Ride with the Devil

[Galvain7]

Pandashar Mountjoy smelt the carnage on the wind long before anything untoward was visible on the road. He took it as a bad sign. Even so, the blood scented warning did not prepare him for the assault on the senses that awaited him. Just beyond a bend, a small work camp had been turned into a battlefield. The rich damp smell of the earth mixed with blood, rain and smoke twisted at the Sargent’s nose. Bits of tent fabric, clothing, tools littered the ground. Body parts hung from the branches. When Pandashar opened his mouth to cough behind a gauntleted fist, he could taste death on the tip of his tongue. And as soon as the Sargent and his men rode into the camp, the first word they heard was ‘Monster.”

‘Big’ was the only consistent word the stunned road crew would use to describe the creature that had attacked their camp last night. Based on what he had seen, Sargent Mountjoy agreed whole heartedly. The footprint alone was the width of a man, easily, and sunk several inches into the ground where the beast had hurled the parked oxcart twenty feet into the forest, smashing the heavy transport into matchwood. The camp had been trampled into the ground and scattered to the four corners. When the sun rose, four carts, a dozen tents and at least half of the crew’s food stores had been destroyed by the beast or ruined by the incessant rain. One whole matched pair of oxen was torn apart, and a second matched pair was rendered useless by a death of only one of the set. The human cost was even more unsettling- three wagon drovers, two guards and seven slaves were clearly dead, with another half dozen slaves and guards simply missing.
Pandashar had separated the survivors and questioned them carefully, but it had taken all morning for the messenger to reach Riverford Tower and return with the Count’s men. By then, the witnesses had nothing to do but stew the incident over in their minds, and debate among themselves. Any chance of an impartial or consistent description of the assailant creature was lost. Except, of course, that it was big.

A search of the surrounding forests and field only yielded more questions. Of the missing men, there was no sign. No trail leading away from the site, no stray chains or weapons, no bodies. The footprints of the creature started fifty feet in the forest, west and perpendicular to the road. Pandashar could plainly see where whatever-it-was had trampled the undergrowth in a straight line with massive feat, and scoured the surrounding trees with wide, strong claws. The path of destruction originated in a circle of dirt with a diameter of 10 feet. Worse still, there was no sign of where the creature had gone. The trail to the camp was as plain as the day, yet there was no outgoing path from the destruction.

Pandashar was willing to admit he was utterly befuddled. Nothing he had ever encountered, by book, tale or experience could explain this mess. Looking in total at the battlefield in miniature, the scars in the forest, and the confused and panicked reports from the remaining crew, Pandashar had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach: there was no way to pass this mess on to his superiors. Like it or not, it was his mess.

****

“This is your mess, Sargent!” howled Count Rollo, in the damp and drafty chambers of Riverford Tower. Despite the harshness in his voice, Pandashar pitied the Count. The roaring fire, heated water and at least four different furs and blankets did nothing to alleviate the man’s shivering. His once fine and sun-kissed features were wasted and pale, and a fever sweat dampened his brow. The Count’s study had a decidedly small attendance this afternoon. Besides the Count and Sargent Pandashar, there was only the Captain and his page. The steward was missing, as was the Count’s own serving man and Sir Pa-Rollo, the Count’s truest friend and cousin. Pandashar took it as a bad sign.

“Yes, Lord. Beg Pardon, but given the circumstances, I believe this matter might be better handled by a court scholar-“

“Scholar?” interjected the Count with a snarl. “Don’t you mean Wizard? Sorcerer? Tell me, Sargent, is my treasure room full to bursting that I could pay for such an expense? Hmm? And who, mind you, who, would I write to for a wizard? And what would I say, that MY base-born cow turd of a Sargent believes a magical monster tore into MY road crew and ate MY slaves? Good Gods, how am I going to explain this delay? Worst of all, where am I going to get more oxen?”

Despite his hysteria, the Count had the right of it. Slaves, wagons, tools and food could be obtained with coin or another levy, but it would take some stretching. Matched teams of oxen, on the other hand, were as rare and precious as jewels in the aftermath of the recent war. That the highborn Count had to go to the higher noble Lords and plead for lowly draft animals had touched his pride and soured his mood. Now they were dead, and the Count had another debt to add to his heavy ledger. All Pandashar could do was allow his liege to vent away his wrath. And, like as not, the whole mess would be at laid Pandashar’s feet. The road had to be finished, on time, or there would be yet more problems and debts.

The Count finished his rant with a string of half muffled blasphemies and a hideous coughing fit, culled by a gulp of heated water and wine. The chamber was still for a few long moments. Finally the Count spoke, his voice a dull, tired rasp: “Captain, who is in charge of the western construction?”
“One Tobas Sixcoins, Lord, of a merchant house from down river…”
“Tell this Sixcoins that I entrusted him with the contract and the animals with the expectation that the road would be serviceable on time. If he complains about time lost due to this… incident, tell him I paid him enough gold in advance to cover the losses, if he hasn’t already spent it, the buffoon. You might do well to mention that breech of a government contract is very frowned on and the Gracious Monarch always has need of slaves in his silver pits. ”

“Yes, Lord.”

“Take the message yourself. I don’t want any more delays.”

“Yes, Lord.”

Pandashar had not been dismissed, and so he stayed as the Captain and his page left, leaving him alone with the Count. Rollo watched the rolling fire with could be best described as baleful hate, before sighing and passing a thin, ink stained hand over his face.

“Sargent Mountjoy is it?”

“Yes Lord.”

“I would apologize for calling you a base-born cow turd, sir. My temper and this fever had the better of my good graces. I know you are a loyal man and a good soldier. It is not befitting for a liege to belittle his vassals for a matter beyond their range. I am sorry.”

“Think not on it, Lord.”

“Thank you Sargent. Now, to business. You were quick to attribute this attack to a … monster? Why not animals or brigands?”

Pandashar tried to bury his discomfort, folding his hands behind his back and fixing his gaze to a spot just above the Count’s hat. “In my experience, no animal would attack a camp of at least a score of men and cookfires besides, let alone slay armed and armored guards. Only a true mountain bear could punch through mail and tear a man’s guts out- and I saw no bear tracks. As to brigands, the camp was guarded and had little valuable goods besides the oxen and tools. And the oxen had been… ripped.”

“Truly? I suppose you of all people would understand what a reaving looks like, hmm Sargent?”

Pandashar let the jibe pass. The Count was a mercurial man, apologizing and insulting in the same breath. “Beg pardon, Lord. The slaves and guards described a large two legged beast, strong enough to hurl an oxcart two dozen paces.”

“And tear through mail. You are an honest sort if a bit slow, Sargent, despite your age, and I believe you. But I hope that you are wrong about the monster. Go, find it and find a way to kill it. I don’t want any more costly delays. If it really is a monster or a giant bring me the head.”

“Yes, Lord.”

