How it Started
In the spectral nation of Geb, where the undead are as common as the living and the fields are worked by tireless zombies, a group of intrepid adventurers found themselves intertwined in a web of intrigue and danger. Summoned by the influential Haldoli, one of the esteemed Blood Lords, they embarked on a mission that would test their mettle and cunning.
Their task, seemingly straightforward, was to investigate peculiar incidents at one of the zombie-tended farms – a vital cog in the economy of Geb. However, as they delved deeper, they unearthed a plot far more sinister than they had anticipated. A coven of hags, dispersed across and around Geb, was behind the insidious poisoning of Geb’s crucial food exports.
The first adversary they encountered was Iron Toviah, a hag whose wickedness knew no bounds. Yet, through their collective might and determination, they vanquished her, subsequently proceeding to dismantle the coven, hag by hag, until none were left.
But their victory was short-lived. Rumors started to stir, suggesting that Iron Toviah had returned from the grave, reborn as an undead Vetalarana, a vampire with a terrifying appetite for thoughts, emotions, and memories. Unfazed by the chilling news, the courageous band set out once again, resolved to end Iron Toviah’s reign of terror for good.
Their pursuit has now led them to the ominous Field of Maidens. Their path forward is shrouded in uncertainty, but their resolve is unyielding. They will not rest until Iron Toviah is once again defeated, securing the safety of Geb and its residents.
The Medusa in the Field
In the spectral realm of Geb, where life and stone are often indistinguishable, a fellowship of brave wanderers found themselves engaged in a dire pursuit. Their nemesis, the dread Iron Toviah, had drawn them into the chilling expanse known as the Field of Maidens.
Here, countless women, transformed into stone by Geb’s ancient wrath, stood as silent sentinels under the starlit sky. As our heroes made camp amidst this eerie tableau, an uncanny spectacle unfolded. The stone sisters, rigid in their eternal slumber, suddenly stirred to life, their petrified forms taking on a terrifying semblance of animation.
Amidst the ensuing chaos, a new figure emerged from the shadows – a Medusa named Kerinza. Her serpentine tresses writhed like living flames, her eyes hidden behind broad, stylish glasses that contrasted sharply with her monstrous visage. Dressed in a tunic of forgotten elegance, she was a paradoxical figure amidst the battlefield.
“Behave, we have guests,” she commanded in a sibilant whisper that stilled the stone sisters. “Back to sleep, you naughty things.” And they obeyed, returning to their inert state, leaving the field as silent as a crypt once more.
Kerinza then turned her gaze upon the newcomers, her voice carrying a hint of barter. “They do not appreciate intruders,” she murmured, indicating the now still statues. “There were others…that way.” She gestured towards the distant horizon. “Remove them from the field and we may talk further.” With those words, she stepped closer to the party, her intentions as enigmatic as the land itself.
Feast of Marrow, his voice a resonant echo in the spectral quiet, addressed the snake-crowned figure before them. “If these intruders are the ones we suspect,” he began, his gaze steady on Kerinza, the Medusa, “we might well hold the key to your quandary.” As the words left his lips, a spark of recognition ignited within him. Kerinza was not simply a Medusa; she bore the title of the Lonely Maiden, a being whispered in hushed tones to command the eerie stone sisters.
“Your hospitality has not gone unnoticed,” Feast continued, the depth of his gratitude wrapped in layers of respect and determination. “Might you paint us a picture of this intruder? Does she carry the mark of the hag upon her features?” His inquiry hung in the air, a thread of curiosity weaving its way through the frigid night.
Kerinza’s serpentine locks undulated in a dance of their own, shimmering under the spectral kiss of the moonlight as she mulled over Feast’s inquiry. “I have indeed crossed paths with such a creature,” she finally responded, her voice a whisper against the quietude. “She dubs herself Iron Toviah. A formidable figure, her steps were set towards an abandoned manor lost in time – Grisel Hall.”
The Medusa fell silent, her gaze straying to where the horizon bled into darkness before locking back onto Feast. “Should we engage in this dance of negotiation, I shall chart you a path to the Manor,” she proposed, each word dropping like a stone into a still pond. “Your task is but to purge these intruders.” Her decree hung in the air, a palpable offer of a pact waiting for acceptance.
The Dhampir, Sangrie, stood as a formidable vision of feminine strength. Her eyes, dark and mysterious, gleamed with an eager anticipation as she responded to the Medusa’s proposition, “This intrigues me,” she uttered, her voice a velvet whisper that carried the weight of her interest.
