Chapter 3 / Episode 86 – The Skull Smashers Clan

Chapter 3 / Episode 86 – The Skull Smashers Clan

Date: Planting 11, 576 CY, Noon
Region: Drachensgrab Hills, south of Highport — broken ruins along the slave road
Weather: Cold drizzle. Low clouds. Mud and mist clung to stone and bone alike.

Players

Dog the Ranger
Irving the Reluctant (with Harvey the Hare)
TerryOr the Cleric
Silversun Ubermage the Magic-User
Slash the Bard
Tiger Wong the Monk
Lalaith the Half-Elf Jester
Lady Morwen Ellisar (NPC)

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Planting 11 — The Sound Becomes Shape

What Dog heard was not imagination.

The running feet resolved into form: a patrol moving hard and fast through the hills, armor clattering, voices barking orders—led by a bugbear sniffing the air. Hobgoblins. Disciplined. Armed. Hungry. At the rear loomed something bigger. Heavier. An ogre, broad as a siege door, iron scraps lashed to its chest, hauling a slave cart behind it.

Skull Smashers.

Dog melted back into cover, bow half-drawn, eyes never leaving the column, Lady Morwen hidden low at his feet. The others took to trees, stone, and ditch.

Everyone hid.

Everyone but Irving.

The Paladin stood openly on the road, rain slicking his cloak, Harvey motionless at his feet. He did not raise his weapon. He simply waited.

“By Cuthbert’s will,” he said calmly, “you will turn back.”

The hobgoblins answered with laughter.

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The First Clash

The bugbear roared and charged.

Irving met it head-on.

The impact was brutal—mace against crude iron, bone against bone. Irving’s blow landed true but light. The bugbear answered with crushing force, slamming him aside and driving the breath from his chest.

That was the signal.

Silversun vanished from sight—invisibility swallowing him whole as he repositioned with measured precision. Dog shifted, arrow nocked, waiting for the right second. Tiger Wong flowed forward low and fast, skirting the edge of the fight like water around rock—then launched into the melee with a flying kick.

Arrows hissed from the hills.

Hobgoblin archers had the high ground.

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Fire and Fear

Silversun chose his moment well.

A bead of flame arced from nothingness and blossomed among the archers. The explosion tore the hillside open—bodies flung, armor glowing red-hot, screams swallowed by thunder and smoke. When the fire faded, half the archer line was simply gone.

Lalaith’s voice followed, sharp and echoing where it shouldn’t have been.

“Run,” the hills whispered.
“Run while you can.”

The hobgoblins surged forward—discipline reasserting itself.

TerryOr raised his holy symbol and called down restraint, locking three warriors in place where they stood—frozen statues in the rain, eyes wide with terror.

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Holding the Line

Irving forced himself upright, blood running beneath his armor. He planted his feet again, drawing the bugbear’s attention back to him.

“Come on, then,” he growled.

Silversun broke from his forward position after the fireball and was run down by a mounted hobgoblin, nearly killed in the charge. A failed charm person spell left him exposed, but pure luck—and cold precision—saw him prevail as he cut the rider down with magic missiles. No armor against armor rarely wins, but this time it did.

Dog loosed as the ogre charged from the rear. Lady Morwen stood too close at his side as Slash came into view, sword drawn.

The arrow struck deep, burying itself in the ogre’s shoulder. Terry followed with divine wrath, hammering the brute with righteous force. It staggered, roared, and swung wildly—and that was enough.

Tiger Wong dropped through a slew of hobgoblin attacks, unconscious and bleeding.

Slash sprinted through the chaos, blade flashing, interposing himself between the ranger and the ogre. Lady Morwen followed—she shouldn’t have. Once again, the Bard stood where he shouldn’t have—and lived.

The ogre fell at last, collapsing into the mud with a sound like a toppled wall.

Lady Morwen lay on the ground, unconscious.

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The End of the Patrol

The remaining hobgoblins broke after the Bard cast a wall of fog between them and the party.

Silence returned slowly.

Twenty-plus bodies lay scattered among stone, ditch, and road.

Skull Smashers no more.

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Aftermath

Terry moved among the wounded, calling life back where he could. Irving rose again under divine healing, pain etched deep but held at bay. Lady Morwen was given water—and a potion—her hands shaking as she drank.

Loot was gathered methodically:

• Weapons and armor stripped

• Chainmail stacked

• Coin counted

• A slave cart uncovered—cage intact, reeking of old fear

• Sour wine sloshing in a keg

• Two potions recovered: one healing, one of Hill Giant Strength

As they searched the nearby ruins, Slash waded into the cold water beneath shattered stone.

His hand struck something solid.

Metal.
And wood.

Something old.
Something heavy.

They did not retrieve it—not yet.

Night will come fell with unanswered questions.

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Outcome Notes

XP Awarded: 201 XP each

Enemies Defeated: Hobgoblin patrol of the Skull Smashers clan, including ogre and mounted leader

Loot Recovered:

• 410 gp

• 640 sp

• 22 suits of chainmail and ring mail

• Potion of Healing

• Potion of Hill Giant Strength

• Slave cart with cage, provisions, sour wine

Unresolved:

• Metal/wood object beneath the ruins

• Disposition of the bodies

• Who will wield giant strength

The hills are no longer quiet.
The slavers know someone is hunting them now.

And something waits beneath the water—patient and unseen.

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Epilogue — A Quiet Moment

Later, dust settled, Lady Morwen found Dog standing watch at the edge of the ruins. The mist clung to the ground, failing sunlight, and the hills were finally still.

“You didn’t have to stand in front of them,” she said quietly. “None of you did.”

Dog didn’t turn. “Someone always has to.”

She stepped closer, hesitating only a moment before placing a hand against his sigil. This time, he didn’t pull away.

“I’ve been property for weeks,” she said. “Cargo. Something counted and moved.” Her voice tightened. “Today, I was defended.”

Dog finally looked at her, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his hood.

Before he could answer, she leaned in and kissed him—brief, unguarded, real. When she pulled back, there was color in her cheeks that had nothing to do with the cold.

“My Lord,” she said softly—not mocking, not playful. Grateful. Certain.

Dog exhaled once, slow and steady. “I’m no lord.”

She smiled anyway. “Not by title.”

She left him there with the mist and the quiet—and with a feeling he hadn’t expected.

The road south remained dangerous.
The slavers still waited.

But something had changed.

Hope, fragile as it was, had found a foothold.