[IC] Average Joes, D&D 3.5 Experts

[Toska Moriarty]

Corin

Several loud clangs echo through the smithy, steel being slammed against other metals and stone, several such pieces of metal dropping to the floor. Rounding a corner from the open-air forge into the actual smithy, Corin moves rather quickly for an older gentleman, barrel-chest covered by twin armfuls of weapons; the very last of his stock.

Unable to see due to his load, Corin merely bellows out as he shoves past Siel into the street: "Yes! This is the rest 'a 'em! 'Ere!!"

He drops the piles onto the ground several feet from the doorway; blades, maces, several daggers, and other items clang to the ground, echoing like thunder. Turning, he notices Siel, and for the briefest of moments, a large grin spreads across the other-wise grouchy smith's face.

"Ah ha HA! I would 'ave bet quite the pile 'a coin that you wouldn't run from such rabble!"
He reaches out, clasping a massive, rough hand onto Siel's shoulder and squeezing. A friendly gesture, sure, but the enthusiasm was a bit much. Especially in a time of panic. As people begin snatching up weapons from the last pile, he reaches inside the door and lifts the hand-and-a-half sword that had been leaning by the door, with the hand that wasn't on Siel's shoulder (of course).

"Thank ye' again for yer' 'elp yesterday, I owe 'ya a helluva' debt. What would you like fer' arms? You seem comf-ter-bull with tha' smaller blades, but I could help ya' well enough for whichever ye' want, so long as yer' quick and willin' ta' use 'em!"

Corin points with the huge sword to the diminishing piles as he speaks, voice booming despite their proximity. Even with all this enthusiasm, his eyes scanned the horizon for rising dust and powder, signals that mounted bandits were nearing.

[Noctemwolf]

Corin

Several loud clangs echo through the smithy, steel being slammed against other metals and stone, several such pieces of metal dropping to the floor. Rounding a corner from the open-air forge into the actual smithy, Corin moves rather quickly for an older gentleman, barrel-chest covered by twin armfuls of weapons; the very last of his stock.

Unable to see due to his load, Corin merely bellows out as he shoves past Siel into the street: "Yes! This is the rest 'a 'em! 'Ere!!"

He drops the piles onto the ground several feet from the doorway; blades, maces, several daggers, and other items clang to the ground, echoing like thunder. Turning, he notices Siel, and for the briefest of moments, a large grin spreads across the other-wise grouchy smith's face.

"Ah ha HA! I would 'ave bet quite the pile 'a coin that you wouldn't run from such rabble!"
He reaches out, clasping a massive, rough hand onto Siel's shoulder and squeezing. A friendly gesture, sure, but the enthusiasm was a bit much. Especially in a time of panic. As people begin snatching up weapons from the last pile, he reaches inside the door and lifts the hand-and-a-half sword that had been leaning by the door, with the hand that wasn't on Siel's shoulder (of course).

"Thank ye' again for yer' 'elp yesterday, I owe 'ya a helluva' debt. What would you like fer' arms? You seem comf-ter-bull with tha' smaller blades, but I could help ya' well enough for whichever ye' want, so long as yer' quick and willin' ta' use 'em!"

Corin points with the huge sword to the diminishing piles as he speaks, voice booming despite their proximity. Even with all this enthusiasm, his eyes scanned the horizon for rising dust and powder, signals that mounted bandits were nearing.

Siel Skyfallen

A little frazzled by the blacksmith's shove and subsquent warm welcome, Siel cough to clear his throat.
"The guard captain pointed me in your direction. And, thank you," Siel says, picking up a new dagger and, since he had actually used one in his younger days as part of the church, a small mace.

"The captain told me you could help in delivering... This."

His fist trembles as he holds out the small stone.

"He said it needs to go to Treycona, and he decided I would be the best one to do it, for some reason."

[Toska Moriarty]

Slightly off-put, the smith buries the tip of the blade into the ground and crosses his arms, lower lip protruding in a pout. "'E would'n rather me stay 'ere an 'elp? Tha' fool."

Reaching out, his massive calloused hand easily dwarfs Siel's, and he re-closes the smaller man's fist around the stone. "Ifin' 'e wants ya' ta' keep it safe, ya' better do so, man..."

He inhales deeply, looking again towards the direction the guards were heading. "I can't quite leave 'ere in good standin', lad. I 'ave no connection 'ere, but I need ta' see whose comin'. I'll leave with ya' if its not them, but if it is, I'm gunna' stand 'ere."

[Malachite]

Siel takes the offered hand hesitantly. "Right... I don't think I should head out with this alone, so I'll head to the keep now and wait for you there. Zethos protect you."
That said, the elf heads off to join the last of the crowds of people heading uphill.

Barely minutes behind them, there comes the tramping sound of the town militia following behind. By now there are near on a hundred and fifty men armed with spears and shields following the captain, ranging from young men in their late teens to grizzled men well past their prime. Most look worried about the impending battle, but there is a determined aura about them. These men will not give up their lives meekly.

The guard captain spots Corin as they pass and calls out.
"Hey, what are you still doing here? The scouts say they're only half an hour or so out. No time to leave now, you'd best head up to the keep with us!"

[Toska Moriarty]

Corin, sword in hand, takes a mighty stretch, nearly roaring as he does so. HIs bones were getting older, true, but he could still fight.

"I ain't plannin' on runnin' away from a few brazen bandits, cap'n!" He looks over the meager smithy and chuckles; is this what he wanted to defend? No. Looking the other way, Siel was indistinguishable among the other refugees. They had some solid distance. Good.

"If you'd 'ave me, I'm with ya'. " he calls out, taking several steps before breaking into a jog behind them, breath making clouds in the chilly air. What better way to get a look at the offenders then a half foot away and a sword in their gullet?

[Malachite]

The captain nods, but his expression stays grim.

"There's more than a few bandits," he says. "And I'd as soon you and the elf had been away and safe. Still, I'll be grateful for your help."

It takes another quarter of an hour to reach the keep in Upper Stowford, at the top of the the hill, by which time the incoming riders have reached the lower town. Other than being mounted, it is still too far to make out much about them, other than a black banner bearing a clenched fist in red.

Once inside, you see that the keep is a large stone building made to protect the village populations, surrounded by a ditch and a rough wooden wall eight feet high with a larger gatehouse set into it.

The captain sets one hundred and twenty of his men to man the walls, splitting the remaining thirty into three ten-man reserve units to reinforce where needed. Upper Stowford seems to have its own militia - thirty-odd bowmen, who have taken up positions on top of the keep to give covering fire.

You are free to join the militia wherever you feel you can do the most good.