The Principality of Valorium. [IC]

[Duke of URL]

Trevor

Okay... we probably should have expected this... actually, it's kind of funny seeing this riff-raff run around frightened, but they could incite a mob if left unchecked... Time to turn on the old charm, then...

"Wait! Do not be alarmed -- these troglodytes come peacefully to parley with the rulers of Re-Marr! Do not be frightened!"

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Diplomacy - (1d20+9)[22]

[Grey_Wolf_c]

Caleun Tranil

"Ummm... this is going better than I expected. I actually thought they'd shoot first and run for help later. Someone should go to talk to the elders and explain the situation before the city watch comes running with the weapons out and this goes down the drain," Caleun calmy mentions, "Soren, you would be my first choice, but the trogs probably would feel safer if you stay with them. I can go, too, but I'd rather someone come with me, if so. Other options?"

[Glyphic]

The two youths present swing their eyes to Trevor as his voice breaks out. "We'll run ahead and tell Gerald!" one bursts, eager for an excuse to get away. Both of them turn their worn boots, scampering off in the direction of the other boys.


With a hint of understanding, Bethany spits short words in Giant to her clan. Javelins, clubs, and some less interesting sacs form a pile at the edge of town. The few sacs they do keep, you know to hold bones and teeth of their ancestors. In total, there are Nine Troglodytes: Three Children, Bethany, Leen, two unnamed females, Two males.

[Beschoren]

Tanstafaal

Damm. Merde. I'm Tired. I truly hope Gerald and his ghost-bride don't invite us for lunch. Otherwise I'll "meditate" with my face on the dishes.

[Miraqariftsky]

Soren Solaren

Chink there canters in
The scrawny horse
Bought for coin and whisky

The green grass trod
Weeps for its shattered dew
As Pu'ur's light over the land
Does warmly wash

The rider, Solaren
With heart heaving
From morn's meditation
Once more does breathe as sigh
And silent pray

As eyelids close
In seeming sleep
Words of the soul
Once more he speaks
A petition he begs
That folk be understanding

Scale and skin
Similitude holds them all...

Black eyes ope
To pale morning sky
Forth he fares
With snickering steed

Dismounts at Bethany's side
To the outcast clan, holds he his hands
High he heaves his voice yet clear and says,
"Fear not, young ones. Fret not, ye of the Crescent Moon
Day is come. The light shall all dark doubts devour"

[Glyphic]

Off in the distance, you hear Re-marrs inhabitants congregating.. Whispers to Pu'ur and other gods rumble from the center of town. Groggy barks and yaps soon follow. Arguementative voices grow louder, near shouting level. A hush decends upon the morning, as a large bronze bell resounds in the distance.

Geral's voice, firm and certain reaches you, "There will be no blood spilled today!" Murmurings begin again, but do not draw closer.

[Duke of URL]

Trevor

Trevor addresses Geral as he approaches. "These troglodytes came peacefully to our encampment. The information they bring is... interesting."

[Beschoren]

Tasntafaal

The young elf does seem tired and bored. He constantly sights and takes a deep look into nowhere, as if staring tiny specs of dust that hypnotically hold his attention. He barely raise his eyeborrow as the crowd ghathered, only slowly turning his head for them as he heard Gerald's voice.

"no blood spilled today"? does he have a crystal ball or he is really so naive and confident?
well, he is already wrong nevertheless...

He takes a quick look into Soren's cut hand, before taking attention to Trevor.
As Gerald aproches, his soldier posture is brought back.

[Glyphic]

You all make your way to the center of town, where some sixty people and dogs slouch in unease. Dogs yap, as the inhabitants of remarr hold their chains and rub their eyes. Gerald, along with a few well-known militia folk stand at the center of town, their attire and arms rushed and sloppy.

