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The small group of countryside mauraders slowly crept up on the empty caravan. There were several wagons, perhaps seven, and many other scattered open tents surrounding a roaring fire. Despite the scattered expensive-looking arms and armor lying about, the place looked completely deserted. Soren, the largest of the group, was made to keep a stern eye out amongst the nearby forest while his lawless comrades greedily and hastily began claiming dibs on each individual piece of loot discovered amongst themselves. It all seemed too easy.
Many minutes passed and still nothing. The bandits took it among themselves to partake in the odd and fateful occurrence, but still barked orders at Soren to keep watch while they stuffed their pockets with as much as possible. Soren responded with well-deserved anger.
“You bloody bastards, just who do you think you are?!”
An unexpected, quickly-timed response came from a man’s voice behind them.
“You know.. I was just going to ask you fools the same thing.”
The voice was confident, assertive, and frighteningly intimidating. Soren and the others turned to find their small group completely surrounded by armed soldiers in a midnight shade of plate mail, bearing some elaborate symbol on their torsos. All of them were armed and had their weapons drawn; the closer soldiers drew steel, while others in the back had already drawn their crossbows on their targets. The thieving bandits looked to each other dumbfounded, unsure what to do. One particular bandit in Soren’s group began to squeal and blame the others in fear.
“You idiots!! You’ve went and pissed off the Zhentilar now!” The cowardly highwayman looked to the leader of the black-armored men, his obsidian fullplate adorned with the symbol of a steel gauntlet with a ruby inlay through the center – considerably different and more ornate than the symbols of the other soldiers he commanded. The infantryman all bore the same insignia upon their armor of a purple, menacing claw adorned with a golden crown.
“It was all them!” The coward pointed towards the rest of his group, pleading for his life. “I didn’t do anything! They forced me to come here!”
The pleading bandit quickly looked around, charged with adrenalin and the fear of death. He picked what he determined to be an opening to his side, where he thought he could slip through only 2 of the Zhentilar soldiers. With his hat held to his head, and his pants jingling with assorted stolen trinkets moving around inside, the bandit bolted off at full speed to evade the group’s fate. Not less than 3 steps later, Soren watched as a black-and-red plumed crossbow bolt shot out from seemingly nowhere, piercing the running bandit’s throat with enough force to throw him to the ground. Soren and his comrades watched in horror as their now-dying friend clawed at his gored neck, squealing helplessly as fatal amounts of blood seeped onto the ground around him.
“One down! Haha!” The leader of the Zhentilar group laughed tauntingly, echoed by the fellow soldiers at his command, mercilessly shrugging off any emotional recoil from making the bandit suffer.
“Who’s next?”
Angered by the death of their (questionable) friend and knowing what was in store, the remaining members of Soren’s bandit group drew their weapons, not wishing to die like dogs. As Soren lifted his muscular arms to draw his greatsword, his feeling of hopelessness increased exponentially as his fellow highwayman around him met their fate with crossbow bolts to the head and neck, just like their dearly departed fellow. The echoed laughter continued amongst the Zhentilar assailants. Their leader made the motion for them to halt attacking, leaving Soren the last man standing.
The Zhentilar leader threw down his weapon, walking intently to Soren, despite Soren being armed. It was obvious who was in charge of the situation at this point; the Zhent leader knew he wouldn’t be attacked. He was in control. Soren stood several inches higher than nearly most of the Zhentilar soldiers, but their leader stood firm with an iron fist.
“You think you can steal from ME?!”
The Zhentilar group leader slammed a spiked gauntlet into Soren’s abdomen, mixing both the blunt trauma of a highly kinetic punch, and the piercing pain of a stabbing flesh wound. Soren fell to the ground in response, instantly winded and bleeding profusely. The enlisted Zhentilar soldiers watched all around as their commander stood over the winded thief and pummeled him with a controlled, burning fury and hatred. By the time the commander had satiated his desire to make a lesson out of this one, Soren’s face had become completely bloodied and disfigured comparable to the effects of a cheesegrinder to raw flesh.
The Zhentilar leader stood up, and quickly moved to the nearest soldier in his regiment. The commander forcefully took the sword from his infantryman, and walked back over to Soren’s bloody pulp of a body.
“.. make a choice. Swear fealty to Bane and suffer the consequences, or allow me the pleasure of taking your miserable life, swindler.” The commander pointed the tip of the sword to Soren’s face, leaving him an ultimatum. Soren, nearly knocked out and bleeding profusely, barely heard nor understood what was being asked. Death seemed inevitable, and in response Soren spat out blood on the Zhentilar commander’s blade. The disrespectful act caused the commander’s lip to shrivel in simultaneous disgust and hatred.
“.. very well then.”
The commander bent down and forcefully opened Soren’s mouth, grabbing Soren’s tongue. Using the edge of the blade, the Zhentilar commander slowly drew Soren’s tongue across, permanently severing the organ from his body and throwing it into the burning fire aside them. Finished with his spectacle, the leader walked back towards the soldier he took the sword from, returning the weapon into its appropriate scabbard.
