It was a cold and rainy night, like most others actually, in the crowded Kithicor Woods. Here a group of hardened Orcs waited in silence for anyone or anything to pass by, unknowing of its imminent demise. The Orcs’ ears perked at the familiar sound of worn wheels on a rather unsmooth path, heading their way. The guards looked exhausted and saddle-sore from their apparently harsh track through the lands of Antonica. Even though Orcs aren’t usually known for their intelligence, they do tend to not enter into a brawl until they are sure of their victory. They could tell that, from the look of the guards, that they were from the far north, the forever cold landscape of The Frigid Planes had left some of the members with less fingers then they were brought into this world with. Their clothes showed a sense of unrefined pride, common in most Barbaric castes. These men were strong, and well built. They had at least 4 feet on the tallest of the Orcish band. All except for one. This man, hair of gold and eyes of Blue, was slightly more lean and smaller in stature compared to the much larger frames around him, yet he seemed to command more respect than even the tallest and strongest of the Barbarians. This notion puzzled the Orcish scout as he surveyed further; size was always the determining factor in his race.

The Wagons near the front and back of the line were less protected then near the center. This tipped the Scout off to the position of most of the valuable items and trinkets. Hopefully he himself would be able to scour a reasonable amount of gold, even better, platinum from the remains of the bodies that were sure to fall during the raid. Orcish scouts never did get paid their rightful amount for their trade. He had always hated that part of his life, however short that may be. As the parade of men and horse continued past the scout and nearer the appointed location of the ambush, set up between the walls of the rising cliffs and dense underbrush, he stared deliberately at the hidden Orc Centurion whom was the leader of the small band. Signaling the command to ready their arms for the oddly satisfying ritual of battle. With a sneer upon his scarred face, he set the delay on his Bang-Flash for 20 seconds, a little trinket picked up from a band of Dwarves which had fallen into this very same trap only days before. He drew back his arm and threw it directly into a pot in the road, 10 feet in front of the approaching caravan. He hissed in delight under his breath.

Paladin Folan H'Wettion cursed, inwardly of course, as the salty rain stung his wind chapped face and lips like a scarabs bite. He had only intended to join this band of Barbarians to more safely travel back home, back to FreePort. Alas, a Halfling Rogue had stolen his money pouch during a seemingly fair enough drinking binge in one of the infamous taverns of Halas, forcing him to sign on as a guard. He had hated taking the job in Halas to pay off his debt from borrowing money to receive training at the Hall of Truth in FreePort. That had been two years ago, and he longed to see his wife and son again. He could have paid for his training himself, yet when he had announced to his elders that he planned to marry and have children with a High Elf of Felwithe, named Malorne HighMark, also an offspring of a well off family. Alas, she had the same outcome of the telling as he... disownment. He and his new wife were alone for a few short, happy years. Happy even though the hardships of poverty weighed upon them heavily. It had been his dream since a young age to become a servant of Mithaniel Marr, to be a Paladin. His wife did not dare deny the right for him to choose such a holy undertaking, so she did not, therefore, he trained. All that had cost a great deal, that is why he had taken the job in Halas. His wife had the child a short while after he departed. He still wished to see him. Now his wish will finally be granted.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a round, black object land in the path directly in front of him. He thought it nothing but a rock displaced by the rains and deposited there after falling from one of the many overhangs above. He gazed at the sky trying to will the rains away. If only Mithaniel controlled the rains as well as everything holy. Something dark and obscured with shadows moved slightly, ever slow slightly, in the blanket of rain. This small twitch brought Folan out of his daze and to an alert stance. Stiffening in his saddle, muscles tensing, he shot up his arm and called out the dreaded words "It tis a raid!" He could not believe how stupid he had been not to notice that he had entered the ever-narrowing pass, the perfect place for an ambush!

The object Folan thought earlier to be a rock, suddenly exploded violently with such force, that it dismounted him and everyone from their steeds, who then beat a hasty retreat. Standing up, shifting all his weight to his right foot due to the unbearable pain in his left, he drew his sword from its sheath and readied for battle. The orcs came like a flood from the rocky outcrops, screaming incomprehensible curses and battle-cries. The first Orc to reach him swung at him with his pick, missing only by inches, too close for Folan. While the Orc was recovering from his first attack, the paladin thrust his blade into the foul creature’s upper-torso. The cry that emitted from the Orc's mouth was full of pain and hatred, the sound of death. Yet, there was no rest for weary. A large and threatening Orc charged Folan. He seemed a tad bit larger than the others, so Folan took him as the leader. The orc charged and swung with his mace, striking Folan across the left shoulder, shattering the chain links and dislocating bone from socket. Grinding his teeth together from the intense pain, so as not to break his concentration, the wounded paladin struck. All the Orc could see was a blinding flash as light reflected off of polished metal and then a dull, numbing pain in his shoulder. His mind reeled with terror as the sound of a blade slicing through hardened flesh and the grinding of bone. He let out a scream and fell to the ground, silent, muscles wrenching his body with the spasms of death.