The White Hare

The Failed Hunt

Back at the half finished camp Lyndon Briar was staring off in the distance where they last spotted the hare.

"It's been quite a bit, boss. I don't think it's coming back." The archer says as he throws another stick in the fire. About twenty minutes of waiting had him and the mage finish up the fire part of the camp and keep it going. Soon followed by the swordswoman and then finally the priest clad in black vestments and a red and gold clerical collar doing similar jobs.

"If it is to be believed that what was seen was in fact the White Hare it would be more beneficial to have me placed in the backlines. This one is obviously intelligent enough to gather our scattered numbers in order to bring them into a trap. One that they should be able to get out of on their own but a plan that would require decent intelligence for a so called "monster". It might even be cunning enough to target me should it return." Says the priest as he places the golden holy symbol he carries over his heart then to his forehead before having it touch his left and right side of his neck. Speaking in a language referred to as the "Blessed Words" by those of the realm.

The swordswoman watches the fire with a groan. "This is taking too long. Chances are the others have caught it by now or they are still running around like delirious gnomes chasing imaginary jewels." The archer scoffs at her. Shaking his head as he checks his arrows for the tenth time in about as many minutes. "Stop fidgeting!"

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Anything but check that dame quiver for the hundredth-"

"Shut up!" Briar shouts, making the others clam up. "Something's coming."

Looking towards the woods where his small army of mercs charged through the forest the man grabs the hilt of his sword. The weapon stubbornly keeps itself contained to its sheath but the metal "vines" along the scabbard and intertwined with the basket hilt begin to untangle themselves a bit. Ploughing through the brush is...

A mercenary. Tripping over themselves and scrambling to their feet after they get closer to the stronger members. Standing up and panting with heavy beads of sweat falling from the man's brow he speaks. "We need reinforcements! Hellhounds started attacking us when the hare charged into our ranks and disappeared. When I ran for help I heard a flute being played!"

"Are you mad?" Asks the swordswoman. "A flute being played? In the middle of a battle?"

"You all should be capable of handling a few mutts." Lyndon says as he looks around the forest behind his subordinate. "Why would you need backup?"

"There's over a dozen of them and they tore apart and set fire to the vanguard as soon as they appeared!" He looks at the leader with actual skills to assist large groups and sputters. "Aren't you our guildmaster?!"

The man dressed in gaudy silks scoffs and shakes his head. "If you can't handle a few strays then what good are you guys to me? Go back and fight or lay down and die out here. If I find you in the city I'll make sure you regret deserting." He glares down at the low level member of his guild as they back away. Then begin to run.

After the messenger disappears the guildmaster looks back at his other subordinates. "Over a hundred men against a few hellhounds. Can you fucking believe it?" They don't say anything. Simply returning to what they were doing before they were interrupted. The man mumbles under his breath. "A flute? What are those idiots taking?" Another rustle from the forest in that direction makes the man snarl and turn to face it. "What the hells do you want now!?"

"An explanation would be preferable." Speaks an elven woman wearing a face mask and a heavy cloak.

That gets everyone to stand up and ready their weapons.