>>3765489
With a quick “yes m’lord!” she scurries away towards the kitchens and you focus your attention on the young guard. He warily watches you, seemingly afraid to look you in the eye and almost flinches as you place your palm on the table, tapping a finger against the wood.
“Now, Holden is it?”

He starts at that, his head jerking upward minutely before he nods, stammering out
“Y-Yes m’lord my names Holden. I-I’m from Darkpool l-landing.”

You smile in an attempt to reassure the nervous young man, the sight of so much bloodshed and now your less than natural appearance surely wreaking havoc on his nerves.
“Darkpool is a fine place. I’m sure you’ve made them all proud. Now Holden, I need you to focus. I need to know what you saw.”

Dwalt steps up behind the anxious younger man, patting his shoulder reassuringly.
“S’alright lad. Just tell Lord Auberon what you saw. All of it. I know it’s awful but boy, he needs to know.”

You tap your finger against the wood of the bench and nod slowly, you know the place. Its near enough to Ironwood Springs to worry you. Holden continues on, his nervousness fallen aside as he recounts the story, his eyes distant as he peers into his cup.
“They was refugees they was... the road folk that come from up north for safety. Poor folks... they didn’t find none here. Captain Betrich sent us into the camp to look for any that was still living. Most of em were already dead.. they’d died bad m’lord. Arrows in their backs and bellies, throats cut... all the way to the bone.. heads all smashed in. Little’uns with their...with their heads bashed against the trees. I was... I was sick in the bushes from it I was... It was men that did it but... I’d call em beasts..”

You work your jaw I’m distaste at the thought of the men that would have to perform acts of brutality such as this. Raiding is one thing but this? This is butchery. You wait in silence as Dwalt refills Holdens cup, pushing the bowl of stew in front of him as well. After a few hesitant bites, he drinks, swallows and nods, ready to speak again.
“We found a few of the poor buggers still alive. They’d held on, somehow... more blood and meat than they was people by then m’lord. Only one of em could still talk... old woman, they’d... they’d hurt her bad m’lord. But she still had enough in her to hand this to Captain

>Continued

>>3765490

And with that, the young guard reaches into the pouch at his belt and withdraws a tattered scrap of cloth, likely ripped from a shirt by the old woman’s struggles. You gingerly reach out and take the soiled piece of cloth and hold it between two fingers. Its dark cloth is nondescript, of rough and simple make but it’s the stench of sweat and grime that clings to the bloodstained rag that intrigues you.

You clench your fist around the cloth and focus your gaze on Holden. The young man is rubbing his brow with his palm, his jaw working as Dwalt awkwardly pats his back. You hold up the clenched fist that holds the tattered rag and your voice is cold and hard as you speak.
“I believe the owner of this needs to be introduced to the hounds of Cambrey.”

>What do?

>>3765491
>>3765491
Options you can go with here

>Send Pythe and the Greenguard to investigate

>Ride out the Deepwood Fangs and Greenguard, hunt these bastards down.

>Send word to Balyn, your scouts can search these brigands out

>Send word to Sir Connach, take his men and scout the area.

>>3765517

>Ride out the Deepwood Fangs and Greenguard, hunt these bastards down.

Let's find them, we need to deal with this personally

>>3765544
+1
Let go with them

Smacking your hands on the table, you rise, Holden and Dwalt both watching with no small amount of surprise as you do. Gesturing to the shaken young guard, you focus on Dwalt.
“Make sure he gets some rest. Its hard to see something like that. Put him up in the barracks and have Karett bring him some sweetroot extract.”

“Aye m’lord. I’ll make sure he’s alright”
Dwalt quickly bows his head and helps Holden to his feet, the lads face downcast as exhaustion seems to finally take hold of him. The pair make their way off towards the barracks while you turn to Yarin, the aging seneschal having risen from his spot on the bench. Gesturing to him and Aliella, you raise your voice so both may hear you.
“I’m riding out with the Greenguard and the Fangs. Keep the place from burning down while I’m gone will you? Shouldn’t be gone much longer than a day or two”

Yarin shuffles the sheaves of parchment in his wrinkled and knobbly hands and nods slowly, his snow white hair bristling about his head.
“Safe hunting young master. Such men... nothing for them but the rope.”