****
“A little bird told me you were looking for a woodsman. Look no further, Your Honor. I’m the man for the job!”

Pandashar looked down at the tiny man in the wet cell. The circular pit was twenty feet deep and half as many wide, with thick iron bars across the top. The dark underground cell let in no light, but copious amounts of water leeked from the roof above, hence the name. At the bottom of the pit was a man, no more than the size of a child. In the half-light Pandashar could make out four heavy iron chains pinning him to the wall: One for each hand, one across the prisoners’ midsection and another across his legs. Pandashar was no stranger to cruel usage, but the heavy chains and the water up to the neck of such a small man made him uneasy. The Warden assured him all the precautions were absolutely necessary.

“You are not a dwarf,” he said.

“An astute observation, your honor. Indeed, I am a Halfling. My people roam the worlds in search of adventure. We call all lands our home, but don’t find a home in all our lands, if you catch my meaning.” The Halfling smiled and shook his chains.

Pandashar was quiet for a moment. “What do they call you?”
“Victorious Undefeated Many-Many Champion, my clansmen call me. My mother called me Sweetling. My Father called me a Fool, but a lovable one, indeed. And my lovers… ah, my manifold sweet lovers… they call me Mighty.”

“And your jailer?”

“Ach, you touch my pride sir! My pride.” The Halfling sucked his teeth. “My jailers call me You, sometimes. Or Curr. But I am not a criminal, no sir. I do love the Moon Emperor and all his laws! This was all a misunderstanding, a twisting of logic and most noble reason.”

“The wet cell is reserved for the truly craven. Are you a Craven, Halfling?”

“No sir! Never! I am insulted, your honor, most insulted! Though I will admit that the state of my present accommodations is entirely of my own making: The Warden didn’t take it so well when he found me in his rooms on his bed. But I did not escape- I was still within the legal confines of the prison. The Warden is not a joking man. I think he overreacted…”

“What moon is it?”

“Three-Quarters.” Quipped the Halfling, without missing a beat.
“And the month?”

“Sunharvest.”
“How find you the weather outside the cell?”

“Damp, with slight breeze from the nor’north-west. It rained this morning, but not heavy. More on the wind, though. Good for mushrooms.”

Pandashar regarded the Halfling again, and said nothing. In the flicking shadows cast by the torch, the prisoner smiled. Pandashar frowned.

“I would seek a woodsman and a tracker-hound, a quick and skilled man. A passing clever man, yes?”

The Halfling made a little mock bow to the rattling of chains.

“I also would a hard man,” Pandashar snarled. “A man who knows when best to keep a warg on a short leash and when best to let slip behind his back, a man who knows fear best applied, but can stay a furious angry hand, even his own. The man I will have can work the rods of violence when the time comes, without weltching craven. When redeem I a man from the wet cell, I want not gratitude, or nor bootlicking. I want a service rendered and done true. Can you render a service for the cost of your freedom, even though the chains that bind you here and now are… ill applied?”

The Halfling said nothing. Instead he slipped his hands from the cuffs of his manacles and slipped under the chains that bound his midsection and legs like and eel. Pandashar did not call the guards as the little man scrambled up the slick walls of the wet cell like a spider. With a dexterous leap he was facing Pandashar, balancing on the rim of the cell under the bars. He was furious.

“A fine. A fine should have been my punishment! Understand? Instead they threw me in this… hole! You keep saying ‘law’ this and ‘law’ that. Alright, fine. You’re a Law officer, know your duty. I don’t owe you a damned thing. I want that fat pig of a judge’s head on a spike! Corruption! And torture!” The Halfling spat up threw the bars and onto the floor.

Pandashar shifted his boots. “Yes, the Judge did you false, I know. But even a just man cannot press suit from a damp cell. Do me a service, and I do one for you. Help me catch a monster, and I vouch your suit to the Count Rolo himself, above the judge. You can even have my books to build your case.”

The Halfling frowned. “Blackmailer. Blackmailer, twisted foul snake of a blackmailer.”

“Just so,” said the Sargent, with a small nod, “And cheap, besides. Prison labor for the cost of meals goes lighter on my purse than hiring a bounty hunter or druid.”

The Halfling looked at Pandashar incredulously. Then he laughed, and laughed. “Call the Judge fat, limp leek toad, get thrown into prison. But call a… Sargent, by your badge, a blackmailer and he won’t deny it, add that he is cheap and then set you free. Ha! Gods. What do you want tracked?”

“A large, murderous beast.”

“How big?”

“Just so,” said the Sargent, with a shrug, spreading his hands.

“Monsters, hmm?” The Sargent nodded once. “Very well, good officer, I am the passing clever, hard as the law’s iron chains woodsman you seek.” The Halfling kicked the bars of the hole off and stood facing the Sargent.

“Call me Quinn.”

[Galvain7]

"Quinn, the Halfling," The Sargent said with a nod, "follow."

The Sargent led Quinn through the dark and twisted halls of the prison, and up to the landing where the goaler sat.

"Warden. This man's things, if you please."

The Warden stared slack jawed at the wet halfling, standing in front of his table. "But... But the keys... the chains..."

Sargent Pandashar cleared his throat and the Warden turned ashen before fumbling with a large ring of keys.

Pandashar turned back to Quinn, and removed two tin tokens from a pocket in his glove. "This, for the common bathhouse, through the metal door on the left side of the Hall," he said, handing Quinn one token. "and this for your rations. Show it to the head cook in the kitchens." He handed Quinn the other token. "I must see to the preparations. We ride in half an hour."

[TheMightyQuinn]

The Mighty Quinn

*With only a half-controlled smile, Quinn gives the head jailor a slow nod as he fumbles with his keys, enjoying the mans reaction immensely.*
"I mus say sir, your hospitality was something I'm sure few forget. Don't worry - your keys are all in their rightful places."

*Taking the tokens, Quinn doesn't waste any time heading to the bath-house and gettin the muck cleaned off before donning his equipment and heading for the mess hall. The token was only for a single meal, but luckily for Quinn, he didn't usually eat so very much food as even one of the larger folks, so by the time he was full, the plate still had food on it - good or not, it was better than the wet cell, for sure.*

*Pulling a small flask from a pocket, he takes a swig and leans back in his chair, enjoying the looks from the other guards in the room. A couple of them glared quite violently at him, though he couldn't think of any reason why they would. It wasn't his fault they were deep enough sleepers to not wake when he bound them up.*

OOC:

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Alright - just a quick response before I head to work. Let's do this!

[Galvain7]

*As Quinn turns his back on the befuddled Warden, he hears the man mutter quietly:"You'll get yours, pig! Soon enough."

*It takes less time for Quinn to fill himself than to carry the plate of vaguely chickenish food to the table, soaking up the sullen stares of the guardsmen all the while. After eating the food and feeding on the bewilderment and angst of his captors, Quinn leaves to the muster yard at a leisurely stroll.

Outside the hall the castle servitors and menials are busing about chores while a gang of convicts unload an ox cart full of bags of potatoes and produce, under the watchful eye of a scribe and a few disinterested guards. A pair of warg pups play heels at the feet of some washing women, barking and spitting out a few non-sensible phrases of Common:

"Warg Warg! Chickens! Goose moons! Warg! Sally sells cracked corn by the seashore and I DON'T CARE! Hullaballoo! Warg!"

