The Free Plain

(Oops some things I forgot to address.)

An arrow would suddenly fly at the Goblin from the trees; a carefully aimed missile as far back as possible when knocked into a powerful ranger's bow. The other men had set up a quick ambush for the Goblin - two men on each flank, hidden carefully in the bushes while at the front the archer loosed his shot. Hopefully the Goblin would be hit, but whether he was instantly killed, merely wounded or completely unharmed the two men would rush in from both sides to make certain of the goblin's demise.

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The letter from the Phoenix State would find itself reaching the settler's council, but it would sit unread in a large meeting tent until all the members returned to address it.

When all was complete, the spiralling wildfire vortex would come crashing down on Trogdor and Zaltos. In a matter of seconds, all remaining fire would focus and form a fiery sphere around the two.
Inside this orb, Trogdors absolute healing would occur.

After a few moments, the orb would pulse three times. On the forth, an echoing sound similar to a bomb was heard. Fire in the shape of a Phoenix and a dragon would spiral into the sky. When the figures were high enough, both would spread their wings put fully and let off a deafening roar. Following this roar, the two would explode, dispersing all remaining fire into the atmosphere, where it would fizzle out.

On the ground where the fire resided was mere sand. The heat and magic had sucked the life from it. Over time, this portion would become fertile again. Zaltos and Trogdor stood there, their presence a powerful one, ensuring the flames were now gone.

"Time to get back to the top. Let's surprise them. Wanna fly me up there?" Zaltos askes Trogdor.

Zaltos would take a quick leap, positioning himself at the base of the neck, but in front of the wings. Taking hold where he could, he would prepare for the take off.

Faisine toppled into those outstretched arms, shivering violently. She'd had an ordeal! If he had cut through the gag as well (assuming he did) - she would rasp out a soft thanks and say nothing more, for she had been through quite a fright. She stumbled off and grabbed for the tattered remains of the gown she had been wearing, then pulled it over her to preserve what little she had left of her modesty and dignity. But because her legs were numb, it was more like a crawl.

When the gown was on, she had to rest herself for a spell. Gorge arose in her throat and she fought to keep it down.

Faisine gave a blink with those cerulean eyes of hers, swinging her gaze up at the man. She stood up on the legs that were gaining circulation again and scowled at him, "Although I am grateful for being rescued, that was a very callous thing to say and assume. You know not what happened here, as you were not here. But being that I am a lady, I will refrain from calling you the names I have in my head." Pig was one of them. "I will not need a horse, but thank you for asking if I did." The sarcasm was strong with her on that night. "If you please hand me a water skin so I may ease the parch in my throat, I will walk as I drink. I do not wish to be here any more than you do!"

She continued to glare at him, and was jerking the tattered remains of the gown up and over her bosom to preserve the last shreds of modesty she had left for the moment. 

"I am sorry I snapped at you, but I haven't rested since this came to happen and... well.. it's not important. Thank you for the water." The young lady seemed to have settled herself down after his apology, and sipped tentatively at the cool liquid within the flask. She was ready to leave that spot whenever they were ready to leave, and didn't really say much more than she already had. Again, she pushed at the bodice of the ruined gown, grateful she still had the gown she came with.

<Entering from The Keep Hall>

Dracoavis left the Citadel through the main gate, glad to be out in the open. She was hardly claustrophobic, but her place was out in the open. She paused briefly to think about what had just happened. Head Warden? HEAD Warden? I don't think I was even a regular warden officially before now. Oh spirits, what am I supposed to do? Almost as if in answer, she found a group of soldiers standing around just outside of the gate. They talked idly amongst each other, and seemed disorganized. Quick response, spirits. Could have used a little forewarning. She approached the group and spoke up. "Excuse me, but what are you all up to?"

Several of the guards regarded her suspiciously for her appearance, hiding under a cloak, but one of them stepped forward and spoke. "We're about to start patrolling the plains, ma'am. Just deciding who's going to stand watch where."
"You're going to stand watch... Like, just stand there? Not moving?"
"That's the plan. Keeps things simple." Dracoavis shook her head and let out an exasperated sigh. She was no guard, but she knew a thing or two about keeping watch, and knew just standing around in a field wasn't going to help.
"No offense intended, but that is a terrible plan. And I once punched a sleeping bear on a bet. You'll never cover the area effectively, and there's no communication. You have to..." One of the guards interrupted her.
"Excuse me, Miss, but who exactly do you think you are?" She stopped talking for a moment, then after a moment of hesitation, she pulled down her hood. Her long hair, as well as a few feathers, fell out. She looked each of them in the eye with her own piercing gaze.
"I am Head Warden Dracoavis Noctus, and as of now, Lord Ildesias has placed me in charge of patrolling the plains to ensure the safety of the city. If any of you have an issue with this, you can take it up with those inside the citadel, but whether or not you accompany me, I'm going to do what I can to ensure the safety of everyone who comes here seeking refuge. Now, unless you have any comments or questions, I am going to explain how to properly patrol." She waited, and the guards shifted a little nervously, but no one left, and no one spoke. She smiled. "Alright then. Here's how it works..."

She set up the guards on a two-fold patrol. Stationed at regular intervals around the city's borders and into the plains, the first group of guards would stand stationary and watch their surroundings. The second group, with similar space between them, would do a circular rotation, reporting with each of the stationary guards as they made their way around. After an hour or so, the groups would switch from stationary to patrolling, and vice versa. Each of the guards had a signal horn, and if a stationary guard was not at his post, or a patrolling guard didn't show up, they were to blow the horn. This would ensure every guard was accounted for, and help isolate the location of any breach. Satisfied the guards understood her orders, she sent them out. Once they were out of sight, she went to where she felt she wouldn't be seen, and took flight. She flew high enough that most would just think she was a large bird from the ground, and she watched the patrols from above, ready to respond to any disturbance.