Aliella closes her book with a weighty thud, Quorro peeking over the tabletop curiously. She folds her hands across the cover and seems to think for a moment.
“Tempting as it may be Brother, but try not to kill all of them. Dead men don’t answer questions very well.”
Sweeping her crimson locks back from her cheeks, she fixes you with a stern glare.
“And don’t get yourself killed. As much as I’d miss you, I’d hate how ruling would interfere with my reading.”

Giving her a small nod, you make your way out of the main hall, stopping to send a servant boy to Pythe. The boy takes off at a run and you turn, quickly striding up the stairways up to the upper reaches of Cambrey Keep. As you walk, you mentally go over the possible routes the brigands could have used to ambush the travelers. They could have came in from the Misty Marsh, using the cover of the gloom to mask their movements. They could have followed behind on the trail, perhaps hiding out in the thickets of the western Deepwood.

Quickly making your way into your chambers, you don your armor. The leathers fit you like a second skin, the reinforcing plates and scales of carved ironbark settling like the scales of a great serpent. The intricately carved vambraces and greaves are secured tightly with straps of thick leather cord you pull tight and knot thoroughly. Your arming belt goes around your waist, the silver buckles gleaming as you secure your fighting dagger to your hip, the curved blade would merit the name of shortsword to most folk. Your triangular shield goes across your back, the padded leather interior stained dark with sweat and hard use. Lastly Bloodthorne fits in your hand like a extension of your body, the long wooden shaft etched with small carvings and engravings, the teardrop shaped head gleaming in the light as you turn and make your way out of your chambers.

>Continued

>>3765625
You pass servants and guards on the way out, gossip already flying about the massacre that has the Lord of the Keep in arms. Your keen ears pick out the whispers as they spread rumors about the barbarity visited upon the poor road folk, the savagery that claimed the lives of innocent travelers. All the whispers you overhear serve to strengthen your resolve to make sure every last one of the bastards knows what true pain is before they are allowed to die. Your boots thud along the floor as you march with a determined set to your jaw through the entrance to Cambrey Keep, cobblestone rough beneath your feet as you step into the sunlight, your pupils slitting like a cats in the bright light as you grin like a feral beast.

You can’t help but notice how the servants in the courtyard stare for a moment, their Lord garbed for battle, in armor of mottled green and brown, carved wood and leather like some ancient Forest lord of old. A nervous stableboy leads your horse over to you, a dark speckled mare, mane windtwisted into cords. You pat the beasts snout as she curiously snuffles your chest and hands, searching for a treat.
“Easy there Dianach. I’ve nothing for you today. Up for a ride?”

The horse snorts happily and you smile, patting her smooth neck before stepping to her side and vaulting into the saddle easily. Your feet find the stirrups and you slot your spear into the leather tube by your left boot, taking the reins and wheeling the mare about. You can’t help but notice the approving looks from several of the young maids before they are shooed along by a matronly cook. Ironshod hooves clack against the stone as you ride Dianach through the gates to Cambrey Keep. As the half fallen walls pass behind you, you keep one hand on the reins and allow Dianach to trot through the streets, most of the town of Cambrey on a gradual downhill slant due to the nature of being built against a sloping hill. Like three quarters of a circle, the town walls arc from one side of the ancient monolith to the other, descending gradually with each street and lane curving gradually inwards. Townsfolk and shopkeepers watch curiously as you pass by, your hair blowing in the early morning breeze as you stare straight ahead, focused on the squat long hall of the barracks near the outer wall.

>Continued

>>3765626

Pythe is already waiting for you as you approach, seated on a roan colored gelding and gnawing his curved pipe as he rides up and down the assembled ranks of the Greenguard. His trademark scowl leaves his true thoughts impossible to discern from any who don’t know him very well. His halfplate and shield are both worn from hard use, covered in scratches and knicks and the hammer at his hip is well suited for the old brutes favored way of solving problems.