Directly opposing them, you realize the cause of Gerald's furious bellows. Two Fireteams, dressed thick, boiled leather. A charred crown is burnt on most of their uniforms. Two Corprals stand in attendance, hands rubbing the pommels of their scimitars. Before them is a man of Gerald's stature, enduring Gerald's shouts and spittle like a corpse playing sentry. The blackened mail this man bares identifies him as a Sargent. His yawning, disinterested expression identifies his opinion of Gerald. A closer squint reveals him nearing forty or fifty years in age; his skin is crinkling, his hair turned silver and black. His face holds a gaunt nose and a lingering sneer.

"A rock never breaks all in one day, Gerald. Your town won't weather a season of fire."

Both Gerald and this Sargent pause as your armored or scaled band approaches.. Those of the flame hooting and hollering, and a silence falling over Gerald.

From across the commons, the Sargent barks, "Corporal Nightshade! Your service is appreciated and finished! I've new orders for you and your fireteam!"

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Roughly, you're on the north end of the commons. The Members of the flame of the est approached from the west, and Gerald and townies are interspersed. A fireteam consists (typically) of four people. There are nine members of the flame present, excluding those in your party.

[Grey_Wolf_c]

Caleun Tranil

Caleun realises the chances for the situation to go from tense to "flamming" and nonchallantly adopts a defensive posture, keeping an eye on the sargent, and paying attention for any movement from the sides. His posture reveals little of this, having been in similar situations over the years of service, but if the Flames charge, he will not be surprised by it.

Not trusting himself to speak - they could still be looking for him, although he doubted he ranked high enough to merit two full fireteams plus a Flame Sargent - he risked a quick look towards Soren to see what his intentions were.

[Actions: Obviously Caleun cannot be surprised (Uncanny dodge), but if it comes down to a fight, Caleun will start in total defence until his first turn. Caleun will wait a prudential time for Soren to speak, but if nothing is forthcoming in a reasonable span, he will speak up. Whether this is obvious to anyone I supose will depend on their sense motive skill. He is not hiding this intention. However, he is hiding his preparation for combat (bluff +7)]

[Miraqariftsky]

Soren Solaren

Ah... the lowland savages are come, eh?

Soren's eyes narrow as the fireteams march out into the commons. The scarlet-tinged night-black goatee twitches ever so slightly as the young man deliberately unbuckles his sword-belt and takes the still-scabbarded into his right hand.

Blood from his open wound drips into the parched soil and slowly seeps into the leathern sheath. A faint scent of incense wafts from his palm as sacred smoke sears shut the injury.

Without looking, he says to Bethany out of the corner of his mouth, "Ogdurim zhath. Ormed dreah h'teal"

With only those words, he turns his attention fully to the... foreign devils... uncompromising, murderous zealots...

The scion of the Solaren bloodname strides forth, the dust of the parched earth rising, small stones ping-ing against his greaves and mail skirt. His head is bowed, his eyes are pools of shadow as he walks towards the followers of the Flame of the West.

FWWWWI-SHHHNKKK! foom! The claymore comes free in a sudden flash of flame and steel. Soren holds it high and places the blade on his pauldron, unperturbed by the searing heat.

His eyes burn with inner light, a golden radiance. His voice thunders with the roar of a blazing forge. "People of Re-marr, ye children of Pu'ur and Flame-bringers of the West! Hear my words!"

"Straight shall I speak, to the dust with eloquence!" he says, smashing out his left hand towards the ground.

"There is no need for strife this day. Yon scaled folk who have with us come seek shelter, company and aid! How can you call yourselves decent human beings when you will not deign to help them in their hour of need but rather come armed with fire and steel?" the passion rises in the paladin's voice, burning with indignation against the murderous--- or so he's read them claimed to be--- scum that has come upon them today. Had they not come in force and had the captain not uttered those contemptuous, hostile words, Soren might have held back... but no...

Pumping his blazing blade into the air, with spirit ablaze, he continues thusly... "The same, I say, holds true for all who breathe the breath of life! Be they round of ear or pointed, be they skinned or scaled, be they fair or foul of flesh, we all do have in our hearts that spark that can burn for Goodness' sake and burn through the night, through the Darkness that comes to devour us all! That is why we must hold true, that we must hold together and not be ever embroiled in mindless strife against one another, elsewise we through our fear and anger and hate shall feed the very Darkness against which we must ever strive..."

