Chapter 3 / Episode 85 – Lady Morwen Ellisar
Date: Planting 9–11, 576 CY
Region: Wild Coast plains and the Drachensgrab Hills, 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
Tiger Wong the Monk
Lalaith the Half-Elf Jester (rescued)
Silversun Ubermage the Magic-User
Planting 9 — Blood in the Grass
The flinds did not remain where they fell.
Twelve bodies, twisted and broken, were dragged from the slave road under Dog’s direction. No argument. No debate. Steel work first, talk later. The blood had already darkened the dirt to rust, and the mist rolled in low, clinging to corpses like a burial shroud.
Dog knelt beside one of them, fingers tracing the crude symbol hammered into its armor — a skull crowned by crossed bones.
“Not bandits,” he said quietly. “Not just muscle either.”
Irving frowned. “Slavers?”
“Something that answers to slavers,” Dog replied. “Same difference.”
They hauled the bodies downslope, away from the road, stacking them where the rising sun would strike first. Old ranger habit. Let light do what it could.
Marching order was reset without ceremony. Dog thirty feet ahead, eyes on the road and the hills beyond. Irving and TerryOr behind him. Silversun protected in the center. Tiger Wong and Lalaith brought up the rear, silent as ghosts.
By mid-day the plains gave way to broken ground — the first teeth of the Drachensgrab Hills rising ahead. Half a day’s march remained.
Water was counted. Carefully.
Dog volunteered to scout ahead for a campsite and water source. He returned before dusk, as promised, leading them into a shallow fold of stone and scrub where a thin stream cut through the rock.
A fire was lit low and hidden, more glow than flame.
No one sang. No one joked.
They slept with weapons close.
Planting 10 — The Woman on the Road
Morning came with drizzle — not rain, not quite. Just enough to chill bone and soak cloaks.
Rations were counted again. Some had three days. Some had more. None had enough to waste.
TerryOr knelt and murmured the prayers of his faith, calling water where none should be. Skins were refilled. The group nodded their thanks, quiet and sober.
Ninety miles through hills lay ahead.
They had gone less than an hour when Dog raised his hand.
Someone stood in the road.
A woman — thin, staggering, clothes torn and stiff with old mud and sweat. Her lips were cracked. Her eyes unfocused.
Dog approached first, slow and open, waterskin already uncapped.
“Easy,” he said. “Drink.”
She did. Desperately. Too fast. He steadied her until the shaking eased.
“Why hunt slavers?” she rasped.
Dog didn’t hesitate. He pulled back his cloak just enough to show the oak-leaf insignia of the Gnarley Rangers.
“Because someone has to,” he said.
Her fingers reached out, brushing the symbol. Something shifted in her expression — recognition, maybe relief.
She laughed then. A raw, humorless sound. “Then you’re already late.”
She pointed, vaguely, toward the hills.
“Knock on the right door.”
Only after food and warmth did she give her name.
Lady Morwen Ellisar.
A noble, once. Taken on the road weeks past. Held in a place she called the Fattening Grounds — an old fortress, outer wall and ditch, parapets crawling with hobgoblins. Slaves kept alive, fed, and sorted like livestock.
“I ran,” she said simply. “Left a rope. If they haven’t found it.”
Silversun’s eyes gleamed at that. Tiger Wong said nothing, but his jaw tightened.
Dog studied her carefully. “You’re sure they didn’t follow?”
She met his gaze. “If they had, I’d be dead.”
They made camp before nightfall, hidden among stone and brush. Dog tracked a boar near dusk, loosed an arrow — and missed. The animal vanished into the hills, leaving only churned earth and silence.
No one mocked him.
The night passed without incident. That alone felt wrong.
Planting 11 — The Sound of Feet
Drizzle again in the morning. The kind that never quite stops.
Dog scouted ahead, moving through the hills like a shadow. That was when he heard it — not marching.
Running.
Boots. Many of them. Fast. Closing.
He doubled back without hesitation, seized Lady Morwen by the arm, and pulled her into the brush. The others scattered — trees, tall grass, stone outcroppings swallowing them whole.
Irving did not hide.
He stepped into the open road, mace in hand, cloak snapping lightly in the damp wind. Harvey the Hare froze beside him, ears flat.
“In the name of St. Cuthbert,” Irving said calmly, planting his feet, “you will halt.”
The sound of running grew louder.
Closer.
The session ended there — steel untested, breath held, fate moments away from choosing sides.
Outcome Notes
XP Awarded: Minimum 100 XP to all players for participation, roleplay, and planning
Key NPC Introduced: Lady Morwen Ellisar, escaped noble and witness to the Slaver Stockade
Cliffhanger: Approaching forces in the Drachensgrab Hills; Irving stands openly while the rest lie concealed
The road is no longer empty.
And someone is moving fast.
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