The Greenguard, while not a veteran unit or even blooded, have still formed up into an appreciable formation, their rounded shields slung across their backs and their weapons sheathed at their hips or in their belts. Their mottled armor is styled much the same as yours only with more mail as opposed to the hard to work ironbark. Many of them have clearly provided their own weapons, few having the same sort of arm on them. You spot long daggers, shortswords, hatchets, clubs and spears in the mix. Still, you doubt they will disappoint you in any upcoming battles.

The Fangs have formed up slightly behind the Greenguard, the hounds laying at the feet of their handlers, their studded leather harnesses secured with thick buckles and straps. The handlers are armored in thick overlapping plates of boiled leathers reinforced with mail, many favoring a extremely thick guard for their forearms just in case they need to wrestle their charges off of something. The panting hounds watch you curiously, their pointed ears pricking up as Pythe spots you and trots his gelding over.

“M’lord. Got the lads together like ya sent th’runner for. What’s all the fuss?”
His voice is hoarse and ragged, a lifetime of screaming orders at desperately shuffling recruits having torn his throat to shreds. Pythe pulls on the pipe, expelling a cloud of smoke from the side of his whispered lips as he speaks.
“S’not bout that Blackpine shit buggering about near Callians bridge is it? Cause that lil worms been asking fer it longer’n you’ve been alive m’lord”

>What say to Pythe?
>What say to your men?

>>3765627

>What say to Pythe?
We don't know who, but slaughter has come to my lands, women and children too, we are going to find out who did it.

>What say to your men?

Today we hunt, they are already dead but don't know about it
*show the piece of cloth
We have their scent so our hounds hold their lives at their maws, they came into my lands to kill and they will not leave the deepwood, as it always takes its tool. Remember to leave a couple of them alive so I can have a nice chat with them

>>3765644
Supporting.
Make sure to tell them we need some alive
And we should try to identify the heraldry, I think war is inevitable now.

You pull Dianach alongside Pythe and his steed and extend a hand, gripping Pythe’s proffered forearm and shaking it firmly. You look side to side before leaning in slightly, your voice low
“We don’t know who is behind it yet but we had a runner come in today. One of our patrols out with Captain Betrich. They found a campsite of a group of refugees slaughtered, butchered. Even the children Pythe.”

Pythe swears, his jaw clenching as he works the stem of his pipe in his teeth. He clenches the reins to his steed in his mailed fists as he shakes his head.
“Bloody animals. Black hearted buggers got no decency. We goin’ huntin’ m’lord?”

You reach into your pocket and extend your hand, showing the scrap of cloth to Pythe.
“I believe we are. Have the Hounds been fed?”

Pythe smiles around the stem of his pipe, his eyes crinkling in dark humor.
“No m’lord... no they haven’t.”

You nod at that, your own cruel smile curling your lips as you wheel Dianach around, trotting her in front of the gathered Greenguard and Fangs. The men look up at you, the unblooded Greenguard being full of pale faces and wide eyes. The murmurs and shifting ceases as you look out across them, your face hard and set.
“Men! For some of you, you’ve never been called to arms in my service before! For some others, you have fought and shed blood for myself or my father! But today, today we hunt! Travelers along the road have long been afforded our protection and goodwill, even more so in these dark times! But I have received news that the chaos of the Hearthlands has come to the Deepwood! A camp of travelers, butchered like animals in the night. Men, women, young and old, slaughtered!”
You raise your fist, allowing the scrap of cloth to flutter in the morning wind as you ride up and down the assembled ranks of the Greenguard.
“We have their scent! A dying old woman’s final revenge will be to lead us to her murderers! The Deepwood has always taken its toll and today is no different!”

At that, the Greenguard and the handlers of the Fangs heft their weapons high, whooping and shouting in righteous fury as you pull Dianach to a standstill.
“I know it may grieve you, but I ask that you stay your hands if you can take any of the bastards alive. They may have answers for me and I will have those answers, even if I have to cut them out!”

>Continued

File: 97BDA581-58C8-4706-8DBC-2(...).jpg (51 KB, 970x546)

51 KB JPG

>>3765812
The roar of bloodlust hits you in the chest like a hammer as the men pound their chests with their fists and wave their weapons above their heads. The hounds howl in excitement, ropes of slaver hanging from their jaws as they bay for blood. Pythe nods gruffly as you lock eyes with him, the Master at Arms gripping the reins in one hand as the Greenguard form up behind you in a column four men wide. The Fangs bring up the rear, the handlers holding the thick leather leads to the Hounds and their weapons in the other. As a column, you pass through the thick wooden gates of Cambrey and out into the fields and homesteads of the outskirts of the town.

