Hommlet Dark (576 cy)

 THE HUNTING PARTY

I, Silversun of Greyhawk, having survived fire, steel, and the predictable failures of honorable men, do here continue my record—not in comfort, but in the aftermath of battle, with ash still clinging to my robes and the stink of burned flesh refusing to leave my hands.

Know this: what follows was not chance, nor ambush, nor the misfortune of wandering heroes. It was measured violence, met with intent and answered in kind. I observed. I calculated. I acted. Others prayed, charged, bled, and endured—but it was magic that decided the field, and steel that spared us annihilation.

I set these words down while the dead yet cool, while the spoils of the fallen lie unclaimed, and while the echoes of marching boots still haunt my thoughts. This account is not written to flatter virtue nor excuse brutality. It is written because truth rots when left untended, and because someone must remember how the killing was done.

Let those who read understand: this was the moment the road ceased to be a road and became a battlefield—and the moment I ceased merely to survive it.

What follows is not heroism.
It is record.

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I knew the moment Dog stiffened that violence was coming.

The ranger grabbed the woman and scampered ahead of us all, melting into brush and shadow as he always does, when the land itself betrayed the enemy—too many boots, too even a cadence. Shapes crested the ruins at a distance, a hundred yards out, and at their head lumbered something vast and stupid enough to believe size alone was destiny.

Patrol… or battalion.

We could not make it out but behind it marched discipline: hobgoblins, archers fanned wide, polearms bristling like a hedgehog’s spine. Not raiders. A large, organized hunting party.

While the others crouched behind trees and broken stone, I did what I do best—I vanished. Invisibility folded around me, and I drifted sideways through the world, counting heads, measuring angles, tasting the battlefield before blood ever touched it.

Irving, of course, did not hide.

He stood in the open, sending Harvey the hare to the side of the road, shield ready, virtue blazing like a beacon screaming strike me. When he finally hailed the troop, we recognized it, a Bugbear—who looked like he had already scented the ranger—lifted his head, locked eyes with the Paladin, and charged.

And then—

Fire.

I spoke the words, traced the sigil, and hurled a Fireball into one of the archer nests—the closest group to the left. In that instant, the entire patrol revealed itself. The bugbear led, eyeing Irving with frothing curses, drool spattering the head of his mace. Behind him marched two groups of six archers each on the left, another group on his right rear flank. A mounted hobgoblin and four halberd-wielders followed close behind. Farther back, an ogre dragged a cart—dropping it square in the road the moment it saw us.

I had already decided. I merely counted.

Flame bloomed like a newborn sun in the late morning light, rolling heat and screaming death across the scrubland. Armor glowed. Flesh blackened. I smiled. Monsters—slaver sympathizers—burned alive as they tried, futilely, to reload their bows. The fireball tore through them instantly, barely missing the horseman, who now thundered toward me at full gallop.

The lines met in thunder.

Like lightning, Tiger Wong exploded from the roadside, delivering a vicious kick to the bugbear’s skull. The monster answered in kind, wounding the monk with extreme prejudice.

Irving slammed into the bugbear vanguard and paid dearly—the brute’s massive weapon carving into him—but both held, stubborn and unyielding. Irving stood fast, face-to-face with the bugbear leader, anchoring the chaos where we all needed it most.

That is the difference between faith and power.
I burn those who show no quarter.
Irving stood ready to deliver justice.

Slash sprinted to Dog and Lady Morwen, and together they formed a plan to bring down the approaching ogre. Morwen revealed her skill with the sword, and they positioned so all three would strike.

Terry Or raised his holy symbol and called to his old god, attempting to freeze three souls at once in righteous, bone-locking paralysis—but only one enemy stiffened and held like a statue mid-blasphemy. The other two remained cruelly mobile.

The price of that failed perfection was immediate. Arrows hissed out of the chaos and struck true—piercing Tiger, Irving, Lalaith, and Terry Or alike. Blood spilled hot and fast, soaking the dirt. Terry clenched his teeth and held his faith together by sheer will. His god had listened—but not kindly.

