Thread: A Lone Hero for a Broken World

The high noon sun is slipping well downward into the evening when the caravan finally made the gates of Yarbarrow. The tall stone walls, still formidable even in their crumbling condition, loom darkly ahead of the travelers. A lone guardsman perched in the remains of a parapet answers their hail, and after a few short words with the caravan’s lead driver, shouts for the makeshift iron gate to be lowered. It drops with a loud, unceremonious thud into the street, and the oxen pull the wagons right over the metal slab. The guards dutifully winch it back up to close behind them, securing the city once more.

Kalen carefully watches all from his spot next to the lead wagon driver. He’s been given a discounted seat in exchange for his skills as a guard, and although he has no love for the skinflint merchant seated beside him, he takes his duties seriously. It hasn’t been an easy journey, either; the mutants seem to be multiplying out of control lately, and their aggressiveness has been increasing proportionally. Over the course of a week-long trek from Coalton, Kalen's sword left half a dozen of the poor, twisted canine wretches lying in the sand beside their trail.

As the caravan approaches the marketplace, however, there’s no sign of worry over the increasing mutant attacks. Mutants have been known to climb the walls, or sometimes even burrow beneath, so the people of Yarbarrow have reason to be concerned. Yet everywhere there is bustling activity, and the marketplace throngs with buying and selling. Kalen sees a lot of smiles and hears the laughter of children.

He can’t help but stare as a group of young boys race by the wagons, playing a noisy game around the legs of their elders. The last time Kalen was in Yarbarrow, it had the feel of a city under siege, where every door was barred and the people seemed afraid to make a sound. Granted, that was many seasons ago, but what could have changed? The desert seems to have only grown more dangerous, not less.

Hopping off the wagon and leaving the caravan driver to sell his wares to the eager crowd, Kalen gathers his possessions, double-checks that his weapons and coin are intact, and considers his options. He’s hoping to check on an old friend, assuming the fellow hasn’t yet left Yarbarrow. Fieval always was a homebody, though, and he hated caravan travel, so odds are good he’s still here earning a living with his mutant hunting. If anyone would know what has stirred up the beasts lately, it’d be him.

But perhaps that could wait. Yarbarrow is one of the few cities where meat is readily available, and although the cost is dear, Kalen has a strong craving for some hot mutton with stone gravy. There’s an inn hereabouts, and although the name of the place escapes him, Kalen remembers the dinners he’s had there quite vividly. Maybe he’d dine, hear some local gossip and a song, and then go drop in on Fieval later.

The sun is beginning to dip towards the top of the western walls, and although the market is still quite bustling, Kalen sees signs that the stalls will be closing and the merchants heading home soon. Wherever he chose to head first, he should probably get a move on, too.

Spoiler: A Lone Hero with an Empty Stomach

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Welcome to the campaign! Kalen is currently in the Yarbarrow marketplace, and will need to secure lodging (and ideally dinner) before nightfall. He has at least one contact in this city: Fieval Hasemiter, an old friend and a locally renowned mutant hunter.

Alternatively, Kalen could seek out an inn for food and gossip, in the hopes of finding work. Or he could browse the marketplace for supplies and make inquiries there.

Yarbarrow is located in the center of a larger town that was wiped out in the Desecration. The walls and stone buildings have stood for centuries, and only the heart of the old city is still occupied; there are plenty of unoccupied standing structures within the wall’s perimeter where Kalen could camp if he wished. However, those abandoned buildings are often the haunt of thieves and cutthroats, and with nobody to watch his back, it might be more trouble than it’s worth.

Kalen breathed a sigh of relief. Thanking the merchant he departed into the marketplace.

Yarbarrow had always been a more common stop for him. It was a pretty safe place and the usually busy market reminded him how well life can go on despite the hell a few hundred yards away.

Listening for anything that might be very public gossip, Kalen went to the nearest stall with both food and ale. He bought some meager meat and a small cask. A bit of farmer hospitality still remained in Kalen. Never show up empty handed when you are unannounced.

Heading into the city he struggles a bit to remember where Fieval lived. Asking a passerby or two to get his bearings. When he found the place he gave three sharp knocks followed by two slow raps on the door frame.

Fieval. It's Kalen. I have come with ale and meat. It has been too long my friend.

He waits for Fieval.

As Kalen makes inquiries about Fieval, he sees the looks of the people turn from mirth to suspicion. It takes a while before he gets a straight answer; an old woman tells him that "that one" now lives out in the abandoned area on the east side of town, and she spits in the dust before shuffling off.

It takes some time before he finds the right lodging; Fieval's home, in the remaining lower floors of a long-toppled watchtower, is the only building in the area with any sign of habitation. Rugged cloth curtains cover the narrow windows (which Kalen can tell were once used as arrow slits), and flickers of candlelight can be seen through the cracks. Kalen knocks on the crude wooden door and calls out.

He hears a shuffling from within, but Fieval doesn't answer the door right away. Instead, he surprises Kalen by popping his head out of a bolthole on the 2nd floor, with a loaded crossbow clutched awkwardly in his left hand.

"Kalen? Ol' Kale Valantis? By the dunes, is that really you down there?" he calls. For a moment Kalen doesn't recognize him-- Fieval wasn't a young man, to be sure, but he seems to have aged many years since Kalen last saw him. His face is more lined, his crown a little more bald, and his once neatly trimmed mustache has grown into a long, raggedy beard of grey whiskers. But his voice is the same as Kalen remembers, as are his twinkling eyes.

"Hang on, I'll open the door." Fieval disappears back inside the tower, and a few moments later Kalen hears a laborious shuffling on the other side of the door, as of something heavy being moved aside.

When the door opens fully and Fieval stands fully in the light, he greets Kalen with a broad grin and pulls him awkwardly inside. "Hurry now, no sense standing out in the dust," he says. Kalen is about to respond, but his words catch in his throat. As he watches Fieval close the door and wedge a large stone against it, he notices that his friend is missing his right hand-- his sword arm now ends in a bandaged stump, like a leper.

When the door is properly closed again, Fieval turns back to Kalen and gives him another grin. "My word, just look at you! And to think they used to call me well-preserved," he teases. "You've got a lot of nerve to drop in on an old man still looking as pretty as you ever did, pal. Now what's this you say about ale? Nightfall always gives me a thirst."

