A few days’ ride from Grayhollow, along the merchant road to Hollowpoint Pass.
Small villages dot the route, survivors of Legion raids rebuilding their livelihoods.
Rumours whisper that a Crimson Legion detachment has been seen marching north.
Elaris has accepted a simple escort contract — a merchant caravan carrying supplies to a newly re-established town, Thornmere.
It’s safe work… in theory.
The day is young.
The caravan rattles along a dusty trade road bordered by tall gold grass. The smell of leather, ale, and spice fills the air. Sunlight glints off your silver-threaded sleeves.
Beside you on the wagon bench, Oswin Tealfoot, a gnome merchant with the attention span of a mayfly, chatters endlessly while flicking reins at his mule, Sooty.
Oswin:
“So, Pale Shepherd, tell me — do you actually herd the dead, or is that just an aesthetic? Because I could really use someone to talk sense into my goats. They unionized last spring.”
The guards chuckle. The wagon bumps. A faint breeze carries the smell of woodsmoke… and something sharper.
A column of red smoke curls upward in the distance, where the road bends toward the forest.
The guards tense. Oswin stops mid-ramble.
Oswin (uneasy):
“That’s not festival smoke, is it?”
One of the guards, a scarred half-orc named Garruk, squints ahead.
Garruk:
“Bandits, or worse. Red smoke means someone wants to be seen.”
Elaris feels the tingle of residual necrotic energy in the air — faint, but unmistakable. Something about the smoke isn’t just mundane.
He lifts a hand — a silent signal for the caravan to slow.
The creak of wheels softens; hooves clop in uncertain rhythm. Dust hangs in the air.
Oswin opens his mouth to say something, but the look Elaris gives him is enough to shut him up mid-breath.
He closes his eyes, drawing a faint sigil in the air with two fingers. The lines shimmer with cold light as you whisper an incantation under your breath.
Elaris: “Be still… show me the weave beneath the flame.”
A whisper of wind carries the scent of char, blood, and old magic to back to him.
He immediately senses it — the smoke isn’t natural.
It’s laced with residual spellcraft, a simple illusion flare designed to mimic fire and panic.
But beneath it, lies another layer: faint necrotic trace — not hostile, more like something long dead disturbed.
Someone is using the illusion as a lure.
Probably bandits. Possibly amateurs pretending to be Crimson Legion.
But the necrotic echo underneath? That’s new.
The forest ahead is quiet. Too quiet.
Elaris motions to the caravan.
Elaris (low voice):
“It’s not a fire. It’s bait. Illusion, layered with old death. Slow the wagons and keep the noise down.”
Garruk grunts.
Garruk:
“Bandits, then?”
Elaris:
“Most likely. Unless the dead have learned to lie.”
A ripple of nervous chuckles follows. The guards lower crossbows, eyes scanning the treeline.
The air is tense — a hawk circles above, and you hear the faint snap of a branch up ahead.
Elaris focuses he can sense maybe a dozen figures hidden nearby. Their stealth is clumsy — breathing, shifting weight.
Elaris lifts one hand from the reins and trace a slow, deliberate sigil in the air.
The soil beside the road stirs; a brittle hand breaks through the surface and drags itself upright. A half-formed skeleton, dust and earth still clinging to its ribs, takes shape beside the wagon. Its eyesockets glow faintly blue.
A few of the guards flinch; Oswin makes a strangled squeak.
Oswin: “Ah! You—you’re just doing that right in front of us, are you?”
Elaris: “Subtlety’s for people without options.”
The skeleton straightens, awaiting his silent command. he sends it forward, the thing creaking and crunching through the brush toward the plume of red smoke. Its footsteps are loud enough to draw attention but deliberate enough to look like bait.
He watches through the faint magical thread linking them. The air ahead ripples—shadows shift. A nervous whisper. Then a twang of a bowstring. The arrow passes clean through the skeleton’s skull and lodges in a tree; the skeleton doesn’t even pause.
A rough voice swears from the trees:
“Bloody hells, it’s one o’ them corpse-mancers! Fall back!”
Elaris feels the panic ripple. At least half of the hidden figures scatter deeper into the brush. The rest stay put, less frightened, more disciplined.
