The Heroes of Fallcrest

The Bloodborne
Rivers of Blood

Ilfaern and his company of adventuring heroes had gained a reputation around the idyllic town of Fallcrest. Gossiping housewives and toiling blacksmiths repeated the tales of daring ventures into sanguine and hellish warrens of goblins and kobolds. Young children with sticks and poorly-made dolls pretended to be Pelaios or Mindarais, lithely sneaking down cursed halls of undead monsters or slaying the white dragon of the kobolds. The town loved the heroes, and promised to recount their legacy through the years.

We found our adventurers enjoying a well-earned pitcher of ale at the Nentir Inn, exaggerating their stories. During one of Donaar’s particularly loud speeches about the size of the dragon that the kobolds worshiped, the barkeep, Lindberg, quietly asked Pelaios to gather his team and leave the establishment. Lord Markelhay of Fallcrest had declared free food and ale for the town’s heroes, but the team had been at the Nentir Inn since noon, and it was nearing midnight. Pelaios took grave offense to the request, and boisterously confronted Lindberg.

“Sir, I accuse you of treason! Your lord has declared us HEROES!” shouted Pelaios.

“Mr. Larjkok,” Lindberg whimpered. “You’re welcome to stay. I—”

Before he could finish, the enraged tiefling struck him across the face with a stone stein full of frothy ale (recovered from dwarven treasures hoarded by goblins). Lindberg crumpled to the floor, unmoving. After a few seconds of silence, the room erupted in an all-out barfight. Ilfaern, always ready for a brawl, kicked a fat miller in the rear, literally lifting the glutton and dropping him down a flight of stairs to the cellar. McLovin, following the trend of violence, seized a young minstrel’s lute and broke it over the poor boy’s head. In all the confusion, Mindarais grabbed a barmaid’s hand and led her to the door leading out of the taproom. She slinked up against him, ready for a good time. Mindarais tried the door, only to find it locked. Fortunately for him and the wench, he cast a trivial spell to open the lock. Mindarais opened the door and found himself staring down two cutthroat bandits. They were hoarding the weapons, armor and fancy furs and other trinkets from the coat check. The wench slipped away. Immediately, Mindarais grabbed one by the collar, mumbled “Fortanna fortigyamaad,” and threw him into the taproom with a giant translucent mage hand. The bandit found himself at the feet of a colossal dragonborn warlord. The rogue scrambled to his feet, only to meet a table being thrown at him. It landed on his calf, tearing his Achille’s tendon and crushing his foot. Smoke puffed out of Donaar’s nostrils. The second bandit, clad in ratty black leather and sporting an eyepatch, rushed out into the taproom. He promptly lost his eye for the second time, as Ilfaern expertly smashed a bottle on the bar and threw it at the scoundrel’s eyepatch. The man howled in pain and reeled around, fragmented shards of glass protruding from his blood-drenched eyesocket. McLovin, not one to show any mercy, bull-rushed the dizzy rascal into a case propped up on the wall, shattering the glass and bottles inside. Alcohol poured all over the bleeding bandit, stinging his wounds and making him howl with immeasurable pain. The first bandit got up, hobbling and leaning on one foot, to face the heroes. His courage was unrewarded, as a hail of magic daggers sliced him in innumerable places and sent him against the wall. Pelaios was waiting, slinking in the shadows of the taproom. He caught the roguish fellow by the shoulder, and called upon his demonic and unholy heritage to engulf his fists in flame. He struck the man about the face, tearing his flesh off. His jaw-bone was visible, blackened by hellfire. His eyes widened in fear, and he signaled to his bloodied companion to leave the establishment. He nimbly dodged Pelaios’s arms as he ran out the door. Donaar managed to grab the other bandit by the arm as he ran out, but the terrified bandit jerked his arm out of Donaar’s grip. His arm hung limply as he ran out of the taproom. Lindberg came to. He began to ask questions as to the damage and lack of patrons, but Ilfaern assured him that bandits had raided the place. Lindberg seemed to have no recollection of Pelaios battering his face with a mug. Ilfaern calmly asked the flabbergasted barkeep if he knew anything of the whereabouts of the bandits. Lindberg replied by marking Ilfaern’s map of Fallcrest’s surrounding areas with the bandit location, and Ilfaern made a mental note to ask why Lindberg knew that upon his return. McLovin began to shout.

“We’re wasting time, you sons-of-ogres! We need to leave right now—the bandits have our gear.”

“Easy, McLovin. All of our weapons and armor will be there in the morning. Besides, you’re inebriated. You can’t fight like this,” said Donaar.

Ilfaern stepped in before McLovin could get confrontational, and asserted that the party needed to leave immediately. As he did so, patrons began to filter back in. The portly gentleman who Ilfaern had kicked down the stairs came back, bleeding.

“Did you hear that, folks? The heroes are going to finish off the bandits once and for all! We’re safe!”

Cheers erupted throughout the tavern, and Donaar ushered the party out before the crowd got too thick. They set off down the dark road, ready for adventure.


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