Varreven champions are truly a sight to behold. Poached from the largest and strongest in a clan's generation, subjected to a training regimen so brutal as to make orcs skittish, these warriors can literally take on a dozen lesser foes and emerge with only superficial injuries
before accounting for their healing abilities. Hakkan is one such elite warrior; standing ten feet tall when fully erect, porting a combination of scale mail and a lightweight but deceptively resilient armour woven from wetland hemp, the snow-white wolf looks like an ironclad archangel as he creeps through the woodland, a company of soldiers in tow.
They are the main contingent of one of the scouting parties dispatched in search of the ghouls lurking west of Blotskig County. It is their second day paddling up the Yelwaznakko River with no sign of the monsters, but as they delve deeper into the borderland, expectations—and ominous signs—increase. The marshy forests are withered and bleached and the air has an acrid smell, as though the ghouls are sapping the life out of the fauna the way they drain other creatures. When the forward navigators spied shadowy movement in the tree canopy bearing the tell-tale signs of organized observation, the canoes turned to shore and the expedition, roughly one hundred eighty soldiers total, spread out to investigate. Hakkan heads a group of fifty-six, most varreven and human-dualist soldiers with a mix of weaponry: shortswords, shortbows, and
krokspiuten, halberds of varreven design with long, talon-like hooks to pin an enemy for a
coup de grâce by a fellow soldier. Supporting the soldiers are four mages around whom the group forms a protective circle.
Hakkan crouches as he approaches a sudden drop in the mound, raising his hand as a signal to halt. The soldiers scan their surroundings, ears flicking left and right. He gestures for the group to close in; crouching as he does, they shuffle forward until the front line shares his field of view. A few heads jerk up, hearing the bending of branches and rustle of leaves. "They're close," he whispers, then gestures to a clearing below. Pale figures are huddled around a fire pit, sharing what passes for a meal.
"Didn't know they cooked," mutters a swordsman.
"Not that many," says another.
"There's more," the champion cautions, peering about the canopy above them. Slowly, silently, he unsheathes his broadsword. "Archers forward," he breathes, and those in the forward line draw arrows, taking aim at the unsuspecting camp. "
Loose!" The air hisses as the projectiles let fly, downing many of the figures instantly. Hollow howls erupt from the camp, and immediately the woods are filled with rustling leaves and snapping branches as an unseen horde closes in. Stealth forfeited, the soldiers rise to their feet and draw their weapons, frantically scanning the dense underbrush for the encroaching ghouls.
Down in the valley, the camp survivors are joined by bands further afield before rushing toward their ambushers. "At will!" cries Hakken, and the archers on the ridge proceed to notch and loose as quickly as they can as their fellows draw, maintaining the wheel as they brace for the onslaught. The first wave hits them from the east; a volley of arrows rips through the first wave before the second closes striking distance. Confronting the soldiers are lanky creatures, a mix of humans, orcs, goblins, and others, ghostly pale skin clinging to emaciated limbs. Their eyes, sunk into the skull, have a sickly jaundiced sheen, irises devoid of colour, pupils pinpricks even in the shade of the forest. What clothing they wear is dirty and torn, armour decayed to the point of uselessness. They charge with mouths agape and unearthly screams; most are unarmed, baring hands with distended nails; some have small daggers or broken swords. The air rings with clings and clanks as they crash into the outer line; the swordsmen buffet them back with their shields before running them through. When a space appears, the line ducks and the archers loose another volley into the wave, while the mages fire off energy bursts whenever they find an opportunity. The line holds, but the ghouls don't relent; some skitter up the trees and try to ambush the mages from above, but are shot down by the archers or impaled by the halberdiers forming the inner circle.
Hakkan knows their position is untenable and orders a retreat to the shore. The group tries to keep formation as it hastily falls back but finds itself almost immobile. One of the mages fires a spell directly skyward and those that can cover their ears; two seconds later there is a loud
bang, briefly stunning the ghouls. The troop uses the distraction to break formation and make a run for the canoes, swordsmen cutting down the monsters running to meet them while the archers pick off pursuers. They reorganize into a defensive line in front of the boats; with a defined front and more room to manoeuvre, the infantry spread out, putting more distance between the line and the mages and allowing the archers to fire unobstructed. Hakkan rushes forward to draw some of the ghouls off the line, swinging his sword left and right like a fat scythe. Soon enough they swarm him, grasping and clawing at anything within reach; his professional technique rapidly switches to animalistic savagery as he bites, punches and kicks his assailants in a flurry of lupine fury. The soldiers look on in disbelief and a small degree of panic, the mages preoccupied and the archers unwilling to risk hitting him by mistake. Their leader's armour damaged and his fur matted with blood, they shout for him to fall back.
But Hakkan orders them to hold the line. He is in little danger; a ghoul wraps itself around his arm, only for him to raise it to his face and bite its neck. He shakes off the dead ghoul, then reaches behind and grabs one clambering up his back by its head, tossing it against a tree with a satisfying
crack. The line does its best to assist by cutting down those around him. Suddenly there is a shout to their east, followed by a nigh-inaudible hiss and a string of fleshy
pfuts as scores of ghouls fall dead, arrows protruding from their bodies. In a single cry, a wave of swordsmen rush into the wounded flank; the second scout group, recognizing the bang as a distress signal, has made haste to Hakkan. The ghouls are soon cut down to size and flee.
The adrenaline wears off and the exhausted soldiers sink to their knees, reinforcements quickly making their way over to tend to the wounded; cuts and bruises, a few fractures, but no fatalities, and, ultimately, no long-term damage. Hakkan takes a moment to collect himself, the gashes already healing. He returns to the group and finds the officer of the splinter party. "Looks like we found 'em," he says nonchalantly. The officer gives a nervous smile. "Yourself?"
"Nought but the wretched woods," he replies. He looks over the ghoulish corpses in equal parts disgust and worry. "This must be two hundred at least."
"And you only saw those which we were fighting presently." He nods up the hill. The officer's eyes blow wide as he processes the number. "If the other parties report similar numbers, it's almost certainly worse than we assumed."
"In any event, I think our work here is done," say the officer.
"I could not agree with you more," replies the champion. "Let's round up Kennet's group and report to Sumpby post-haste."
Scout the designated territories to determine strength of ghoulish presence, and negotiate support from local communities if applicable.