Before you, the road disappears into the murky darkness beneath the trees. The perpetual twilight of the Deepwoods.

>Timeskip to scene of massacre

>Speak with Pythe along the way

>Other

>>3765814

>Timeskip to scene of massacre

Ask him how are we in terms of comparable strenght to the neighboring lords

>>3765814

>Timeskip to scene of massacre

>>3765814

>Timeskip to scene of massacre

>Timeskip to scene of massacre.

The Deepwood swallows the trail like a hungry beast, the beaten roadway flanked on either side by posts driven into the ground. Ancient trees, their boughs heavy with moss and hanging vines loom over the path like giants, squirrels and birds chattering as they go about their lives. A slender doe and her fawn scamper from the path at your approach, the sound of dozens of footsteps alerting her to danger. Across stone bridges coated in a thick layer of slick moss and around the petrified stump of a colossal tree that was rumored to have been the home of an ancient Fey. Through sheltered meadows and silent groves, you lead the column of men towards the site of bloodshed

As you ride, you speak with Pythe. The Master at Arms doesn’t claim to be an expert in politics or the game of nobility but he understands soldiers like a good breeder knows horses. As you ride, you discuss your own forces and how they compare to those of your neighbors. After a bit of thought and discussion, Pythe informs you that your own forces are on the smaller side compared to either Lord Ashburns or Lord Blackpines. The point of the matter being, both their territories are more populous than your own. Armies cannot be fielded without men to hold the weapons and you can’t empty your lands to fills the ranks lest those soldiers starve on the march. Pythe puffs his pipe and offers a kernel of wisdom.
“Can’t have boys in the field without boys in the fields m’lord”

Its with that nugget of truth that you ruminate on how exactly to expand your population and therein your power. You could of course seize the land of your neighbors, strongarm their populace into submission. You could put forth a investment and establish new villages, giving homes to the constant influx of refugees moving south. You could even expand the housing of Cambrey itself, providing permanent lodging for those grateful travelers. Such investments would have the added bonus of increasing your revenue through tax and such things are always a boon if Yarin is to be believed.

So intent are you on your thoughts on how to expand and improve that you almost miss it when you catch the scent of violent death on the air. It is well past midday, the sun filtering through the trees like shafts of molten gold as you twitch your nose in distaste. You look over to Pythe, his eyes focused on the treeline as he rides.
“We’re getting close. Its on the wind”

Pythe grunts, his eyes never leaving the forest as he nods. His pipe swivels from one side of his jaw to the other as he draws on it before a cloud of smoke drifts across his face.
“Aye. Figures. We’re less’n two hours walk from Ironwood springs.”

>Continued

>>3766137
Within a half hour, you find the smell intensifies as you come around a bend in the trail, the banks of earth and gnarled limbs concealing the path. You pull on Dianachs reins with a curse as you spot what must be Captain Betrich and his men as you spot them digging a row of graves along the treeline, away from the grasping roots of the trees that sometimes require a axe to go along with any digging that must be done. You urge Dianach into a trot and Pythe follows along behind you as you make your way ahead of your men. The guardsmen look up with a start at your approach but relax as they recognize you.

A weary looking man with bags under his eyes and a close trimmed beard approaches you, leaning heavily on a spear. He nods tiredly in your direction as you pull on Dianach’s reins, looking out over the treeline and the guards busily digging, several bodies wrapped in bloody soaked blankets laying
nearby. You clear your throat and regard the man.
“Captain. I received your message. Holden carried it well and told me what he knew”

Betrich sighs, grinding the butt of his spear into the soil as he hangs his head for a moment.
“That’s good m’lord... my apologies for bein’ out of sorts, it’s been one hell of a morning.”

