muttered to herself. “Damn
them to the Abyss.”
Erwen took the bearskin rug and Ripper’s
pelt to the local tanner, who said she could cure the hides for him.
Soon he was walking down a path that was
becoming readily familiar to him upon each visit to Phandalin. He knocked on
the Alderleaf farmhouse door.
Carp answered the door. “Oh hi, New Dad.”
Erwen blushed. “Is, um, is your mother
here?”
“Yeah, she’s just cleaning up, New Dad.”
Carp said. “Come on in.”
Erwen entered the kitchen and made his way
to Qelline’s room, which was located on the other side of the farmhouse.
He opened the door to her bedchamber and
saw Qelline standing naked in a copper washbasin, with her prodigious backside
facing him. Her farm clothes neatly piled nearby. She was pouring water from a
jug over herself, washing away grime and sweat after a morning of hard work in
the fields. The water coursed down the curves of her body in shining rivulets.
“Well, don't just stand there, Erwen,”
Qelline said over her shoulder, smiling. “Close the door.” Erwen smiled, efficiency and magnificence on his mind.
Bob told Varien about his recent trip to
the seamstress. The pair manhandled the box over to the building where the
seamstress was located and dumped it in the alley, and then entered.
The proprietress had just put the finishing
touches on the alterations made to Glasstaff’s robes. Bob shrugged it on, and
admired himself in the polished mirror. He told the seamstress that his friend
who had commissioned the cape was going to give it to the paladin as a gift,
and wondered if they could pick it up now. The seamstress shrugged.
The paladin and cleric strutted out the
front door, resplendent in their new robe and cape. They picked up the box and
headed for the town jail.
By the time they reached the Townmaster’s
Hall, enough time had elapsed that they could hear quite the set-to coming from
inside the building.
They pushed the door open to hear Sildar
berating Townmaster Wester.
“What kind of leader allows a gang of thugs
to thrive on his watch?” Sildar was shouting at the timid townmaster.
“Any town with the potential for prosperity
is going to have leeches latching,” Wester said in reply. “Those Redbrands were
nothing more than a minor-”
Sildar’s fist crashed down on Wester’s
desk, shattering a seashell paperweight.
“The corruption runs deeper than the Lord’s
Alliance first thought, I see!” Sildar hissed.
“What’s all this then?” Varien asked from
the doorway.
Sildar jerked his head irritably at the
intrusion, and then put on a smile. “I was just getting the lay of the land
from Townmaster Wester here,” he said. “Getting up to speed on the Glasstaff
situation, and the events that led to this unpleasantness in Phandalin.”
“Eep,” said Wester.
“We’re just looking for the jail,” Varien
said, indicating the box between him and Bob.
“D-downstairs,” Wester said, pointing to
the rear of the building.
“Cheers,” Varien said, sure that the
townmaster was getting exactly what he deserved.
“Now,” Sildar said to Wester as the
adventurers tromped down the stairs. “Tell me about the day that Iarno Albrek
came to Phandalin.”
Ragnar made his way from the woodcutter’s
to the town hall and sidled down to the basement. Erwen soon joined him,
playing his flute.
There were two cells in the town jail. The first
was occupied by the Redbrand thug they had pulled from beneath Tresendar Manor,
and the second was empty.
Varien unlatched the box lid and tipped it
into the empty cell. Yeemik spilled out along with some very dirty straw, and
the goblin cursed as he cradled his broke wrist.
“Now then,” Varien said. “You’re going to
tell us the way to Cragmaw Castle.” He pulled out just enough of his new sword
to let the lamplight flicker off the pristine blade.
Yeemik sneered. “Someone likes playing with
his toys, I see.” His laughter was ugly and grating.
Varien sighed. “I had hoped to avoid any
unpleasant interrogation techniques, Yeemik. You see, torture is something I
cannot tolerate.”
He stepped aside to reveal Ragnar, a blade
in each hand.
Varien nodded at the rogue. “My colleagues,
on the other hand, have fewer scruples.”