Brushing aside the shock for now Kalen gives Fieval a pat on the back. I'm sure the ladies still find you quite the catch friend. Smiling warmly.How long has it been? Kalen had trouble keeping track of the years nowadays. He remembered many important dates but with several centuries crowding his mind it became harder to keep everything straight. Could it have really been years since he last visited Yarbarrow.

He found a table to set down the cask and meal he had bought. It isn't much but nothing really is in these times. The ale is not bad though,
better than the swill I usually find among raiders and skinflints. Kalen thought back to his first meeting with Fieval. A round at the tavern and bit of a competitive spirit got them into some contest. Fieval had surprised him and the two became fast friends. More than a few mutants and cut-throats had fallen to their sword arms. What news is there to share? Spirits seem somewhat high here since the last time I brought you a drink. Though the opinion on you has fallen a bit.

Kalen was always a little blunt, but in the desert being direct was often the difference between life and death. And Kalen knew how to treat a wound. His gaze lingered on the stump. Do you want me to take a look at that? Concern for his friend apparent on his face. An injury not properly treated usually meant a quick death.

"Ah, pay this no mind," Fieval says, waving his empty wrist for emphasis. "I'm treating it."

"Yes, my star has waned a bit in these parts," he continues. He bustles about his meager cupboards, and returns to the table with a clay jug and a pair of earthen mugs clutched in the crook of his bad arm. "There's a lot of money rolling into town lately, a lot of opportunity for the folk to line their pockets a little, and they take a dim view of an old wet blanket like me." He smirks bitterly as he pours the drinks; by ancient custom, the host's first glass will be from the bottle provided by his guest, while the guest drinks the host's offering. Fieval dutifully fills Kalen's mug to the brim with rum from his clay jug. Though he doesn't realize it, Fieval's custom is a remnant of the old kingdom before the desert... one of the few traditions to survive to the present.

Picking up his mug in his good hand, Fieval toasts to his guest's health and takes a deep draught of ale. He lets out a contented sigh.

"Now that is very fine, isn't it," he smiles to himself. "I thank you, friend. Now tell me, what brings you back 'round Yarbarrow way?"

I never could say no to a good mug of rum. Drinking deep and smiling. That warm feeling of liquor hitting his stomach. He let out a sigh.
As for Yarbarrow. I can never stay in one place long. The wanderlust always gets me. The same small lie as always. If he stayed in one place too long people would notice that he doesn't age. That would be a problem. Better to keep moving.

So tell me. What has the town all busy? Some new business.
Can't be less mutants. There were many on the road here. Something that still concerned Kalen. The number of mutants was growing, so it seemed. Raiders too.

Fieval's face darkens, and his easy grin turns into a scowl. He drains the rest of his cup quickly, then refills it before he finally answers.

"Some months ago, an Empire witch-woman rode into town from the north," he says. "She had a gang of soldiers with her, all well-fed pretty types, with fancy weapons and shiny boots. She stayed for a week, preaching the "good word" of the Inheritors. While she was here, she sang songs to the soil, claimed that with the blessing of the Divine King Roland our crops would give a bountiful harvest. Folks didn't pay her much mind; you know how harsh the soil is around here. She preached, sang her songs, and gave folks a couple of little cures for their ills..."

A smirk returns to his face as he looks down at his severed wrist. "She offered to save my hand, too. Said there was still time, if only I would praise King Roland and give myself over to him. I told her all Roland could have of me was the hand, and what's more he could shove it up his arse." He cackles to himself at the memory. "She didn't like that one bit. Her soldiers kicked a couple teeth out of my smart mouth for that one, but by the dunes, I'd say it again. Hang the Divine King and hang his Empire, too."

He takes another drink of wine before continuing. "After a week or so, she and her cronies rode north, and we put her from our minds. Not long after, though, the first sprouts broke through the topsoil, weeks ahead of schedule. Seemed her witch-songs actually worked. Before you know it, people are pulling up tall corn in no time at all, beans by the bushel, and even squashes. All bigger than you've ever seen. So there's plenty of food, and plenty of fodder for the goats, and for the first time Yarbarrow has more money than it knows what to do with."

"Fools. They love the taste o' the bait so much they refuse to see the trap. The Empire wants Yarbarrow... maybe for its walls, I dunno. So they'll woo us and show us all the goodies they can provide if we're willing to live as servants. And next year or maybe the year after, once people are good and used to the feeling of full stomachs and easy living, they'll come to plant their flag over this place. And damned if anybody will refuse to bend the knee."

Fieval swirls his cup thoughtfully. "I plan to be long gone by then, though I don't know where I'll go. Or how I'll make my living. Never been a farmer and I just can't fight for crap with my left hand."

The Inheritors always made Kalen nervous. He was never sure if someone would realize who he used to be. His training was not all together common even during the days of the Empire. If some shaman the Inheritors have propped up came by no good can come of it. The mere mention of the scoundrels shredding Roland's name boiled Kalen's blood.

But magic should not be trifled with lightly. It is and always has been dangerous. Especially if its mucking about with nature. Don't forget thats what gave us the Inheritor's 'paradise'. That was half true but true enough that Kalen didn't flinch at the bend in truth.Do you know when they plan to return?

Considering the story though. Can't really blame the people though. They witnessed a miracle. No small one. The crops have been sour everywhere for a long long time. The desert stretched as far as anyone could see. The rolling hills of the past were gone. Mere dunes now. Kalen sighed.
What can a man do for a bit of coin nowadays?

Fieval is in total agreement with Kalen's warning about the dangers of magic. "Too right. Magic leads to mutants after all, so what fool would put it in his body? I don't eat anything grown in Yarbarrow, if I can help it. Rather go hungry some nights."

"No tellin' when they'll come back," Fievel shrugs. "Long way from their borders, but then those Empire types always seem to crop up when you least expect it. They probably won't come in force for a few seaons, but you never know when their agents will blow in. That witch-woman could be riding back into town right now, for all I know."

"As for coin, well, you could always take over my job for a while." Fieval lifts himself with an effort and walks to the opposite side of the circular room, opening a low chest near the softly glowing hearth. "The desert knows I've done my best to recruit a replacement hunter, but Yarbarrow men just have no spine these days."

He returns holding a stack of clay tablets, etched with crude depictions of monsters and lengthy descriptions of their attributes and possible lairs. "Some of these are pretty old news," he says, "but I don't think anyone's brought them in yet. Bounties are good indefinitely, so if you want to try and pry some gold from those tight-fisted town fathers, be my guest. I know that your sword arm is up to the task."

