Support for Sestra

[Phantom Lamb]

A small patrol of legionairres arrives in Sestra, responding to recent rumors of attacks. They spend some time interviewing the townsfolk, surveying the situation. They find many hostile responses, the townsfolk displeased at the slow response from Sundren city.

"This is a real crisis, an' ya send us four knights? Them reptiles is up ta somethin'. They're in there right now, plottin ter eat our children, an' this is yer protection?"

A legionairre thumbs through a book, stopping at a page, remarking, "Excuse me, but are you up to date on your taxes? What's your name again?"

The townsman turns pale. "Ah... eh, Ed. Ed Taylum, aye. Ah'll be goin'."

The legionairre smirks, having used that ruse many-a-time. He had no intention of hastling the farmer further, but he wasn't about to be chastised in front of his men, either.

The legionairre turns to his scouts. "What do you think, men?"

The scouts count off the evidence they've collected. Dead snakes, piled and burned by the village. Heightened fear among the riff-raff. Traps, still unsprung. And the signs of battle just outside the lizardmen cave. Something happened here, but was it serious?

The legionairre thinks for a moment, then replies. "Looks like the scalers are breaking the 'truce.' Imagine that, treating with monsters... but what do you expect in these outlying towns? Hell, maybe this hillbilly militia is what broke the truce? Who knows. I'll make my report, but this doesn't look too serious. Recommending a squad of twenty for support, give these farmers some peace of mind. Agreed?"

The scouts nod, then start the long march back to Sundren.

[Silas North]

Sseth..

Osclow recalled that name over and over again within his mind, as well as the respect and clear veneration the assassin held in his tone as the name rolled off his lips in a deep, low hiss. According to the statement of the skilled wielder of shadows, this being would bring about its wrath to Sundren in due time. In his numerous days within the valley, the bard had witnessed several such threats, and had often fought by the side of the heroes who rose up in response.

To this day, victories had been prominent within the valley of Sundren and the bard had brought many a joyful tale back to his hometown of Navil. However, Osclow had often been reluctant to speak of the great cost at which those victories had come. Respect for the fallen had been encouraged within his audience. However, the true number of said fallen had often been kept a secret to all those the bard had not been tasked to speak such things to as a report, rather than a tale of glory.

With all these loses, the valley had become tired and worn. Good soldiers were not something that could simply be replaced, and the shoes of past mighty wizards and holy warriors were indeed difficult ones to fill. Victories seemed less assured in the bard's eyes and he wondered if this was merely a jaded nature brought on by the dark magicks that tainted his body or perhaps it was realization that all things in life were eventually meant to fall. A house, no matter how strong its foundation, could only take so much before the weight of years and the occasional storm tore it down.

He had always remained so confident, so assured of the strength of this valley. Yet, in the eyes of many, he had seen the strain brought on by a seemingly endless supply of wicked souls with no concern for life, including their own. Only in his beloved Annie, did such inner truths and concerns occasionally reveal themselves. He wanted truly to believe, to have faith. For the most part, such feelings did remain intact, but the occasional doubt or flash of worry could not help but escape him.

The assassin that had been struck down by the bard, simply arose a few minutes later, recovering from a spurting wound that would have brought most mighty warriors beyond saving from any divine magicks. The Slitherscale seemed completely unaware of the yuan-ti's works despite supposedly giving shelter to the Sseth-bowers. However, they also hid behind what could only be described as a king or champion amongst the yuan-ti, a powerful giant beast wielding a twin pair of curved blades and enough skill to tear through the bard and his allies with nothing more than a mere scratch upon his own scaled form. Though all those who the bard fought beside against the yuan-ti in Sestra had walked away with their lives, some had barely escaped death's embrace. Osclow wondered if such a miracle could truly occur twice with such fierce creatures and cunning plots at the disposal of the scaled ones.

There was no backing away now however. It was not a matter of duty. It was something beyond that which kept him fighting within the valley. This had become instinct, something he HAD to do, if nothing else than to prove he was still human even with the taint of the Tyrant King upon him.

The yuan-ti will fall. He told this to his reflection in the lake with as much determination and confidence as his features could muster.