The Medusa, her features twisted in scorn, recoiled at the memory of the hag’s audacity. “She dismissed my offer, the insolent wretch! From all accounts, she seems to have morphed into some sort of Psychic Vampire.”
The party’s attention was drawn to the subject of the stone sisters, their faces etched with concern. Peter, his voice echoing the collective worry, voiced out, “What of the sisters? What guarantee do we have against them?”
Glott, ever the peacemaker, added, “We need assurance, Medusa.”
With a calming murmur, the Medusa assuaged their fears. “Worry not about the sisters. They are children of stone, bound to my will. They pose no threat to you.”
Having eased their concerns, the Medusa then unveiled a map, her slender finger tracing a path through the heart of the Field of Maidens. “The intruders you seek can be found to the southwest. It’s an easily spotted camp. Yet, some have chosen to hide to the east, their location shrouded in mystery.”
Following her instructions, Karinza vanished over a nearby hill, leaving the party to navigate their way through the eerie calm of the Field of Maidens.
Having struck a precarious accord with the Medusa, the party set forth on their quest.
Their destination: the southwest, home to the more conspicuous of the two groups they were tasked to confront. But a shadow loomed over their journey, a specter of stone and stillness that threatened to consume one of their own.
Ragnok Nightclaw, the battle-hardened orc, was under the cruel grip of the Stone Curse. The aftermath of their encounter with the Stone Sisters had left him in a state of gradual petrifaction. His once powerful limbs, which had swung his weapon with lethal precision, now moved with a stiffness that spoke of his growing struggle. His skin, once akin to weathered leather, was slowly assuming the cold, hard texture of stone. The curse was not just a physical ailment, it was a ticking clock, threatening to transform the warrior into an unmoving statue.
This affliction did not just burden Ragnok; it weighed heavily on the entire party. Their journey through the Field of Maidens, a land both beautiful and treacherous, was now marked by a palpable tension. Each step they took, each moment that passed, brought Ragnok closer to an irreversible fate.
Peter Haymark, the half-elf summoner, often cast worried glances at Ragnok, his mind undoubtedly filled with concern and calculations. Glott the Large, the goblin rogue, wore a mask of seriousness that was rarely seen on his usually mischievous face. Feast of Marrow, the skeletal cleric, seemed even more silent than usual, his hollow gaze seemingly peering into some unseen realm. Sangrie Delacroix, the Dhampir sorceress, bore an expression of determination, her crimson eyes reflecting an unspoken resolve.
Their journey through the Field of Maidens was not an unnoticed one. Sangrie Delacroix, the Dhampir sorceress was the first to spot them. A small scouting party of Mwangi warriors, their bodies adorned with tribal tattoos, were observing from a distance, their bows poised with an unsettling readiness.
With a graceful composure that belied the tension of the moment, Sangrie raised her hand, calling out in a clear, diplomatic voice, “Stay your bows.” Her words echoed across the distance, and to the group’s relief, the Mwangi warriors complied.
One of the warriors, his features hardened by the unforgiving wilderness, made his way down the side of the cliff, his movements agile and sure. He approached the Blood Lords, his gaze steady and probing. “Are you here to see the Rhino?” he enquired, his voice carrying the weight of suspicion.
“Yes,” came Sangrie’s swift response, her tone unflinchingly confident despite the lie that passed her lips.
The Mwangi scout, seemingly satisfied with her response, posed another question. “You say the Rhino is expecting you, what is your name and purpose?”
With a confident poise, Sangrie responded to the Mwangi scout’s inquiry, “My name is Iron Toviah.” A flicker of confusion crossed the warrior’s face. Clearly, this was not the name he had been anticipating.
However, his momentary bewilderment quickly vanished as he regained his stern composure. “There is a situation that needs to be tended to. Follow me,” he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. The other Mwangi warriors watched the party with hawk-like vigilance as they acquiesced and followed their new guide.
As the group was led towards the Mwangi encampment, a sight unfolded before them. Two dozen women, their bodies toned and tanned, were engaged in military drills. Their leather armor and garments bore the hues of the earth, adorned with vivid green ribbons tied to their sword hilts. It was a display of strength and discipline that demanded respect.
Feast of Marrow turned his hollow gaze towards Peter Haymark, his voice echoing eerily, “We tread on a path fraught with uncertainties, young summoner.”