Lalaith, was creeping nonchalantly through the roadside ditch, when struck by the arrow. Not dead, she leapt up laughing, sprinting across the road, giggling and twisting as pain tried and failed to claim her. She danced through madness, bells laughing, voice thrown into the enemy ranks—whispers of doom, commands to flee, lies so sweet even courage began to rot. The halberdiers fell for it, gave chase, and broke away from the main fight.

The Ogre bellowed and charged. Not only did it smell the Ranger & Morwen he could see them.

Dog’s arrows thudded into its flesh. Slash wove the perfect composition to tilt fate. Morwen raised her sword & welcomed the slaver scum.

I was already running. I didn’t even wait to see if the fireball was effective. I just ran—like a madman on fire, worse, like one about to be trampled. I barely covered 30’ as he covered 70’ in seconds. I had to veer hard into the street battle, narrowly avoiding the horse.

I had a window.

I cast Charm Person on the rider.

I thought I had him.

Instead, he spat and slashed. The hobgoblin leader’s long sword tore into me, opening a deep, savage wound. I lived.

Tiger struck the bugbear again. Irving missed—a rarity. The enraged brute crushed the monk with a savage blow. Tiger collapsed, blood streaming from his skull as the beast roared in frenzy.

Terry, losing concentration on his captive, struck the bugbear leader, granting Irving another chance. Irving missed again—his defense flawless, his offense missing. Still, the monster’s wounds claimed it, and I narrowly avoided the remaining halberd.

Fog rolled as Slash cried out, raising a thick Wall of Fog that severed sightlines and sowed panic. Archers halted, confused. Dog and Morwen wounded the ogre. It lashed out wildly and missed twice. Then Slash stabbed the creature and Morwen struck again, dropping the beast and giving Dog a clear shot at the horseman attacking me.

We paid dearly for every heartbeat.

Dog missed.
Irving missed.
To my surprise the horseman missed, but just by inches.

Then came the whistle of arrows through fog—and Lady Morwen screamed as one struck true. She fell. Our second ally down.

Dog revived her instantly. When she opened her eyes and saw her savior, the pact was sealed. She kissed him like we were in the bloody Blueberry Theater in Greyhawk. The bastard winked, stood, and fired again at the Hobgoblin leader.

The shot hit true.

I seized the moment.

“He’s hurt,” I thought. “Enough.”

“By Bigby himself!” I screamed, casting Magic Missile.

The purplish-blue orbs screamed from my fingers and punched through the hobgoblin leader’s chest, hurling him from the saddle onto the ground in a spray of blood and armor.

The remaining archers broke and fled.
The remaining halberdiers were shown no quarter.

Steel rang. Pain and death were issued freely. Blood soaked the stones. Irving missed so many times we checked his weapon for curses—twice.

When the last enemy fell, the earth itself seemed to breathe.

Terry tended Tiger, ensuring he lived to fight another day. Morwen could not stop staring at Dog. We laughed, quietly wondering when we’d lose the ranger to something more fun—and far less lethal.

By battle’s end, twelve enemy bodies littered the ruins. Some burned. Some broken. All ended by purpose, steel, and magic. Archers still lurked somewhere beyond, unanswered—but the field was ours.

So was the cart.
And the horse, which Lalaith claimed.

If I were less intelligent, I might think the cart was a gift from Cuthbert himself—that sanctimonious old coot. It even held a cage, slaver tools, and clothing. Naturally, we used them.

There were also four hundred ten gold, six hundred forty silver, and twenty-two suits of chainmail stripped from cooling corpses. Potions—one red with promise, another amber and heavy with stolen strength. Terry healed the faithful and checked for curses again, just to be sure.

We loaded the loot, lashed the horse, and placed a body in the cage so from afar it looked like business as usual. Appearances matter—especially when you intend to steal everything not nailed down.

Slash, ever curious, discovered something beneath the water under the ruins—metal and wood, old and intentional. We left it for later.

Even chaos knows when to wait.

Now we camp. Recover spells. Decide the fate of the dead. Argue over who drinks the Hill Giant’s strength and who risks the unidentified brews. We inventory. We interrogate. We investigate.

And then—

We continue.

Because this is no longer merely a hunt for slavers.

This is the decimation of the Slavers’ Stronghold and all who profit from it—
war dressed up as coincidence.