Ragnar showed his teeth and stepped into
the cell. He pointed at Erwen.
“Yeemik, you remember my friend who can
transmogrify into a bear, or a wolf, don’t know?”
Yeemik scoffed.
Ragnar gestured at Bob. “And you know my
friend here is a cleric of Sune who specializes in tactical resurrection.”
“Tactical?” Yeemik repeated.
“What I’m getting at is that I have one
friend who can rip to you shreds with his teeth and claws, and another who can
bring you back from the dead. So we can have a difficult conversation over and
over and over until you tell us what we want to know, or…”
“Or you can kiss my long green d-” Yeemik
snarled.
Ragnar’s dagger flashed across the goblin’s
neck, slicing it open. Yeemik reeled
back in surprise, blood spurting out of the new opening his throat. He fell to
his knees.
“I can play this game too,” he whispered
before dying with a croak.
Ragnar nodded to Bob, who cast spare the dying on the mortally wounded
goblin and then used a light healing cantrip
to close the wound in his neck, while dancing around the prone Yeemik.
A splash of cold water brought Yeemik
around. The goblin gasped and sputtered.
Ragnar loomed over him. “Ready for the next
round? Where’s Gundren Rockseeker, you cheeky goblin?”
“I’ll never tell you-” Yeemik gasped out.
Ragnar flicked his blade again.
“Enough!” Varien said, stepping in front of the rogue and staring down at the
battered goblin. He reached out his hand and his eyes danced with divine
influence.
“I command
you to show us the way to this ‘Cragmaw Castle’ I’ve heard so much about,”
Varien said in a booming voice.
Yeemik shrank back, his eyes bulging and
teeth grinding as he fought to resist. Then, he sagged and whispered through
clenched teeth, “I…can…take…you…there.”
Varien clapped his hands. “Perfect. Thank
you. If you wouldn’t mind showing me on this map…” He produced a crudely drawn
sketch of the area from his pocket.
Yeemik stabbed a bloody fingerprint on a
spot a few miles north of Phandalin.
Binding the goblin’s hands, the party
walked back up through the Townmaster’s Hall where Sildar’s scornful
interrogation of Harbin Wester continued, and out into Phandalin’s streets.
Erwen left in search of Theryn and found
him out the outskirts of town, meditating atop a section of stone wall that
snaked for several feet in either direction; evidence of Phandalin’s former
perimeter. He wildshaped into the form of a housecat and jumped into the monk’s
lap, purring.
Theryn idly scratched Erwen-Cat behind the
ears as he stared off into the middle distance.
Ragnar led the wagon to Lionshield Coster
and a grateful Linene Greywind, who paid the rogue the 50 gold she had offered
for the return of her goods.
Ragnar left a portion of the money on the
countertop. “I’m in need of a few choice items, if you don’t mind.”
Linene smiled. “Let’s do this.”
“To start with, three half-pound bags of
flour, a ten foot pole, and a length of rope,” Ragnar said.
Linene snapped her fingers and a clerk
dumped the goods onto the counter with a thump .
“Two bags of caltrops and a piece of
chalk.”
Thud.
“A grappling hook and two sets of
manacles.”
Clank .
“And a portable ram.”
Thump.
Ragnar collected his items in a large
bundle and swept his change from the countertop. “A pleasure, Linene.”
“Come back any time,” the trader said.
The members of the party began to assemble
near the town square.
Xylon trudged out of the front entrance of
the Stonehill Inn.
“We’re getting ready to leave,” Bob told
him.
“Sure,” Xylon said, hanging his head in
disappointment.
Bob thought for a moment. “Why aren’t we
using horses to get around? I’m going to go to the Townmaster’s Hall and ask
for some transportation.”
Bob returned to the Townmaster’s Hall.
He opened the door and walked in.
Sildar Hallwinter was standing at Townmaster
Wester’s desk, looking through some paperwork, while Wester, his face flushed,
sat unhappily in a chair usually occupied by a low-level clerk. Two young men
were hastily re-arranging furniture under Sildar’s direction.