Soren then brings his sword low and extinguishes the blaze on the blade with a pass of his hand. His eyes still burning with an otherworldly flame, the light around him seems to sap away, replaced by encroaching shadows that reach for him, wrought of killing cold... He closes his eyes and then opens them once more, the pupils blazing white as he stabs his sword into the earth and a ring of flame erupts around him, banishing the sinister shadows. His own voice returns, rasping... "...Please, men of the West. Desist from your errand of destruction"

Translation:

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Make ready to fight or flee. This could get ugly...

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Diplomacy (1d20+5)[8]

Edit: Aw, crrrraaaaap!

Detect Evil, full spread!

[Grey_Wolf_c]

Oh my good Sune! thinks Caleun, hearing Soren go on his impassioned rant. And here I thought we stood a chance of getting out of here alive. Well, the boy's got spirit. Can't fault him for that. Taking chance of the stunned silence that spread after Soren's dramatic (and loud) words, Caleun takes the chance to speak, hopefully defusing the situation before it goes downhill.

(Note: going to see what my roll for diplomacy is to see what my tone should be like. If I have a bad roll, I'll do my best to rise to the occasion as magnifically as Nexus)

[roll0] (Using one charge of the wink brooch)

Caleun raises his voice so that all can hear his words, and proclaims,
"Peoples of Re-Marr, and of the Flame! Please heed onto my words before taking harsh and dangerous actions. I see in your faces fears and mistrust, but I assure you they have little place here, today. This troglodytes do not intend to harm you, as should be clear from the fact that they have come back with us, humans, with no complaints."

"We found these children - and children they are, young one and all, regardless of their race - lost in the forests, fleeing from a danger far greater than we could ever imagine. They never wished to harm us, and if we harm them, we shall never know of the danger that drove them from their lands! Will you take the risk of that danger spreading? A plague, and army, a demon? I have barely had the chance to talk to them, and what little I have heard fills my heart with dread, for I have not once heard of something like it. Peoples of Re-marr, soldiers of the Flame, listen!"

"Please do not act rashly, looking only at their shape, but look deeply into their eyes and into your own hearts. Do these companions of mine seem dangerous? Would an invading army bring their small ones with them? Would they look so hungry and desperate? Of course not! These are refugees, and regardless of what they are, they deserve to be listened to, and given a chance! We were chosen to go look for them, and so we did. We had the authority to speak with them, so we did. To the best of our abilities, we assure you they mean no harm and pose no danger to these village, and their knowledge of the darkness they flee from must be collected, or we face the same holocaust that affected their own tribes! People of the Flame, will you have that upon your head? Shall it be known that it was you, Sargent, that ignored the trumpet call of caution in your haste to attack?"

"Finally, a word of immediate caution. We promised these refugees safe passage and a meeting with the peoples of Re-Marr. We have the authority to do so, and if anyone attempts to block our purpose, we will not hesitate to defend those under our protection. We shall do this with heavy hearts, because this is not the time for petty squabbles, so please listen to my words and calm down, so that today can become a day of peace!"

[Note: Ok, that sounds about right. Thanks for your patience - particularly if you read through that entire block of text]

[Grey_Wolf_c]

(1d20+13)[29] (Using one charge of the wink brooch)

Sorry for the roll mistake. I had an error at posting, and when attempting to repost, I didn't realise it had changed the troll html:
(1d20+13)[29] (Using one charge of the wink brooch)

[Beschoren]

Tasntafaal

...wine and pillow just have to wait a little bit more...
whispers: "This is somewhat unexpected. Why they would send more people here? it's just a backdoor village... Corporal, I abide by your decision."...I'm not willing to die to defend some troglodites, but i'm taking the risk to get some slices of tenfold-war-prisioner-revenge over the flame...

The bow is (slowly) brought to hand, and the eyes matches the crowd and the buildings.