Peter nodded, his eyes filled with a mix of concern and fascination. “Indeed, Feast. But we must remember, uncertainty can also breed opportunity.”
Glott the Large, usually the source of mischief, was unusually silent, his sharp eyes taking in the scene with an intensity that belied his jovial nature.
Meanwhile, Ragnok, despite his affliction, stood tall and resolute, his warrior spirit undeterred. His stony gaze swept across the camp, taking in every detail with a warrior’s pragmatism.
Guided by one of the Mwangi scouts, the group entered the heart of the camp.
It was a bustling microcosm of life and activity. Pens filled with zebras and undersized dinosaurs dotted the area, their exotic presence adding to the otherworldly charm of the place. The air was rich with the earthy scent of manure, a constant reminder of the wilderness they were in.
Their attention was drawn to a sight that was as mesmerizing as it was bewildering. Leading the soldiers in their drills was a large crystalline entity, its form refracting the sunlight into a kaleidoscope of hues. It gestured towards them, a silent summons to approach a nearby pavilion.
Peter Haymark and Feast of Marrow exchanged a glance, their brows furrowed in concentration. Despite their collective knowledge, the nature of this crystal being eluded them.
“Come,” a voice echoed through the camp, “the Rhino does not wait.”
Glott the Large wrinkled his nose at the smell pervading the air, grumbling under his breath, “Well, this is a far cry from the fresh mountain air I’m used to.”
Ragnok, despite his affliction, managed a grim chuckle. “And I thought the stench of battle was bad,” he quipped, the corners of his lips twitching upwards in a semblance of a smile.
Sangrie, ever the diplomat, simply nodded, her gaze steady on the crystalline figure. “Let’s not keep the Rhino waiting,” she suggested, her voice carrying an undertone of caution.
From the heart of the large tent emerged a figure of commanding presence. A woman of formidable stature, her muscles rippling beneath her Mwangi skin. She was flanked by two guards, their stances echoing their leader’s confidence. With an air of authority, she lifted her mighty blade and advanced towards the party. “I am the Rhino,” she declared, her voice resonating through the air, “who are you?”
Ragnok, his gaze never wavering from the Rhino, felt a familiar stirring within. His survival instincts, honed by years of living on the edge of danger, told him they hadn’t been in this location long. The symbiote within him, a constant companion, concurred. He remembered the task given to them by the Medusa – to eliminate certain groups from the area. And he could not shake off the feeling that they were standing right in front of one such group.
“How do I know?” Ragnok would have answered if asked. “Look at the ground. The grass is still trying to reclaim its space where tents have been pitched. The trees around bear fresh scars of woodcutting. And the air… it lacks the settled smell of a long-term camp.”
Summoning his warrior spirit, Ragnok stepped forward, extending a hand in greeting. His firm handshake seemed to impress the Rhino, a glint of approval reflecting in her eyes. It appeared that strength was a currency she valued.
Following Ragnok’s lead, the rest of the party also managed to win the Rhino’s favor with their diplomatic finesse and intimidating presence – all except Glott the Large, who stumbled over his words, much to his chagrin.
“Glott, for the love of the gods, keep your mouth shut,” whispered Peter Haymark, attempting to salvage the situation.
Feast of Marrow, with his hollow gaze, simply observed, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “Indeed, Glott. Silence is a virtue you should consider cultivating.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” the voice of the Rhino reverberated, as sturdy and compelling as the Nwanyian people themselves. “We hail from the south of Geb in the sun-dappled lands of southeast Mwangi. Our numbers are swelling, yet such expansion brings forth a troublesome quandary.”
She continued, her finger tracing the contours on the map. “The Zuntishans have dogged our steps, shadowing us to these lands. They are our sworn enemies, an unending torment.”
Ragnok’s sharp gaze followed her gesture eastwards, realization dawning. The Zuntishans were in the same vicinity where another group, the ones the Medusa wished eradicated, dwelled.
In hushed tones, so as not to alert the Rhino, Glott and Sangrie began to whisper. “We should learn more about these Zuntishans,” Glott suggested, his warrior’s heart matched by a keen mind.
Sangrie, her strategic prowess shining in her agreement, added, “Indeed, if we can find the group more susceptible to manipulation, we might set them against each other, fulfilling our pact with the Medusa.”
Feast chimed in, his assent ringing clear. “A plan worthy of our cunning.”
