Choice 3. Try and sneak in?

Seeing no point in alerting the bastards just yet, Gregor cursed the children, before he strode towards the darkness, when a voice called out to him from behind. "Hold! Laddie! Hold! Arre yah lookin to get yerself killed?!"

Head spun around to look behind him, Gregor let out a muttered oath as six heavily armed men that looked to be more like pirates or brigands, swaggered out from behind trees. The looks a few of them shot him, hard and cold, as their leader, a bald-headed ogre of a man with a potbelly that would put pregnant ladies to shame, licked his lips with a broad smile. His sunburned cheeks, and swarthy features painting image of a sailor, right down to the golden ring in his ear and nose, and scarred face.

"The name's Furgas, and if I were you, I'd suggest heading back the way you’ve come. I've hunted these bastards for a good while now, and I can tell you, those buggers were the easy part. I must have counter fifty of those bloodthirsty sonsofbitches in the last few days alone. And besides we've got dibs on them."

Teeth bared in a snarl, Gregor could feel the blood hot rage, just beneath the surface, when he forced it back down. Fifty of them was it? That might be a tricky fight, and he could use some help.

"Why do you want them?" He asked.

Face darkened into a scowl, the man tucked his fingers behind his belt buckle, when he spat into the grass. "The scum killed thirteen of our friends as well as our dear old captain. I'd say I missed the man, but he was a tight-fisted bastard, stingy with his gold. Still, no one messes with Hargrin Cole's company, and gets away with it."

Half smiling at the bluff faced warrior's cocky attitude, Gregor wondered how long they had been hiding out here, waiting for their so-called vengeance, when he turned back around. "Be my guest, you can have whatever's left of them, unless you want to join me?"

He then walked inside without another backward glance, the rustle of footsteps he heard, filled with muttered curses, with some even he had never heard off. The bald-headed leader that quickly moved up beside him, grinning all the while as though he had told a joke, while the rest of his men filed in behind. The underground passage a sweltering storm of heat as they passed rock walls thick with tree roots, and the foul odour of decay.

The man called Furgas, yammering on about how they had killed a dragon not too long ago, or was it a wyvern, when one of the younger lads piped in, and said it was more like a drake. What with its small size? When the older man, cuffed him on the head, and repeated that it was definitely a dragon. Either way, Gregor did not care, but the man seemed far too keen for him to hear his stories, even when he hissed at him to shut up.

Another time, he would have ditched them all, or better yet killed them for their gear, but extra swords, were extra swords. And besides that, his instincts told him that these men had indeed seen their fair share of fighting, even if it was mostly ridiculous boasts.

Head bent low to listen out for anything, Gregor held his arm up, and blessedly the man shut up. The fireflies that darted out of their path, revealing scores on the rock walls.

The steep climb downward, making it much more difficult for Furgas to speak, when he heard voices up ahead, and waved at them to get down.

Heartbeat roaring loud in his ears, Gregor dropped low, and crawled his way forward to hide behind a block of stone. Furgas who needed no orders, wriggling up to join him with a grim smile as they looked down at forty or maybe fifty orcs gathered together in a small hollow at the bottom. The sunbaked bone armor they wore, marked by red warpaint as they stared at something further ahead.

"What did I tell ye, lad, I said there'd be fifty of the nasty blighters. So what's the plan?"

Lips parched with a sudden thirst, Gregor let out a heavy sigh, before he turned to him, and asked, "you wouldn't happen to have any combust balls with you?"

Mouth widened into a broad grin, the bald-headed man let out a nasty chuckle, "a few, but it won't be able to take out all of them, let alone the Shaman they have with them."

"Shaman? What's that?"

Bushy black eyebrows half lifted upward in surprise, Furgas grunted back, "You ain't never heard of Shamans? They're the silly green buggers that get dressed up in skirts and run with cults like these, and use some type of dark magic that can kill you in the blink of an eye. Billy here is only one that's seen him and lived, and that's because he was too drunk, and fell asleep beneath the bushes."

Cheeks reddened at the mention of his name, the young man who had yet to earn his first scar, scratched his wispy black beard, and tried to look elsewhere to avoid questions, but Gregor wasn't really interested in hearing more. If there was some type of mage down there, he'd need to be careful or at least deal with the orc guards first.

(Toss a few combust balls and charge in?)