As the sun began to rise, Dracoavis stopped her flight and descended into the field, re-covering herself in her cloak. She could see from her position in the sky that already droves of migrants and refugees were on their way. Moving swiftly across the plains, she told her patrols to return to the citadel and find their replacements for the day. The focus now would not be on keeping the border of the city secure, but maintaining order. Once her new patrols were outside, which thankfully had greater numbers than her night patrol, she gave them their orders.

"Now, we have a unique job today. Normally your duty would be to protect the borders from any suspicious persons or creatures. But right now, we're going to have too many people passing through to reasonably be able to do that. So, we're going to do what we can to weed out the suspicious ones before they can enter the citadel. I want guards stationed along the main roads at regular intervals directing the migrants. The first post will start separating them by work. Send farmers and their families to the officials dividing the land for cultivation, and send the rest down the road. Once you have them separated out, the second post is going to split off those who are here to join the military and guard, and send them to the barracks. Third post, you send any craftsmen and skilled workers to the front gate to be checked and censused. Whoever is left, unskilled workers and such, have them wait outside. I'll have someone come around and make sure they are taken care of. I want whoever isn't at a post patrolling the road, keeping an eye out for anyone who stands out, and if you have reason to, separate them from the crowd and detain them. With any luck, they'll be easier to spot as the crowd is thinned out by our sorting. Is this clear?" They all seemed to nod, so Dracoavis sent them out to their assigned positions. They were in place by the time the largest force of the crowd began to arrive.

It was very hectic at first, with migrants unsure of who to listen to or where to go, but as the guards did their job, they began to catch on to the method, and soon they were almost sorting themselves into the correct lines. Once she was certain that her guards had the system down, she went back in to the Citadel to make sure the proper people were outside to help the migrants and keep everything in order. Also to get some food. She had flown almost the entire night, and needed something for energy. She pushed her way through the already large crowd to get inside.

<Exit to The Keep Hall>

Tharka Blackbow stands upon a ridge near the Citadel, overlooking the flood of refugees into the structure. He is flanked by two Goblin scouts, who observe the situation with ravenous eyes, but Tharka's own expression is grim. "They'll not be lettin' us close, boys," he growls, speaking in the black tongue of Goblins. "They got guards. Outriders. That other dead clan left em scared of more'v us. We got ta be careful if we gonna hit em. Pick off the tired pinkies that fall behind. A big raid would kill too many'v our boys. Let's go back for now."

Although the scouts look extraordinarily disappointed, they obey their leader's orders and the three turn back for camp. The trip takes about half an hour, and the sun is just cresting one of three mesas that close the camp off from the sight of passersby. Full of crude thatch huts linked by swaying rope bridges and standing upon rotting wooden stilts and permeated by the mixed smells of roasting hog and rotting flesh, the village is rather expansive, Goblins hobbling and lurching around its length. The huts are arranged in a crude circle, the largest of the huts in the center, standing tall above all of them with one entrance on every side, totaling five. It is also the most fortified; instead of rope bridges linking to the surrounding huts, it has crude drawbridges operated by rope pullies, and the six stilts that hold it aloft are reinforced with rigid iron. The only entrance from the ground is up a retractable bone ladder and through a small locked hatch on the bottom. The entire thing is made of the best wood that could be found in the area, and the roof is made of crudely crafted ceramic rather than thatch. It's clear this is the Goblin Clan's version of a keep, and it's the first place Tharka goes, muscling through the mass of Goblins. He climbs up the ladder and unlocks the hatch on the bottom, climbing through.

The interior is dark and musty, dust and smoke filling the air, only a small portion of it escaping from a small hole in the ceiling, barely large enough for a constrictor snake to fit through. It would sting the eyes of any creature other than the surprisingly resilient Goblin, whose eyes are far less sensitive to floating particles than most, due to their evolution in the dusty underground. Upon each of the five walls is a glowing red torch, the smell of burning pitch barely slicing through the thick musk of rot and uncleanliness. Mounted upon the far wall are trophies from Tharka's conquests; dried heads of fallen enemies, the skulls of those who challenged his authority over the Clan. He takes a seat upon the bone-crafted throne in the center of the room.

After a long moment of deliberation, Tharka turns to his advisors, who happen to be a pair of enchanted severed heads named Grok and Frok, a pair of bickering Goblin brothers whose unique status allowed them to be planted on stakes indefinitely, requiring no food or drink, though sleep was still welcome. "Boys," says Tharka, and the two heads perk up, "I gots me a dilemma. Them pinkies are guarding them refugees too good, an I know I can't be gettin them shiny goodies without gettin lotsa me boys killed. But I really want them shinies. What I gotta do?"
The heads both think for a moment, and then speak up, the more guttural, violent voice of Grok speaking first, "Ya should jus go in an chop em up," he says, "pinkies got no tough skin, they be goin down like roks on ther good days."
The higher-pitched, more conniving tones of Frok speak up in protest, "No, no, no! That's just stupid! You stupid!" The head swivels around on its stake to face Tharka, "Wait till they be calmin down from them other greenies before gettin in there, otherways they be killin you quick! They be lookin fer us now. Wait till they aint lookin fer us."

Neither option was perfect; charging in would be sure to end in disaster, but waiting until their guard was down could mean there would be no refugees left. So, Tharka sits his chin upon his fist and deliberates. And deliberates. And deliberates some more. By the time he moves it's morning. He stands up quickly as if struck by a divine idea. "I'm gonna do what I said earlier. Just gotta wait fer them stragglers an pick em off and take ther shinies," he says, nodding to himself in confirmation before going off to eat. It was hard to think on an empty stomach.