While Fieval sips his ale, Kalen takes a look over the half-a-dozen tablets. Mutants, by their nature, tend to have unique forms, and the locals give them names based on these strange attributes. There's "Nine-legs" and "Tar-skin," and a particularly nasty specimen named "Worm-face." The last and oldest tablet describes a beast called "Three-fang." The crude drawing lacks detail, but it looks vaguely familiar...

"Be cautious if you pursue that one," Fieval insists. "VERY cautious. He's got the biggest bounty for a reason. That's the rat bastard who relieved me of my hand. You're a fine warrior, Kalen, but I think that thing may just be beyond men like us."

Spoiler: Bounties

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There are six bounties to choose from; most seem fairly straightfoward. All the beasts are living in the area and should not be terribly difficult to track down, particularly if Fieval lends his assistance.

Kalen has slain many mutants in his travels, but those were mostly lesser specimens. The ones that last long enough to be given a name and bounty are fiercer, more cunning beasts that prove to be a persistent problem for the locals. In addition to being larger and stronger than their common mutant brethren, they usually have unique mutations that give them dangerous abilities.

Most bounties command a price of 50gp to 100gp, enough for a frugal hunter to live for a few months on a single kill. This is how Fieval has managed to make a living all these years. However the last bounty for the creature known as Three-Fang is on another level, listed at 500gp. Apparently this beast is quite the scourge. Fieval was always a cautious man, who approached his hunts with careful planning and preparation, so this creature must be exceptional if it was able to defeat him.

Looking over all the bounties Kalen stops on Three-Fang for a long moment like he can't remember something important. What can you tell me about this one? A better description would be a good start. I assume it is quite dangerous. Bounties this high are very uncommon. More specifically do you know if it shrugs off fire? Kalen has an idea, a bit reckless, though that is sometimes in his nature.

I would like to help you get some measure of vengeance for the hand. Can you still fire your crossbow alright? And do you know if we can get a large amount of lantern oil and some meat scraps? Innards preferably. No matter what, a bit of bait for any of these mutants would be a good thing to have. Kalen is thinking setting a trap for the more powerful beast may be the way to go. With Fieval's experience and previous encounter he hopes they can devise a plan to trap and dispose of Three-Fang.

Fievel's eyes twinkle. "You'll help me get my revenge, eh? I wouldn't mind one last hurrah, and if it ends up with that bastard as a trophy on my mantel then I can retire happy. Hold a moment and I'll tell you all I know."

Fievel returns to his chest, retrieving his pipe and tobacco. The pipe he carved himself, from the horn of a wily mutant who'd once been known as "Tusk-brow," and it remains his most prized possession. Eschewing any assistance from Kalen, he holds it awkwardly in his knees while he tamps in the tobacco. When it is finally prepared, he offers his guest his bag of tinder-dry herbs, takes a puff, and begins to speak.

"Three-Fang is unlike any mutant I've ever seen," he starts. "Big as an oxen, yet it has wings and can fly. Hard to imagine how, since he's so damned heavy, yet fly he does. They call him Three-Fang, but a better name might be "Three-Head." He has three, all in a row: one a goat's head, one a lion, and one a black, horned snake. Hideous to behold. And I know you'll think me mad, but I swear to you this: the thing could talk. All three heads were spitting threats and taunts."

"Cunning beast swooped down on me in the ruins west of town," Fievel continues. "I'd thought to seek refuge in a crevice o' tumbled stone, but he reached that snake head in and bit my hand before I could escape. Then he waited all night for me to emerge, but I dug in. The pain drove me delirious for a time... I might have been there hours or days. All I know is it were dawn when I finally came to, and the pain had stopped, though my hand was all withered and weak.

"Y'ask if it fears flame... truth be told I don't know. I held a torch in one hand, my sword in the other, and neither one stopped it from attacking me."

Fievel grins knowingly. "Aye, I can shoot straight enough, and lantern oil is available in abundance now that the market is flooded with cash. And if it's bait y'want, I know something better than entrails. See, it's well known that the beast craves strong drink... one thing we have in common." He chuckles. "I thought to lure him out with a keg of grog I procured at the market. I stayed downwind, so I don't know how he smelled me, but the bastard was on me before I had the chance to set my trap. The first thing he did was steal the keg and fly it back to his nest."

Well we should finish drinking and reminiscing. Then tomorrow we can gather supplies and scope out the hunting grounds of this beast. He accepted the pipe. Another rare treat in harsh times, though tobacco was a bit easier to grow than other things.

He considered what it is about this place that would interest the Inheritor's. Fieval likely had the right of it. The walls had always been strong. This place was defensible and a long lasting bastion. There were likely many other secrets to be found in Yarbarrow. Kalen never had the time or inclination to dig deep anywhere. It was always easier to keep moving.

We need to find a good building to rig up. Some linen, anything that will burn.
A couple gallons of oil and enough strong liquor to mask its smell. Some butcher scraps are likely still a good idea. And some rope. Soaked in oil is sure to be a good move, I ought to be able to fashion a net , rob it of its flight. Then a few flaming crossbow bolts and some luck ought to give us a strong advantage. What do you think?

Kalen knew Fieval was a good hunter, his instincts had always served him well.

"I think it a damn fine plan," Fievel says. "With the two of us together we might just pull it off. And we can procure all the supplies you could ask for in the market, provided you've got a little seed-coin.

"But that's enough of that talk for one evening, I reckon," he concludes. "I'd rather hear news of your travels, Kale. How fare things in Coalton? Are the councilmen still half-mad or have they finally gone right over the edge?"

Fievel and Kalen spend the rest of the evening sharing news and their simple supper. Kalen's good-natured company seems to do wonders for Fievel's disposition, and he cracks more and more boisterous jokes as he drinks up the wine and rum. Kalen gets the impression that the old man's not much used to laughing these days, and indulges him as he lets loose.

As the evening grows late, there is a scratching at the front door. For a moment Kalen thinks it must be a mutant, prowling the deserted part of town and drawn to the smell of food in the tower. But Fievel opens the door to let in a mangy, jackal-like desert hound. The skinny canine looks at Kalen warily, but wags his tail when Fievel scratches his furry chin.