You can’t help but acknowledge how hard of a morning it has in fact been. No one expects to bury women and children, brutalized and butchered. Its enough to sap the warmth from a mans blood and the strength from his limbs. You give the Captain a long look before you dip your head slightly.
“I’m sure it has been Captain. You’ve done these folk a good service, they don’t deserve to be left out in the open.”

One of the Greenguard steps forward and takes the reins to Dianach as you dismount, patting the horse on her flanks as you turn to Betrich. He chews his lip and gazed off into the distance for a moment before he responds.
“They didn’t deserve none of what happened to them m’lord. Nobody deserves that”
With that, he turns and leads you to the treeline, past the row of bodies laid out with blankets covering their faces. You try not to dwell on how some of the forms are small and fragile.

As you step though the treeline, you can’t help but agree with Betrich and Holden’s reaction. The refugees camp is indeed a bloodbath, small wagons and carts spattered with blood, rents rent open and soaked with tacky gore. Several bodies have yet to be carried off, their wounds the deep and grievous sort left by hacking blows, intended to maim and draw out suffering rather than kill outright. Arrows stick out of wagon sides and the soil itself, their barbed heads nicked and rough with rust. You pity several of the dead who have such shafts protruding from their bellies, the pain must have been horrendous.

>Speak to Captain Betrich (write in)

>Speak to Pythe (write in)

>Call over the Fangs. Its time to get the scent.

>Investigate the area yourself

>Other

>>3766139

>Speak to Captain Betrich (write in)
When he's finished here tell his man to have a rest and then keep a lookout for more refugee groups and organize his guards to escort them to our city, we'll make use of the extra population

>Speak to Pythe (write in)
See if he recognized the weapons and arrows

>Investigate the area yourself
See if we can discover from where these people were coming from to venture into the deepwood, where they from one of tge other deepwood lords?

After that we can start the hunt
>Call over the Fangs. Its time to get the scent.

We will need to conquer all of the woods from those fuckers, this is the opportunity

>>3766200
Sure, why not
I just want to get them

Pulling one of the arrows from the earth, you tap it against your boot to knock loose the rich soil. Waving Pythe over, you hold up the shaft, the wood roughly smoothed by the blade of a dagger and the notched arrowhead faintly serrated with a file. Pythe takes it with a raised brow, looking over the arrow as you gesture to the bodies.
“Have you ever seen anything like these before?”

Pythe carefully inspects every inch of the arrow from the barbed head to the tattered feathers that fletch it before he casts a quizzical eye in your direction.
“Love t’say that I do but that’s a pretty standard arrow these buggers run around with. Made by someone who barely knows their way around fletching, bout all I can figure from it”

He tosses the arrow aside with a grunt as you scowl and nod, hoping the Master at arms could possibly know which clan of brigands the shaft had been loosed from. You turn to Captain Betrich, the weary man standing a short distance away.
“Captain! Take your men and get some rest. Get these bodies buried and set yourselves up on the roadside. If any travelers pass by, give them directions to Cambrey or Ironwood.”

Captain Betrich bows his head before turning and shuffling away, running his hand across the back of his neck as he does. You look after him for a moment and allow a moment of pity for the man before you turn to look out across the massacred campsite.

Its time to find out what you can.

>Roll me 1d100+5 please for your investigation . Best of 3

Rolled 56 (1d100)

>>3766393

Rolled 63 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>3766393

Rolled 36 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>3766393

>>3766393
Wounder if we can talk with the animals to show us the way.

>>3766393
Also keep it up enjoying it so far.
Like it how we the old kind of fae

Hmmm i wounder if they wed our people to make a human fae haybread to gurd there magic portal and forests?

>>3766647
I had a similar impression, the fey king married the noblewoman, maybe out of love or something but then they used that hybrid family as keepers of the gate simce they could not go with them. That hand on the shoulder while meditating was nice.

>Sorry about that guys. Downside to working nights is sleep catches up to you eventually.
>68! Good success!

You look out across the camp as Pythe kneels down to inspect a body slumped against a wagon wheel, shaking his head slightly. Your feet carry you through the massacred camp like they are guided by another and you allow your eyes to wander freely, taking in whatever you can see. You don’t focus on any detail in particular, instead taking them all in at once, searching for the clues that could help you identify the men that did this.

