<div align="center"><strong><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 24pt;">Ironfang Invasion</span></strong><br/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 24pt;">Part I: Trail of the Hunted</span></div><div align="center">(https://orig13.deviantart.net/cd03/f/2015/024/6/a/village_by_vityar83-d8f9uxv.jpg)</div><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Prologue</div><div class="spoiler_body"><em>The air of Nirmathas is cool and clear. A warm sun shines brightly down over the snowcapped Mindspin Mountains, their peaks rising like serrations on the edge of a massive blade. Beyond them are the endless tracts of the Fangwood, a thick and ancient forest of tall pines and lost secrets. Between the mountains and the forest flow the fierce rapids of the Marideth river, cutting through wild grasslands and rustic farmstead communities.<br/><br/>All this is in the distance to the cunning red eyes that look out over Nirmathas. Hidden amongst the tallest of the mountains, jutting from between the peaks, is a tower of jet black stone, and at its pinnacle stands a figure. He is imposing and tall, with a long cloak of wolf pelts flowing down his back, undisturbed by the howling mountain winds. He is clad in black armoured plates that do little to hide the strength of his physique. And he is not human: his skin is the colour of iron, and his harsh face bears sharp fangs and pointed ears. A hobgoblin, as the humans would call him. <br/><br/>The hobgoblin looks down from his onyx spire across the lands below. His intense stare fixes on a point of land along the banks of the Marideth River, little more than a dot on the horizon. But that dot is a town – a town that is soon to feel his sword at its throat. The sound of approaching boots draws his attention away from the vista. A woman has ascended the tower, flanked by his guards. She is tall and proud, wearing the uniform of an officer of Moltune. It’s a uniform he recognizes well. <br/><br/>“General Azaer,” she states coolly. “The Governors-General of of Molthune are pleased to have received news of your return. It caught us by surprise, given your sudden disappearance, but we have not forgotten your impeccable service to our country. We trust you and your company are returning to the fold.” She holds out a gauntleted hand. In it is a heavy purse of gold. “Molthune will, as always, make it quite worth your while.”<br/><br/>The hobgoblin, Azaer, says nothing for a long, slow moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is gravelly and deep. “No. The Ironfang Legion stands alone now. My fate is no longer to be a mad dog in your service.” He turns crisply away from the Molthuni diplomat, looking to his guards. “Tell the commanders to execute their orders. Begin the Ironfang invasion.”<br/><br/>The Molthuni woman’s lips are tight and pursed. “I am saddened,” she states, “as will be the Governors-General upon my return.”<br/><br/>“No,” Azaer says again. “You are not leaving yet.” He turns to face her square on, his powerful body looming above her. She hears a clatter as his belt opens. “First, down on your knees...”</em></div></div><br/>A bright spring sun has driven the early morning frost from the ground, a sign of how winter is giving way to spring in Nirmathas. With the changing of the seasons comes blooms of wildflowers across the Nirmathi fields and plains, the greening of trees, and the Market Festival in Phaendar.<br/><br/>Phaendar is a small town – tiny, by the standards of the large, cosmopolitan cities of the Inner Sea – with a claim to fame. Every year, the idyllic village of a few hundred farmers and hunters plays host to merchants from all over the country. The dirt and cobble streets are festooned with colourful flags and streamers. Around them, artisans and tradespeople have erected their stalls, and spend the day hawking all manner of trinkets. The clamour of voices is mixed with the sound of rustic music and the smells of fresh bread. Whether you are a local or have travelled to Phaendar, it is easy to get lost in the crowds for a day, exploring what the Festival has to offer.<br/><br/>It is when the sun goes down, however, that the fun truly begins. The Taproot Inn fills with travellers and locals alike. Honey mead and barley beer are flowing steadily, while in the streets the celebrants dance enthusiastically. At the center of it all is Aubrin the Green. She's a tall woman of unknowable age, her skin the colour of rich soil and her face mirthful. Formerly one of the esteemed rangers of the Chernasardo vale, she's something of a celebrity tonight, telling stories of her adventurers to the rowdy Taproot crowds.<br/><br/>"So there I am, thinking, when will I ever be able to talk to a bear again? Before the grizzly can stand back up, I turn to it and say, 'All I need is the honey. You can keep the bees!'" The room erupts into laughter and Aubrin finishes her tankard of ale with a wide grin. "But all's good now. She named a cub after me. Someday I'm going to check in on Ow Oh Gods That's Too Many Bees."<br/><br/>Aubrin strikes a commanding pose with her boot planted on the seat of a nearby chair. "Now it's time for the more tales. Wanderers and villagers alike! C'mon, don't be shy. To the winner goes a keg of the finest nettleberry wine. Step up and give us a story." One by one, her glinting eyes scan across you imploringly, picking you out from among the less notable patrons.<br/><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">OOC</div><div class="spoiler_body">Here we go! For your intro post, you can describe what your character was doing during the festival during the day. You can also have her introduce herself, possibly with a short story. The story contest is the way that you'll all learn each other's names and the like before all hell breaks loose, so I recommend it!</div></div><br/>