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is there any place very good to hide, or a house that could be climbed up to the roof? please make a map, it would clear my mind

[Duke of URL]

Trevor

From across the commons, the Sargent barks, "Corporal Nightshade! Your service is appreciated and finished! I've new orders for you and your fireteam!"

Trevor is about to start arguing that if his assignment is finished, he's likewise done with his obligation to the Flame, and new orders can stuff themselves, but then Soren and Caleun start speaking their pieces. Well, this is going to be fun. And if those Flame zealots think I'll be fighting on their side should it come to that, they're in for a nasty shock.

He whispers a rushed, insistent message to the young troglodyte at his side. "Draka zar ona rani jorkany'k... yv ryymarra cnaogk y'd, n'r o'oi -- raoj ryndr orj aokd, orj Y 'ymm zaad iy' drana modan yv Y ror."

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Translation (DM's eyes only):

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Yeah, nice try. Translation actually PM'd.

[Glyphic]

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Had a slight mapping problem. Here's the link.
http://www.freewebs.com/gryphonnorin/reemarr1.JPG

Also: You do have room to hide and climb up on the near-by barn. Just hope its in good repair :p

Also: Bethany, Leen, and all your other favorite Troglodytes will be placed on the map shortly.

The sleepy citizens rouse as Soren's words sweep over the commons. A number of Pu'ul's devoted let forth a Sanctimonious cry, adding their flames of hope to his. It's good to note, a number of militia attended Soren's Services..

A man named Akos heralds, after Caluen's speach, "Holocaust; darkness! I know I felt each of these last night, and everyone's tucking their heads in their shirts! I'll house those troglodytes for a year if they know what in soot's dust is going on!"

A number of mothers, fathers, place their eyes on their own children, before turning back to look at the thin-framed Troglodytes within your party..

Sargent Brannis's eyes never leave Gerald, but his cracked lips mutate into a smile on the man's aged face, "Gerald, you picked the last of the dreamers. But look at them! Brimming with hope, and passion." His eyes turn to your group, his eyes squinting in the new light. "Gerald.. This should've happened twenty years ago."

Sargent Brannis' Saber is out of it's sheath before Gerald can grip his own blade. A violent eruption of magic pulses with radiant purple light as Sargent Brannis splashes Gerald's blood into the air. The second Corporal smashes his boot into Gerald's knee sending him to the dirt.

The Privates reach for weapons, ranging from bows to staves and swords. Their voices crack like laughing dogs, as the descend on the Militia men. One in particular, sends a set of arrows at Dwarven Citizen..

Horrified voices shriek and shout as the firefight begins. "Gerald! Gerald, get up!" rises above the frothy combat..


[It is your Team's turn to act. Initiative will be rolled using Sargent Brannis and the last member of your team to take action.]

[Duke of URL]

Trevor

The warlock rushes forward and lets loose a blast of energy at the sergeant. "Consider this my resignation."

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Move to within 60'. Eldritch blast Attack - (1d20+6)[15] ranged touch, Damage - (2d6)[9]

[Beschoren]

Tanstafaal

The bloodrops in the air, ungently taken from gerald's flesh, made the youg elf's eyes widen. At the same time, he starts moving as if in a erradicly path, with the head low and the magical bow,"Mensager", right front of him, on his fully streched arm. His right hand flyes to the leather quiver in his back, taking the day's first arrow VENGEANCE!
he quicklly moves to the front of the barn, and shoots one of the privates
"I'm with you, former corporal!"

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hp:29 AC:20 I'll move to the east side of the 1° bush just close to the barn and shoot private 3.
Atack: (1d20+8)[13]
damage:(1d6+2)[6]

[Grey_Wolf_c]

Caleun Tranil

As soon as the sargent touches his sword, Caleun realises what is about to happen and explodes into action. "Damn. Too far. Too far!" he thinks as he sprints towards the group. As he runs, he invokes the magic of his hat, changing it into a ribbon that holds his long hair back, and draws his Cinquedea with his left hand and his crossbow with his right. Heading directly at the wagons between him and Gerald, Caleun suddenly drops into a roll and propels himself up into the air, trying to reach the top of the wagon[1].