Boxes and crates of dried foodstuffs and personal belongings left by the wagons where they had been tossed to shatter on the ground. The men that did this must be well provisioned to waste food, even simple fare such as this. Perhaps the place they make camp is well suited for hunting or perhaps yet they have received supplies from some yet unknown source.

A body, flat on his back at the outskirts of the camp leading towards the Misty Marsh. It is that of a stout, balding man with the burly arms of a smith and a snarl of rage still on his face. The wound that killed him is not a ragged, torn gash but a clean edged thrust that took him in the ribs beneath his arm. You can’t help but notice hammer he still holds is also smeared with blood.

Several patches of grass that have been ripped ragged, the ground scuffed bare. From the small spatters of blood, gouge marks in the soil and tatters of cloth, you can imagine the fate of some of the female travelers. Scuff marks lead from one such site, a pair of drag marks in the soil that you follow, recognizing a drag mark immediately. The brigands left every other body behind but they took this one poor lass for some reason?

The drag marks lead you through the treeline, the ragged pattern to the drag indicating whoever this was they never stopped fighting until they reached the edge of the misty marsh, the wisps of fog along the ground obscuring the trail further.

Walking along the edge of the marsh, you can spot dozens of footsteps coming and going in the soft earth. Boots and foot wraps, bare feet and stolen shoes along with several other drag marks leading into the marsh. You look out into the fog ridden expanse and your eyes flash in the half light, embers of witchlight in the gloom.

>The brigands are well stocked, either with plentiful game or supplies.
>There is at least one wounded among their number, possibly fatally so. Also, there is a rather skilled
fighter among them.
>There have been several captives taken, at least five from what you can see. They may yet still be alive.

>What do?

>>3767453

>What do?
They have captives, let's go after them, let the hounds lead us to them, they must be celebrating after this hit sonhopefullybwe can catch them distracted

>>3767453
Let's go after them, get the dogs sniffing.

>>3767453
Give thr hounds the scent and lets go.
Battle plan we take on the boss man, greens hold the line/ district for thr hounds to amke the take downs?

>Begin the hunt!
>Bloodhounds in the distance
>Roll me 1d100+5 for your tracking ability through the Misty Marsh. Best of 3

Rolled 38 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>3769915

Rolled 42 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>3769915

Rolled 85 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>3769915

Rolled 94 (1d100)

I'll roll again just because

Rolled 63 (1d100)

>>3769915

>>3769915
Well we ever find out what happens?

>Whew okay I was not expecting to be awol for that long but work enjoys fucking me like the cheap whore I am.
>Writeup inbound

>>3775116
>90! Great success!

You stare out into the swirling fog of the Misty Marsh, the wisps of vapor dancing like the ghosts of all those lost in the treacherous terrain. Somewhere out there in that swamp is your prey, the murderers of innocent travelers on the road, holding captive the few survivors of their barbarism. You turn, the scrap of fabric clenched in your fist as Pythe approaches with the leads to a stocky, dark brown Hound with a array of scars and gouges across it’s muzzle and skull. The hound whines anxiously, long pink tongue hanging out as it pants excitedly. Pythe gnaws the stem to his pipe and gestures to the beast.
“Names Tarth. Got a hell of a nose on ‘im. Handlers say if he can’t track em, none of the dogs can.”

You nod appreciatively as you kneel down, scratching the curious hounds neck and muzzle with your free hand as it leans against the attention. You hold up the scrap of fabric, the beast eying it curiously as you hold it closer to its snout.
“Good boy Tarth. Now, find! Find!”

With a deep inhaling sniff of the cloth, Tarth immediately strains against the tether Pythe holds. With a grunt of effort, Pythe leans his weight back slightly and allows the hound to pull him forward at a more controlled pace as its snuffling snout is pressed against the ground. The handlers watch proudly as they gather along, leading their charges to the tracks leading into the marshes. You can’t help but feel proud of the hounds of your house as they nearly all immediately pick up differing scents, following the tracks and nearly dragging their masters behind them as excited barks and whines issue out. Nearly a dozen trails are discovered within moments, the handlers winding the leads to their charges about their forearms and calling out readiness.