Quinn spots Pandashar and three others and their horses at the far end of the yard, near the hunting gate. Pandashar had changed his blue and black checkered surcoat (the Count's colors) for one that is a dull burgundy over blackened chain mail to match the rest of the group. In addition, each of the four is wearing a red scarf or sash. As Quinn approaches, Pandashar is slowly tying a noose out of thorn vines.

He starts talking without a preamble. "Last night a beast of some great size and power tore through the construction camp on the Western road. Guardsmen and slaves were killed and the project has been set back." -This is greeted with grumbled curses from the rest.- "We have been tasked with killing whatever-it-is, and it would best be prudent to learn the nature of the beast and what manner of creature in case further hunts become necessary."

A thick-muscled trooper with ungainly patches of black beard poking through a hideous mass of scar tissue over his face speaks first.
"And we've no idea what manner of beast this is?" Pandashar nods a negative. "Hmrph. With as many necks on the line for this daft road, it screams saba-tagee, heya?"

"And sabotaging monsters have handlers." adds another trooper, a gloomy looking smooth cheeked man with hunched shoulders.

"Just so. If it is just a mindless creature, then we find its lair and kill it. If it has handlers, we must find them. This is where the new man,"- he nods toward Quinn- "Comes in. Quinn, he calls himself. He is a 'Halfling,' and a woodsman. Quinn, the others- this is Bristle-Beard. He handles doors and other... obstacles."

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Bristle-Beard is the thickset trooper who spoke first. He is short, squat and heavy with muscle. His face looks like it met the bad end of a flaming maul, and is a lumpy mass of burn scar and tufts of black hair. He alone among the gathered men wears a solid metal breastplate, blackened so as to give off no glare. A two handed, doubled bladed great axe is strapped across his back, and a dozen or so throwing axes are stuffed in two cases at his hips. His helmet is an unadorned pot helm.

"...This is Baby Face, our sawbones."

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Baby Face's face looks as though someone took a weasel's face and compacted it into something resembling a human. His eyes are dark and small, pressed together against a too long nose. Lank black hair covers his small ears. His only redeeming facial feature is his lack of pox-scars. Baby Face wears a short sword and dagger, with a cased shortbow on his back.

"And the old man is Fish-Eye. We keep him because he knows everyone, or near enough as makes no difference. If we need to shelter with Travelers or farming folk Fisheye does the talking and the rest clam up. He keeps the Stories, too."

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Fisheye is a tall, thin old man with fine but aged features and long snowy white hair and stubble. One eye is a cloudy blue grey and the other is scared over from a long thin cut that starts at his eyebrow and runs over the eye and down to his jaw. All the soldiers carry a spear and knife, but only Fish-Eye carries just a spear and knife, and such weapons they are: The spear is darkwood, with a leaf shaped head made out of some silvery metal etched with beautiful whorls and swirls. Fish-Eye's knife is curved, with a bronze handle inscribed with many small runes.

"I smell a storm,"he says, to no one in particular.

"Then we ride. Quinn, you go double with Bristle-Beard on his great monster."

The soldiers and Quinn mount up, riding out of the courtyard and onto the road. A great cacophonous howl echos out from the keep, and two night-dark wargs lope out through the gate and move to either side of the mounted group. Behind, to the east, a great peel of lighting splits the sky and a great boom of thunder rolls out across the valley.

Pandashar curses. "I will not lose the trail to the rain! Ride! Ride, you dogs!" The horses tear into a gallop and hurtle down the road.

***

After a breathless ride, the soldiers arrive at the camp. The foreman comes out immediately to greet Pandashar, his face full of smiling apologies. Pandashar grumbles. "We do not have time for this. Bristles, Quinn- Take the other Warg and look for any signs or clues. Fisheye, try and get something out of the crew. Face, take a look at the dead beasts. I will deal with... this. Six-Squirrels!" -Pandashar says to one of the Wargs- "To me!"

[TheMightyQuinn]

The Mighty Quinn

*The outburst from the warden is enough to make Quinn smile all the way through his meal, and the angry stares of the surrounding swordsman are just icing on the cake. He could easily whip them into a frenzy with a few well placed comments, but it wouldn't be worth it. At the moment. Better to let them stew in the knowledge that he was wandering free despite their best efforts. He'd have plenty of time for jokes on their expense later.*

*As he finds his way out to the yard, Quinn gives a mighty stretch and a slow pat to his stomach, enjoying the sensation immensely. There was a good reason so many halflings got wider as they got older, rather than taller. With an appraising eye watching the men, Quinn listens quietly to the explanation Pandashar gives and gives the larger men a bow when he is introduced. He was the odd man out in an established group, it was better to just let them do what they would, and focus on his own job. At least until he could make a decent determination as to each mans abilities.*

*As he listens, he pulls a small bit of meat from one of his pockets, tossing it toward the warg pups with a chuckle. Cute little monsters. Hard to beleive they'd grow to be powerful hunters one day. Still. You could always be surprised. Great things did come in small packages.*

*As Quinn bounds up to the spot behind Bristle-Beard, he leans a bit to one side to catch the large mans attention before speaking.*
"You're a pretty one, aren't you? I must say, it looks like you lost a fight with a rather vicious bonfire. Nothing wrong with that of course, but it doesn't seem to be the kind of thing you'd enjoy much. Have you ever considered doing something about the scars?"

*As the group arrives at the camp, Quinn slips off the side of the warg, giving the brute a good pat on the flank for the ride. There was something to be said for simple signs of appreciation.*
"I'll set to tracking the brute, but I'll be honest - it looks like a great deal of the tracks have been trampled by massive feet - roughly this big." *Spreading his hands a ways apart, he looks between them and Bristle-Beards feet with a sigh.* "Yes. About that size. You folk just don't know how convenient it would be if your feet were smaller. Ah, well."

*Stalking off slowly, Quinn gets close to the ground, his steps measured around the tracks, his gaze sweeping over the dirt and plants - it wasn't the obvious signs you could rely on, though they were nice. It was the smaller, harder to hide traces that didn't lie. The broken growth, the gouged bark and roots. The trail was cold, but not impossible.*

"Bristle - I appreciate your help, but I need to find a trace of the beastie. Be a big help and find Pandashar - if we had any of the creatures blood, or fur, it would be a great help."

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I'm still finishing up his character sheet, so I'm just going to assume he has a minimum of 1 rank in Survival, and roll with that to see how things go.
Survival - 1d20+9
(1d20+9)[12]
Mmmm... derp. Yeah. a 3. Awesome. Well, I know you're supposed to use inspiration points before a roll, but I'd spend 1 if allowed to add 3 to that for a 15. That's at least competent.

[Galvain7]

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I'd allow the extra 3. Instead of having a base DC and adding modifiers based on conditions, the skill checks will work on a base 5 table (5, 10, 15, 20+ or so). That way, even a low roll will tell you something, and the story doesn't get log jammed on a bad roll. It also assumes 'character competence:' Quinn knows how to track, and he came to the scene with a job in mind. Baring a critical fail, he'll turn something up, but perhaps not everything.