As he finishes his acrobatics, he takes aim at the private whose back is to him and shoots, while maintaining motion to make himself a difficult target[2]. "With his back to me, he won't even see the arrow coming! Eat this!"

Actions (spoilered for space):

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[0] Initiative roll: initiative - (1d20+4)[9]
If we go after the enemies, Caleun is in full defense until the start of his turn. (AC 27)

[1] Jump onto the wagon (diagonally from Caleun's starting point, between him and the enemies: the left-most square of the closest wagon, which is 5 squares from Caleun). Since difficult terrain counts for 2, Caleun can just make it. I assume he'll need a jump skill check. If he misses, he just stays behind the wagon - If it is too tall to jump up to, he just stays behind and shoots through the space under the wagon:
Jump - (1d20+7)[16].
Vertical reach for Caleun is 8 feet, so probably it'll be automatic success. He has plenty of running start distance (40 feet)

[2] Shoot while fighting defensively. The Cinquedea does not interfere the shooting, but obviously fighting defensively does (-2 to hit). Short distance shooting (no penalties)
crossbow - (1d20+6)[19]
I assume the soldier is unaware of Caleun at this point (busy with the militia/flatfooted), so will roll both damage and sneak attack, just in case.
damage - (1d4)[2]
SneakAttack - (2d6)[9]

By the way, fighting defensively, Caleun's AC is 24 (tumble and two weapon fighting defensively add 1 each to the usual +2)

[Grey_Wolf_c]

As he finishes his acrobatics, he takes aim at the private whose back is to him and shoots, while maintaining motion to make himself a difficult target[2]. "With his back to me, he won't even see the arrow coming! Eat this!"

Stupidly enough, I mentioned every possible detail except who Caleun is shooting. And I dare not edit the post with such excellent rolls. Oh well, I meant private 1, the closest to Caleun (who I assume is looking towards the militia next to him, thus has his back to Caleun's position). Sorry for that.

Edit: checking the jump tables, Caleun managed to go 12 feet up (3 and a half meters). I assume that is a success, because if not, we wouldn't have been able to *see* what was going on.

Edit 2: reading the jumping rules more closely, it seems I had +4 from the 40 feet speed of run, so Caleun jumped even higher. Not that I think it matters, but it gives him 1 more foot of height.

Grey Wolf

[Miraqariftsky]

Soren Solaren

Blood spews from the Sheriff's hewn flesh. Soren snarls in outrage as his host falls to his knees.

His sight dims and brightens, myriad-coloured auras superimposing themselves over his fleshly sight. There burn in his eyes, in his ears and in his nostrils the stench of brimstone, the crackling of dragonfire and the damned groaning of an open sepulchre. Merged with the images of the soldiers of the fire-teams, he sees figures gaunt and grotesque... they are wrought of carrion crawling with maggots, of rusting and jagged metal, of living shadow that reeks of unnumbered days of darkness, of uncounted dreams of darkness...

Shaking his head at the disturbing insight granted to him by his god, Soren dashes forward, past Trevor. Caught by surprise when a blast of eldritch flame bursts from his comrade's bared palm, the paladin jangles and skids to a halt in front of one of the wagons cluttering the town square.

There, he stabs his sword into the soil and unslings his longbow. Soren reaches back into his large wooden quiver and withdraws a clothyard shaft. Nocking and drawing back, he sights down the arrow's length, aiming for the neck of the murderous Sergeant Brannis...

Soren inhales, letting the world flow into him, drawing his surroundings into crisper focus. The daemonic apparitions seem to take on a sinister solidity over the bodies of the evil warriors whom he and his comrades now face. The auras of three soldiers stand out in hues of loyal iron, and it gladdens him that not all Flamers are irredeemable. The innocent white auras of the villagers of Re-marr are flushed scarlet with anger and turned vague and translucent with sheer fear.