Garruk snorts, hefting his axe.
Garruk: “Ha! Never gets old. Want me to drag one out for a chat, or should we let them stew?”
He looks over, ready to either charge or hold depending on the order.
The skeleton halts mid-stride at an unspoken command, one bony finger still pointing toward the treeline.
The air is still except for the creak of the wagon wheels and the faint rasp of wind through the tall grass.
Elaris steps down from the wagon, robes brushing the dirt, and walks a few paces ahead.
The red smoke coils lazily overhead, fading now that the lure’s served its purpose.
His voice carries evenly—not loud, but with that precise edge that travels far.
Elaris:
“You’ve already fired once. No need to waste more arrows.
Show yourselves, and we can discuss this like people instead of ghosts.”
A moment of silence.
Then you hear a curse, a shuffle, and from the trees step three figures in mismatched bits of armour: bandits, not soldiers. Dust-red scarves around their arms, hands half-raised in a show of caution rather than surrender.
The oldest among them—a wiry man with a broken nose—eyes you and the skeleton warily.
Bandit Leader:
“We ain’t Legion. Just lookin’ for coin, same as anyone. Didn’t know we was pokin’ a real spell-slinger.”
Behind you, Garruk chuckles under his breath.
Garruk:
“Could’ve asked first.”
The bandit leader grimaces.
Bandit:
“Didn’t reckon you’d say yes. Look, we just wanted food and gear. You can take the rest of the boys and go—we’ll clear out.”
His eyes flick to the skeleton, then back to you. You can tell he’s scared, but he’s not completely broken; desperation makes him bold.
You study them for a long moment — eyes sharp, voice still calm.
The skeleton shifts behind you, a quiet reminder of exactly how patient you can afford to be.
Elaris
“Those scarves. Where did you get them? And before you lie — the magic in the air here remembers truth.”
The leader swallows, eyes darting between you and Garruk. He gestures weakly toward the scarf.
Bandit Leader:
“We took ’em off a group that came through three, maybe four nights past. Real ones — Crimson Legion for sure. We figured the colour would scare folk into dropping their purses.”
He hesitates, then adds, voice lower,
“Didn’t go so well. One of our boys followed them after, hoping to nick more gear. He didn’t come back.”
You step closer; the faint necrotic aura you felt earlier lingers around his words. You sense he’s telling the truth.
Elaris:
“How many real Legion did you see?”
Bandit Leader:
“Half a dozen. Maybe more in the woods. They had proper gear — banners, mounts, even a few crates branded with the red hand.”
He glances over his shoulder, unease plain on his face.
“We’ve been keeping clear since. Whatever they were up to, they weren’t just raiding. Some kind of big meeting down by Hollowpoint, I heard.”
Garruk spits into the dust.
Garruk:
“Hollowpoint’s two days east. If they’re gathering there, that’s half a dozen villages at risk.”
Oswin, from the wagon, calls nervously:
Oswin:
“That’s also exactly the direction we’re headed, which feels worth mentioning!”
You lean closer, keeping your voice low and steady — the kind of careful coaxing that turns fear into confession. The skeleton shifts behind you like a silent metronome; Garruk’s hand rests on his axe, watching for any sudden moves.
Elaris (softly):
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
“Names, numbers, and where they set camp. Tell me everything; coin and safe passage for you if you help. No tricks.”
The leader exhales, the fight leaving him. He scratches at a scar on his forearm, then speaks in more detail:
The Crimson Legion passed through three nights ago, heading east toward Hollowpoint.
They set a forward encampment in a hollowed valley south of Hollowpoint, under a ruined watch-tower the locals call Rook’s Crag — easy landmark, two days’ ride from here if you press.
At that encampment the leader counted around twenty to thirty true Legionnaires — disciplined men in red, with two mounted lancers, four crossbow squads, and a supply wagon marked with the red hand.
He glances at Garruk and Oswin, then adds, voice low and raw:
“If you go to Rook’s Crag, take care. They’ve got strangers working with them — not just local thugs.”
Garruk grunts appreciatively and slams his fist into his palm. Oswin immediately starts counting coin under his breath.
