Scales of War

Sinruth, General of The Red Hand

Against the Revolt!

Dungeon155 sinruth

“Hey! What’s that?”. As the hobgoblin turned around, the puddle that certainly wasn’t there before started to gain a form. It grew, as if it had melted and time was now flowing backwards. The chest and legs it now had got a new texture and some color, as armor separated from water. If the thing had legs for real, Sinruth would say it was kneeling in some way. A moment after eyes appeared somewhere on the melty-stuffs, Sinruth picked up his flail. Smarter than most, Sinruth remembered there was no such thing in the castle. The was a jelly, yes, but jellies don’t turn all armor-y. There were his men, who usually are not that moist. And then there was.. it. Sinruth avoided it as much as he could, but he was sure it could not do that. So he did the smarter thing he could come up with. He slammed the flail as hard as he could on the thing. The thing, though, reacted, turning the newly-formed head to the hobgoblin. He – it was now clear it was a he- raised an elbow to meet the flail, and between them appeared a bright disk of an ice-like hue. Thousands of shards flew everywhere as the spiked ball crashed through the arcane dish. Sinruth reached for his helm as the other warrior stood and reformed the shield. “What you want?”, he growled. “My matter is my own, creature. Where am I?”. Although his words were short, only the longest caught Sinruth’s attention. He did dislike being called a creature. He swung the flail over his head, for balance, and again into his opponent. And for the second time, the other managed to raise his arm and stop it. Sinruth pressed on. He was at a size disadvantage, but the brutality he mustered more than made up for it. Sinruth drove the elemental to the door. He hated the cold room, with its cold ominous pillars, cold piercing breezes, and a generally cold overall atmosphere. But he figured a body of water would get colder than him, and that was called an advantage. Sinruth was not one to back down because it was cold outside his abode, or because his opponent was kinda moist.

It soon proved to be not a good strategy, for Sinruth quickly saw through the enemy’s ruse. “It’s a trap!” – he snarled at himself. About four men shot from behind a pillar and pounced him. Or did they? The smaller one shouted words of war at one of the pillars, like the knight of old would shout to windmills in the bedtime stories the wet nurse told him. Sinruth would smile, were he not overwhelmed. The old magic answered to none. None but it, who could stop it with a wave of its hand. In the end, Sinruth did smile. It was too much.

He should not have. His eyes burned as a fierce light shone on them. A moment later, the dwarf was on him. Or so Sinruth thought, for when he steeled himself for the attack, the axe passed right over him and into his foe. The elemental’s body backlashed, though, and ice shards sprouted and impaled the dwarf.

The two would keep at it for the most of the fight. Others, though, were not so keen to in-fighting. They had some sorceress, he saw. She talked to the magic, tried to make it not that much cold. The magic ignored her, and continued to buffet her party with frost.

Defeat eventually came upon Sinruth. It dawned on him, as did a certain ranger’s blade, that that was the end of the Red Hand of Doom. Who would command his men when he died? Who would The Emissary speak to, when the time came? Who would prevent it from doing whatever it pleased to everything in the area? “*grunt”-Sinruth thought to himself, blood running profusely down his eye-“Thems problems now”

The brave companions advance into the next room and find (in addition to Sertanian identifying the Dragoncrest helm and the gauntlets from the Hall of Great Valor) 260 gp and 2 potions the hobgoblin kept in a drawer. There’s also a small letter.

Comments

Aquele (5º) deve ser o pior parágrafo que alguma vez escrevi. Ah,well…

Sinruth, General of The Red Hand
Aran

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