Our intrepid heroes of the Loudwater Mercenaries were hired to find a missing carnival troupe hired to help set up Loudwater’s upcoming Trade Faire. Given precious little to go on they interrogated the town and discovered that the carnival was likely down the river to the East.
Traveling to Secomber, the party found the carnival accused of dark magics, with the townspeople shocked at recent livestock slaughter and grave-robbery. The carnival itself was beset by an evil curse they did not understand that was working to keep them in Secomber.
Kilshandra senses the curse lying over the carnival and together with Craffmaster devised a holy ritual to cleans the carnival. Setting up an alter to Erathis and conducting the ritual at midnight the dark power was dragged out into the open where it manifested in an undead ambush. The mercenaries just barely defeated the attack though they lost Craffmaster to a flock of horrid undead vultures.
With the coming of dawn, there arose a great clatter. Heralded by pitchforks, torches, and assorted stabbing weapons, the townsfolk of Secomber advanced on the camp with grand delusions of cleansing the curse themselves. Townsfolk rarely remember that these jobs are best left to Adventurers. Preparing to cleanse the carnival site (and the wagons and carnies) with the fires born from their meager hearths the townsfolk surrounded the encampment and issued a final warning for the Adventurers to abandon the carnies to their fate. To allow the carnival to burn to ash before it could bring joy (and just a dash unease) into the souls of Loudwater was unacceptable to the band of mercenaries. That, or the thought of letting an entire cart of fried pastries go to waste.
Faced with an xenophobic mob of small-town humans, the mercenaries decided to negotiate their way out of this predicament. As it happened, the parties chosen to negotiate with said mob were a giant (blood spattered, dirty, and with more than a slight tinge of corrupt and long-fermented brain smell on his breath) and a freakin’ Dagron (who looked like a Dagron). The Dagron did the talking.
Regnant Syntax drew himself up, assumed his most civil and aristocratic air, and calmly petitioned the crowd to lay down their arms and their stabbing weapons and allow the carnival to pass through on its way. “ROAR… hiss roar roar ROOOOAR,” he spoke. Perhaps the image of a Dagron with flicks of lightning jumping between his glistening fangs did not inspire civility in the Mayor, for the negotiations came to a rapid halt.
Every good commander has a back up plan. Regnant, seeing that he was at an impasse with the Mayor, decided to take a different approach to the negotiations. Snarling, flecks of electric spittle flashing in the air, he moved to the closest wagon. Digging his claws into the wooden wagon he flexed his mighty dragon strength. In a spray of trade goods and carnival prizes, he lifted the fully loaded wagon above his head and held it while addressing the mob a second time.
“Unless you think you can catch this wagon before it crushes your puny spines, I suggest you allow the carnival and my men to leave on pleasant terms!”
Confronted with such an intimidating force, the Mayor was quickly cowed. He allowed the tired caravan of carnival and mercenaries to leave, offering up a retort that was less then frightening as the Dragon passed.
“Don’t you guys ever come back or you’re totally dead!”