"There's a good boy," he smiles. "Kalen, meet my partner in crime, Varlet. I found him scavenging in the dunes last year, and brought him home. He's been helping me on my hunts from time to time, though most days he earns me pennies catching rats in the grainhouses. Ever since the crop started coming in so well he's had steadier work than I ever did.

"What say you, Varlet?" he addresses the hound seriously, "Catch any fat rats? Are the good people of Yarbarrow safe for another day?" The dog doesn't answer, though his wagging tail seems to indicate agreement.

Dogs are rare in this age, and this rangy specimen is the first Kalen has seen in some time. Clearly this dog's line has done some significant interbreeding with jackals, given his pointed snout, long ears, and wide paws. In truth, Varlet still looks half-wild, but if he has the courage to assist in a mutant hunt then his nose could be quite a boon.

As the evening draws to a close, Fievel offers Kalen a simple pallet on the floor. It makes for rough sleeping, but he's used to far worse with the caravans, and the coals in the hearth keep away the chill. The old man sleeps in his chair, snoring loudly with Varlet curled up at his feet.

The next morning both men awaken early with the anticipation of the upcoming hunt. Fievel has a few basic supplies in his pack, and brings both his crossbow and his sword (though the latter is not so useful to him anymore). He suggests to Kalen that it might be wise to rent a cart, both to carry the supplies that they will need, as well as to return Three-Fang's carcass to town.

Spoiler: Supply Run

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Thanks to the prosperity provided by the harvest, Yarbarrow's once sparse marketplace is now overflowing with wares. Any desired equipment can be procured here,
including oil and rope. However, all goods are scarce in the desert; it is difficult to grow the hemp that provides fibers for ropes, and it is even harder to come by oil for lanterns. All goods other than food have their listed prices increased by 20%.

Buying a cart to carry supplies will cost 18gp, and beasts of burden are quite precious and rarely for sale. Kalen and Fievel will have to pull the cart themselves unless they are prepared to pay an exorbitant fee for a mule.

Also, don't forget normal supplies like food & water. Once you have bought everything you need, feel free to head out in your next post if you're ready. Your path will take you to the southwest, and it will likely take several days to reach Three-Fang's hunting grounds.

After gathering supplies Kalen and Fieval set out towards the territory of this 'Three-Fang'. With a plan and some luck they ought to make it back alive and a fair bit richer. Though as Kalen often remembered from his brief time at academy. 'A plan rarely survives contact with the enemy.'

I hope your ready for a bit of excitement, friend. We will certainly have a story to tell either way. Hunting was the sort of odd job Kalen picked up relatively often and it always gave him some amount of joy. Vanquishing a beast always felt to him like it might still be serving his Lord somehow. Something Roland would approve of. Iomedae too. He squeezed the hilt of his sword and said a small prayer. Reflex now, and not as devout as it once was, but still there, it still meant something.

They continued on waiting for either trouble or a suitable camp site.

The scowls of the townsfolk turn to grins as Kalen and Fievel make their purchases. A great deal of oil, as well as rope and a sturdy net. A small cask of strong desert moonshine, and a cart to carry it all. Along with their own gear, tents, rations and so on, they look like struggling merchants as they pull their cart by themselves out into the dunes.

Kalen whispers a prayer to Iomedae as they cross the threshold of the city walls. To his surprise, Fievel also offers up his prayers, though not to the goddess; like many 'old timers' of the desert, Fievel holds the land itself in a pagan awe. Like a servant trying to placate a cruel master, Fievel prayers that the desert be merciful, that the sun not be too hot and the dunes offer sure-footing, that the serpents and scorpions will not strike at his heels. Such prayers always strike Kalen with a bit of melancholy; the mighty churches of his day are all gone, replaced by the almost druidic worship of indifferent nature. Or worse, replaced by the fanatical worship of the 'Divine King Roland.'

At least Fievel's desert-worship does no real harm. With both men secure in their prayers, they leave aside religion and set to the task of walking the sands. Varlet conserves his energy by snoozing in the cart, beneath the shade of a linen blanket.

They chart a south-westerly course, the relatively flat land here proving fairly easy to navigate. They take turns with the cart, though given Fievel's age and impairment Kalen does the bulk of the hauling. They don’t speak much, conserving their energy and concentration for crossing the dunes. The day is long but they cover a good distance before they break for camp at sundown.

Spoiler: Crossing the Desert

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Kalen’s Survival check beats DC 15. The party maintains a straight course towards their destination and avoids excess water loss. Please mark off three days rations & water.

In the open desert, fires must be kept small, and the smells of food and water carefully managed to avoid attracting mutants. Despite the chill, the hunters bank their fire down to embers before retiring for the night. Varlet, well rested, now earns his keep as he maintains a vigil over his sleeping master. The night passes almost silently, though the distant howls of lesser mutants keep them all on edge.

They break camp and press on before the morning light grows too hot. The walls of Yarbarrow recede behind them, lost behind the gentle rise of low dunes, while ahead a cluster of long-abandoned ruins rise out of the heat-mirage. The image is deceptively close; it’s many more miles before they finally arrive after three days of travelling.

The ruins consist of little more than a few dozen scattered stone buildings inside a ring of crumbled walls. Once, this town would have rivaled nearby Yarbarrow in size, but it fared much worse after the Desecration, with only a few structures surviving. Now the remaining buildings are fit for little other than sheltering mutants and particularly hardy bandits.

Kalen, Fievel, and Varlet enter the ruins cautiously, their eyes and ears alert. Three-Fang doesn’t appear to be home, but signs of his habitation are everywhere: a great number of bleached and cracked bones lie strewn about in the sandy streets, most coming from lesser mutants but a few clearly belonging to Three-Fang’s unfortunate human victims.

Spoiler: Searching the Ruins

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Kalen’s Perception check beats DC 20, revealing the beast’s lair.

The tallest remaining structure is a tumbled watchtower near the heart of the ruins, and there they find what appears to be Three-Fang’s lair beneath the open sky. A crude bed of musty pelts takes up much of the top floor, and the rest is occupied with a collection of skulls: mutant, jackal, serpent, vulture, human. They are arranged in a way that seems to hint at an unnerving intelligence, dispelling any doubts that Kalen might’ve had that Three-Fang is smarter than the typical mutant.

“Well Kalen, where do you think we should lay the trap?” Fievel asks. The old hunter has an eager glint in his eye, and his good hand twists on the pommel of his sword. “Here in his lair? Or perhaps in the narrow alley, where he’ll have less room to maneuver?”

