Session 04 Fog and Initiative

You squint into the night and realize the pale glow beyond the hill isn't fog at all—it's fire. Flickers dance over the crest, lighting the pillars of smoke that seem to prop the sky. The wind blows on your face, and another image pierces your mind. The fire rolling over the hill and crashing down in the small hut like a flood, bathing you in flames.

"Dad," you call, eyes fixed on the hill. But he only answers with snoring. "Dad!" you try again—nothing. You tense, breaking eye contact with the hil and pounce. "DAD!" You yell, shaking him for just a moment.

In one motion, he flings you across the room, sending you flying into the corner of the room. His hand is already on his sword as his eyes snap open.

"YOU WANT A PIECE OF—" He stops when he sees you on the floor. He rubs the sleep from his face and kneels. "What's going on? Why'd you wake me?" His eyes ping between you and the collapsed doorway.

"There's a fire," you say. "Over the hill." You point to the pulsing glow, and he stands to peer. You watch as he squints into the darkness, far longer than you think he should.

"What do you mean by 'over the hill'?" he finally asks, turning to you. "That dim glow?"

"Dim glow?" You say, staring at him. "There's a raging inferno just past the crest—and you see a dim glow?"

"Well, I'm sorry my eyes are deteriorating faster than I'd hoped," he says dismissively. "I'm also losing hair faster than I'd like, wanna comment on that next?"

"Dad, I'm being serious."

"Yeah, so am I when I say I thought I taught you better than to wake me up like that over something so trivial." He jams the sword back into its sheath and stomps to his bedroll. "It's a small forest fire. Perfect for us, any fire crews should see our flame and come check it out. Maybe throw a few more logs on to draw attention. And don't wake me up like that." He points, all five fingers out. "You learned when you were little: you don't rouse me from dead sleep like that. Thank God I didn't have my weapon in my hand, or I might've killed you." He wipes his brow with both palms and sighs, heavy. "I'm going back to sleep. Keep an eye on your 'raging inferno' if you like, but wake me only if it crests the hill or the wind starts blowing smoke our way." He flops onto his side with a thump, back toward you. "Oh, and one more thing," he says, over his shoulder. "Don't wake me just because you see critters running from the fire. I don't care about deer; if you see a wolf, then you can wake me."

"Wake you how?" you ask. "You didn't react at all to me yelling."

"Poke me with the fire stick or something, but only if you have to," he mumbles, ending the conversation. You snort and stomp back to your stump.

"Such an ass," you think, not willing to risk verbalizing it even as his snoring resumes. "Wake him up for an actual emergency, and all he does is complain."

You watch the distant blaze grow brighter by the minute. Four, maybe five animals break from the grass and run away from the light.

"Watch, there'll be a wolf and he'll say, 'All you need to handle a wolf is say pumpernickel four times fast' or something dumb like that." You stand from your log seat and throw more wood on the fire. Despite his harsh words, you still fail to refute your Father's Father's logic. A larger, brighter flame will keep animals away and alert any emergency crews to your location. You take care of stacking logs and stoking the fire. The last thing you'd want is the fire spreading from the chimney and burning the whole hut down. As you're placing the last piece of wood, you're alerted by a sudden *THUNK* above your head. You whirl to the doorway but see nothing but the stars above and the faint glow from beyond the hill. You turn back to the fire and freeze. Something new is sticking to the chimney mantel. It's long and thin, with feathers on one side and a pointed end that juts into the wooden mantel.

"An Arrow?" you think, looking at it carefully. "Where did that come—"

Just as you look back at the doorway, a flash of green charges you, followed by the feeling of cold metal punches your side. You gasp and clutch the knife hilt as the creature shoves you down to the floor. The pressure at your side lifts, as the knife is drawn out only to be followed by a second flash of metal and red aimed directly at your chest. You grab at the stabbing arm, slowing, but not stopping it.

"AHHH!" you scream as the blade pierces your breast, lodging against a rib instead of your heart or lung. You push, but the creature bears down, keeping the knife jammed between your ribs. You look up into a snarling green face: two large yellow eyes, a long pointed nose, and a mouth full of needle teeth. Its lanky arms end in nails that straddle the line between claws and talons. Behind it, two more flashes of green rush your Father.

"DAD, LOOK OUT!" you shout. The cry gives your attacker leverage; the dagger drives deeper, like a knife gliding around a mango's seed.

"It hurts! What do I do? It hurts! What do I do?" The adrenaline floods your body, but your movements aren't controlled enough to force your attacker back.

*WHAM*

A body whistles behind your attacker. A green shape smashed into the wall, nearly cracking the old wood. You track the blur back to your Father. He's sitting up, eyes red with focus. Another green creature faces him, small enough that they're eye level.