A part of him desires to fall away, deeper and deeper into the flood of aura-senses but his heart pulls him away with duty and discipline, bound to the pursuit of justice. Soren yells, "CLAN OF THE CRESCENT MOON! TO SAFETY! INNOCENTS OF RE-MARR, TO SAFETY! BEHIND THE MANOR! VALIANT MEN OF THE MILITIA, COVER THE RETREAT! BY PU'UR'S LIGHT, PROTECT YOUR FAMILIES!"

Soren takes a deep breath of the dry lowland air and then releases it just as his fingers release the bowstring, sending a harbinger of justice screaming at Brannis...

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Initiative (1d20+1)[18]

Potshot with the longbow
attack roll (1d20+5)[23]
crit check (1d20+5)[11]
damage roll (1d20+2)[20] Noooooo! I made a mistake with the roll-typing!

[Miraqariftsky]

...The bow thrums in his right hand. His grip goes slack as he trembles with rage and it drops to the parched grass. His left hand grasps the well-worn leather-wrapped hilt of his blessed blade and frees it of the grip of the dusty earth. Soren lifts it reverently and kisses the pommel, the broad blade bursting into hallowed flames mere inches from his face.

His gaze never leaving the eyes of his foes, he now holds his claymore in both gauntleted fists, the long blade blazing with righteous wrath. Soren strides toward them with slow, deliberate strides... Contempt dripping from his voice, he spits out a challenge, his highland accent seeping through in his anger. "Mard'rass scoom! Coome ta meh, ye bastards! Come and face the wrath of a true son of fire... or are the lot of you too craven to fight one who is not unarmed and unprepared?"

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Here's the redone damage roll for the bow-shot from last post...

(1d8+2)[4]

[Glyphic]

The peace of Remarr cracks with blood drawn in fresh light, and it's citizens co-ordinate themselves as a three-footed Ogre. Children ar plucked to their mother's breasts, young men and women pulled with urgency. The scramble is disorganized, but the Militia men present lend what help they can in securing their escape.. One Dwarf lies unconscious, perhaps dead in the middle of the commons.

Two Militia men stay firm in their ground: A high elf named Thomas releases his dogs, leash, and hacks at the injured Private. To his right, a human called Michael Lets forth a vigorous scream, at other assailants with his shoddy scythe. Both hunting dogsyip and maneuver, trying to find flesh to bite, but apprehensive of the bloodied blades.

Leen's demeanor changes with the blood shed, the remnants of her twisted, smirked maw fading, as she stares in the direction of wagons. Emphatic hisses from Bethany drive Leen and the other troglodytes to follow Soren's shouts.

Bethany scrapes her claw on her shoulder, pricking a droplet of blood, "Ern Gutt, En hmmer" She gruntles, before stalking to her Tribe's flank.
A pleasant sensation seeps into your muscles, as your blood courses faster. and a divine whisper of Giant crumbles in your minds.

Sargent Brannis smiles as he tears Soren's arrow from his flesh, then lets it drop to the ground, "A highlander Man! I've not had the pleasure of crushing their bones just yet. In the name of the Flame, I'll turn you into ash!"

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Michael Connects with his scythe, dealing 6 points of damage to Private A. The dogs and Thomas miss. Thomas misses the worst. Sometimes you wonder how he became part of the Militia.

Bethany cast Bless, giving all of you +1 to hit, +1 to damage, and +1 to saves vs fear for the rest of the encounter.

the map has been updated. http://www.freewebs.com/gryphonnorin/reemarr1.JPG

[Beschoren]

Tanstafaal

The elf just keeps moving, as he quickly load another arrow and fire at the enemies flank. There's almost relif on his face as he sees the people and the trogs going away from the fireline.... And there is almost worry in his face as he realize they're all going to the back of the manor...

"Between the eyes!"