Wester perked up as Bob entered the room,
turning to look imploringly at the cleric from his stool.
“We’d like to be outfitted with horses for
our journey to Neverwinter Wood,” Bob said curtly.
Wester made a flustered gesture in Sildar’s
direction and opened his mouth as if to reply.
Bob turned to Sildar, ignoring the
Townmaster. “We’d like to be outfitted with horses for our journey to
Neverwinter Wood,” he said without breaking stride.
Sildar nodded, a smile on his face.
“Wester, see to it that some mounts are rounded up for our friends.”
Crestfallen, Wester slid off his stool and
rushed out the front door, tears in his eyes.
A few minutes later, Harbin Wester arrived
in the square with three swayback mares and two hardy-looking donkeys.
Ragnar eyed the animals uneasily and waved
the proffered horse off. “Not great with animals, y’see.”
Bob picked out a black horse and hoisted
himself up into the saddle.
Varien mounted a brown horse, his new cape
flapping in the wind.
Ragnar frowned at Bob. “You told him about
the cape?”
Bob shrugged.
The party collected Theryn and Erwen.
Theryn got onto a painted horse.
Xylon, shamefaced still, hopped onto one of
the donkeys, and Erwen did the same.
They rode into the midafternoon sun, Xylon
bringing up the rear on his braying donkey mount.
They headed north along the Phandalin path
before turning eastward onto the Triboar Trail. Neverwinter Wood soon crept
into view, a verdant verge that darkened the horizon. Leaving the trail, the
party picked their way over hill and dale before reaching the edge of the thick
woods.
The path was more than uncertain and the
party realized their horses would have a tough time of it.
Xylon sighed and got off his donkey.
“Fellows, there is an important matter calling me back to Phandalin.”
“Trouble in the boudoir?” Bob asked.
Xylon narrowed his eyes. “Something’s not
right in town. I need to check it out, and it makes sense for one of us to
return the horses. Out here in the wilds they are just a meal waiting to be
eaten.”
“He’s not wrong,” Ragnar said.
“I’ll conclude my business in town and
rendezvous with you in a day’s time,” Xylon said. “Don’t go doing anything
foolish.”
“Who, us?” Theryn said.
“Hold on,” Xylon said. He cast find familiar and a rather
haughty-looking hawk screamed down to land on Xylon’s outstretched forearm. As
the bird preened its silver-streaked feathers, he said, “Let me do a bit of
reconnaissance for you.”
The bird took wing with a cry and flew
above the woods.
Xylon’s eyes clouded over as he went into a
trance, making a connection between him and his flying familiar so he could
look through the hawk’s eyes.
As he flew over the woods, the bird caught
sight of something large moving through the trees. The bird swooped in and took
note of an ogre dragging a huge club as he stomped over logs and leaves. The
bird arced back up into the sky.
The white faded from Xylon’s eyes. He
turned to the party. “You’ve got an ogre just to the north, stomping around
loudly enough to wake the dead.”
“We’re on it,” Varien said.
“Good luck.” Xylon said, and took the
horses’ reins.
The party kept the sturdy donkeys with
them. Yeemik was still trussed up like a green turkey on one of them, looking
miserable.
The party crept into the woods and moved as
silently as they could, until the donkeys began reacting to the smell of ogre.
“I’ve got this,” Ragnar said, and reached
out with the power of Faunt to steal some distance. He blinked out of sight and
disappeared.
Theryn tied the donkeys off on a tree and
nodded to the rest of the party. “Quietly,” he hissed.
Ragnar’s arcane teleportation took him
wildly off course and he materialized over a log-strewn gully. He fell into it
instantly, and only barely had a presence of mind to refrain from screaming. He
landed in a murky stream at the bottom of the ravine, covered by thorns and
burrs from head to toe.
He swore he could hear the peal of a
teenage girl’s laughter echoing through the woods.
“Damn that divine wench and her trickery,”
he said weakly to himself.
