You’d like to track down that wizard and give him a piece of your mind, but you decide that he’s taken enough of it already. It’s time to set out for Mount Mooregardia once again.This time no taverns – or perhaps fewer taverns. No, the same amount of taverns, but no wizards.
“You’re not making for Mooregardia, are you?” asks Abrion, a note of concern in his voice.
“I most certainly am,” you reply. “The Threebeast must die.”
“Truth!” Danalt interjects. “And you’ll get your face eaten off trying, little friend! I’ve stuck my sword into many a foe but never faced anything quite as fierce as that wretched Chimera. It almost had me for supper.”
“You’ve battled the Threebeast?” you ask.
“We all did,” says Abrion. “We’re the only survivors of the first offensive. That’s why we were chosen to lead this attack. We meet up with more soldiers a days’ ride from here. That’s all I’m saying. We explained it all last night in great detail, and as I much as I do enjoy hearing myself speak, I refuse to do it again!”
“That’s all very interesting,” you respond casually, concealing your intense curiosity. “I’m afraid your quest will be nothing more than a scenic tour of Greater Mooregardia. At your journey’s end, you’ll find me drinking a pint over the lifeless carcass of the freshly slain beast. Cheers!”
You wave and begin to walk away when Abrion yells, “Now!”
A heavy net falls on you and knocks you to the floor. Uninjured, but very confused, you manage to scramble under a weighted edge without getting tangled. A firm grip on your ruck, you instinctively dart for the door, narrowly avoiding capture by the knights and Margaret, all of whom bark fragmented orders and colorful profanity at you, and each other, as the chaotic scene unfolds.
At the best possible moment, Drake’s door flings open. Running as hard as you can, you leap through the doorway, twisting mid-flight to avoid a tavern patron, wide-eyed and agape from the halfling hurtling toward him.
Your landing on the front stoop is clumsy, but you stay on your feet. You assess your options for escape as your eyes struggle to adjust to the noonday sun. Your assailants can’t be more than a few seconds behind you.
The gravel roadway that bisects Draffs is lined by the buildings of merchants and the homes of townsfolk. It’s abustle with people, beasts of burden, and the occasional wagon. The nearest structure is a stable, a stone’s throw to the north. A horse peers at you from one of the stalls, evidently interested in your clamorous escape. The thick, green forest at the south edge of the village is about twice the distance as the stable. The road out of the village is fairly clear to the south.
What do you do?