It's a bit easier on the players then 'You Fail,' and allows the DM to reveal needed plot details without resorting to NPC's or Dues ex Machina. Da?

*Bristle-Beard turns to look at Quinn over his shoulder. "Agh. This old thing? Hurmph. Would ya' believe it was a metalwork mishap? If I could pluck the gold outta ma' face I'd be rich man. I could choke on the ... how do you say... the irony of it, ya?"

"Never saw a day's fighting 'fore this. That changed as soon as I got outta the house 'n buried an axe in the slip-finger who botched the tie up on th' crucible chains. Heh. Murder says the foreman. Justice, says I, and then we had a ... eh... disagreement over the nature of my injuries, and there I was in a wet cell. Then ol' Pan pulled me out and said... things. Good things ya? Then I watched that foundry burn right to the ground and laughed all the while. Right proper mess afterwards tho...."

"Heal it? No such thing for doing. I paid all my monies to the best healers I could find, and they said the same thing."

*The comment about the feet gets a chuckle out of Bristle-Beard, but with his face so scarred its difficult to read his facial expressions.

True to the initial assessment, the area around the camp is a morass of mud and trampled over with uncountable footprints. However, the area closer to the forest is certainly more promising. A little effort leads Quinn to the place where the monster broke the tree line, and after that things get fun, interesting, exciting, maybe dangerous. The beast is simply huge. Bigger than an orge, for certain. Quinn follows the path of scarred tree trunks and uprooted undergrowth further into the trees. Perpendicular to this trail is Pandashar's trail, probably from when he did the initial assessment, as the path is newer by a few hours. His track is distinctive: besides the spurs and well made boots with hobs, he has a slight favoring of his right leg.

The path of destruction ends quite suddenly at a dirt circle 10 feet in diameter. Then nothing.

...Nothing from the monster, that is. At least two persons were right at the circle, standing for some time. They had boots- well fitted ones, but no hobbs. As a general rule, peasant men have wide, square boots, and Traveling Folk love shoes. But these are boots.

Following the trail the of boots is tough going, but Quinn is saved by his nose, which does not fail to detect a pile of damp horse manure. Closer inspection reveals a scour mark in the branch of a nearby tree where two smallish horses were tied. The trail of boots ends, but thankfully the trail of horse hooves begins.

Howls-at-Nothing begins to whimper excitedly, blurting, "Warg! Nose! Warg Nose Best Warg Nose! Thing! Thing not from here! Found thing! Me! Best Warg. ... Found thing, me, treat now, yes? Best Warg?" near a pile of ferns. A quick inspection reveals a small vial made of made of clay. It is empty.

Six Squirrels bounds up to the scene, eager to boggart some of the praise. Pandashar is standing a ways off, cutting the stem out of an apple. "Baby Face says the road crew ate the oxen, but the Foreman says all the tools are missing, and Fish-Eye agrees. Can you shed any light?"

[TheMightyQuinn]

The Mighty Quinn

*Quinn shakes his head as Bristle-beard speaks, but focuses on the task at hand, giving the man little more than a shrug as he follows the tracks to the horses.*
"Maybe you'd better see about some better healers. I don't know about the muscle damage, but the majority of it might be fixable. I came across something a while back that's worked wonders for me. Shh. Quiet now. You're breaking my concentration."
*Quinn gives the man a half-smile to match the humor in his voice as he nods slowly, standing from the horse-trail.*

"Well, it was no random attack. I'll say that much for certain. I'm thinking this was something that took a small amount of planning, but was no masterpeice of subterfuge, for sure. Let's head back to the good-gimp Pan and let him in on a few things."

*As the two make their way back, Quinns eyebrows go up a bit at the clay vial that the warg found and calls out for one of the men to bring it to him.*
"Aye. That's what I've got sneaking through my mind. It doesn't seem possible that anything that large would have made it's way through the woods without so much as a bent blade of grass."

*Turning the container over in his hands slowly, he gives it a sniff and snorts a bit, but continues.*
"I'd say this was definitely sabotage. While I've heard of some wardens of the wild places being able to turn themselves into great beasts, I don't think this was one of them. Though argueably, they'd dislike the work you're doing. They wouldn't have gone slaughtering the beasts, and there'd have been no tracks at all if they hadn't wanted there to be. They're as hard to track as the wind."

*As he runs a hand through his hair, Quinn, sighs and points in the direction of the tracks he'd found.*
"I found a pair of heavy-booted tracks that way, that led to some lash-marked trees. I'm guessing a guard and a conjurer of some sort. Their ponies would have spooked and pulled at the reigns when the beast was pulled here, not to mention the wear from their normal movements. I'd say it was their goal to delay the project. Demoralize, kill the beasts of burden, steal tools and more than likely cause damage to various reputations and coffers."

*With a bit of a bow, Quinn spreads his hands and smiles.*
"You asked for a woodsman, sir, I do not beleive you'll find my skills lacking."

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Alright - so, a bit of conjecture and my best attempt at connecting the dots there, but it all made sense to me. The pair of boots and horses meant outsiders - the ten foot circle as well as the long time they'd been standing there, coupled with the warg findings led me to beleive it was a summoned creature.
Regardless, I'd like to make a knowledge arcana and a spellcraft roll to find out anything he might have noticed about the circle or the vial, or traces of residual magic. I think the Dc for that is 20+spell level to see the traces of a spell.
Knowledge Arcana - any details about the ritual
(1d20+7)[14]
Knowledge Arcana - Identify the summoned creature
+5 for collector of stories skill trick
(1d20+12)[29]
Spellcraft - identify the spell / components
[roll1d20+9[/roll]

[Galvain7]

Pandashar nods along with your assessment. "It is common knowledge that the road project is a defining task for the Count and he is not the most popular of local rulers, so sabotage is the right track, I think. But he's nothing if not clever: Count Rolo sold the rights to the road construction to a merchant house from down river, and made well sure his superiors further up the nobility, eh, ladder knew it. If the project is completed on time, he has an allied merchant house. If it fails... well then its not really his fault then is it? Its the merchants' fault, sure and plain as day. At least, that's the story he would tell his superiors, and up the ladder it goes to their superiors to the king. Either way the Count keeps his arse in one piece."

-Bristle Beard makes a rude gesture with his fingers: impalement. Apparently the Moon King is not the tolerant-of-failure sort.-

But there's something missing. You can't quite put your finger on it. Call it a Shifter itch, a niggling feeling between your shoulder blades that's warned you of danger before. You backtrack to the burnt circle, face to the ground, searching.

There. A disrupted bit of undergrowth. Some unnaturally scuffed dirt. You circle the site again. More sign, lots more. Slowly a picture forms in your head: This wasn't a lone act of a pair of outsider summoners and a single guard- they brought company. Maybe even an audience. But these weren't peasant types or the curious Traveler looking for a campfire story. Every one was a skilled woodsman, wearing soft moccasin type slippers or even no shoes at all, leaving barely any sign at all. At least 2 score, maybe more.