Spoiler: Preparing the Snare

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Please describe how and where you’d like to set your trap, in as much detail as you can. Assume that there are small stone buildings for you to use, both close together and spread apart, so you can have basically any arrangement of terrain you need. There is only one remaining tower, where Three-Fang makes his lair exposed to the sky, so if you want to set your trap there you’ll have less options but a better chance of the creature returning to that spot specifically. The choice is yours; plan carefully!

Kalen and Fieval set to work on the plan. Scattering a bit of butcher scraps and some liqour outside the base of the tower to make sure Three-Fang smells it, even a smart beast may not understand a trap. Then dots of the bait here and there leading into an alley between two buildings. One that will support each of their weights. Leave the barrel of oil below with a small hole poked in it so it will drain somewhat onto the ground. The rest of the spirits and butcher leavings scattered on the barrel and covered with a blanket. Kalen will keep the oil soaked net with him on one roof. Fieval can keep watch with his crossbow from the other. Fieval is given a few flasks of oil and bits of oil soaked rag to wrap on bolts. Hopefully the smell of spirits and blood will mask their own scents. Each of them will hide under a blanket and wait for the beast to show himself.

Spoiler: Rolls

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Survival to set up the trap in such away to mask our scents, and use Varlet make tracks that look right for an animal. Can I take 10? Here is a roll if the answer is no, Even if it's better I'll take 10 if I can. (1d20+5)[19]
Perception to spot Three-Fang as he approaches (1d20+9)[22]

Long hours pass slowly as the two men wait in ambush, hidden beneath their camouflage. Here, in the heart of Three-Fang's territory, there is no room for error; the slightest lapse in concentration could mean their doom. But Fievel is an experienced desert hunter, used to operating on his own for years, and Kalen has no fear that the old man's nerve will slip (or that he'll fall asleep in the sun). As taut as Fievel's crossbow string, they await the monster's inevitable return.

The light is beginning to fade in the evening when the beast finally makes itself known. A monstrous shadow flits overhead, and Kalen spies a large, black-winged shape silhouetted against the emerging stars. He can't see much detail, but certainly the size is large enough. This creature is easily as big as a horse, and its broad wings span thirty feet or more, making it easy to mark as it swoops in circles over the ruins.

Once again, Three-Fang's cunning is on display as it makes a careful inspection of the ground inside the walls. It flies lower and lower with each pass, and finally Kalen can get a good look. And now the familiar feeling he had upon hearing the creature's description clicks home.

Three-Fang has the enormous body of a grown lion, and the head of one as well. But flanking its mane are the heads of a shaggy ram and the shiny, serpentine neck of a black dragon. This creature, despite its strangeness, is no mutant at all. It is none other than a Chimera-- one of the beasts that haunted the old kingdom of Kalen's day! Three-Fang must be at least as old as Kalen himself, and probably much older.

No wonder poor Fievel hadn't been prepared for this thing in their last encounter. Mutants are bestial, animalistic, and often driven mad by perpetual, rabid fever. But a Chimera is a cunning foe, far more intelligent than even the brightest mutant, and stronger as well. And over the centuries Three-Fang must have certainly learned many tricks of survival. It stands to reason that a hunter just looking to face down a brute beast would be caught off-guard by such a mind.

Spoiler: The Moment of Truth

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Three-Fang's Perception check does not beat the DC set by Kalen's Survival check.

Kalen is beginning to wonder about the viability of their plan as Three-Fang loops over the ruins for the fifth time. But eventually, the beast seems satisfied. Kalen can see there is a lesser mutant held in Three-Fang's claws, the poor wretched thing having been easily dispatched by the Chimera and now brought home for a leisurely meal.

But Three-Fang smells the scent of alcohol and immediately its priorities change. Dropping the carcass of its prey to fall unceremoniously in the dirt, Three-Fang changes direction and alights on the ground with a thump, its wings beating furiously to slow its descent. Now out of sight, Kalen listens carefully as his quarry stalks down the narrow alley and approaches the trap. Three-Fang sniffs loudly, tasting the air with all three of its heads, and eagerly stalks towards the barrel of moonshine. Ignoring the smell of oil and meat scraps, Three-Fang paws directly towards the alluring scent of the cask. At least for a moment, the creature's appetite has overridden its sense, and it does not yet detect the trap...

Spoiler: Spring the Trap!

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Three-Fang has failed to detect your trap, and has moved in on the bait. He's currently in the alley below you. Three-Fang is greedy, but it's not totally stupid so you may only have a moment before it realizes what is happening; time to throw your net! Fievel will light his crossbow on his initiative, and will fire after you make your attack.

Hitting with a Net is a ranged touch attack. Three-Fang is currently flat-footed against your attack, so you only need to hit an AC of 9. Fievel's roll will be a normal attack, but if he misses Three-Fang's normal AC but beats the Touch AC he can still light the fire, even if the bolt fails to pierce the chimera's hide.

Please also include an Initiative roll in your post.

Kalen's heart stops in his chest for a moment. This has just gotten considerably more dangerous. Hopefully Fieval stays out of harms way, Varlet too.

Kalen pops up and throws the Net down, hoping it lands well. And Praying that Fieval's bolt strikes true. Either way Kalen intends to hop down and meet the beast up close. After Fieval's first shot. He will certainly need to contend with this creature head on. More than he intended when they left.

Spoiler: Net and Initiative

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Initiative (1d20+4)[20]
The Net (1d20+7)[18]

Before Three-Fang has a chance to realize all is not as it seems, the hunters leap to attack from hiding! As Fievel strikes his flint, sparking the rag tied to his crossbow bolt to smolder into flame, Kalen hurls his oil-soaked net down onto the beast below!

His aim is true, and the net neatly encloses Three-Fang, tarping it in a slick web of highly flammable fibers. The Chimera immediately rears onto its hind legs, snapping and clawing at the net, thrashing from side to side. To Kalen’s horror, though not surprise, all three of the creature’s heads immediately begin to speak at once, babbling in a mish-mash of antiquated Common and Draconic.

“Treachery!” it shouts. “Invaders, spies, thieves! Flay you alive, wear your skins! Break your backs, make you crawl!” The chorus of its three voices-- a bass rumble from the lion head, a hissing rasp from the dragon, and a childlike bleat from the goat-- spitting such vile threats is truly disturbing. In the midsts of this tirade, Fievel launches his flaming missile into the creature’s ribs.