They heard the ogre before they could see
it. Every footfall was a crash that sent mud scattering and leaves dropping
from trees. It was grumbling to itself, a monologue of anger and boredom.
Theryn rushed out from behind a tree,
attacking with his bo staff and an unarmed strike before diving into some
underbrush.
The ogre reeled from Theryn’s blows and
turned. “What you doing back there?” he shouted angrily.
The ogre whirled around, but Theryn had
vanished back into the trees.
Erwen cast entangle and in an instant the ground around the ogre was alive
with vines and roots that wrapped themselves around the giant’s legs.
Varien rushed forward with his shiny new
sword unsheathed and hit with a radiant strike that lit up the gloomy forest
clearing in pale illumination.
Bob cast guiding bolt .
Erwen threw a spear from behind cover.
The giant ogre roared in pain and
confusion, swinging his club wildly while trying to free himself from the
roots.
There was a wet tearing sound and the
ogre’s mouth fell open as the end of Theryn’s bo staff poked bloodily through.
The ogre teetered and then fell to the ground with a crash, sliding off the
monk’s weapon. Theryn stood behind the ogre’s corpse in a position of
disciplined triumph.
Erwen picked up his spear.
They searched the ogre’s body and found a
handful of electrum coins.
“What’s an ogre doing with electrum
pieces?” Varien asked.
They turned and made their way back to the
donkeys. Ragnar met up with them, limping from his fall, his clothes stained
with mud.
“Don’t ask,” he said.
Then the group rounded a treed hummock and
gasped collectively,
Yeemik was gone.
Instantly the party began running pell-mell
through the forest, searching for the fleeing goblin.
“I broke his arms!” Ragnar said.
“Yeah, but his legs still work!” Varien
shouted.
Theryn leapt nimbly from tree branch to
tree branch until he was running atop the trees, looking for any sign of
disturbances in the woods.
Nobody, not even Erwen, could find a trail
suggesting the direction in which Yeemik had gone.
“Let’s push on,” Varien said in the waning
daylight. “Whether or not Yeemik warns the Cragmaws that we’re coming, we need
to raid that castle and rescue Gundren.”
They continued in what they figured was the
right direction.
After a few miles, a manmade object became
visible through the dense forest. Here and there were piles of stonework
overgrown with moss and lichen, and in a wide clearing of tree stumps and
rotting vegetation stood what remained of a large stronghold.
The castle consisted of seven overlapping
towers of varying diameter and heights, but time had not been kind to the ruin
– the upper levels had collapsed into heaps of crumbling masonry that only
hinted at its former glory. A short flight of stone steps led up to terrace in
front of what looked like the main entryway. Near ground level, the towers
featured stonework arrow slits that looked decently maintained.
Varien took note of one of the crumbled
towers to the northwest. “I think we can scale that pile of rubble there and
sneak inside,” he whispered.
“That looks impassable,” Theryn said.
“Oh yeah? Watch this!” Varien, bent nearly
double, half ran, half crouched, and nimbly picked his way up the pile of broken
masonry.
Theryn sighed and followed after the
paladin, and found himself having a difficult time scaling the uneven surface
for a change.
Ragnar pointed at Bob and Erwen and then
pointed at the main entrance. The three of them started picking their way from rockpile
to rockpile on their way to the front door, which looked unguarded.
Theryn joined a smug Varien at the lip of a
large gash in the tower wall.
“See?” Varien said, gesturing at the
crumbling mortar and heavy stone blocks. “I told you we could-”
His elbow bumped one of the crumbling
outcroppings, which disintegrated obligingly, raining grout and rock into the
interior of the tower.
The room below looked like a barracks and
armory, with weapons stacked against the walls and a number of pallets strewn
about on the flagstone floor, which looked like it had been recently swept.
As the rain of gravel and stonework hit the
ground, it drew the attention of four hobgoblins who had been drinking ale from
a cask mounted on the wall. They looked up from their cups at the frozen faces
of Theryn and Varien staring at them over the edge of the pile of rubble.
One of the hobgoblins opened his mouth to
shout in alarm.