Chapter 3 / Episode 84 – Road to the Slaver’s Stockade
Date: Planting 7–9, 576 CY
Region: Wild Coast hinterlands, south of Highport — the slave road
Weather: Cold. Temperatures ranged from 26.9°F to 50.6°F. Calm winds. A few clouds. Light mist clung low to the ground.
Players
Dog the Ranger
Irving the Reluctant (with Harvey the Hare)
TerryOr the Cleric
Slash the Bard
Tiger Wong the Monk
Lalaith the Half-Elf Jester (rescued)
Planting 7 – Post-Rescue Planning
Fresh off the slave rescue, the party did something rare for them—they slowed down.
Five miles south of Highport, well clear of the main road, they made camp in a shallow copse where the ground rose just enough to keep sightlines clean. No banners. No songs. No fires worth noticing. The slaver road waited ahead like an open wound, but tonight wasn’t for bleeding.
St. Cuthbert appeared without fanfare.
No thunder. No light. Just presence.
The god’s message was brief and unmistakable: return the Book of Common Sense to the Church of St. Cuthbert in Hommlet. Not now. “after the stockade.”
Slash exhaled slowly once the pressure lifted.
“Always nice when a god shows up just to tell us we’re holding something valuable,” he muttered.
Maps were unrolled. Distances argued, then agreed upon. The Slaver Stockade sat roughly 120 miles away—thirty miles of open plains before the land rose into broken hills clawing toward the Drachengrab Mountains. The kind of terrain where mistakes got you surrounded and dead.
Reality settled in.
Lalaith had nothing but rags and bruises. No pack. No armor. Barely a weapon he trusted. TerryOr quietly shifted supplies his way without comment.
Roles were assigned. Watches set. Healing tracked. Fire discipline enforced. This wasn’t bravado—this was logistics.
Dog took first watch. The cold crept in anyway.
Planting 8 – Road Math, Spells, and Silence
Morning brought calculation, not conversation.
They set the pace: five days, roughly three miles an hour once terrain and rest were factored in. No forced marches. No shortcuts. Survival beat speed.
Irving laid a steady hand on Lalaith’s shoulder and murmured the words of Armor. The magic settled like a second skin.
“You’ll feel it pull if a blade comes close,” Irving said quietly.
“That’s comforting… I think,” Lalaith replied.
TerryOr reopened the wisdom-granting tome, eyes red from strain. The deadline was firm—finish it by the end of Planting 9 or lose the blessing entirely, or so he thought. He read while walking when he could, lips moving silently.
Dog scouted ahead and came back with a nod. “Ground’s clean. No fresh sign.”
Marching order locked in. Slash took second rank, humming something tuneless and half-forgotten.
That night Dog stalked a deer and missed the shot. He didn’t swear. Just bowed his head and moved on.
Watches rotated. The camp held.
Planting 9 – Blood in the Hills
The hills didn’t stay quiet.
While TerryOr prepared new spells and Dog ranged forward, movement broke the southern ridgeline—large silhouettes pacing the road with purpose.
Dog was back in moments.
“Company. Big. Not subtle.”
No panic. No shouting. The decision came fast: intercept before they closed on the camp.
At ninety yards the shapes resolved—not common gnolls. Better armed. Better disciplined. Meaner.
Dog loosed first.
Entangle was debated and—wisely—held. Too far. Too early. TerryOr cracked a Prayer scroll instead, the blessing settling over the group like tightened straps.
When the lines met, everything collapsed into violence.
Irving charged the largest brute head-on. Tiger Wong ahead of him, drawing arrows and snapping into a flying kick that staggered the flind leader. Lalaith stayed back, spitting sharp, mocking phrases in the gnoll tongue—anything to shake their nerve.
TerryOr began Hold Person—and took an arrow to the shoulder. The spell shattered.
Slash dropped Entangle late, roots clawing up from the soil—snaring enemy and ally alike.
“Sorry!” he shouted, already knowing it kind of helped.
Steel rang. Dice fell. Tiger slipped free just in time, breath ragged and wounded. Irving crushed a morningstar wielder. Dog and Slash dropped targets clean and efficient.
When the wounded axemen finally broke and ran south after breaking morale, but picked off, the road fell silent again.
Slash wiped his blade and frowned.
“Those weren’t gnolls,” he said. “Flinds.”
That explained the discipline. And the money.
Aftermath
The survivors were dealt with. Some bound. Some ended.
Loot was counted without ceremony: 3,000 silver, a necklace, a bracelet, and three potions. No curses. No tricks, except one was poison which Irving found out the hard way. "I'll taste it!"
The road remained.
Four hours of daylight still clung to Planting 9.
The slavers were ahead.
XP Awarded: 420 each
Monsters: 12 Flind mercenaries
Status: The hills are broken—but the land isn’t done bleeding yet.
So much treasure!
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