The scent of scorched flesh and burnt tarp clung to Torinn’s nostrils as he stood over the wreckage of the caravan. The gnolls and hell hounds had left nothing but twisted wagons and gruesome remains. But this wasn’t just random violence. These gnolls were following orders.
That was why the dragonborn paladin and his companions were here. The magically sealed letter they had obtained from the battle at the docks of Leilon had confirmed as much. It mentioned the Lions and the Growler, a local politician, by name. They’d taken it straight to her, and she confirmed what Torinn already suspected: someone was feeding this chaos. Caravans to the north had gone missing and the Lions along with their new companions needed to find out why.
The battle had ended quickly. Thom the halfling monk and Rimgar the dwarven warrior had proven themselves worthy of the paladin’s trust. When they questioned the gnoll prisoner Torinn had healed back to consciousness, the wretched creature gave them what they needed – the location of a ruined fortress where Vorash One-Tusk, the gnoll warlord, was directing these attacks from.
A brilliant plan was conceived once Onyx the owl had scouted the ruins from above. Torinn and Thom would ride his majestic griffon Griff and assault one of the towers as a distraction while Raith led the other companions into the fortress under the cover of night with a Passwall spell.
But now, standing in the heart of the crumbling courtyard, smoke curling past broken stone, surrounded by dozens of gnoll warriors and summoned demons, Torinn hesitated as the gnoll warlord stepped forward, demanding a parlay.
It wasn’t cowardice that sheathed his blade, for Torinn knew no fear. Nor was it mercy, for these beasts deserved none. It was simply strategy. Gold could buy information. Information could ensure victory. Fighting here might satisfy vengeance, but a negotiation and possible alliance could uncover who in Leilon was paying these brigands to burn caravans and strangle the town’s trade.
Unfortunately, Zoltan didn’t see it that way. Fueled by the morning’s inspiring breakfast prepared by Rimgar, the gnome wizard practically vibrated with arcane fury as he spat insults at the paladin once he realized the fight was forfeit. Torinn met his gaze, steady and calm.
The others watched, silent, caught between the sword and the flame. Vorash snarled impatiently.
The moment hung by a thread. Mercy or fire. Justice or fury.
Torinn’s grip on the hilt of his sunblade tightened – but the sword remained at his side. The decision was his.
