They were supposed to wait.

There was no sign of the merchant caravan, just a wooded trail well worn from travel. The caravan lead, full of confidence and empty of sense, decided that actually utilizing the adventurers he'd hired was more hassle than setting off without them, and apparently did so. Sure they'd been slightly late, delayed more than a few times, gained and lost a few members but even so it seemed that their patron misunderstood at least half of the term “armed escort” on a fundamental level.

The trail was a known one, used by merchants to transport their wares to the small hamlet of Alustama for years without trouble, and perhaps the escort fee eating into their margins caused the merchants to rethink the expense in their overconfidence. A short trek through the woods and across the wheat fields beyond probably seemed trivial, but there was a reason the group had been hired in the first place. Over the past week, two caravans had gone missing, and few had heard word from their destination in some time. Rumours of bandits had been whispered in local taverns, and a call for able-bodied adventurers willing to risk life for coin was raised. Still, with no caravan waiting to be protected, it seemed unlikely that coin would be collected.

The noon sun beat down on the assembled would-be escorts, Bastion Soleil the half-Elven bard, Sálome Herodías the full blooded Elven conjurer, Baldric Oakbottom the mysterious Halfling and finally Llammoch, the half-Orc paladin accompanied by Bruno the Bold, his faithful warhound. They had met the night before, getting to know one another before the journey they'd expected to take today. For the moment however it seemed their talents, as well as their time, were to be wasted.

Just as it seemed they'd resolved to leave for other matters, the group's attention was called to the treeline by Bruno's low growl. Upon closer inspection, there was movement in the bushes, and Bruno's growl was soon answered by a chorus of barks. One by one, a small pack of wolves emerged from the underbrush, five in total, each significantly larger than an average wolf. As they spread out preparing to encircle the group, it became apparent from their blood stained muzzles that this was not the first encounter this pack had met today.

The last of them came fully into view, its jaws clenched on a grisly sight. Even at this distance the group could clearly discern the sigil ring of a merchant house on the hand of what appeared to be a freshly severed arm. Perhaps there would be some purpose to their day after all.

(OOC: And we're off! We're going right into combat. Initiatives and maps will be in the Q&A!)

Blasted fools!

Llammoch cursed silently, berrating his presumedly dead charge as their hand wagged from the maw of a mangy pack of woesome wolves. He'd travelled a fortnight to extend his services to the locals, who were falling victim to some form of dubious plight, according to tongues wagging in the wind. The night before served as an affirmation to the diligent brother, upon hearing of the upset in the criminal community. Some upheaval spitting up the foul dust of evils pile. Fortunate, then, for Llammoch and his bold companion, that they would find allegiance with like minded adventurers in this quest.

With or without them, he would find a way to uproot this so called "Last Chance Gang". Far better to enlist the aid of a skilled handful of comrades. Mustering a militia would be a heavy investment. Time he would happily serve if it meant the betterment of the common folk, and an easement to what ills they have fortuned. Nay. Better a band of the bold. Corageous outliers such as he to quell the forces of darkness. He could feel the coming days of glory. His mettle, tested against the forces of villainy yet again!

Oh fail me not, mine rigid heart!

But what madness was this? Some rabid pack of dogs set loose upon the merchants of this fair hamlet perhaps? Or just some piss poor happenstance, and a stark reminder that their stay here had been purpose built indeed. Regardless, these wild menaces would need to be put down. If only for the safety of the town, if not, as it was yet to be seen, one another. A more proper investigation will be necessary to follow. Ah. But first things first.

Five wolves, larger than life and coming in for the kill. Bruno would know what to do here, and would await Llammochs cue. For now the loyal mastiff would round up before his brother in arms and defend the knight.(Ready attack, w/trip if successful. Remain beside Llammoch.)

Llammoch himself would focus his divine energies into a vigorous display of martial prowess. Invigorating his muscles. Emboldening his stride. Enlivening his soul. (Uses Divine Vigor.).

When the time came to strike, he would be swift and steady.

"Stick together!" Llammoch shouted to his comrades, "These are flanking foes!"

"Blast these short legs!" Baldric thought as he struggled to keep up with the group. He had to double-time just to keep up - not all the time, but enough. The group was moving slow, he could feel it, and it was his fault for being born short. "We should have left early. Nobody likes to be kept waiting, we should have been there an hour before them."

Lost in his thoughts, the little halfling didn't notice the dog growling. Suddenly his reverie broke. Dogs barking. Wolves? No, bigger. Before Baldric had a chance to move, his ally called out. "Stick together! These are flanking foes!"

