Bad Men and Bad Decisions (Private, Renown)
Jan 6, 2024 8:00:23 GMT -5
Post by Granth on Jan 6, 2024 8:00:23 GMT -5
Most merchants thought themselves pretty safe traveling along the long and winding road that went from the Marsh Flats towards the Moon Glade proper. It was wide open terrain, gentle to travel by foot or by horse, with a clear view of everything for miles and miles. There were a few rolling hills to be sure, but by and large the terrain was flat and the skies were usually fair and clear. There was no real ambush point of which to speak. Even the most experienced travelers could feel safe knowing they'd spot danger when it spotted them.
That false sense of security was exactly what made the boss's ambush plan so effective.
"Keep your damned fool head down!" a deep, heavy voice growled. Its owner, a large, blond brute of a man with a thick jaw, quite literally yanked his skinnier compatriot sharply toward the bottom of the trench. The lanky fellow had been poking his head out of the ground, sending the leaves disguising their hiding place scattering. Boris was quick to correct the mistake forcibly.
"I just want to see what's up there!" whined the thin man. His wild red hair was dirty and unkempt, and his voice was sharp and shrill. "Ain't done nothin' wrong, I ain't! Just like to know if there's summat what's about to bite our heads off!"
"We ain't the lookouts, Raff," whispered the big fellow much more harshly. "The boss says we stay put, so we stay put. He'll give us the signal when he's good and ready for us."
"So I can't even have a peek?" rasped the other fellow in a frightened tone. "What if they spot us? What if they come rushin' over to stick us real good, and we ain't able to do nothin' 'bout it 'cause we're little rabbits in a hole?"
"Then I guess we're dead," replied the bruiser in the flattest tone possible.
Boris, the big man, didn't believe they were going to die. He knew very well how Boss Granth operated. Granth wouldn't so much as blink about killing a man, but when it came to his boys he knew how to keep them safe. The plan was straightforward: the chief force of bandits would keep hidden in trenches they'd dug out the night before while the boss kept lookout. Boris and Raff - the skinnier, whinier gentleman - had the south side of the road while that fire mage and the wolves were lurking in their own trench on the north side. Granth was perched up in the one lonesome tree, perfectly hidden in the leaves, waiting to give the signal.
Truthfully, it wasn't a large group of bandits. Granth's Devils numbered far more than that. But Granth said too many men would make them easier to spot out in the fields. He actually handpicked the boys for this job, trusting them to do their job without dying.
Were it anyone else setting up the ambush plan, were it anyone else telling Boris to be ready to ambush a caravan with a force of just four men and a couple wolfdogs, especially in such open territory... well, he'd be real worried. But Granth didn't make bad plans. He was a thorough boss. It was hard to imagine what sort of life he might've led before he became a "bandit king."
Suddenly, a vulture's cry rang out thrice in quick succession. That was the signal: someone was coming. Be ready for action. The next signal would be the sound of Granth's shrieking arrow striking his first target, whoever or whatever that might be. Boris gripped his spiked club with a grim expression, wordlessly praying to the gods for forgiveness for the lives he was probably about to take. He was probably damned long ago, but it couldn't hurt to try asking, could it?
That false sense of security was exactly what made the boss's ambush plan so effective.
"Keep your damned fool head down!" a deep, heavy voice growled. Its owner, a large, blond brute of a man with a thick jaw, quite literally yanked his skinnier compatriot sharply toward the bottom of the trench. The lanky fellow had been poking his head out of the ground, sending the leaves disguising their hiding place scattering. Boris was quick to correct the mistake forcibly.
"I just want to see what's up there!" whined the thin man. His wild red hair was dirty and unkempt, and his voice was sharp and shrill. "Ain't done nothin' wrong, I ain't! Just like to know if there's summat what's about to bite our heads off!"
"We ain't the lookouts, Raff," whispered the big fellow much more harshly. "The boss says we stay put, so we stay put. He'll give us the signal when he's good and ready for us."
"So I can't even have a peek?" rasped the other fellow in a frightened tone. "What if they spot us? What if they come rushin' over to stick us real good, and we ain't able to do nothin' 'bout it 'cause we're little rabbits in a hole?"
"Then I guess we're dead," replied the bruiser in the flattest tone possible.
Boris, the big man, didn't believe they were going to die. He knew very well how Boss Granth operated. Granth wouldn't so much as blink about killing a man, but when it came to his boys he knew how to keep them safe. The plan was straightforward: the chief force of bandits would keep hidden in trenches they'd dug out the night before while the boss kept lookout. Boris and Raff - the skinnier, whinier gentleman - had the south side of the road while that fire mage and the wolves were lurking in their own trench on the north side. Granth was perched up in the one lonesome tree, perfectly hidden in the leaves, waiting to give the signal.
Truthfully, it wasn't a large group of bandits. Granth's Devils numbered far more than that. But Granth said too many men would make them easier to spot out in the fields. He actually handpicked the boys for this job, trusting them to do their job without dying.
Were it anyone else setting up the ambush plan, were it anyone else telling Boris to be ready to ambush a caravan with a force of just four men and a couple wolfdogs, especially in such open territory... well, he'd be real worried. But Granth didn't make bad plans. He was a thorough boss. It was hard to imagine what sort of life he might've led before he became a "bandit king."
Suddenly, a vulture's cry rang out thrice in quick succession. That was the signal: someone was coming. Be ready for action. The next signal would be the sound of Granth's shrieking arrow striking his first target, whoever or whatever that might be. Boris gripped his spiked club with a grim expression, wordlessly praying to the gods for forgiveness for the lives he was probably about to take. He was probably damned long ago, but it couldn't hurt to try asking, could it?