Although the bolt only barely manages to pierce Three-Fang’s hide, Fievel’s aim is more than sufficient to deliver the fiery payload. The oil ignites in a flash, spreading rapidly, and turning Three-Fang’s litany of threats into a long triple-yowl of pain. The Chimera shakes furiously, seeking to dislodge the heavy net, but only manages to spread the flaming oil, igniting the pooled oil on the ground as well. The beast is covered from maw to tail in bright orange flames, and the alley is now brightly lit against the evening gloom. A hot wind seems to rush up from the ground below, stirring Kalen’s hair and bringing sweat to his brow.

They’ve struck first blood, and a mighty blow it was. But Three-Fang, despite its pain and surprise, isn’t even close to admitting defeat. From its draconic head it belches forth a stream of noxious green fluid that shoots into the air and rains down upon itself. The shower of acid fails to douse the flames, but more than suffices to blow the net itself into blackened fibers and ash. With a pool of flaming oil and a thousand droplets of hissing acid in its wake, Three-Fang turns and flees from the alley. Burning like a bonfire, the shaggy beast runs directly towards the safer ground of its lair in the heart of the ruins.

“Where are you running, you yellow bastard?!” Fievel shouts, laboriously reloading his weapon. “We’re not done here, not by a damn sight!”

Spoiler: Combat Begins!

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Surprise Round

Kalen hits Three-Fang with a net. Three-Fang is entangled.

Fievel hits Three-Fang with a flaming bolt for 1 damage. Three-Fang is burning.

Varlet readies an action to defend Fievel.

Round 1

Three-Fang takes 1 damage from burning.

Three-Fang uses its Breath Weapon to deal 28 Acid damage to the net (HP 5). The net is destroyed. Three-Fang is no longer entangled. Three-Fang's Breath Weapon is unusable for 4 rounds.

Three-Fang flees 30 ft towards the center of town.

Fievel reloads his crossbow. Varlet readies an action to defend Fievel.

Kalen dashes to the end of the building and jumps towards Three-Fang hoping to intercept him. Casting Bless Weapon on his Katana along the way. A quick flash of silver light envelops the hilt of the sword and fades into the scabbard, waiting to be unsheathed.
You won't escape me that easily beast!

Spoiler: Rolls and meta info

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Using Standard to cast Bless Weapon on my Katana.

Naming Three-Fang as my Challenge

Acrobatics to jump ahead of Three-Fang (1d20+13)[31]

With a running start, Kalen leaps nimbly from the roof, kicking loose a stone as he does so. It's a fantastic jump; Kalen feels as if he is propelled through the air by the Goddess herself. He lands lightly, tucking into a roll and regaining his feet, standing directly in front of Three-Fang.

Now the beast is trapped once more. Kalen stands at the end of the narrow alley, blocking the creature's escape, and the stone walls fence it in on either side. Three-Fang's only options are to turn and run the other way, exposing its back to the paladin's blade, or to stand and fight.

Three-Fang opts for the latter option.

"Wretch!" it spits from all three mouths. "Defiler, worm! I'll shred your flesh and leave you to rot!" The Chimera rears up on its hind legs, wings spread, and still alight with roaring flames. Thanks to the blessings of Iomedae, Kalen knows no fear... yet this terrible beast is a vision from his worst nightmares, and it certainly gives him pause, even if it does not shake his resolve.

Advancing to close the gap, Three-Fang bears right down on Kalen. His mighty lion's jaw clamps down painfully on Kalen's shoulder, the fangs piercing his flesh and threatening infection from its rancid maw. Kalen manages to shake free of the creature but not before the painful wound takes its toll.

Behind Three-Fang's back, he can see Fievel take aim with his crossbow once more, feathering the beast with another bolt. Then, to Kalen's surprise, he draws his sword with his remaining hand and leaps down into the alley, bracketing Three-Fang on the other side! Though not as nimble or as spry as he once was, Fievel is more than capable of making such a leap gracefully, and he lands ready to attack. Now Three-Fang is threatened from both sides, splitting its attention between multiple foes.

The Chimera's draconic head whips around on its flexible neck, a look of mingled surprise and hatred on its scaly face. "I know you, withered rat!" the head spits at Fievel. "I have tasted your blood once, and found it sweet. This time I shall devour you whole!"

"Aye, you can try," Fievel retorts, whipping his sword clumsily towards the chimera's flank. "And I swear I'll choke you on the way down, you miserable freak! So come at me, then, and we'll see how good your appetite really is!"

Spoiler: Combat Continues

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Round 2

Three-Fang takes 3 damage from burning.

Three-Fang moves up to Kalen. Three-Fang hits Kalen with a bite for 15 damage.

Fievel shoots Three-Fang with his crossbow for 2 damage.

Fievel leaps down (Acrobatics check result: 23) and moves behind Three-Fang. Fievel draws his sword. Three-Fang is now flanked.

Varlet leaps down next to Fievel. Varlet attacks Three-Fang with a bite and misses.

Kalen exhales and closes his eyes for a moment imagining a single devastating cut and gathering all his strength. It takes only a breath to gain his focus. He draws his katana with lightning speed and locks eyes with Three Fang a slash attempting to mortally wound him.

Spoiler: Rolls

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Power Attack Two Handed Iaijutsu
Attack (1d20+11)[22]
Damage (1d8+18)[23]
Iaijutsu (3d6)[14]

Kalen's strike is pure, divine, and perfect. He is in a state of utter stillness, of total calm; he does not cut, but rather wills himself to find the cut that was waiting to be made.

Three-Fang's blood sprays forth in a geyser as Kalen's blade leaps from its scabbard. His sword cleaves muscle and crushes bone, passing through the Chimera's flesh like water.

Three-Fang rears up, bellowing a hideous scream of agony and unbridled rage. Kalen's strike was sadly not a mortal one, and the pain of Three-Fang's wounds have driven it into near-madness. It crashes down on Kalen, slicing him with talons and crushing him with fangs. The creature's counterattack is fearsome and in an instant, the life is nearly rent out of Kalen by the terrible blows. Although he somehow manages to remain standing, his sword wedged between himself and Three-Fang's bloody jaws, Kalen's blood now mingles freely on the ground with that of his foe.