You decide to lock on to a slightly more visible set of sign and follow it. Sure enough, it leads back toward the camp, near the tools wagon. The chains holding the road tools in place had been greased, and the slipper wearers simply slid the tools through eye-holes designed to hold them, nice and quiet like. The slipper wearers didn't take everything: The items in strong boxes were left alone, but you can see were some enterprising soul had bashed at the lock with a heavy, blunt object to no avail.

The monster must have made one hell of a racket.

When you are finished Pandashar waves you over.
"Storms coming," he says, nodding to the ominous clouds overhead. "And its getting dark. It is your call, woodsman. Follow the trail through the rain or bivouac for the night?"

Skill checks:

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1. Knowledge: Arcana: You're analysis of the site doesn't give you any real details about the ritual, but summoning seems likely.

2. You're knowledge of creatures is vast and extensive, and in your minds' eye you can sort through the summoners' catalog in the twinkling of an eye. You have garnered enough experience to determine that this creature is very unique, and though similar to other large, terrible beasts, it is neither from heaven nor hell or any of the other plans. Nor is it a naturally occurring monster like an orge.

3. I'm not sure how you'd ID the exact spell or components from a burnt site, but a 27 is a friggin' 27, and taken in all together with the survival rolls and so forth, you get a pretty good picture:

After sifting through the ashes, finding bits of burnt components and turning the clues over in your mind, you get a very solid idea of the spell and the method used to cast it. The evidence points to the spell not being a summoning so much as a remote relocation: The spell is popular with ambassador Wizards in a diplomatic posting. The wizards arrage a meeting and then 'summon' their masters to an agreed upon location for negotiations. In this case the practitioners relocated their monster from a location known to them to the clearing in the forest, prepared with the following items.
-Pure iron, for binding.
-Human Blood, to make the spell 'stick' together better.
-A feather, for rapid transit.
-A piece of the creatures' body, in this case a hairy scale.
-Moondust. An alchemical substance popular with sleight of hand street corner preformers and Travelers for added 'flair' and 'sparkle' to their tricks. Not necessary for this particular spell.

[TheMightyQuinn]

The Mighty Quinn

*With a heavy glare, Quinn stares up at the cloudy sky and gives a good sniff, taking in the scent of the storm.*
"Hard to tell with the storm. I wish we had some chickens with us. That'd make it a great deal easier. Give me a moment to get a feel for this."

*Making his way a little away from the others, he sits on the forest floor and clears his mind, listening to the world around him, trying to gain some insight into the turnings and workings of it.*

OOC:

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Just a quick roll - Survival, to see how long this storm is going to last, and an idea how bad it is going to be.
He's going to use a round of Dreamsight shifting to get a +2 to wisdom for the check. The Dc is only 17, but I'm hoping to get a good idea of how long the storm will last in hours.
(1d20+17)[34]

[Galvain7]

-The storm will last exactly 8 hours and 37 minutes, ending just after midnight. There will be 5.2 inches of rain, but the heaviest part will fall just at the base of the Mountains (10 miles from your present location), for 1 hour and 21 minutes before the worst of it is spent. The rain water will be cold, yet delicious to drink.

[TheMightyQuinn]

The Mighty Quinn

*With a deep breath, Quinn pulls himself away from the repreive of his embrace with the natural world and stands, dusting his clothes off before walking slowly to the rest of the group.*

"Well, I've got good news and bad news, gentlemen. The good news is that we'll be staying dry tonight. The bad news is that it's not going to make a lick of difference whether we follow the trail now, or after the rain falls - we're going to have a rough time of it either way."

*Giving a stretch, he pulls a small bundle from his pack and starts removing his tent, along with some gear, placing the items alongside a tree.*
"As it turns out, what gods there may be have decided we look like a good group to piss on this night. If we go stumbling through the woods in the rain and dark of the night, it'd prove as useful as teats on a boar. We'd likely stumble into an ambush or some other danger - like hunting animals. Our best chance is going to be picking the trail up at first light, as much as I hate following cold trails."

*Pausing for a moment, he straightens and looks over to Pan.*
"That is, of course - assuming you're amendable to making a secure camp and setting up proper watch to make sure whomever concocted this scheme doesn't have more success with a second run, though I think it unlikely. It's more likely they'll have the skilled woodsmen they pay sneak in tonight to deal with us."

*He blinks a couple times and smiles.* "Oh, yes - did I mention that? They've got men skilled in woodcraft helping them out. The tracks were all around that blasted circle - and I mean that literally and figureatively. They even led right up to the tool cart, which is why those are missing. Might be important to know we're likely to have company."

[Galvain7]

"Oh. Bugger." Pandashar smacks a fist into his other gloved handed.

"Woodsman you say? Hill Folk, or I am a trice damned horse theif."

Fish Eye nods.

"You are a horse theif," mumbles Baby-Face, sullenly. The look Pandahar gives him is pure murder, but he says nothing about it.

"Right then. Camp it is. ... ... But not here. Quinn, we must backtrack and pick the trail up again at the camp. This place is too... exposed. Our job is to kill the monster, and the camp has their own guards. A warning for them, and then we we ride. Fish-Eye? Somewhere dry and out of sight if you please."

In short order the soldiers and Quinn are mounted and moving, but with Fish-Eye in the lead. The Old Man winds his horse through the nicks and gullies of the hills forest seemingly without looking. His eyes are focused heavenward. Quinn does not fail to note that the mounted company is very quiet for a group of men on horseback. Every armor joint and strap has been obsessively oiled, and the saddle tack has been softened. All the weapons are held in padded sheaths or mounts, and every bit of metal has been blackened. The horses have padded rags around their feet.

The rain is just beginning to sprinkle when Fish-Eye leads the group to a rocky hollow on a lake shore. The pebbled beach is narrow on the approaches to the hallow, and the horses knock gravel loose. Any approaching person would do the same.

Fish Eye dismounts without a word.
"Baby Face. You'll take the first watch. No fires."
"But the newest man always does first watch. That's Quinn!"
"Hmm? Is that written somewhere? Do reavers and horse thieves have a code? The Commander picks watches. You are welcome to the whip if you can take it."

Bristle-Beard snorts. Fish Eye says nothing. Pandashar and Baby-Face lock eyes for the barest of instances before Baby-Face turns away and kicks the dirt, stomping off the the mouth of the hollow.

"Everyone get some rest. I take the second watch, Bristle-Beard the third. The Old Man is exempt. Quinn did well today,"- Pandashar directs the comment at everyone but does not look at Quinn. -"-but we will need his eyes tomorrow."

[TheMightyQuinn]

The Mighty Quinn

*With a nod of satisfaction at the competence of the group, Quinn rides in silence, simply watching his surroundings. When they finally find their place, Quinn nods and sets to work with his own gear. The compliment was not lost on him, but he let it be. A job is a job, and if a job is worth doing, it was worth doing right.*

*After only a couple of minutes, the steady sound of rain in the distance was closing the distance to the camp, and Quinn was finished setting up his own equipment, a small metal skillet in his hand as he approaches Pan.*
"I must say. I'm surprised by the competence of your group. I didn't expect them to be so.... organized."