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I will move to the 4° square straight to the SW. Then I'll shot private #2, witch is inside 30'. *Glyphic, if you use any strange square conting system, know that I only want to get just close enought for a skirmish shot on a clear target HP29/29 AC20
Atack:(1d20+10)[18]
Damage:(1d8+4)[6]
Skirmish damage:(1d6)[5]

[Duke of URL]

Trevor

The Warlock continues to close, finishing off the private, or switching to Brannis if someone else finishes off the private first.

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Attack - (1d20+6)[17] ranged touch, Damage - (2d6)[8]

Edit, forgot the +1 to hit/damage from bless.

[Grey_Wolf_c]

Trevor

The Warlock continues to close, finishing off the private, or switching to Brannis if someone else finishes off the private first.

Caleun Tranil

Caleun vaults over the side of the wagon and drops to the ground rolling to make himself a more difficult target, before pushing of into a run. With a practised ease, he places his crossbow back in the holster and draws his rapier. Before he can close the gap to his target, he watches him hit by the energy from the warlock.[1]

Option A: Private 1 is still standing
With Caleun's arrow sticking out from the lower back, where it had likely hit his liver, and his limbs still trembling from the two succesive magical blasts, the closest private looked about to fall over, and Caleun was sure he could help him with that. With his attention on the militia and the snarling dog, the poor chap was leaving himself open to Caleun's lunge [2a]

Option B: Private 1 falls unconcious/dead
The soldier, hit by the second blast, goes into convulsions and drops to his knees, and the over, blood running out his nose. Changing direction in mid step, Caleun towards the soldier next to the Sargent and lunges. "Hopefully I'll be able to manouvre a little bit after this - I can't skewer him from here" [2b]

After the lunge, Caleun adopts his standard fighting stance, with quick footwork and fast movements preventing the enemy from getting a good target, while his eyes quickly scout the battlefield for his next strike. [3]

Actions:

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[1] Depending on Trevor's attack having worked or not, Caleun will choose target. Since Caleun has to run to the melee, and Trevor is shooting magic, I assume his attack gets there first. Just in case, I post actions both ways.

[2a] Caleun stands opposite the dog, diagonally north-east from private 1, getting flanking bonus and sneak attack.

[2b] Caleun stands North of the dog and North-East from private 2, and attacks. No flanking bonus.

Rolls:
Rapier - (1d20+7)[12] (includes blessing & defensive fighting; add 2 if against private 1)
Damage - (1d6+1)[3]
SneakAttack - (2d6)[9] (only against private 1; not sure if the blessing adds to this damage - Glyphic, can you confirm?)

[3] Caleun fights defensively. From now on, I won't bother to keep stating it - I'll mention if he changes to normal or full defense, if the situation demands it.

[Miraqariftsky]

Soren Solaren

Damn. Stupid fool, succumbing to anger like that! Why'd I have to drop the bloody bow?! Blast this armour. Times like this that I half-wish I hadn't been so sickly as a lad...

Soren quickens his pace, fire flowing through his veins as he sprints to the fray, the plates and pieces of his armour jangling cacophonously every step of the way. His breath comes heavy in his now-heated helm and his muscles ache with the sudden rush of adrenaline.

He churns the dust and stops to catch his breath just ten feet away from the first private. There he shakes his head at yet another death added to the unnumbered tears that stain the war-torn and chaotic lowlands.

Straightening, he calls out to the soldiers of the Flame of the West. "What is it that you fight for, you murderous infidels? Tell me, that I may understand you--- the better to purify your damned souls!"

[Tyriq]

Jyo-lan

After Leen's request and the spilling of so much blood, Jyo-lan slips deeply into his own thoughts. Such senseless, willing bloodshed. If only they had seen the sick and the dying like I have... These warriors might honor their health a bit more. On principal, Jyo-lan ignores those comrades who cut themselves just to satiate machismo or prove a point, and strolls disappointedly toward the town. He only becomes aware of his surroundings again a long while later, at the moment that Gerald is betrayed.

That's... a lot of blood. I am needed... can I get to him? This is... danger... Then he hears the speeches and the angry banter. So much talk of fire and burning and stabbing and more fire. They only seem to know one way to fight. At least they won't expect this...

