Tracking Down the Home of a Man-turned-Minotaur
The morning of November 7th came up cold.
Four men in plate emerged from the dark before sunrise. Knights of Vindictus — paladins from a long memory — searching for one of their own. "Lodestone is lost," their captain told you, simply. He gave his name as Capt. Tistel. They moved on.
You watched the smoke rising in two directions as the sun came up. The closer column was Lodestone itself, the village ahead. The other was further out — somewhere over the hills. You filed it away.
Lodestone was quiet by the time you reached it. Apple-trees lined the road. Pots and towels lay scattered in the lanes, some bloody. The drawbridge into the rocky outcropping at the village heart had been jammed with a tree — branches stripped, sharpened, fired, swords driven through it. Things had been dragged through that gate.
You climbed up around the wall. Inside, you heard snoring.
A giantess, drunk, slept beside an emptied vat of wine. Lessie talked the rest of you out of killing her. You tied her up, badly.
The streets were a rats' nest. The trail led to a barn. You lifted the bar, pushed the doors open, and saw the candles. The powdered-silver ritual circle. The alchemical kit. Baphomet. Ubys swept up the silver — 90 gold worth, and a debt repaid.
A cry for help came from the back, from beneath a wooden platform. Three prisoners — five days hungry. Sergeant Azros, of the Knights. Squire Eltiel, his charge. And a woman from the Amnizonian Empire who had no business being here at all.
Moist handed out (Good) Banana Peppers.
Azros told you what happened. They were ambushed by goblins. Three of his men killed outright. A fourth — Tinrick — sacrificed.
You knew that name. You'd burned that body two days ago.
Voices outside. The doors moved. Ubys hissed hide. Dhuxtyn and Moist vanished into the rafters, the rest of you teleported up to join him.
The bar lifted. Cultists walked in.
Next session: combat.