The leader squirms, rubs the inside of his scarf, and provides abit more detail the skeleton glaring into his soul
“The nearest proper stop is Thornmere which has an inn called The Ember Tankard. Hollowpoint is where the legion`s going and is roughly two days east; Thornmere is a day’s ride along your current road.”
He points out a ford across Hollow Creek and a sunken cart-track that skirts the most obvious ridge approaches — “That route will be slower and rougher for wagons, but it avoids the main patrol paths and would make it harder for legion patrols to intercept you if you move quietly.”
Elaris, a single guard, and two skeletons move along the narrow ford road that the bandit described.
The forest thickens here — ash and birch trees casting long, uneven shadows. The air smells faintly of smoke and wet moss.
Behind you, the caravan waits two miles back with Garruk on watch and Oswin no doubt pacing and muttering about profit margins.
You find the cart tracks, rutted and half overgrown. You move slowly, boots silent, your undead servants following with mechanical precision. The guard (a young woman named Kellen) keeps glancing at the skeletons but doesn’t speak — she’s too busy trying to walk quietly.
Eventually, the trees thin. You crouch at the edge of a rise overlooking a valley
Below you lies the ruined watch-tower — Rook’s Crag.
Its upper half is collapsed, but the base still stands, surrounded by rough palisades and tents.
Smoke from cooking fires curls lazily upward.
You count two dozen figures moving about the camp — some sharpening blades, others tending mounts.
Red banners with the black hand flutter in the dying light.
Your necromantic sense picks up two faintly undead signatures — not undead soldiers, but tainted humans: likely warriors empowered or corrupted by necrotic residue.
You also spot:
A supply wagon bearing the Crimson Legion insignia near the tower ruins.
Two mounted lancers patrolling lazily around the perimeter.
And a command tent with thicker banners — possibly their leader.
The place isn’t fortified enough to repel a proper siege, but it’s organized — this is a forward outpost, not a raiding camp.
Elaris focuses on his arcane instincts and tries to detect any magic
The camp is warded, faintly — a minor defensive spell, probably Alarm or Glyph of Warding placed near the command tent and supply wagon.
You can also tell that one tent hides a necrotic containment chest — likely filled with captured artifacts or scrolls. The resonance is similar to your own lattice energy but rougher, weaponized.
They’re experimenting with necromantic energy — perhaps from relics of Grayhollow.
Kellen whispers, barely audible:
“Sir, that’s… a lot of them. What’s the plan? Should we get closer or go back with what we’ve seen?”
The skeletons stand still as statues, one missing a jaw, the other twitching slightly at its elbow.
“We lay an ambush”
You give the skeleton the thinest of commands — move like you mean something worth chasing, and make them follow. It obeys, clanking off the rutted track and into the bracken, one bony foot after another.
It doesn’t go unnoticed.
Your bone decoy draws four pursuers — two mounted lancers and two footmen — right into the ravine’s narrow choke.
Once the Sketetons arrive you spring the abush
The lance near the front took the brunt: your Ray of Sickness smote him cleanly. The poison burned through him; he gagged, then slumped forward as his mount panicked. The horse reared, shied, and bolted down the ravine in a blind rush — the lancer clung, then hit the ground hard when both horse and rider lost their balance. He lies groaning and poisoned, unable to mount a proper defense.
One of the footmen got a skeleton blade in the ribs and went down, dazed, breath ragged — not dead, but out of action unless tended to.
The other lancer and footman took one look at their wounded comrades and the strange skeletal ambushers and peeled away, racing back toward Rook’s Crag to warn the camp. Their shouts start to carry, a raw, rising alarm in the valley below.
You move fast and precise — the quiet efficiency of someone who’s handled worse in darker places.
Kellen and the two skeletons help you drag the two downed men into the willow-lined hollow. One is groaning where he fell; the other is dazed but breathing. Between the three of you you bind their hands and feet with rope, gag them, and fashion crude hoods from torn cloth so they can’t see the path back. It’s awkward work — the ravine is steep and the cart-track narrow — but you make no more noise than necessary.
You move with the wagon-track back toward the caravan. Garruk, ever the watchful idiot-savant, sees you coming and drops the satchel he was counting coins in, sliding into an all-business scowl as he hustles Oswin into hiding behind the wagons.