For his part, Fievel does not stand idly by while his friend suffers in his place. With the Chimera distracted, he plunges his blade up to the hilt, finding a relatively weak point on Three-Fang's hide and striking as deep as he can. With only one hand for leverage, he leans on the sword, urging it further before ripping it free, covered in gore. Varlet sinks his teeth into Three-Fang's shaggy flank, searching for a vital spot to rend.

Spoiler: A Great Deal of Blood is Spilt

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Three-Fang succeeds on a Will save vs. Terrifying Iajutsu.

Round 3

Three-Fang suffers 5 damage from burning.

Three-Fang makes a full attack against Kalen, hitting with a bite and two claws for a total of 24 damage.

Three-Fang remains flanked.

Fievel hits Three-Fang with his longsword for 9 damage.

Varlet misses Three-Fang with a bite.

Kalen touches his hand to his heart and utters a single holy word. He is somewhat rejuvenated and peels his katana back from the wretched beast ready to strike again. An overhand chop.

Spoiler: Rolls

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Attack: Two Hand Power Attack [roll]+11[/roll]
Damage (1d8+18)[20]

Lay on Hands (2d6)[7]

Retreating a single step, Kalen puts himself at an optimal distance to strike and raises his sword overhead. Three-Fang takes the opportunity to rear up once more, preparing to lunge and pierce Kalen with his bloody fangs for a final time. As the two combatants crash together, Kalen's blade flashes with the golden light of the Goddess for a single instant, before the Chimera's three heads crowd in and surround him.

Descending like lightning, the holy blade cleaves a straight path down through the lion's skull, sending brains, gore, and shattered teeth flying. Before the tip of Kalen's blade reaches the ground, the beast loses all control of its body, collapsing in the dust at his feet. Blood spurts from the ruined skull, slowing to a trickle, and one leathery wing flaps weakly like a flag over the carcass.

Intriguingly, or perhaps just disturbingly, Kalen sees that the three heads are somewhat independent. Although the central, leonine head seems to have controlled the body (judging by the creature's loss of motor control when that head was destroyed), both the goat and dragon heads still live, after a fashion. The goat's head is not speaking, merely panting and coughing up rills of blood, its eyes glazed and rolling with delirium. But the dragon's head seems even more frenzied than ever, whipping back and forth, spitting flecks of acid to and fro as it hisses and howls.

"Vermin!" it rasps weakly. Its voice seems strangely hollow and distant, though whether that is due to the dragon's approaching death or the lack of its two companion voices, Kalen does not know. "Insects... rats... raaats...!"

Fievel's lips are spread in a wide, almost manic grin as he watches the dragon's death throes. Although Kalen struck the mortal blow, it seems to have a special hatred for Fievel, and stretches its long neck back in a final attempt to bite him. But finally, the serpent's fury is spent, and it follows its goat and lion companions into death. With a final exhalation and single flap of its wing, Three-Fang is no more, just a smoldering heap of hideous, blood-soaked fur and flesh.

"Even rats can still bite, you hateful mutt," Fievel says with finality. He raises his blade once more. "I'll butcher this beast, Kale," he announces. "Least I can do after you felled him."

Kalen rests to tend to his wounds, sitting well out of the coagulated blood and muck pooling around the beast. A foul stench is rising from the carcass, but Fievel pays it no heed as he goes about carefully severing each of the three heads.

"Hullo, what's this?" he mumbles as he lifts the goat's head by a horn. Letting it fall, he works his blade in the thick black fur at the base of the goat's neck, cutting free what looks like a simple leather band. On the band can be seen a glint of gold. Fievel works it free and holds it up to examine it in the fading light. After a moment he lets out a low whistle of appreciation, then turns and tosses the object to Kalen.

"A fine souvenir for you, Kale," he says. "Only right for you to have it." Then he returns to his work.

Kalen catches the object, which turns out to be a finely worked gold ring, gleaming and free of tarnish (though smelling unpleasantly of Chimera). Looking closely, he can see that the ring's band is embossed with an endless series of interconnected knots. This pattern is a symbol of the old kingdom, representing eternity, and was often seen on the banners of nobles and in the work of craftsmen, both of whom hoped their legacies would endure forever. In the end only the craftsmen got their wish, and only after a fashion.

Spoiler: Victory, and Spoils!

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Kalen and Fievel have defeated Three-Fang! You have accomplished your bounty and looted a gold ring from the creature's body.

Fievel will butcher the body to collect the trophies you need to prove the success of your hunt. Unfortunately, Chimera meat is highly acidic so the rest of the carcass is probably best left to the desert unless you want a specific trophy for yourself. It is just now past twilight, and the evening will soon grow chill, so decide whether you want to camp here, head out, further search the ruins, or whatever you like. Fievel and Varlet will follow your lead.

I suggest when you're done that we burn the body and camp some distance from it. Any animals will be drawn to the fire.

Kalen stuffs the ring in a pouch to investigate later and decides to take a talon as a small trophy. One of the ones that shed his blood. This beast was ancient and deserved some respect for its longevity and intelligence. It was luck that one this day. Kalen pondered if one day he would lay slain this way. Some bounty hunter or brigand stealing from his corpse. It seemed the fate of many these days, strong or no.

Helping his friend prepare the proof and the body for its burning and then retiring to a campsite. Out of sight and up wind from the body.

If you don't mind first watch. I feel like I need to sleep for a full day.

Kalen unfurls a bedroll and makes himself comfortable. No tellin what the journey back might bring.

Kalen and Fievel finish collecting their trophies; Kalen takes a talon from the great beast while Fievel methodically removes its three heads and stores them in the cart. That done, they douse the body with the remaining oil and set it alight.

The smell of the smoke will likely be enough to keep desert creatures at bay, but there's no reason to take risks. They withdraw to the most defensible structure in the ruins, which happens to be Three-Fang's tower. They bunk on the first floor, setting their campfire in the doorway to act as a barricade against any marauding desert beasts.

Kalen's injuries demand rest, so Fievel and Varlet keep watch the whole night through. "Old men don't sleep much anyhow," Fievel confides with a wink. "You try to get your strength back, friend." Although Kalen's wounds pain him greatly, he manages to slip quickly into a feverish sleep. The night proves uneventful, and when Kalen awakes he finds that his pain has mostly faded into the burning itch of healing flesh.

