Party: Henrik, Torinn, Krum, Hyacinth, Belomash, Raith, Zoltan
XP: TBD
Smoke curled from the docks of Leilon – an offering to Gruumsh. Belomash breathed it in with a grin cracked wide across his tusked face. Blood – his, theirs, it didn’t matter – streaked his arms like war paint. The battle had ended, the bodies cooling, but his heart still thundered with rage.
He had faced trolls, elementals, cowardly pirates, and even an archmage cloaked in spells and arrogance. And yet they fell. All of them fell. The Mask had glowed with divine fury as Belomash unleashed a bolt of lightning, splitting enemies like dry logs. Gruumsh would be pleased.
During the battle Henrick’s arrow had caught him in the back yet again. He may look like a half-elf, but he has the soul of a dirty little goblin, Belomash had exclaimed. He bore the scar like a badge. Still, the blood debt was noted. One day he would bury Henrick ten feet deep for his transgressions and nobody would be the wiser.
Earlier that day, the group had returned to the town of Leilon. After more than a year on the road the town had grown, but not necessarily for the better. Soft talk followed – politics, council meetings, gold. Gruumsh cared little for such things, but Belomash listened. Not because he valued diplomacy, but because he saw the confrontation lying ahead. The cities of Neverwinter and Waterdeep were like parasites, bleeding Leilon from both ends. If the Lions didn’t stop them, who would? .