Garruk (grimly): “Good haul, boss. You want ’em alive or stuffed?”
Elaris: “Alive for now. We learn more when they talk.”
You drag the pair into the lee of the wagon and throw them down out of sight of passing scouts. Kellen keeps a wary eye on the treeline while the skeletons stand sentinel.
You step forward, letting the bone-light of your undead loom behind you and the memory of the ravine ambush hang in the air. Your voice is a steady grind of quiet authority.
Elaris (low): “Where’s your forward camp? Who’s in charge? If you lie, I’ll leave you here for the Legion to find — and they’re far less polite than I am.”
Shivering and cowed, the two speak quickly once your intent is clear — bribery, threats, and the skeletons’ grim presence do the rest.
- Forward camp: Confirmed at Rook’s Crag, two days’ ride east of here
- Numbers at camp: They confirm about 20–30 Legionnaires in total at the forward camp — not a full legion but a well-armed, organized outpost.
- Leader: A Man described as cold and efficient, not prone to mercy. The name Escapes them
- Patrols & shifts: The Legion runs two main patrol routes — a mounted sweep along the ridge every 6 hours and foot patrols along the creek approaches hourly. The supply wagon is kept by a small guard and usually sits near the tower; if the wagon moves it is a signal they’re preparing to move out en masse.
- Necromantic experiments: They confirm a reinforced tent near the command post that smells odd — one of them, coughing, swears their captain let a “cleric with a black hood” work with prisoners.
- Reinforcements: They heard distant drums three nights back — rumors that the Legion can call in mercenary reinforcements from nearby garrisons if needed.
- Recruitment: The Legion recruits by force — they take the strong and make example of the unwilling. Those who resist are dragged to the tower and never return to lifestyle. The bandit’s missing friend was likely taken for coercion or worse.
They beg for mercy, offering to guide you away from the densest patrols if you spare them. They’ve nothing but fear and a little dirt to trade; you’ve already got better intel from them than you paid for.
You press them again, voice low and unforgiving.
Elaris: “How long until they hit Hollowpoint? Be precise — days, not guesses.”
They gulp. The younger of the two shivers, then stammers:
“They moved through here three nights ago… they said Hollowpoint would be ready to take before the next new moon. But their talk—” he swallows hard “—it was sooner. They mentioned moving out when the supply wagon reached the tower and the patrols doubled. If they’re on schedule… maybe three to five days, but they could push sooner if they expect recruits or if the supplies move.”
He looks to his companion for backup; the older man nods miserably.
“If that wagon leaves, they’ll move in force. If it stays, they might wait. But they were talking about making a big show—something to scare the surrounding holdfasts into handing over their people.”
So: 3–5 days likely, possibly sooner (48–72 hours) if logistics accelerate.
Garruk, listening from the wagon, grunts.
Garruk: “We can buy time, or we can move now. Or find reinforcements before they march.”
Elaris ever the thinker decides to turn this into his advantage with the guards
Terrified but pliable. Elaris convinces them to pose as the guards they are and escort the caravan past the camp they agree to the plan. With your two men acting as frightened “recruits,” the caravan sets off along the ford-track. Oswin fusses, but the guise works: the small patrols that glance over see a ragged group and a couple of red-scarved men — nothing to stop them on first sight. The bandit-turned-“recruits” shout the occasional hoarse order, and people give the convoy a wide berth. You buy time and distance: the caravan will reach Thornmere in roughly one day.
While the caravan winds away and the “escorts” keep the lead patrols misdirected, you and Garruk slip back toward Rook’s Crag under cover of brush and the skeletons’ occasional clatter as a controlled distraction.
“Time to Sabotage their Supplies”
Garruk uses brute force and a hidden lever to jam the wagon axle and loosen key fastenings; it looks like it may break if moved quickly
Garruk wedges his axe under the sideboard while you whisper a quiet muffling cantrip to keep the creak down.
Inside the compartment you find:
- Legion correspondence.
The top sheet is a march order: “Rook’s Crag to Hollowpoint — depart five days hence or sooner if reinforcements arrive from Redspire Garrison.”
The margins list supply allocations — you recognize necrotic reagents and black powder.
