The rythm of nature, which for you manifests in the Spark, is strong in you.

The Earth will be watered with blood, and there is nothing you can do to prevent this.
However, you can still protect those of your allies that have not yet fallen, and you are determined to see that victory, even against the odds, is yours.

You will send a call to the animals of the hills and plains to come and assist you.

Leaning against one side of the coach, you close your eyes and send out a call of help to all things attuned to Earth.

You project your own image, and that off the goblins, stinking, poisoning the earth with their mere foul existence.

And your call is answered.

Suddenly, a howl errupts from the hills, a group of wolves coming for a brother in need. Both the goblins and the guards, engulfed in deadly close combat, appear to be startled by the cries of the wolves, but they quickly catch themselves again.

Then, the first goblin shaman is brought down with a single, powerful bite in the neck by a large, black wolf, who you easily identify as the leader of the pack.

You channel your powers of earth to deflect the goblins' knives from the hides of your friends, both animal and human, and the few surviving goblins turn to flee after a mere minute, as more and more wolves join the battle.

The wolves turn to pursuit the foul creatures, but not before the large black wolf catches your eyes and emits a deep growl. You understand perfectly: Brothers are there for each other, but this is a mutual responsibility. With this, the pack leader turns off to follow the rest of the pack, leaving the dazzled guards behind.

You move towards the fallen, seeing if you can do anything about their wounds, when suddenly Lucius screams with pain, and suddenly, your vision fades to black when something hard and heavy hits your head... from behind...

You continue...

You are not dead, and you are quite sure of it, because you always heared of death being somewhat of a peaceful slumber. Instead, your head feels like it is going to explode every second now, the world appears to be one of those carroussels you have visited once on a fair near the Academy, and if your stomach wasn't empty already, it would soon be.

With a groan you open one of your eyes, only to find that the world not only spins like a carroussel, but the flashing lights that dance before your vision also appear to be like the fireworks that often accompany the fairs.

You have no idea how long you were left there lieing, but when you open your eyes again, you stare into a horrific face, swollen and blurred like a nightmare come true.

You gasp and wrench from the hands that suddenly grasp your shoulders, only to find that the sudden movement brings an explosion of pain so far unknown to you into your head, and you cannot help but twist to one side, assisted by the hands, and empty your stomach for good, even though all that comes from it is blood and bile, each spasm calling forth another explosion of pain that makes you wish you were, in fact, dead.

A voice calls something you do not understand, and something cold splashes your face.

When the spasms stop and the pain subside to barely above tolerable levels again, someone holds a wineskin to your mouth, and greedily you take a gulp, only to choke at the brandy that is now in your mouth.

Coughing, and wincing, you try to sit up, and are assisted once again by the strong hands. You look at who is holding you, and finally, through the tears of pain, your vision clears and you recognize the scarred and bearded face of one of the soldiers who looks at you with some concern.

"Some concussion y'got there, lad", he greets you.

An hour later, when you feel well enough to stand up again, though somewhat shaky - the brandy helped greatly to settle your stomach, there must have been something in it - you take in the scenery.

Only three guards - and yourself - survived, but the goblins were nearly decimated, and the few survivors fled, followed by the wolves you summoned, the scarred man adds with a sideglance at you.

Lucius Tarchild and J'Arel Whitefang are both dead, J'Arel obviously the luckier of the two.

Both were apparently killed by Farhan Brownhand, the emissary of Alzur, the scarred guard that woke you reports with a scowl. He interrupts his talking, and turns to spit on the ground.

Master Whitefang was slain by a bolt of lightning summoned by Master Brownhand, and Master Tarchild was slain by a darkly enchanted sword the emissary wielded when he attacked the magus.

For some reason, the emissary obviously was in league with the goblin horde, and wanted the trek to be exterminated. However, the guards - with the help of the black wolf's pack - managed to overcome the goblins in time, and faced by the remaining guards, Farhan slew most of them with his magic and then turned to flee.

Why he did this, the scarred man, who is named Kor, the guards never knew, but they suspect some dark treachery.


You have been unconcious for more than three hours, and it is high time to break the camp, in case Farhan, rested, returns to finish the work the goblins began.

The animals that drew the coaches are either dead or fled during the ambush, and you have little choice but to leave the place by foot in the twilight that announces nightfall.

Kor, obviously a seasoned veteran, is about to order the remaining guards to pack, when he hesitates a moment to look at you.

Suddenly, a growl makes both of you look around.

The black wolf, a majestic animal, is standing at the corner of the battlefield.

One of the guards warily raises his weapon, but you call him to drop it. Ignoring the guard, the wolf casually and gracefully steps up to you.

He sniffs the air, then turns and heads of to the hills, turning his head just once to see if you follow him, then turns again to walk away.

Kor and the other two stare after him with distrust in their eyes.