We waited long, with torches dim,
For goblin chief to speak with him.
The half-orc spoke of druid’s crime,
And justice bound by Enclave’s time.
Draxon pledged his mighty hand,
For Burrell’s aid, we took our stand.
While waiting, wisdom filled my sight,
I wove the spell and birthed True Light.
Then Uttu stirred—his warning dire,
A shaman’s voice rose through the mire.
She bade us yield, or face her wrath,
But I would forge a different path.
“If not your chief, then he shan’t mind,
When we cut down your wretched kind.”
Steel was drawn, the battle came,
And Felonious struck true his aim.
An arrow keen through throat did slide,
And from the fight, she turned to hide.
Yet Jean Marie gave chase to fell,
And Misty Step did break her spell.
With Uttu’s aid, the deed was done,
The shaman lost, her life undone.
Her hand I claimed, to weave my rite,
With Dead Man’s Tell, I read the night.
The bodies hid, the path we tread,
Toward kobold lands with caution fled.
But noise betrayed, our stealth was torn,
And chains ahead by goblins worn.
So raise the call, let battle sing,
For fate is forged in war’s cruel ring,
Where prophecy and blade entwine—
And chaos marks this path as mine.
~~~~~~~~~
Time drags as we rest, awaiting the return of the goblin chief. In the quiet, we confer with our half-orc ally, who speaks grimly of Bealox—a renegade druid, marked for justice by the Emerald Enclave. His deeds demand reckoning.
Draxon pledges aid to Burrell, honoring the assistance he has given us, and the rest of us follow suit.
During our wait, I call upon the wisdom of Savras, casting Comprehend Languages, ensuring that no tongue shall obscure truth from my sight.
A warning—Uttu stirs at my side, alerting me to movement in the shadows. Goblins approach. Their shaman steps into the dim torchlight, her voice cutting through the gloom. She carries orders—whether by our own will or by force, we are to be taken before Bealax.
We attempt reason, claiming our allegiance to her chief, but she cares not for his will. She is here on another’s command. I answer coldly: “Then Durel won’t mind if we kill you.”
The goblins do not take kindly to my resolve. Steel is drawn, battle erupts.
Felonious moves like a specter, his arrow finding its mark—a clean shot through the throat of the shaman. She stumbles, blood pooling at her feet, then turns to flee. Jean Marie gives chase, and I illuminate Meapo’s sling bullets with Light, guiding our strikes in the fray. Felonious, ever the hunter, summons the magic of Misty Step, vanishing and reappearing beside the fleeing shaman. Uttu distracts her, and Felonious seizes the moment, his blade finding home in her flesh—ending her struggle.
The others make quick work of the remaining goblins, steel flashing in the firelight.
With the battlefield stilled, I approach the lifeless shaman and command Uttu to tear free her finger, though he struggles with the task. Felonious, ever efficient, carves it free and tosses it my way. Channeling divine sight, I invoke Dead Man’s Tell, seeking hidden passageways and secrets buried within these halls.
Satisfied, we drag the corpses away, erasing evidence of the blood spilled here. Then, we move—toward the kobold domain, where Meapo believes a path to the druid may lie.
Yet, fate turns fickle. In our march, my footstep misplaces itself, echoing loud against the stone. Ahead, movement stirs—a line of kobold slaves, bound in chains, herded by goblin taskmasters.
And so, another battle awaits.
~~~~~~~~~~~