I awoke before dawn this morn, already anticipating the vast array of comestibles that would be available at the festival. After my prayers to Desna and my morning ablutions, I adorned myself in my finest leathers, brushed and braided my hair and beard, holstered my hammer, and stepped out into the midday sun. It was a glorious chaos. I soon rendezvoused with my regular drinking group from the Rusty Dragon near the town square. After a brief exchange of greetings, it was agreed we should perambulate to the main festival area in search of alcoholic beverages.
The day stretched on, and while my companions attempted to inveigle themselves into the local political scene, I was content to admire the ladies of Sandpoint. The noise of the faire precluded all but the most rudimentary communications, so while I danced and drank with many a young lass I was unable to convince any to slip away to a quiet corner for intense philosophical discussion.
Finally, the time had arrived for the Bishop’s address and the release of the swallowtails. This was the moment I had waited for ever since being chased from my clan hold. The release of a mass butterflies, held so dear by we worshippers of Desna. It would have been an incredible sight.
Alas, before the Bishop could begin, goblins! Here? In Sandpoint? It was unthinkable. The first to fall was an unlucky cur-dog cowering beneath a nearby merchant’s cart.
“Vile goblins, prepare to meet your doom!” I ejaculated, hoisting my hammer high. With a rallying cry from me my band of brothers went to work. The goblins had a Warchanter leading them, but Azurethel’s steady bow gave us respite from the beast’s caterwauling. I slid smoothly up to the next goblin and swung the earthbreaker in earnest. Gore ejected from beneath the edges of my weapon as it sent the monster back to the fifth circle of Hell. We continued, mopping up the northern group before turning our attention to the southern group as they tried to set the merchant’s wagon ablaze. Osovar and his translucent companion did the lion’s share of damage and Ghostson doused the fire (and a goblin) with a summoned glob of water.
We had triumphed handily, and began roaming around the town, looking for stray groups and possibly the source of the invasion. We found Foxglove the Younger (I assume) beset by a goblin commando riding a hairless red atrocity. The goblins were attacking Foxglove’s dog, of all things. I was, naturally, outraged. I charged into the fray, intending to knock the commando away from Foxglove’s dog. My arms strained, my pulse raced, and my vision blurred as the red caul of battle fell over me. When the dust settled three more goblins had met their demise at our hands, but the commando had escaped. The attack seemed to be concluded and, while the young Foxglove fawned over our persons, we were invited back to the Rusty Dragon by the proprietor for some light refreshment.
The goblin attack is worrisome. Normally the little wretches would be too cowardly to attack a settlement of this magnitude without something else driving them. Interrogation of the survivors proved mostly fruitless, but we did glean a modicum of useable intelligence about our foe. A human hired the goblin clan to attack as a distraction while he pursued some other goal in the town cemetery.
Now begins a tale of high adventure!