“Tie him up. I want this one loaded on the caravan. We’re bringing him back with us.”
Many minutes passed and still nothing. The bandits took it among themselves to partake in the odd and fateful occurrence, but still barked orders at Soren to keep watch while they stuffed their pockets with as much as possible. Soren responded with well-deserved anger.
“You bloody bastards, just who do you think you are?!”
An unexpected, quickly-timed response came from a man’s voice behind them.
“You know.. I was just going to ask you fools the same thing.”
The voice was confident, assertive, and frighteningly intimidating. Soren and the others turned to find their small group completely surrounded by armed soldiers in a midnight shade of plate mail, bearing some elaborate symbol on their torsos. All of them were armed and had their weapons drawn; the closer soldiers drew steel, while others in the back had already drawn their crossbows on their targets. The thieving bandits looked to each other dumbfounded, unsure what to do. One particular bandit in Soren’s group began to squeal and blame the others in fear.
“You idiots!! You’ve went and pissed off the Zhentilar now!” The cowardly highwayman looked to the leader of the black-armored men, his obsidian fullplate adorned with the symbol of a steel gauntlet with a ruby inlay through the center – considerably different and more ornate than the symbols of the other soldiers he commanded. The infantryman all bore the same insignia upon their armor of a purple, menacing claw adorned with a golden crown.
“It was all them!” The coward pointed towards the rest of his group, pleading for his life. “I didn’t do anything! They forced me to come here!”
The pleading bandit quickly looked around, charged with adrenalin and the fear of death. He picked what he determined to be an opening to his side, where he thought he could slip through only 2 of the Zhentilar soldiers. With his hat held to his head, and his pants jingling with assorted stolen trinkets moving around inside, the bandit bolted off at full speed to evade the group’s fate. Not less than 3 steps later, Soren watched as a black-and-red plumed crossbow bolt shot out from seemingly nowhere, piercing the running bandit’s throat with enough force to throw him to the ground. Soren and his comrades watched in horror as their now-dying friend clawed at his gored neck, squealing helplessly as fatal amounts of blood seeped onto the ground around him.
“One down! Haha!” The leader of the Zhentilar group laughed tauntingly, echoed by the fellow soldiers at his command, mercilessly shrugging off any emotional recoil from making the bandit suffer.
“Who’s next?”
Angered by the death of their (questionable) friend and knowing what was in store, the remaining members of Soren’s bandit group drew their weapons, not wishing to die like dogs. As Soren lifted his muscular arms to draw his greatsword, his feeling of hopelessness increased exponentially as his fellow highwayman around him met their fate with crossbow bolts to the head and neck, just like their dearly departed fellow. The echoed laughter continued amongst the Zhentilar assailants. Their leader made the motion for them to halt attacking, leaving Soren the last man standing.
The Zhentilar leader threw down his weapon, walking intently to Soren, despite Soren being armed. It was obvious who was in charge of the situation at this point; the Zhent leader knew he wouldn’t be attacked. He was in control. Soren stood several inches higher than nearly most of the Zhentilar soldiers, but their leader stood firm with an iron fist.
“You think you can steal from ME?!”
The Zhentilar group leader slammed a spiked gauntlet into Soren’s abdomen, mixing both the blunt trauma of a highly kinetic punch, and the piercing pain of a stabbing flesh wound. Soren fell to the ground in response, instantly winded and bleeding profusely. The enlisted Zhentilar soldiers watched all around as their commander stood over the winded thief and pummeled him with a controlled, burning fury and hatred. By the time the commander had satiated his desire to make a lesson out of this one, Soren’s face had become completely bloodied and disfigured comparable to the effects of a cheesegrinder to raw flesh.
The Zhentilar leader stood up, and quickly moved to the nearest soldier in his regiment. The commander forcefully took the sword from his infantryman, and walked back over to Soren’s bloody pulp of a body.
“.. make a choice. Swear fealty to Bane and suffer the consequences, or allow me the pleasure of taking your miserable life, swindler.” The commander pointed the tip of the sword to Soren’s face, leaving him an ultimatum. Soren, nearly knocked out and bleeding profusely, barely heard nor understood what was being asked. Death seemed inevitable, and in response Soren spat out blood on the Zhentilar commander’s blade. The disrespectful act caused the commander’s lip to shrivel in simultaneous disgust and hatred.
“.. very well then.”
The commander bent down and forcefully opened Soren’s mouth, grabbing Soren’s tongue. Using the edge of the blade, the Zhentilar commander slowly drew Soren’s tongue across, permanently severing the organ from his body and throwing it into the burning fire aside them. Finished with his spectacle, the leader walked back towards the soldier he took the sword from, returning the weapon into its appropriate scabbard.
“Tie him up. I want this one loaded on the caravan. We’re bringing him back with us.”