Pythe taps his pipe out against his thigh before tucking it into his coat and falls out to you.
“Seems there’s a fresh trail here. We’re ready when you are m’lord”

The Greenguard have formed up into a ragged block behind you as you raise your spear, pointing off into the marsh with the needlelike point. Your voice rings out as you call to your men, to the Hounds and their masters, to the Greenguard forming the bulk of your hunting party and to the ghosts of the innocents fallen here.
“These bastards think the marsh will hide them! We’ve got their scent and we’ll have our due! Happy hunting!”

With shouts and whistles, the handlers urge their beasts onward, barks and yelps issuing out as the hounds nearly drag the men along. Within moments, they are swallowed by the mists, you and the Greenguard following close behind. The Misty Marsh is treacherous, the safe paths hidden beneath the swirling fog and you’ll need all of your wits beside you to avoid the deep pools, pits of sucking mud and poisonous snakes.

>Range Ahead with the Hounds

>Remain with the Greenguard as the main force.

>Other

>>3775163

>Range Ahead with the Hounds

>Range Ahead with the Hounds

>>3775163

>Range Ahead with the Hounds

>>3775163
>Remain with the Greenguard as the main force.

The green gurd are thr new guys and need help

You quicken your pace, ranging ahead of the Greenguard as they march carefully along. The mists press against your ears like wads of wool, your vision limited to just barely ten feet around you. You rely on the murky outlines of trees and the splashes of various swamp dwellers to help you navigate through the marsh. Your feet squish unpleasantly in the soft mud and you can’t help but notice a all too human jawbone half buried in the muck.

Ahead of you, a clump of shapeless forms resolves itself into a cluster of men and dogs around a shadowy form on the trail. Pythe gestures down as you approach, his jaw set in stoic determination.
“Found her on the trail like this m’lord. Seems she put up more of a fight than they liked.”

One of the Fangs kneels and waves his hand through the fog, moving the mist aside and revealing the bruised and battered body of a young woman, her lips smeared with blood, a fragment of what appears to be an ear still clenched in her teeth. The dagger driven into her sternum pierced her heart so quickly the raw fury still glitters in her cold eyes as she stares sightlessly upwards. Her simple dress is torn and filthy, barely concealing her modesty as you kneel down and drag your hand across her face, closing her eyes forever. You stand and dust your palms, your men looking to you. You gesture down to the body and clear your throat.
“We knew what these men were when this hunt began lads. Move her body from the trail, we’ll give her a clean burial on the way back. She’s already started our job for us so... Let’s go find the bastards and take the rest of their heads.”

>Time passes

The sun has long since reached the horizon when the hounds begin whining and snarling, the scent growing strong and fresh in their nostrils. They lunge against the tethers, tails whipping madly as they look about, slaver dripping from their jaws. You plant the butt of your spear in the ground, looking out across the darkened marsh, spotting the faint glimmer of torchlight emanating from the moss covered ruins of some ancient Keep. You’d heard of Houses inhabiting the Misty Marsh but they had long since died out, leaving their homes and towers to collapse or serve as dens to thieves and brigands such as these. It is only due to your sight that you can discern any details at all and you are quick to inform your men.

>Continued

>>3778306
Without your sight, they will face a serious disadvantage if they encounter any traps or pitfalls in the darkness. If they were to light torches, it would alert the bandits and they may attempt to rally for some sort of defense or their leader may attempt an escape via horseback or boat. Pythe recommends a full assault, encircling the ancient ruin before advancing in. Dolryn, one of the senior members of the Fangs, advocates a more surreptitious plan, advancing forward with a few chosen men to eliminate any sentries and clear the way for an assault. Or you could alway just order your men to charge blind and deal with any defenses as you face them.

>Light torches, full assault on the bandit camp

>Stealth mission, clear sentries with any sneaky boys

>Charge blind, smash through like a hammer.

>Other

>>3778308
>>Stealth mission, clear sentries with any sneaky boys

we go with them, our night vision will be of great help to find and take down the sentries

night raids should be a speciality of ours

>>3778308
>>3778352
Because of the age of this post I started a newer thread just so it is more visible that this one is active again.

>>3778363
New and fresh off the presses