He and Fievel discuss their options. Although Fievel is eager to return to Yarbarrow to collect their bounty, he sees no harm in taking the time to thoroughly search the ruins. After all, Three-Fang had laired here for a long time, and a beast interested in keeping a gold ring might just have collected other gold, too. Working together, the trio spend their morning making a methodical search of the ruins, starting in Three-Fang's tower and radiating outward.

After some time searching, Kalen spots something surprising atop the ruined city wall: a single hoofprint, large enough for a warhorse, and seemingly pressed right into the stone as if it were mud. The edges of the print actually seemed to have curled a bit, as if the stone were melted on contact.

Fievel takes this to be quite a bad sign. "That's the mark of the Grey Riders," he whispers, awe evident in his voice. "By the dunes. Probably it was them that laid waste to this place." Despite the day's growing heat, he shivers visibly. "Bad business. Let's not linger here anymore, Kale."

Spoiler: Grey Riders?

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Kalen's Knowledge: History check result is 11.

Kalen frowns. The so-called 'Grey Riders' are a part of the desert's rich catalogue of myths and legends, and he's been hearing talk of them since before Fievel was born. Whenever something catastrophic wipes out a desert community, the common folk blame one of three things: raiders, sand dragons, or the Grey Riders. But of all three, Kalen has only ever seen the raiders; in all his decades of desert wandering, he's never encountered the Grey Riders (or a sand dragon, for that matter), nor seen any evidence of their presence.

Still, this hoofprint is real enough. Kalen runs his fingers along the smooth, molten edge of the impression. If nothing else, it's passing strange that a hoofed creature would ever stand atop a city wall, let alone leave a mark there.

They finish their search of the city, Fievel now glancing over his shoulder as if the Grey Riders were prowling about in the shadows. They find nothing else of note; Three-Fang was more interested in collecting bones than coins, unfortunately, so they don't uncover anything in the way of treasure. The sun is passing its noontime zenith when they finally call off the search.

No sense in sticking around here. Let's get that reward.

After gathering their things its time to cross the desert again.

Kalen keeps an eye behind them. The hoof print feels like it should concern him more. The why of it escapes him.

Kalen largely lets Fieval lead them back. Mulling over the previous day. Thinking about what to do in the next encounter with such a beast.

Spoiler: Rolls

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Perception (1d20+9)[25]
Survival (1d20+5)[13]
For the journey back.

Satisfied that the bone-littered ruins have been thoroughly searched, neither of the men wants to tarry any longer. With the noon sun high above them, they don their travelling gear, check the load of the wagon, and strike forth. Varlet takes along a trophy of his own: a long, gnarled mutant’s femur taken from Three-Fang’s refuse pile. Gnawing happily, the dog takes his place in the cart and the trio immediately set forth.

Spoiler: The Second Leg of the Journey

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Kalen's Survival check result of 13 is not enough to plot an easy course, even with Fievel's assistance; their return trip will likely take four days or possibly longer.

Unfortunately, with Kalen’s injuries requiring rest, their progress is slow. Fievel does his best to pull the cart with a rope looped around his torso, guiding one of the harness posts with his remaining hand, but it’s slow going regardless. Kalen takes his turns to let the old man rest, but there’s only so much he can do without risking reopening his wounds. It looks as though the return trip (even without the burden of oil and liquor casks in the cart) will take somewhat longer than the first leg of the journey did.

The first night passes without incident, with both Kalen and Varlet standing their respective watches. As they break for a noontime meal on the second day of travel, Kalen spots a twisted figure on a distant dune: a lesser mutant is watching them, no doubt attracted to the scents of blood and water from their cart. The creature is some distance to the south, not lying in their path, but probably following their trail either way.

There’s no way to engage the beast at this range, and the speed of a mutant (generally) far outstrips that of a man, so Kalen and Fievel have no choice but to watch and wait. A single mutant is hardly a threat to either of them, but they are crafty creatures. As the men pack up the remains of their luncheon and prepare to move onward, they resolve to keep an even closer watch; they would not be the first mutant hunters caught unawares and slain by ‘weak’ specimens in the night. As they resume their journey, the mutant slips out of sight behind a distant dune.

That evening, Fievel takes first watch along with Varlet, adding his old but still keen eyes to Varlet’s powerful nose and ears. Their watch passes, and Kalen takes his turn, though Varlet stays awake as Fievel nods off. Apparently the hound’s survival instincts have been roused, and he intends to stay on guard the whole night through.

But intention only goes so far. As the night grows long and the moon hangs full and bright in the sky, Varlet suddenly nods off, his muzzle drooping to lay on his broad paws. Fievel mutters in his sleep, rolls over, and resumes his quiet snoring.

Kalen considers stirring the dog, when he hears a distinctive sound: the scuffling of feet, just behind the crest of a nearby ridge. He places hand to hilt, and pauses to consider the strangeness of the noise: if that was the sound of a mutant, it’s the first bipedal mutant he’s ever encountered. He clearly heard the movement of two feet and no more.

Spoiler: Something Stirs in the Night…

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By this point, Kalen would have had two days’ worth of opportunities to use Lay on Hands (if desired), plus light rest, so please update his remaining hitpoints accordingly.

Currently Kalen is sitting in the shadow of the cart, in which Fievel is sleeping soundly. Varlet is asleep on the sand next to Kalen. Kalen has just heard a furtive movement about sixty feet away, behind a low rise of sand; his Perception check result was sufficient to determine that the noise was made by a bipedal creature, and he knows of no desert predator (mutant or otherwise) that walks on two feet.

The source of the noise does not seem to be currently approaching. The next move is Kalen’s.

Kalen stands and grips his sword. He wishes to let Fieval rest.

He will slowly approach the dune, ready to draw his weapon if he needs to.

Scooping up a handful of sand as he approaches the dune, fighting dirty is better than fighting to kill if it turns out to be something harmless.

Stopping about ten feet away and listening for a response, any change in movement.

Kalen is ready for a fight, the Chimera has him spooked about this section of the desert, what else might be out here?

After a long few second Kalen speaks. Show yourself. If you mean me harm you will have your own in return. Otherwise identify yourself and your intent.
He is stern and hoping it turns out to be some cowardly lone raider.

Spoiler: Intimidate

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Intimidate (1d20+10)[21]

Also sorry for taking so long, I am trying to put a lot of thought into this game. Even if my responses don't seem long.