It lifts a wooden club above its head and brings it down with all its might. Your Father doesn't hesitate; his left forearm takes the incomplete blow; his right hand shoots for its neck. His fingers clamp down on its neck like a vice, then he rolls back and uses the strike's momentum to fling it over him. It hits the wall upside‑down. Before it can move, a metal boot crushes its face, spraying orange blood. He yanks his foot back and slams another kick into its chest, then the face again. The creature goes limp as orange blood oozes from its caved-in face.

Your Father rolls and scans, just in time. The first creature, the one he threw charges, with a knife in hand. He blocks with his left again like a well-drilled motion. But unlike the club, the knife bites flesh. Thick red lines run down his arm as the blade pierces all the way through his forearm, but he doesn't flinch. He twists his forearm against the blade's flat, wrenching the weapon free. His right hand finds the neck again, and he falls forward with his weight. Disarmed, the creature scrabbles at him, but his reach keeps its claws from anything but his arm. More red lines bloom, still no sign of pain. Your Father glances up, eyeing the fireplace stones, and hooks them with his cut arm, pulling both him and the creature's bodies closer. He slides the creature's head and smashes it into stone. *THUD*

"Geh," the creature coughs, its scratches growing wild. Your Father takes no notice. Slamming the creature's head again. *THUD* and again. *THUD* and again until there isn't a thud.

*CRACK*

The creature's arms go slack as its skull caves in, matching the shape of the fireplace's stones.

Your attacker rips the knife from your chest. The blade no longer feels cold, warmed by your blood. The pull hurts worse than the push, leaving you gasping, as if a boulder sits on your lungs. The freed creature charges your Father. He looks up at it with cold, even eyes.

He rips the dagger from his forearm and rushes to meet it. A long, wide back fist with his left arm whips for the creature's chin. It dodges, pivoting on its left foot and avoiding your Father's blow, but that seems well expected. Your Father brings his arm down and knocks the knife from the creature's hand. In one fluid motion, he tackles and lands on top, pinning with his weight.

"OOF!" The creature gasps as the air whooshes out of its chest. Your Father raises his chest and drops a crushing elbow. You hear the bones crack as your Father's elbow makes contact. He follows by stabbing the dagger into the creature's neck and sawing across from one side to the other side. Orange floods the hearthstones as it goes limp. Without hesitation, your Father rolls off his defeated foe and slams his back to the shattered doorway. He sits there, breathing heavily and peering into the night over his shoulder. Only your ragged breaths pull him back, and he leaps from his spot to kneel beside you.

"Are you OK?" he asks, already removing your blood-soaked shirt.

You try to answer; breathing feels like dragging razor wire through your ribs.

"Shirt off," he orders, cutting fabric away. "Hole," he calls when he sees your chest. He presses the back of his hand to it. The pressure is mild, but he might as well push with his whole weight, given how hard it already is to breathe. "Think! I need a chest seal. Something non‑porous…" His eyes dart around the room, desperation leaking through his lips. "Oh Christ above, help me. I need—" He stops.

Yellow light erupts from his hands, so bright you clamp your eyes. You feel heat bloom under his hand, drowning out the stabbing pain. Your mind, once flooded with pain, now feels eerily calm, as if the hole in your chest has been patched like a garment.

You stare down as the glow fades, mirroring your Father, who's just as dumbstruck. He lifts his hand, revealing skin. Whole and complete, without even a scar.

"What'd you do?" you ask, patting your chest and side. Even there, nothing, no wound. Only the bloody clothing hints at any injury, every being there.

"I… I don't know," he says, studying his hands. "Another blessing," he breathes.

His eyes slide to the bleeding gash in his forearm. "I wonder," he murmurs, gripping the cut. "Lord, heal me as well," he says. But there's nothing. No light, only warm blood oozing on. He exhales. "OK—guess we go this way." He points at your shredded shirt. "Cut me some strips. Then get two thick sticks."

You obey. Soon, he's stopped the bleeding with an improvised tourniquet, twisting the stick till the cloth looks ready to cut into his skin, then wraps the wound.

"OK," he says, opening and closing his left hand with limited range. "That is… not great, but it'll do." He breathes, steadying. Then his eyes lock on you. "What the hell happened? I told you to keep guard while I slept, and the next thing I know, I'm getting jumped while you're looking like Stanley at the end of Saving Private Ryan." His words are precise and harsh, as if aimed to insult just as much as inform.

"I was putting wood on the fire, then they just rushed in," he said. He sneers down, unimpressed with your response.

"So you somehow missed three goblins approaching us?"

