From the Private Annals of the Church of Pelor.
Transcribed by Beltak, Scribe to His Radiant Servant, Tremak the Plush.
The 28th day of Eleint in the Year of the Ruins Reborn.

The commotion had started well before daybreak, even before we Priests had risen, readying ourselves for the prayers at first light. Little Bailey Greenwood, the herd boy, had raised the alarm, his bunk being closest to the cattle.

He said he’d heard Daisy bellowing frantically, and both Gertrude and Polly stamping their hooves and snorting furiously. He’d rushed out of bed to take a look. Standing in the cattle pen were two Goblins, trying to circle around one of the cows, their curved daggers glinting in the moonlight. Their concentration was all on Gertrude – circling and waiting for an opening.

Bailey had shouted his lungs out, calling for the Guard. He pretty much woke everyone within earshot. At the sound of his alarm, the Goblins had panicked somewhat. With a last, longing look at the cows, they’d scampered as quickly as they could towards the southwestern corner of the stockade.

Robin Drakesmellow reached the Goblins first, just before Jason Henrikson. Robin had been on watch at the West Gate and covered the ground to the creatures much faster than Henrikson. The two Goblins had no choice but to defend themselves.

By the time Henrikson joined the fight, Robin had taken a couple of bad cuts, although he’d held off the Goblins admirably. Henrikson used his experience and greater strength to help Robin slay one of the creatures – the other managing to flee and disappear into the night.

Further guards came, including Barghest, and an investigation on how the Goblins had managed to get under, over, or through the stockade and past watching sentries was started immediately.

Drakesmellow wasn’t injured that badly, and we managed to patch him up pretty quickly in the morning. The cattle were safe, although they seemed a little shaky.

The dead Goblin was buried outside of town later that day. Pale green and hideous the creature was, with a single white stripe painted down it’s face and leathery armour – a mark of it’s clan.

The scout, Gilmorril, believes that they are a weak tribe, trying to take cattle during the night, and pose no real threat as long as we are vigilant with our livestock. Better to know our enemies and be well prepared against them, rather than removing them from their lair and not knowing what will replace them.

I’m sure that not all of the townsfolk agree, in fact I’m pretty certain about it, but the Town Council have met and agreed today that we will not spare a party of Guards to clean out their lair, and we will make sure we fortify the town and remain watchful at nightfall.

Be Sociable, Share!