Jyo-lan makes sure to position himself so that his armor-wearing companions are between him and the enemy, knowing that he needs to get to Gerald as quickly as possible to assess his condition and.... stabilize him. Once positioned, he begins a spell, and something begins to float out of the grass around the enemy soldiers...

Butterflies.

In every hue of the rainbow, hundreds of butterflies, rising out from between the crumpled grass at the soldiers' feet. The butterflies in the swarm have large wings, and are determined to hover in front of enemy eyes, obstructing their vision and otherwise being irritating.

Spoiler

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Butterflies: Silent Image, Will save DC 15. Maintaining concentration while moving behind his teammates.

[Glyphic]

Sargent Brannis lowers his yes to Gerald in the dust before him, his falchion moving as if in a spar; slow, controlled and almost playful. Gerald has his shortsword drawn, his face contorted and anguished, turning aside the Sargent's strokes.

Then the butterflies come. Many rapidly blink, batting at the air with their shields..

Brannis takes his blade into his left hand, opening his gloved-palm. A blast of electric charge sparks, as Sargent Brannis speaks arcane words. With an emphatic "Ha!", Brannis grasps Gerald's calf and discharges current through his bones. Gerald's body thrashes, his screech of pain lost in the melee, before going limp. Brannis hustles northward, tarrying for no moment. Calling to Tanstafaal, his sharp voice booms, "My Blade has an appetite for your blood, Elf! I hope you've more fight than that traitorous Mayor!"

Private 3 stands calm, drawing out two arrows. Each is tipped with red-hot embers. As he draws the first back on his bow, it ignites with flame. His shots zing to the top of the Barn and through an open door on it's west side..

Private 2 Sends his blade soaring past Caleun, who evades it with ease, "Stand aside and you'll be spared!"

Corporal Numeric howls as the first Private crumples to the ground. Raising his shield to the sky, he shouts out, "Thunt! Come and Bring Vengeance; Spill the Blood of My Brother's Slayer!" On his shield, and his Brother's, is a blue-hued Rose bud. The spikes on it's stem are over exaggerated. He then moves to engage Caluen.

Corporal A sneers as Brannis turns his back, Smacking his scimitar against his shield. He lifts his blade high into the sky, hoarsely shouting, "Gerald UnneHall, here is your reward! The Principality no longer finds need for your service!" His Blade falls heavy, crunching into Gerald's torso.

Private A Swings true, his spear piercing the heart of a militia dog. With a gruff pant, he looks at the approaching warriors and swears. "Tighten up. Those are real warriors out there, not crude farm hands!"

Private B Swishes his Nunchaku around.. and adds his own sound effects. "Swoosh! Zip! Kablam! You'll scram, before this might of Mine!" After Taking a deliberate swing at a large mauve butterfly, he connects with Michael the Milita man's Gut.

Private C suddenly looks ecstatic with the approach of Jyo-lan, "Another Magic Manipulator! Sweet heavens, This trip isn't boring anymore!" With a skip in his step, he rounds around his fellow fireteam. "Butterflies! Meet the my hands; My burning hands!" incidentally, he also Fries Thomas and Micheal of the Militia. They both succumb to their injuries, falling prone.

A looming Longsword, shrouded with flames appears near Trevor Nightshade, And thrusts past his gut. It misses, but floats eerily about, waiting to strike again...


Vigilant eyes spot Bethany and Leen, rounding the corner to the commons..

Spoiler

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I'm treating the butterflies as a darkness spell, with a chance to see through it. 20% miss chance, which I've included in the attacks above.

Map is updated

I had to change the URL.

[Duke of URL]

Trevor

Ignoring the sword, Trevor calmly moves and conjures a large group of bats.

Spoiler

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Move 10' south, Summon swarm, targeting the 10'x10' area including targets "B" and "C"

In case it comes into play... Concentration - (1d20+8)[23] to maintain the swarm against any possible damage