The Hall of Havoc
Within the keep, the adventurers and their foes clashed in battle as silent as it was ferocious. Czolba's crossbow bolt sparked off the evil priest's breastplate just as toothless Moroth slammed into the dark acolyte, his huge axe carving a channel in the man's spaulder. Although his half-strapped armor was rent by the mighty blow, the evil man seemed unharmed: His dark gods favored him indeed!
A hideous glee filling his features, the cleric tried to close with Kadarin, hoping to pen the mage within his magical silence, but Delsordo anticipated the move: He tackled the depraved priest, seeking to grapple. Staggering backward, the champion of Scarnach almost evaded his foe's grasp, but Delsordo's skills served him well: Seizing the man's armored leg, he twisted and brought the priest down.
A few feet away, orcish battle fury crashed into the man's undead thralls. Unhindered by chivalry or kindness, the two orcs rained blows onto their foes. Any living force would have fallen back before the humanoids' axes, but this time, they faced foes without fear or caution. Pallid, feminine arms driven by unclean magic tore into the orcs with inhuman strength. The two orcs were overcome in seconds, smashed by their hideously vacant-eyed foes.
Winning clear of the silence, Kadarin uttered the incantation of his web spell. The undead things that had so horribly rent their orcish allies were hopelessly ensnared, but struggled to free themselves with the relentless patience of the dead. The web would not hold them forever.
In the doorway, Dujek crouched to prepare his firebombs. His reactions sharpened by years of evading peasant mobs, he ducked just in time to see a crossbow bolt from the courtyard silently glance off the stone where his head had been. A trio of camp followers in the courtyard had heavy crossbows, and were taking potshots at the party! Turning to warn Czolba of the menace, he realized that a massive quarrel had soundlessly struck the mercenary's shoulder. Pale with pain, Czolba staggered a few steps, then collapsed unconscious upon the stairs. Bright red stained his battered surcoat, spreading rapidly from the tiny wound.
The Captain's Fall
Across the courtyard, a group of brigands held firm, sheltered between a large rack of polearms and an upturned, shattered wagon. With sibilant whispers, their grease-spattered leader pointed out targets for a pair of archers, each armed with selfbows. Three more bandits stood before them, two fending off the cavalrymen with rusty pikes while the other held a blood-encrusted bill-guisarme aloft.
Grabbing a fallen lance as his nimble steed wove across the courtyard's ruins, Lance Commander Salleer gathered his riders to crush the defiant bandits once and for all. "For Nimz! For Nimz!" his voice rang out, as he spurred his steed.
Perhaps he should not have drawn such attention to himself. The cunning mercenary called "Quiet Kalque" whispered, and arrows peppered the commander's horse, dropping it beneath him. His men flinched away from the pike-armed bandits, turning off to the side as the brigands jeered.