Peter Haymark, the group’s resident tactician, nodded in approval but added a note of caution. “A clever strategy, but we must tread carefully. We are not Bloodlords. We cannot afford to make needless enemies.”
“Perhaps a pledge of loyalty could be our bargaining chip,” Sangrie proposed, her eyes reflecting the flicker of strategic thought. “If we stand as a shield against their enemies, they might offer us their allegiance.”
However, the revelation of the Nwanyians’ intent brought a chill to their hearts. The tribe sought to claim the lands of Geb, or worse, to seize control entirely. Their armorer, at the Rhino’s command, revealed an unsettling development – they were crafting an ore from the bodies of the Stone Sisters, an ore imbued with an eerie power to weaken the undead. This news was particularly disturbing to Feast.
And yet, the Rhino seemed ignorant of the party’s loyalty to Geb.
Out of earshot of the Nwanyians, Glott, the group’s rogue, suggested, “We should make haste to find the Zuntishans. Our plan hinges on turning one group against the other. The Nwanyians, embroiled in official Mwangi affairs, might prove stubborn. Our best chance lies, perhaps, with the elusive Zuntishans.”
With the party’s intentions set, they began to strategize, their voices a low murmur in the twilight. Their actions had to be calculated, their movements discreet.
Eastward they journeyed in search of the elusive Zuntishans. This time, Ragnok, with his keen senses, discovered a trail leading to a secluded saltwater lake. There, amidst the desolation, they found a ravaged supply caravan left to decay. Two carts lay abandoned around a skeletal tree, its gnarled branches reaching skyward like a silent plea for mercy.
The party, seasoned in their adventures, felt a chill wind of realization. They were not alone. Ghouls lurked nearby; their presence betrayed by the dozens of barefoot tracks encircling the towering tree.
With a courage as deep as the roots of the towering mountains, Sangrie stepped forth. “We come to talk, not to take,” she declared, her voice echoing in the hushed silence like a bell tolling at dawn. The ghouls, suspicious as alley cats on a moonless night, hissed their fears of losing their scant hoard. But Sangrie, quick-witted and sly as a seasoned fox, reassured them, “Your shiny trinkets are safe with us. We seek not your hard-earned keepsakes.
“Her eyes, sharp and discerning, took in their pitiful forms, their hollow eyes mirroring a hunger as vast and relentless as the roiling sea. A plan, cunning and intricate, began to spin itself in the loom of her mind, a tapestry of strategy that could turn these ravenous spirits into unlikely comrades against the formidable Rhino forces. She wove them a story with her words, promising a banquet of human flesh in return for their allegiance.
“Bloodshed, you speak of? A Feast?” rasped the leader of the ghouls, its voice a dry whisper of anticipation in the still air. Sangrie nodded, her tone resolute, “Indeed, we are but few against many. You will have your fill.
“One ghoul, bolder than its brethren, skittered forward, sniffing at Sangrie as if her scent carried the tang of truth. “A feast of flesh… Will it be enough to silence the gnawing in our bellies?” it hissed, its voice a sibilant echo in the silence.
“Indeed, it will be more than enough,” Sangrie affirmed, her gaze steady and unwavering as the North Star in the velvet mantle of the night sky.
The ghouls retreated to their grim tasks, satisfied with the promise of a feast after the looming raid on the Rhino’s camp.
Their eerie forms moved in a grotesque dance, their pallid flesh stretched tight over skeletal frames, as they went about their macabre rituals. They dug into the damp earth, clawing at the soil with their bony fingers, scavenging for anything that could satiate their eternal hunger.
However, one among them stood apart, a ghoul named Yothric who commanded respect and fear from his kin. His voice, a guttural growl, sliced through the whispers of the night, “Follow me,” he said to Sangrie, leading the party away from the ghoulish congregation. As they stepped into the shadows, he revealed a badge, a symbol of his allegiance to the Celebrants, one of Geb’s factions. A glint of ambition flashed in the eyes of the party – this was another chance to rise in the esteem of the Blood Lords.
Ragnok Nightclaw, his orcish features hardened with determination, broke the silence. “Have you seen any ‘quick’ around?” he asked, using the term the undead used for the living. Yothric, his ghastly form barely visible in the dim light, shook his head. “We’ve been too famished to venture far,” he admitted, “but there are some abandoned salt mines nearby.”