It was a sensible command. Wolves were by nature pack animals, and would surround them given half a chance. He rushed forward to meet the paladin. He had been slow on his feet this time but not, he thought, unprepared. Baldric drew his morningstar and rushed toward the enemy, hoping he was fast enough to put the steel of his armor between the wolves and his party. 

Baldric felt Ytiere awaken within his chest. She seemed to writhe for a moment, then like a thunderclap her presence stretched forth and shared Power. Baldric inhaled deeply in preparation for what was to come next. Her silver spell of cold wreathed his lips, ready to chill the bones of his attackers.

Should have been early.

((OOC: Move to Llamoch's side. If Baldric can target 3 or more enemies with his breath weapon, use that. Otherwise, he'll strike with his morningstar. Draconic Aura - Power, giving +2 damage ongoing to allies within 30ft))

Bastion ran a freshly-calloused hand through his dark orange hair, the sweat that had accumulated on his brow keeping his waif-ish locks slicked back in a way he assumed looked rather dashing. He had to admit, gaining the notoriety of a renowned adventurer, a seeker of knowledge, combat, and love, was proving to be difficult work, but necessary all the same. Imagine, taking up arms against the ravenous “Last Chance Gang”. He could see it, the glistening paladin charging into their front lines ahead of him, spellcasters slinging their fireballs and missiles and whatever else from behind, and he, Bastion Soliel, planted steadfast in the center of it all, bolstering his allies with his music and his words.

His audience would love that one. He hated the idea of marring his youthful face, but a nice clean scar could add that little bit of panache to really draw in the emotional sort.

He looked around at the silent lot and his hopes dwindled. Of course, there would be no stories or tales of heroism if they never met up with this blasted caravan. Delay after delay with nothing to show, and he could tell his compatriots, for whatever reasons of their own, were feeling a similar restlessness.

Bast was about to suggest they head back for an ale and a new adventure when the paladin’s mutt began to snarl and from out of the underbrush emerged five monstrous wolves. He had never seen any wolf as massive as these and had already begun to weave his retelling of this likely-dire battle in his head as brave Llammoch shouted at the group, “Stick together, these are flanking foes!”

Works for me, Bast thought as he drew his trusty pan flute and the Halfling Baldric dashed passed him, morningstar grasped tightly in his small hands.

“Try to stay within earshot, my friends,” Bast declared, and began to play the most outrageously intense song he knew.

He had heard a similar version of this played at the theatre fairly often behind nearly every climactic battle scene in every modern play, but he had made it better. His version built and built, drawing in more anticipation, more need for the big hit, that release of sound intermingled with his allies' every hit, their every battlecry, they became the hero those hack playwrites could only dream of. And because he was so quick and talented, he could time the most epic parts of the song to match up with the clashing of swords, the spilling of blood, encouraging his allies to keep going, hit harder, move faster. This song was for them and they knew it.

((OOC: Bast will move to be in the center most position between his allies and use his pan flute to Inspire Courage, affecting him and any ally that can hear him--lasts for this round and the next 5. Those affected get a +1 morale bonus on saving throws against charm and fear effects and a +1 morale bonus on attack and weapon damage rolls.))

That the idiot-fool-morons had gone ahead without them was unfathomable. Yet, they had done it nonetheless and it had cost them dearly. If the merchants had spared another few moments or been less concerned with maximizing their own coin, they’d still be alive. Sálome Herodías would never understand the greed-driven stupidity of mortals. 

It really shouldn’t have mattered that they were late in their arrival. If the merchants has any sense, they would have waited and simply been grateful to have secured her talents to aid in the menial task of escorting the caravan. Yet the simple-minded rarely recognized their own inferiority, or the blessings visited upon them. Walking in the lands of the short-lived, the elf had grow used to such behavior so that she barely registered the insult.

There was little point in dwelling on such matters now, the merchants had in some ways chosen their own fate, and beyond that, the four of them had more pressing matters to attend. The approaching pack of wretched, yet massive, wolves needed to be dealt with fast. 

Keeping behind the cover of the more massive and diminutive of her companions, Sálome went to work. Let the others swing their swords and deal deaths blows, let them think themselves the great heroes. As they danced and bled, she would twist the very fabric of reality to ensure her warriors fought another day. 

Swaying, the conjurer drew upon the ancient magic that coursed through her elven veins. She called upon the power in the earth below and the sky above, spinning them together toward the working of a mighty spell. And then, speaking a single arcane word, Sálome Herodías created something from nothing, releasing her wrath upon the beasts.

((OOC: Assuming there are multiple anchor point such as large trees etc, she will cast web aimed to catch as many of the wolves as possible while avoiding the party. If there are not sufficient anchor points she will cast Stinking Cloud to again catch as many wolves as possible while avoiding party. Secondary concern is using whichever spell to block wolves from moving along the southeast route.))