Turn1 - Introduction

It was not going to be a pleasant day.

"There must be some way out of here," said the Joker to the Thief, as they scrutinised the wavering torch shadows cast down the muddy back street. The sounds of the local guards were not far off and now a dog had joined in with the general noise.

"Why did I ever agree to helping you out anyway?," muttered the one known as the Joker, more to himself than to his anxious companion. The other answered him anyway:

"Because I'm a damn Hobbit, like yourself!"

"Yes, but..." replied the other as a voice was raised from down the end of the street along which they had run.

"Come on," said the other, tugging the thick cloak of his companion and propelling him forward round the corner. They very nearly collided with a hunched shape that appeared to be lurking in the darkness against the stone wall of the dwelling they now faced. Bumping into the Thief, the Joker - half frightened out of his wits stammered,

"Who...who are you?"

"Ah," said the voice of an old man from the cowled hood before them, "who I am ... That is not so important really right now is it, Hmm?. You seem to be in a little bit of a rush. Am I correct?"

The two Hobbits could almost here the amused smile that followed this comment. "Yeah, well look...," said the Thief. "We're kind of hoping to avoid those guards for the time being so if you wouldn't mind sa..."

"So would I be right in thinking you are lost then my small friends?" said the old voice butting in on him.

"No, no of course we're not lo..."

"Yes, we are! so we would both be extremely grateful to you if you could point us in the direction of the outer gate please, Sir," said the Hobbit known as the Joker also butting in on his companion. "Right now if you please," he added looking hurriedly over his shoulder as one of the dogs gave a mournful cry from nearby.

"Well, let me see," said the hood, turning this way and that. "Ah, what you need is in fact right over here," and the hunched shape moved off a little way down the street, past a house and stopped in front of a narrow postern door set in the rotting stonework of the outer wall.

"Great," said the Thief leaping forward to grasp the iron latch. "Give me a hand will you, it's stiff," he added pulling with all his might on the handle.

Reaching forward past the other, the Joker took hold of the iron too and pulled. The door creaked open with a groaning of warped wood. Stone-dust fluttered about them in the wintry breeze that soughed in from the grassland outside. The Thief blinked, coughing and turned to thank the old man but ... they were oddly alone in the deserted street once more. A wildcat howled in the night.

"Wierd. Well, lets go," said the Joker turning back to the open way and wrapping his winter cloak tighter about him. Before taking a step however, the Thief, who was behind him whispered, "Are those torches I see out on the plain?" They looked.

Sure enough, shortly one, then two flickering lights could be easily discerned out in the night and soon both Hobbits could here the faint sounds of hoof beats rapidly coming nearer. Two riders were approaching Buhr Criochâ from the northeast. As the two watched from the doorway, more torches joined the first and the number of hoof beats became indeterminate as more riders appeared on the horizon as dawn slowly headed for the sleeping settlement. After a while, the Thief whispered to his companion, "Uh, I... don't like the look of this."

The other could not keep his eyes from the advancing line of torches that now filled his narrowed vision. Neither heard the approaching guards who by now were but a street away. They looked on. As the first filtered light of dawn peaked over the top of the surrounding hills, it glinted off the long metal spikes atop the riders furred helmets and from the bridles of their foaming horses. As the riders reached the base of the gentle slope that lead to their very door and the grinning faces of the riders could at last be seen in the half-light, the Joker uttered in amazement, "That's a Szreldor warband... and a very large one at that."

A shout behind them and the Hobbit's were discovered. Two dogs, snarling, came round the corner, held on lengths of rope by one of the Lord's burly guards. Spying the Hobbits as they fled round the corner, he shouted and let the hounds loose, drawing his sword to follow them. Strangely, even while running for their lives, the Thief was able to glance over his shoulder and nearly stumbled in surprise as the dogs - who should have been snapping at their heels by now, had both shot through the postern gate in the direction of the approaching riders.

Meanwhile, at the same time somewhere on the south road ...

"God-dammit," shouted the Gaurd-captain, kicking the broken frame of the cart's rear wheel. "I said, make the oxen ready not drive the damn thing into the biggest rut you can find!"

One of his men, responsible for the vehicle, looked up apologetically from his position, crouched by the snapped pieces of oak-wood. He knew better than to make any comment that was guaranteed to only make matters worse. Everyone knew of Valdo's temper in the early mornings and the fact that he had lost heavily at cards to the one known as Saelvach two days before. They were currently on their way to Dail by Beinn Diomir escorting the coffin of a deceased Lord who was currently lying in the mud and slush of the main road to the southlands. It had not been a comfortable night.