Sangrie, her elegant demeanor a stark contrast to her companions, mused at this revelation. “Salt mines often harbor the quick,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the haunting moan of the wind. Ragnok grunted in agreement, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his weapon. The tension in the air was palpable as they prepared to delve into the unknown, their resolve echoing in the silence of the night.
With Yothric’s guidance, the party ventured towards the salt mines, their path lit by the ghostly pallor of the moon. As they neared their destination, they found it far from abandoned as previously believed. Amidst the rubble and rocky terrain, two guards stood sentinel, their forms shrouded in the gloom of the night. The sight of living beings in such a desolate place was an anomaly that did not go unnoticed.
One guard, weary and gaunt, raised his hand in a feeble attempt to halt their approach. His voice, thin and strained, echoed through the stillness, “Please leave us be, we are not expecting visitors.”
Sangrie, the Ghoul Queen, her eyes gleaming with an otherworldly light, regarded him with a serene smile. “What about saviors?” she queried, her voice as soft as a whisper, yet it carried the weight of her power. “The Rhino is seeking your heads. We can help you with her.”
The guard’s eyes widened, surprise etching lines on his weather-beaten face. A spark of hope ignited in his gaze, the first light he had seen in what felt like an eternity. He remained silent, his mouth agape, as he processed her words.
Peter, ever the diplomat, decided to drive the point home. “Not to put too fine a point on this,” he began, casting a quick glance at the party, “but you look like you need our help.”
The silence that followed was palpable, the tension thick enough to cut through.
“Yes, yes, our people are sick, numbers low… follow me,” the guard stammered, leading the party into the gaping maw of the salt mine. As they descended into the belly of the earth, the air grew cooler, the scent of damp stone and ancient salt hanging heavy.
The mine was a sprawling labyrinth, its vast chambers echoing with the whispers of forgotten days. Salt crystals glinted in the dim light, their jagged edges embedded in the stone walls, shimmering like stars against the black night sky. Tents, haphazardly arranged, dotted the cavernous space, their canvas bodies pulsating softly in the drafty air. Mounds of salt were scattered everywhere, their white peaks standing stark against the earthen floor.
“I am Rada,” the young guard introduced himself, his voice barely audible over the echo of dripping water. “Thank you for coming. We are following our leader Lasheeli. I am but a young guardsman, and we ended up here.”
As they ventured deeper, they came upon a makeshift barracks, the remnants of a once-thriving community. Further still, the scent of spices wafted through the air, a tantalizing aroma that tugged at their senses. It led them to a cooking area and mess hall, where the weary Mwangi tribespeople gathered, their faces etched with lines of hardship and hunger.
Sangrie turned to Rada, her eyes softening with empathy. “You’ve done well to lead your people here, Rada. It’s a testament to your courage.”
Rada merely nodded, his gaze distant. “We do what we must to survive,” he murmured, his words heavy with unspoken fears and hopes.
Just then, a scout called out, his voice echoing through the mine, “Lasheeli, we are saved!” The words hung in the air, a beacon of hope amidst the gloom.
In the heart of the salt mine, where the air was thick with the scent of earth and spice, they found Lasheeli.
She stood with a regal grace, her slender form flanked by a pair of steadfast guards. Her gaze, steely yet filled with a certain vulnerability, fell upon the party. “I hear you have come to help us,” she began, her voice echoing in the cavernous chamber. “You are in our camp, are you here to bring us such a boon?” She looked at each of them, her eyes searching their faces for an answer.
Peter, ever the keen observer, took note of her apprehension. “Why are you in these lands in the first place?” he asked, his tone gentle but firm. The question hung in the air, the silence amplifying its weight.
Lasheeli’s mask of composure slipped, revealing a flicker of fear. “We are running,” she confessed, her voice barely more than a whisper. “The Nwanyians are pursuing us, and have run us out of Mwangi. This has led to invasions of my homeland.”
Peter considered her words, his gaze thoughtful. “If this tribe were to disappear, would you return to your lands?”
A glimmer of hope sparked in Lasheeli’s eyes. “Yes, we came here only to find a pair of stone sisters, descendants. We can return home if the Rhino cannot pursue us,” she said, her words laced with a desperate yearning.
Peter nodded, a plan taking shape in his mind. “Then, we ask for your assistance in routing the Rhino and the rest of the Nwanyians,” he proposed. “In return, you leave and do not return.”
