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The woods surrounding the camp were quiet, the shadows of the trees danced in the flicking flame of the campfire. Two figures sat watching the fire, one was squat and it hands never left the sword in his lap, its brown eyes darted into the shadows every few seconds. The other was taller, and its green eyes were staring at a book in it hands. “Gads boy, what do you expect to learn staring at that book all night?”
“It a book on swordplay, it is written by Jon Tailhuffer himself.”
“Bah, he was a halfing, what do they know of fighting.”
“Tailhuffer was only the best halfing swordsman in Lusken.”
“Bah!”
“Well I reading it anyway and when I save your beardless self from another Gnoll with it, you be thankful I did.”
“The only way you save me is when the beast starts laughing at you swinging your sword around like a lunatic.” The small figure muttered.
“Alright you two get some sleep.” A third figure said stirring it self from the place were it had laid. It was Mordin, the groups second in command. He was a human in his late twenty, with a scared face that only highlighted his piecing blue eyes. Mordin was a warrior-priest of Gond and carried numerous useful devices in pockets around and hidden in his armour. “Me and Grosn will keep watch until morning.” With hardy a word in response the two figures lay down and drifted off to sleep.
As the sun rose into the sky, the five figures prepared to leave their camp. They donned their armours and checked their weapons. The tall figure watched his companions in silence; it had been nearly two months since the day he first the met them. When he fought beside them to stop a tribe of orcs who had been attacking nearby village and who had slaughtered his family. Afterwards he had no place to go, so they took him and he became a part of the group but he was no longer the youth they took in. He had developed the harsh orc nature that was his heritage and discovered his gifts. He was gifted with the ability to speak with the dead and the power of a scosser, both gifts from the elven bloodline of his father. “Jadon, are you going to stand there all day, come on.” It was Grosn, he stood just less than eight feet tall, clad in his hand made armour and had his great hammer slung across his back. Grosn was the son of an ogre mage but had turned from the normal course of his people by becoming a druid and now leads this band of adventures. With a nod Jadon picks up his pack and moves to join them.
The sun was just crossing it highest point when they discovered the Gnoll hideout, it was a cave that seemed to rise up out of a flat piece of ground and its entrance had a large iron bound door. “Okay, Jadon and Daris you head around back. Mordin check it for traps and see if you can open it, I watch your back.” Jadon moved out first, moving around to the left of the mound, with a gance over his shoulder he looked at his dwarven companion, he stood just under five feet tall and held a sword in each of his hands. Unlike other of his kind he was clean-shaven, clamming that his gnomish bride like him that way. He was by far the oldest of the group at nearly three hundred winters, and his hair had turn to slivery grey. As they rounded the back of the mound they found it empty and with a joint shrug headed back around. “Nothing back there, you think these dogs would keep better watch!” Daris muttered as they reached the front.
“ It strikes me odd, a mound in a otherwise plain field that has a door, but no guards.” Jadon added.
“Yes, it stinks of magic doesn’t it? I got the door unlocked, not a single trap on it.”
“Okay people, prepare yourselves for anything, if these beast think they don’t need protection they are either stupid or believe that they can handed anything that comes. ” The others of the group fell to the sides of the door as Grosn used the butt of his hammer to open it only to find the dangerous end of a loaded crossbow or five facing him. “Oh….” click
[This message has been edited by Gabriel (edited 03-24-2001).]
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