*with a shrug, he holds up the pan.*
"A little something I picked up back the road a ways. Doesn't need a fire to cook, and I figure the men could use a hot meal on a cold night. Rain will pull the smell right down, won't even get a score feet away. What do you say, bossman?"

OOC:

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Yaay for magical frying pans that don't need flames! I figured it'd be something a halfling would have. lol

[Galvain7]

"Lots of experience. Not all of it good."

Pandashar looks at the magic frying pan skeptically. "If you pan does what you say, then I see no reason why not. Truly, I do not relish eating cold meals any more than the next."

Bristle-Beard is genuinely impressed.
"Now, there's a handy tool! I've ner' seen the like."

Quinn's timely unveiling of a heated dinner further soothes his initiation into the group, and the evening passes uneventfully until morning, when Six Squirrels bounds into the hallow.

"Warg Warg! Best Warg! Come see! I found it I did! Treats! Free Treats! Best Kind. Found. Me."

Six-Squirrels' treat is the severed head of a deer ramped on a sharpened stake. The animals guts were heaped in a pile at the bottom. The head had the ears and ears cut out, and little circles of blood were crudely painted on its face.

"Free Treat!"

"Fish Eye?"

"Hill Folk, same as Quinn found at the camp. No eyes for seeing. No ears for seeing. 5 circles for each of us, the guts. Pretty sure I don't need to explain that one. See how the head faces our resting spot? They knew we were there."

Bristle Beard mutters something dark and blasphemous. "Why did they try us in the night?"

"Because our backs were safe. Could only come at us one way. Who knows? Ambush is more their style, like a big cat maybe. Only jump you when your back is turned. They remember you, Bristles, and Pandashar and me."

"Can we try to smooth this over diplomatically? You know their leaders, and we have not had bad luck with talking before."

Fish Eye shakes his head."This is different. This-" he gestures at the gruesome display the Wargs are now picking at. "is a bad sign."

"We'll try talking if we can. No reason solving one problem only to start- What is it, Warg?"

"Bad medicine. Bad treat, no good."

"Oh for the love of- poison! They know we have the Wargs!

Just then the two beasts begin to hurk in unison, eventually vomiting all over the gruesome totem.
"Yesh. Bad medicine. Kingslayer. Pffft."

"Ah. Arsenic. No worries then." He turns to Quinn. "Both animals were trained court pups when we got them. Not as mean or keen as your standard Warg, but more vocal, better behaved. And their noses are still good. A little eager though. Smell the treats better next time you two!"

****
The party makes its way back to the campsite, where the trail of the horses was last night. "Can you still find the trail Quinn?"

[TheMightyQuinn]

The Mighty Quinn

*As they settle in, Quinn does as good a job as he can with the rations they have available. He seems to have a little of everything in his pack, and he's skilled at improvising. After only a short while, he manages a hot meal that the group can enjoy, giving a small flourishing bow when the meal was done.*
"I've found that as hard as the ground may be, as miserable as the weather, a warm meal helps make it all seem bearable."

*As the group finds the skewered head, Quinn sighs and makes a symbol to ward off evil, shaking his head slowly.*
"A simple thrown dagger or well-placed arrow could have delivered the message just as easily. I suppose they at least didn't let the meat go to waste."
*with a glance at the others, he shrugs* "My mum always said - waste not, want not."

*As the wargs retch up the poisoned innards, Quinn covers his mouth, but reaches out to pat one solidly on the back.*
"There you go - good boy. Get it all up."

*As the party makes their way back to the camsite, Quinn heads to the spot the horses had been tethered and hops off the wargs back, taking a moment to scratch behind his ear before setting to the task. Pickign up the trail after only a few moments, Quinn sets out at a fast walk*
"Indeed, sir, I can - the trail leads this way, and I'd suggest we pick up the pace, lest we loose our quarry for good."

OOC:

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Craft - cooking roll, for fun.
(1d20+9)[17]

Survival to follow tracks.
The Dc should be 15 for firm ground. There were two boot-wearers and horses, so -1 for four creatures in the group.
size of creature being tracked - large for another -1
Every 24 hours since the trail was made - +2 for 2 days, right?
9 hours (roughly) of rain, for another +9
that should be a check of 24 to follow the tracks for the first mile, with a +2 for the others in the group, since I'm assuming they're going to aid another.
(1d20+16)[30]

Edit: Derp. forgot the +2. so that's 32 - enough to move at full speed while tracking.
I should have probably done more rolls to see how far I managed to track them, so -
roll 2 - 18+18 = 36
roll 3 - 14 +18 = 32
roll 4 - 13+18 = 31

[Galvain7]

Never one to disappoint, Quinn easily finds the trail despite the rain and passage of time and sets off at a brisk pace. The rest of the company follows behind, moving as quietly as skilled riding and preparations allow. By now the Wargs have recovered their vigor from this mornings bad breakfast and they dart around the group like shadows on all sides, red eyes gleaming with excitement.

The mystery riders did not bother to conceal their trail, and took the smoothest route through the wilderness. A few times the trail takes a turn, only to double back on itself and take another direction. Later on the Quinn's group comes to a stream where the mystery riders had stopped to water their horses and rest themselves: A patch of matted grass under a tree indicates at least two riders lay there to sleep, for as much as two hours.

If the riders are afraid of the Hill Folk, they certainly did not show it. The rest spot is in the open. Quinn's eyes also do not fail to detect two more clay vials like the one recovered from the spell-site. But with an added bonus: A third vial is left unopened in the mud by the steam. The knot holding the vial to a pouch or belt came untied and the vial must have slipped unnoticed to the ground.

The trail continues into the mountains, and the terrain becomes more rocky and hilly. The rain fail heavily here, but once again Quinn's sharp eyes prove the better and the party winds their way cautiously upward. Another set of tracks joins the riders, a Hill Folk by his shoes. The slipper wearer moves in front of the front of the party and begins to take them on a very difficult track into the mountains. The mystery-riders' pace slows considerably at this point.

Quinn and the rest have been moving many hours at this point, and the autumn sun is well past its zenith.

[TheMightyQuinn]

The Mighty Quinn

*Quinn doesn't speak as they follow the tracks, focusing his attention on the trail and his surroundings - obviously, the Hill folk knew thew were about. The message this morning was clear about that, but like any predators, they wouldn't reveal themselves until it served their purpose. Still. There was a chance that they might slip up and reveal their presence, so Quinn kept his eyes and ears open.*

*When they come upon the temporary camp, Quinn follows the footprints around their paths, finding the small vial along the waterway, Quinn smiles and holds it up, making sure to touch it as little as possible as he carries it to the Wargs.*
"Time to be best wargs - smell - this is our prey. Can you smell him? Must remember smell - smell will get you treats. Fleshy, meaty treats. Smell."