"And now you come back from your little jaunts to tell me that you've found traces of goblins near by. Mother stars!, how many more things will conspire to ruin my day before its begun?" said Valdo, almost shouting.

The guard's gaze shifted to the thin form of the Ranger who stood sullenly nearby in the halflight before dawn and who had brought the additional news less than five minutes ago. His name was Lochan, a young Northman from Buhr Criochâ who had been assigned by the Watch-commander to aid them while their usual ranger, 'Lightfoot' was off ill. No, definitely not a good day, he thought and bent to the broken wheel, just as a frightful ululation erupted from some nearby trees and a flight of shortbow arrows descended upon the soldiers' camp.

Meanwhile, some time before and to the west of Buhr Criochâ...

Relg shifted position above the hollow as the Szreldor broke camp below him. Yet again, the thought flipped over in his mind, "What was this warband doing so far north and west of its usual hunting grounds? It was not the right season and it was extremely close to a Northman settlement, the name of which escaped him for the moment. Well, perhaps this day would be the one to answer the question; Relg was a patient man." Using his hands and toes to push himself back from the edge, the Gargath 'Warseeker' joined his two companions.

"Well, they seem to be moving," he said in the guttural language of his people. "We have followed their trail for two nights and two days and they have not seen us. That is good. A benevolent sign my friends."

The other warriors nodded in agreement, their many facial scars giving them a perpetual frown.

"We follow until we learn what they are doing. Then, we strike them down." His fist clenched and he grimaced as his arm jerked downwards, as if to indicate the tearing out of an enemies heart. His companions grinned. He was known far and wide as Relg of the Fist, after all.

Two hours later in the common room of the only tavern in Buhr Criocha...

The air was stifled and tense as all eyes - those at least who were trying not to give their thoughts away - were watching the tall man known as Saelvach as he slowly drew cards from the deck for each of the three players still remaining in a single game that had lasted now for over an hour. All time seemed to have stood still and few if any of the patrons still awake knew that it was near dawn. Many of the locals present had homes in the settlement to go to but could not have gone had they tried, so engrossed in the gambling that had gone on during the night were they. Even the barman had stayed on to watch, a keen player in his own right but this night had pulled out early knowing a winning streak when he saw one. The challenge was mostly between 'Lucky' and a merchantman from Dail although it was obvious that the third player, a guard or soldier was working for the other man. The only one to have spoken at all in the last thirty minutes was this one; first to insinuate that he had seen Saelvach cheating and then to bellow when his own boss took his earnings from him in the next game. A meat-head by definition, the guard had refused to call quits and was now squandering the rest of his money pointlessly.

In the background, at one of the corner tables, two Dwarves were still muttering as they had been doing almost since sundown, although even they had stopped calling for drinks a few hours ago. A third Dwarf by the name of Boldor had been carted off as usual shortly before the evening meal had been served after drinking himself comatose. None of the usual patrons were worried by this as Boldor's excessive drinking had been the cause of many a wager in the past and they all knew his stamina was incredible for this sort of thing.

If anyone there was to have looked around the room, while the Barman's quill went scritch scritch, tallying the bets made, he would have perhaps noticed a number of other unusual persons present.

Against one of the sooty beams, near the central table an Elf leant, apparently watching the game quietly from the sidelines, although on closer inspection her eyes appeared closed. Another Elf was known to have been in the tavern at some point during the evening but that one was no longer present. This absence however, was easily made up for by the huge warrior, a mercenary by the looks of him, who was snoring loudly from one of the smaller tables. He had apparently insisted on keeping all of his meager possessions with him but judging by the size of the hand that held his bags close by, no-one would likely take the risk of pilfering. A wooden ale tankard on its side by his lowered head had relinquished its contents onto the tabletop hours ago and the sickly sweet smell of drying mead mixed with the smoke of a multitude of pipes over the concentration of the combatants at the central table. Even when shouts and screams were suddenly heard from outside in the street, only a few of the watching crowd raised their heads, blinking in disbelief at the flickering light beyond the shuttered windows. As the great Dwarven bell in the watchtower clanged twice before dropping eerily silent once more, the inhabitants of the tavern finally began to wake from their stupor and look to the events occurring outside in the main street.

It was the Elf that was first to stride to the front door and throw it open as someone banged upon it from the outside. A shape in the doorway fell forward and the Elven woman staggered under the weight of the body as she fell back against the bar-top. The body was that of a woman of the town and, by the evidence of a deep puncture wound that passed right through her torso, she was clearly dead.

End of Intro.