"What do you mean, goblins?" you ask, surprised by his term for the creatures.

"Well, what else would you call these?" he says, gesturing at the corpse by the hearth. "This is exactly what I picture when I think 'goblin.' Scarily so."

"You mean like the fantasy race from Lord of the Rings?"

"I was going to say Dungeons & Dragons, but yeah, same concept."

"Dad, that sounds crazy," you say, wondering how much blood he's lost.

"Well, either we were attacked by goblins… or a band of balding jews in green body paint. Which sounds more likely to you?" he says, giving the corpse a nudge with his boot. "How'd they even sneak up when you were watching the door?"

"I don't know! I was putting wood on the fire, and they shot an arrow into the mantel before—"

"Mantel?" He says, before yanking the arrow free. "None of these had bows, did they?" He scans the floor.

"No…why?" You ask.

"Then how'd this get here?" He asks, looking out into the darkness. "Unless there was another one who got away to bring help." He presses his back to the wall and peeks around the corner. "Pack up. We're leaving." He moves fast, shoving gear into his bag.

"Why so suddenly?" you ask, packing.

"Because if my hunch is right, we're dead if we stay. If these goblins can hit a town right before shift change," he says, jerking his chin toward the hill. "Then they can come back here with reinforcements. Grab everything," he says, cinching his pack. "Out, head toward the town. I'm right behind you."

You step into the grass. Behind you, he wedges the fire‑poker into the burning logs and rakes them out of the pit. He kicks a log into the corner, then another into a different wall. Finally, he grabs on by an unburned end and holds it up to the straw roof. Flames race up dry timbers. From a few yards out, you watch the hut catch fire. You stand there, stunned, until he shoulders past and pushes you along.

"Move!" he orders. "We don't want them catching us out here."

"Why'd you do that?" you manage to ask.

"Cover," he says briskly, in a near sprint, only slowing down once you've created some distance from the hut. He points to a thicket of bushes and draws his sword. "Be ready, they could be anywhere," he says as you approach the bushes. His steps are cautious and uneven as he stumbles closer, his footwork as steady as a drunk toddler as he tries stepping into the bushes. Luckily, there aren't any creatures of any kind in the bushes, and you manage to hunker down for the time being. "With any luck, they'll see the smoke and assume we died," he says, peering back at the now fully emblazoned hut. "Either way, we weren't the main target, just a side prize. Now we make ourselves scarce."

"You can still see it, right?" he whispers. "The house, even in this darkness?"

"How could I not see the fire?"

"No, around it. I can see the blaze. I need to know if you can see around it."

You peer across the field. The burning hut eats a chunk of your view, but you can make out shrubs and grass around it. A small figure pops from the grass and studies the ruin.

"Something just showed up," you say as he squints and strains.

"I can't see it. Eyes are failing me." His hand rests on your shoulder. "Describe it."

"OK… it's circling… not sure if it sees the bodies."

"What's circling? Another goblin?"

"I can't tell, and are we sure they're goblins?"

"As soon as you have a better name for what they are, I want to hear it," he says. You keep your eyes on the figure as it moves around the fire. A wall collapses; the creature jumps back, startled. Moments later, it scurries into the woods and vanishes.

"OK, it's gone," you say, letting out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

"Did it look our way?" he asks, still watching the plume.

"No. It just checked the house and left when the wall fell."

"OK." He finally sits, loosening his pack straps and letting it drop with a soft thump. He checks the tourniquet and rewraps the cut. "Hope that doesn't get infected," he mutters. "At least the bleeding's stopped. How're your wounds?"

"Like they were never there." You press your chest and side, again confirming that the holes are filled, but only the sticky cloth tells you there was ever a wound. "If not for the blood, I wouldn't know I'd been hurt. Seriously, how'd you do that?"

"If I knew, I'd have done it to myself," he says, lying back and rubbing his face with his uninjured hand. He breathes deep for a few beats.

"So… what do we do now?"

"Working on it," he says, lifting his hand and flexing the injured one open and closed. He snaps his fingers a few times. "Got it. I've had, what, an hour, hour‑and‑a‑half of sleep? I'm in no shape to craft a master plan. I don't want to march with this wound, one rain shower and I'm sick and dead. So… you keep watch till sunrise. Then we head to wherever that fire was. Probably a village the goblins were raiding. Hopefully, we can get supplies. Sound good?"

"So just wait here and hope there's something left, if there even was a village?" you ask, trying to poke holes in his plan.

"Yep, but if you come up with a better idea, while I'm sleeping, make sure to share," he says, looking at you a moment. You open your mouth, but nothing comes. You sigh as he fixes his pack into a makeshift pillow and drifts off, snoring even louder this time.