*With a smile, he holds the vial up for the wargs to smell to their hearts content. He'd rather they get a solid whiff of whatever scent might remain from the previous owner than rush them. When they seemed confident they'd attained what they could, he slips the vial into one of his innumerable pockets and gives them a toothy grin.*
"There. Good wargs. Best wargs."

*As they follow the tracks higher, to the point where the group catches up to the hill folk, Quinn stops and shakes his head.*
"Not good, gentlemen. Our quarry has increased in numbers, and the hill folk aren't likely to leave such an obvious trail. On top of that, they almost certainly know we're hot on their trail now - or at least we'd be wise to assume the worst. We can expect the trail ahead to hold traps and ambushes if that is the case, and joy of joys, they'll have the high ground, as well as home ground."

*With a glance up at the sky, he takes a moment to get a feel for the weather once more, giving a shrug.*
"We don't have much time before sunset, and I think it best we find a solidly defendable position for camp tonight. I'd bet my boots we'll be watched again. We can pick up the trail in the morning, assuming more hill-folk don't come through and try to hide it. Still - it's a better chance than trying to follow the tracks through the dark."

OOC:

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Survival to tell the weather is pretty much assured to succeed, but I like details.
(1d20+16)[33]

And Survival to find a good spot to set camp
(1d20+16)[33]

[Galvain7]

*The Wargs cluster eagerly around the clay vial, sniffing excitedly. "... ... Man flesh! Man flesh! Has!" They lick Quinns hands, making sure to separate the the Halflings' scent from whatever is on the vial. "Has has has! Hunting and finding, finding and killing, Killing and eating?!""

"Yes Warg. Good Warg. Om nom nom nom."

"Om nom nom nom!" They repeat excitedly.

From that point on all talk of being the best warg ceases, replaced with the much more ominous Om nom nom nom, which the Warg's whisper to each other and to Quinn with an almost maliciously gleeful sing song voice: "Hunting and finding, finding and killing, crunch crunch nom nom yummy tummy Warg! Hey!"

"Och. It sounds bad now," Bristle-Beard says in a whisper. "But you get about 50 of em' going and they start sing'n it all round robin like, from everyplace. I swear the old one's learn to throw their voice like a puppet mummer..."

The weather looks dreadful, and an expert knowledge of meteorology informs Quinn that this is the standard climate for the season. The sea is far to the South, and the valleys and hills act like a funnel for the warm ocean breezes until they ram into the mountains in the North and West and dump buckets of rain onto the valleys, which is more or less where the party of troopers and Wargs find themselves right now.

Quinn's quest for shelter leads the party up a rocky pathway toward a cave that promises to provide ample shelter and defense for the party, when a peircing howl cuts through the air.

Suddenly a volley of missiles rains down on the party from the ridge-line above their heads, and an entirely human howl boils through the valley as the Hillfolk erupt from their ambush positions.

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The Enemy:
The Hillfolk are all short, stocky humans, their features obscured by warpaint made from ash, lyme and animal blood. They are armed with a mismatched array of stolen or crudely fashioned weapons, and their armor consists of roughly sewn together hides and bone.

The Terrain:
The party is marching in the following line: Quinn, Pandashar, Fish-Eye, Baby-Face, Bristle-Beard (And for simplicity's sake this is also the initiative). The party faces West, and is going up hill. To the North is a steep ridge-line (Climb DC 17) where the hillfolk ambushers are located, roughly 30 feet up. To the South is a sheer cliff face, with an unknown depth. The distance between the edge of the cliff face and the beginning of the ridge is 15ft, or three squares.

The Enemy:
6 Hillfolk skirmishers armed with javelins and short bows are at the top of the Ridgeline to the North, with 3/4ths cover. 3 more Hillfolk armed with long spears are on the path directly in front of Quinn, about 30ft away. The spears are lowered and braced, as if expecting a cavalry charge. Quinn can hear, but not see, and unknown number of Hillfolk at the rear of the column.

Initiative:
The howl counted as a warning and so Quick-footed Quinn was not caught off guard, but the others were not so lucky. The Hillfolk used the surprise round to throw spears and fire arrows, none of which struck Quinn, but many missiles did strike the rest of the group, although Quinn cannot see who at the moment.

The battle round goes as follows
Quinn
Hillfolk 1-?
Pan
all the rest.
If you have any questions about the fight please ask! I borrowed some generic warrior types from the PF SRD.

[TheMightyQuinn]

The Mighty Quinn

*As the warcry sails out over the group, over the edge of the cliff and beyond, Quinn is already in motion, rolling down off the back of the warg, his reflexes carrying him out of the path of the oncoming missiles, and time seems to stretch thin for a moment as Quinns eyes scan the enemy, still in mid-roll. Higher ground was always a problem - the ambush was well laid, but entirely expected. Ahead, behind, and above - first target is above. They pose the greatest danger.*

*As his body turns into a roll, Quinn brings his legs underneath, the muscles already loose and ready to spring with explosive force as his feet touch the ground. From the corner of his eye, he can see the various projectiles as they streak towards the group, but his momentum carries him well away from their intended targets.*

*The others in the party are unlikely to see his movements as they're quite occupied with the deadly projectiles rocketing towards them, but if they were given the opportunity to observe, they'd still have a hard time keeping track of his hands and feet as he scrambles up the cliff faster than any person should be able, never breaking his momentum in the least, from leap, to chaotic scramble, and finally to his foot hitting the lip of the ridge as he jumps a second time, bounding up into the air above the attackers, his warsling already loaded and spinning before he's reached the peak of his arc.*

*Twisting in mid-air with a howl as loud as the attackers had been, Quinn lets the skiprock fly at the first completion of his first rotation, the perfectly smooth stone flies through the air with lethal precision, catching the first warrior cleanly in the side of the temple before ricocheting into the warrior next to him with nearly the same precision.*

*As Quinn lands, his hands have already reloaded the sling and it's spinning viciously as he picks out his next targets, his eyes wild as he screams.*
"Have at you, cowards!"

OOC:

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Alright! That should be daring enough to stay in character. I have no doubts that there is more to come!
Anyways, I figure I'd best explain how I'm doing all of this - Skill tricks!
Now, First is leaping climber - if he succeeds at a jump check, Dc - 10, he can add the result of the jump check to his climb check. Speedy Ascent - if he succeeds at a climb check to move normally, he can add 10 feet to the distance he's climbed.

So, to start -
Jump check - 19+13 acrobatics = 32. This would give him a result of 8 feet
climb check - 18 + 10 climb (-5 for moving at 1/2 speed) = 23, so definitely enough to make the dc.
So, jump check, 8 feet. 1/2 speed- 15 ft, 10 foot for speedy ascent, brings this total to 33 feet, enough to take him up the cliff, and over into a leap, giving him a +1 bonus for higher ground.... Heeheheehehe.

Now! That's his attack action (the jump check is a swift action, the climb a move, which leaves him a standard action to attack!)
the spin is just a bit of flair, and doesn't really add anything to his attack.