Head turned back to look at the small band of ruffians, cutthroats, and killers, Gregor smiled, and said, "on my signal, we hit them with combusts, and butcher the pigs." The command greeted with stony hard eyes, and bloodthirsty smiles as men drew their weapons.

His own sword drawn out with a hiss of steel, Gregor gazed back down, and waved his arm forward. The fifty orcs or so that sat at the bottom, neatly formed up into rows as they bowed their faces to the ground, and chanted words that sounded familiar. With not even a single lookout behind, Gregor grinned at their stupidity, and nodded his head, held his sword up, and charged.

The balls that flew overhead before him, exploding in a brilliant shower of white light, combined with a powerful concussive blast that tore orcs limb from limb, before Gregor let out a roar, and laid about him with cuts and slashes.

The dust and smoke that settled in the underground hollow, broken apart by the sight of dazed and bleeding orcs. All of them easy pickings for the experienced mercenary band as they carved their way forward, when firebolts blazed through the air, and werewolves stormed through them. The wrinkled old orc that swept out from the tunnel, dressed in crimson blood-red robes as he roared, "defiler! defiler! You should not be here! By the holy light of Sezarath! I shall burn your soul for this!"

Blackened staff raised high above his head, the grey-haired orc began to sway and chant, the air visibly crackling with magical energy. "Eatzo trangeo hozha eehat. Eatzo trangeo hozha eehat…"

Furgas his brown eyes wild with bloodlust, shouted, "kill him!" Even as he tried to avoid a burly werewolf that slashed open his left arm.

(Get to the orc before he finishes?)

"Eatzo trangeo hoz--"

Not needing to hear another word more, Gregor swept forward, his swordpoint a spear in his hands, when black flames spurted out towards him, scorching his chest, before being ended abruptly, his sword opening the old orc's scrawny neck in a bloody red smile. The gurgle of shock and surprise, turned to blind fear as the Shaman tried to grab hold of his arms, and fell down.

-4 HP.

+2 Morale.

(Order them back behind cover?)

"Eatzo trangeo hozha eehat."

But instead of listening to Furgas, Gregor cried out, "fall back!" The blackened circle of dark flames that shot out towards them, catching Gregor in the back, along with everyone else as he screamed in agony, and felt his skin blistered away to nothing.

Death.

(Use one of the dead orcs as a shield?)

With not a moment more to lose, Gregor leapt forward, heart in his throat as he hauled a dead orc up onto his shoulders, got a strong whiff of its unwashed body, and lumbered forward into a shambling run, when a werewolf barrelled into him, taking him down.

The wash of black flames that roared overhead, temporarily saving Gregor’s life, when claws tore apart his throat.

Death.

(Wait for the Shaman to show up?)

With so many unknown possibilities, Gregor held his ground, and waited, a part of him preferring not to waste the element of surprise, when the old green-skinned orc that he supposed was the Shaman hobbled out of a tunnel along with three werewolves that lolled at his sides like pets. The huge shaggy brown-furred beasts, laying at the feet of the Shaman who patted them on the head, before he held up a blackened staff, and orcs fell on their knees before him.

Furgas who seemed to understand the question in his eyes, spat the word, "cultists." The single word making more than a few fidget.

Gregor who had never liked fanatics of any kind, nodded his head, "the first one to gut the pig gets all of my gold." The incentive greeted with stony hard eyes, and bloodthirsty smiles as men drew their weapons.

His own sword drawn out with a hiss of steel, Gregor gazed back down, and waved his arm forward. The fifty orcs or so that sat at the bottom, neatly formed up into rows as they bowed their faces to the ground, and chanted words that sounded familiar. With not even a single lookout behind, Gregor grinned at their stupidity, and nodded his head, held his sword up, and charged.

The balls that flew overhead before him, exploding in a brilliant shower of white light, combined with a powerful concussive blast that tore orcs limb from limb, before Gregor let out a roar, and laid about him with cuts and slashes.

The dust and smoke that settled in the underground hollow, broken apart by the sight of dazed and bleeding orcs. All of them easy pickings for the experienced mercenary band as they carved their way forward with only two men wounded to the werewolves.

Gregor who had rushed off ahead like a storm of blades, raced to meet the Shaman who had fallen to his knees, and blindly tried to reach for his staff, when he died with a blade to the throat. After that it was only a matter of time before they were all dead.