- A tiny brass disc etched with sigils — messenger focus tuned to the Legion command frequency
You quickly pocket the march order and the focus ,The wagon still looks untouched from outside; anyone glancing in will think it’s sealed.
You and Garruk pull back through the treeline, using the same narrow path. The forest swallows you again. No horns, no pursuit. Just wind through the ash leaves.
By the time the sun drops below the ridge, you’re a mile clear and heading west toward the road that leads to Thornmere. Garruk wipes sweat from his brow and mutters,
“We got what we came for. Let’s find that fool merchant before he sells my axe for ale.”
You and Garruk spent the night hiking hard. At dawn you crest the ridge overlooking Thornmere — a medium-sized walled town hugging a river bend. Smoke curls from chimneys; a blacksmith’s hammer rings. A watchtower with a weather-beaten crimson pennant guards the gate.
Inside the palisade you can already hear:
The chatter of merchants setting up stalls. The deep call of a temple bell from a modest chapel and The rowdy laughter from The Ember Tankard, an inn-and-tavern near the market square
Garruk shoulders his axe.
Garruk: “Town looks peaceful enough. For now. Let’s make sure they stay that way.”
He glances toward the gate.
“Do we go straight in? Or you want me to circle round and keep an eye out for those red-scarf idiots?”
At that moment
The caravan creaks into Thornmere as the market brightens. Oswin hops down, dust in every fold of his coat, already calculating profit margins aloud.
You approach the Caravan as the Oswin rounds up luggage and Kellen keeps an eye on the gate while the two captured ex-soldiers limp on either side, scarved in crimson for effect.
Oswin squints at you with exaggerated relief.
Oswin: “You look like you wrestled a raincloud and won. Payment? I—ah—believe in prompt remuneration.”
You give him that dry, glacial look you’ve perfected since Grayhollow burned.
Elaris (deadpan): “You agreed to escort for the coin, and you shall have it. I will add interest if you can convince my daughter’s next suitor to sign a promissory note.”
Oswin blusters, tries to haggle about “tolls, carriage wear,” and suggests trading for Garruk’s axe (Garruk grunts indignantly). You deliver a brittle aside about goats unionizing, and Oswin laughs a little too loudly and pockets the agreed fee.
Oswin feigns offense, then pays up with a theatrical sigh. The caravan is settled; the mood is light and a few nearby inn-goers grin at the exchange.
Elaris crouches, closes his eyes, and whispers a soft binding phrase as the tavern’s laughter rolls on. The two skeletons stop mid-stance, the pale blue in their sockets dimming to a faint ember. And instructs them, in a tone of quiet ceremony, to stand within the wagon’s shadow and hold still — “at peace; show nothing.” They become little statues of bone and dusk, undisturbing to most and just odd enough that kids point and whisper.
No loud ritual, no attention. Kellen nods approvingly; Garruk mutters, “Good dogs,” and nobody thinks to question the wagon’s odd decorative poles.
You and Garruk stride through Thornmere’s gate to the small stone hall where Mayor Edwin Mallor keeps office. He is a compact, sharp-eyed man with a habit of folding his hands as if he’s always steepling an invisible argument. He’s civic-minded; you can tell by how many ledgers he has.
You place the march orders and the brass messenger focus on the table. The two coerced ex-soldiers stand behind you as props — visibly shaken, eyes darting.
You lay it out plainly: Rook’s Crag is a forward Legion camp, roughly 20–30 men, supply wagon sabotaged by you, timetable indicates movement toward Hollowpoint in ~3–5 days, possibly sooner. If the supply wagon pulls out, they’ll move in force. They recruit by coercion and use necromantic experimentation.
Mayor Mallor studies the parchment, runs his thumb along the map, and nods. “How many men can we field? What about riders? Can we verify the leadership name?” You provide the description a tall male soldier and the marching orders; the brass focus gives him enough credence to act
He commands Three mounted couriers will ride now (within the hour) to warn Hollowpoint directly
And he pledges 15 militia men to you to safeguard or take out the camp
“Please stay the night the hospitality of Thornmere is yours Seek a bed and support and the Ember Tankard”
“Now were talkin” Garruk Responds and begins to march to the Tankard