His attack with the halfling warsling does 1d6 damage, +2 for strength. +1 for his gladiator mask, +2 for halfling specialization, +1 for higher ground (I think.... nope. just to attack)
So, Attack roll - 20 + 17 = 37
Confirmation is 19 + 17 = 36
That's an insane crit, since the crit multipliar is x 4
Damage - 1d6 - 3 +5 = 8 = 32 points for a crit, or enough to turn what brains the man had into a massive puddle of goop.

the second roll wasn't a crit, but it got a -2 penalty.
Attack roll - 18 + 17 = 35
Damage - 1d6+5 = 10

And reloading is a free action, so yay! Should be enough to scare the daylights out of the attackers!

[Galvain7]

OCC: I didn't know you were riding the Warg! That's good though. Which of the two are you riding?

Normally a halfling skip stone skips, as implies the name. However, brute strength born of berserk fury was not the intended use of the weapon.

The result was still terrifying.

The Halfling moves with such fluid grace over heads of his foes that the first target doesn't even have time to turn, and is totally unaware of his gruesome doom. The rock impacts the man's face from the side with such force that it explodes like a ripe July watermelon hit with a 10 pound maul. But the missile is not done moving.

Passing through the face mist, now with a slight downward angle, the rock impacts the second man just has he turns to behold is comrade's unholy end, catching him right below the sternum. He falls, his deadweight limbs tangling with the terrified third fighter who is knocked off balance, dropping his spear. The fourth fighter screams and in his haste to get away from the devil-in-miniature goes tumbling down the hillside and into the melee.

"Break through! Push to the other side and turn!" screams Pandashar, spurning his mount straight toward the waiting spearmen, who brace again. Pandashar's spear catches the first in the chest, while his spiked shield catches another spearman as he passes who spins on one foot from the impact. The third spearman moves out of Pandashar's way only to be caught in the side by Fisheye and his spear. Baby Face tramples the skirmisher who fell off the hill earlier as he breaks out of the ambush.

Four Hillfolk ambushed from the rear of the column, all attacking Bristle-Beard. Two move to pull the bear-man off his mount, and get kicked by the horse in the face for their trouble. A third moves to grab at the bridle. Bristle-Beard roars and wraps a massive, gauntleted hand around the man's face, hurling him (one armed) over his head and off the side of the cliff. He then spurs his mount forward, leaving the fourth ambusher in the dust. The startled Hillfolk manages to throw his spear, catching Bristle-Beard between his shoulder blades as he rides away. The heavy brestplate deflects the blow, but the force knocks the air from the scarred man.

From his vantage point above the melee, Quinn hears a tremendous huff like a blacksmith's bellows eminate from the cave in front of Pandashar. A massive cave bear pokes his bone-armored head from the crevice. Quinn cannot help but smile. The bear is covered in hide and bone barding and blood-red warpaint, and two Hillfolk ride the bears' massive back. The first holds the reins in one hand and a long glaive in the other, while the second is naked except for some generous blue paint and a snakeskin loincloth, and he weilds a long thin stick.

With a scream the nearly naked blue man points his wand at the group of riders and activates it with a hiss. A small, growing ball of fire builds at the tip before exploding out at the knot of riders.

The resulting explosion is loud enough to move rocks and the riders disappear in a bloom of fire, smoke, blood and terrible screams. The bear riders charge into the smoke, intent on trampling anything that is left.

[TheMightyQuinn]

The Mighty Quinn

*As the first two enemies fall before him, Quinn doesn't pause - his comrades lives could very well rest on his success. He lets the second stone fly at two of the remaining enemies, before spinning towards the edge of the cliff - and making a running leap towards the group of riders and their bear-back opponents, screaming the whole way, a wicked looking machete appearing in one hand as he lands with a roll, trailing smoke and dirt as he lands, he seems to shimmer and fade into the vapors for a moment, though it must surely be a trick of the eye. He squares off before the beast, clearing his mind for the task at hand.*
"The riders! The riders! Leave the beast to me!"

OOC:

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Alright, so first - attack roll
20+16 (-1 from last round, since he doesn't have the high ground anymore.)
= 36
Crit confirmation - 16+16 = 32
Damage - 8 x 4 = 32 again.
.... I think I'm in love with the warsling.

Rebound attack - at a -2 penalty
12+14 = 26
Damage - 5+5 = 10 points

After that, he's taking a move action to move the 30 feet forward, and make a running leap, hopefully to place himself between the group of riders and the bear.
Acrobatics - 5+18 = 23, which is enough for a 20 ft running long jump, which should be enough to put me right where I want to be!

Now for the matter of falling damage - Now, if a character takes any damage from a fall, they fall prone, which is a problem - so I'm going to use my immediate action for the turn as he lands to activate his Dreamsight shifting for 1 round, and with his headband, he turns ethereal until the start of his next turn, so he's going to land, and in the chaos of the battle, seem to shimmer in the heat for a moment. Good stuff.

[Galvain7]

The original ambushers' fighting spirit is now completely broken, and the remaining two turn to flee only to be slain by the whirling death of the sling stones.

A horrifying war howl erupts out of the cloud of smoke and dust left of the riders, as Pandashar Mountjoy runs screaming out of the melee. His cloak and halburk are smoking, and his face is a mess of black ash and burns. As he surges along his hand whips his, well, whip out and the long barbed chain catches the forward riding hill-warrior across the chest, tearing him from the saddle.

The blue man surveys the scene of carnage with twisted eyes and laughs. He draws a long, wicked obsidian knife from his loin cloth and lays his knife across his middle, tearing a long horizontal cut just above his belly button. A trio of blue snakes spill out of the mass of guts and blood, and the blue man laughs once more.

Meanwhile the bear builds speed, heading straight for Quinn. The blue man spits out a Guttural taunt in a gratting, inhuman double voice:
"CoMEliTtle MaN! YoUr TrICkss CaNnOT SSSaVe YoU fRoM ME!! HAWHAWHAWsss!

[TheMightyQuinn]

The Mighty Quinn

*As the massive beast charges, Quinn stands his ground, moving with a viper speed to dodge the worst of the bears attack, attempting to lock eyes with the animal in a contest of wills - it was risky, but necessary - the beast was only doing as commanded, and he was loathe to strike down such a magnificent creature if it could be helped.*

OOC:

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Alright! This is where that natural 20 comes into play! For the wild empathy check to calm the bear - Now, A natural 20, while still a 20, gets the following adjustments = +1 for ranger level, +5 for wisdom, an Inspiration point for another +3, and +2 racial - that totals up to 32. Unfortunately, rushing a wild empathy check as a full round action gets a -10 penalty, which brings it to a 22.
Now, I'd like to use his exploitive maneuver, but it requires a combat maneuver check, against his CMD... so that's Bab (+6), Dex, for Quinn is 7, and size of +1 - so +14.
(1d20+14)[18]
So - my plan is to use the exploitive maneuver to let the bear make his attack, and dodge out of the way, locking eyes with it to stare it down, and add his wisdom bonus to his wild empathy check.
Annnddd....
let's hope he doesn't roll well for that one. Regardless. With it, his check is 26, without, a 22.