(Continue.)

The fiery rage suddenly gone, Gregor collapsed to the stone floor, and watched the wounded band of fighters, grin, and slap each other on the back with more than a few looting the dead. The brief slaughter soon to be added to their collection of stories that they would later brag about to anyone, when he noticed a strange red light coming from the side passage.

(Take a look?)

Hesitant to see what else was hiding back there, he gingerly got back up, sword hilt heavy in his hand, and walked forward.

Furgas the second one to notice the strange red light as well, uttered a loud curse that shut most up, and followed. The dusty round chamber they entered, a part of some ancient ruins with mosaic walls that depicted orcs digging through the rock, naked as the day they were born, when they were raised up by a being hidden in shadow. The rest of the story, too badly damaged for Gregor to make out more, when his eyes fell upon a stone statue made of blackened marble. The grotesque face that stared down at him, full of fiery hot rage, and ruby eyes that glowed hypnotically.

Furgas his bald head covered in a thin peat of sweat, scratched his scalp, and took a ragged breath. "I don't know about you, lad, but I think it's best if we left this place. No amount of rubies is worth dying over."

(Go back.)

Forcing himself to tear his eyes away, Gregor nodded his head in agreement, and left the chamber behind, his body shivering uncontrollably. The bodies of the orcs that lay strewn about the den, filled him with renewed strength as he hacked off the Shaman's head, along with a few others, certain there had to be bounties on them. One way or another he meant to get paid.

+1 Morale.

(Take the rubies.)

Heart beating in time to the pulsing of the red light, Gregor felt himself being drawn forward, his eyes unable to leave those swirling pools of red, and reached up to touch it. The words that thundered at the back of his mind, a brewing storm that cracked across the sky. "I've found you. You are mine." Then nothing but blackness.

Death.

(Leave the burrow?)

In no mood to explore any further, Gregor let out a heavy sigh, before he hacked off the Shaman's head, along with a few others, certain there had to be bounties on them. One way or another he meant to get paid.

Back out in the glorious sunlight, Gregor lugged the sack onto his shoulders, and gazed off towards the setting suns, feeling strangely calm, and focused. The last couple of hours filled with such frantic urgency, he wondered if he would ever be the same again.

Furgas who seemed to understand the loss of battle hunger, striding up to join him, his scarred face somber as he stared into the suns. "Aah, but there's nothing quite like the rush of battle to make a man feel alive again. It's been a while since we've faced odds like these, and lived. It will make a grand tale indeed with a few tweaks of course here and there. Let's say there were a thousand of those blighters, and a dragon to boot. Now that would make quite the story, aye?"

Unable to help but laugh at that, Gregor shook his head, when a thought occurred to him. "you know Sara is still alive."

Dark eyes warmed with delight, Furgas smiled, "is she now? Well, I always knew the girl had the heart of a warrior. I'd take her off your hands, but me, and the lads, will be heading south next, and Vanclar is no place for little girls. Best she stays with you, the gods know you're the only one I know that can keep her safe in these godforsaken lands."

Mouth opened to argue that he had enough problems of his own, Gregor clicked his teeth shut, when it dawned on him that the man was right. Vanclar was no place for children, let alone human girls. Outlanders, while they were protected by the law and the Primes, would have a hard time surviving the night, when the kindred came out to play.

Nose lifted to smell the crisp fresh air, Furgas suddenly started away, his men tromping out of the burrow after him with blood-streaked faces and hard eyes, when the stout cheeked warrior turned, his dark eyes worried. "One last thing, if you should happen to come south. Seek me out in Kaldergreen. War is coming, and I fear these fools were just the beginning," and with that he was gone.

Cold and empty as he stood there staring into the blazing horizon, Gregor's thoughts returned to getting out of here. The weary trudge back to the small hamlet, full of thoughtful contemplation on the words the mercenary had spoken to him. The long trek back, leaving him tired and exhausted as he re-entered the village, when he heard the booted sound of footsteps on the cobblestones, and looked up to see winged helms. The twenty guardsmen that rounded the corner, surrounding him on all sides with kite shields raised, and swords drawn. The officer in charge, a tall well-built man with broad shoulders who bawled, "seize him!"

Move onto the next Scenario.