Lasheeli, the young leader of the Mwangi, seemed to falter for a moment under the weight of Peter’s proposition. As the silence stretched, her gaze drifted towards Ragnok. The brave warrior had been afflicted with the Stone Curse during their battle with the Stone Sisters, a grim reminder of their encounter.
With a grace that belied her youth, Lasheeli approached Ragnok. She extended a slender hand, touching his arm where the curse was most apparent. In that moment, an ethereal glow emanated from her palm, washing over Ragnok and lifting the curse from him. The transformation was immediate and astounding – his stone-ridden skin regained its natural hue, the stiffness in his muscles eased, and a look of relief crossed his face.
The party looked on, their faces reflecting a mixture of awe and admiration. Glott, never one to miss an opportunity for levity, quipped, “Well, that’s one way to break a stone cold silence!” Feast, ever the cynic, retorted, “And here I thought your jokes were the only thing that could turn people to stone.”
Laughter rippled through the group, breaking the tension, before they refocused on the matter at hand. Lasheeli, moved by their camaraderie, finally agreed to their proposal. “We will aid you in your fight against the Rhino,” she declared, “and once the threat is vanquished, we shall return to our homeland.”
She convened a council to strategize their attack, her eyes revealing a shrewd mind behind her youthful facade. Despite her tribe being small and weakened, she offered the assistance of her finest warriors. Among them, a spell-casting humanoid with the face of a fluffy dog caught their attention, along with a robust Mwangi warrior, his frame hinting at formidable strength. They would be invaluable allies in the battle that lay ahead.
As the last vestiges of daylight gave way to the encroaching night, their strategy took form.
Under the obsidian blanket of darkness, they would infiltrate the Rhino’s encampment, a burlap sack bearing the supposed head of Lasheeli as their grisly offering. Yet within the coarse fabric, a humble melon would masquerade as the young leader’s severed head.
In tandem, Yothric and his spectral ghouls, eerie allies procured at the salt-ridden lake, would creep into the canvas homes of the slumbering Nwanyi warriors. When the ghouls struck, chaos would bloom like a deadly nightshade, providing the perfect distraction for their assault on the Rhino and her guards – a battle that would either see their foes vanquished or their ranks broken.
With their plan etched in stone, they allowed themselves a brief respite, gathering their strength for the formidable task that lay ahead. The sun rose, painting the sky with hues of rose and gold, its light heralding the dawn of a day fraught with peril. Yet just as they steeled themselves to set their plan in motion, Glott’s eagle-eyed gaze caught a flicker of movement in the distance.
Two Nwanyi scouts had been shadowing them, their presence an unwelcome surprise. The enemy was closer than they had anticipated, their discovery threatening to unravel their carefully laid plans.
Ragnok squinted against the sunlight, trying to pinpoint the scouts’ exact location. But the world blurred around him, the harsh glare of the sun and the aftereffects of a particularly potent fermented fruit from the previous night muddying his vision. The truth was clear – the game board had shifted, the pieces moved, and they were no longer the only players.
“Not good,” Ragnok murmured, his voice a low rumble as he squinted against the blinding sunlight, his usually sharp gaze clouded and unfocused.
“Very not good,” Glott echoed, a note of grim finality in his tone, the usually lighthearted rogue’s face hardened into a serious mask.
Peter, however, brought a ray of optimism to their gloomy deliberations. “They were a mile away, maybe more,” he reasoned, his calm demeanor offering a stark contrast to the mounting tension.
Feast, ever the quick-thinker, picked up on Peter’s line of thought, adding, “And even if they can see further than any eagle, what did they see?”
Sangrie, her voice steady amidst the rising tide of uncertainty, cut through the chatter. “Us preparing to bring the Rhino a pair of prisoners. That’s what they saw.”
Glott, the realist of the group, couldn’t help but interject, “Or we could assume the worst. We do not know.” His words hung in the air, a stark reminder of the many variables in their precarious situation.
Ragnok, his mind honed by years of warfare experience, added his own perspective. “Let’s assume they can clearly see us from two miles away. Let’s assume they think we may betray them. They still do not know about the Ghouls.”
Feast nodded in agreement, his eyes gleaming with a spark of hope. “And perhaps they are just running back to report the location of the enemy, an enemy they have been trying to find with no success, until now.”
As their words swirled in the tense air, the reality of their situation sunk in. The game had changed, the stakes raised. But they were far from defeated.
