The town of Greshfell was a myriad of wooden trussed houses, with distinctive whitewashed exteriors and honey coloured thatched roofs. Situated either side the crystal blue waters of the river Tars, bridges of all manner of design and construction linked the two sides for both foot and caravan traffic. It offered good trade links between the mountain town of Tarsgard to the North, and the port of Breakwater to the south. That was until the goblin horde arrived.
Now the river was littered with discarded crates and boxes, the blue replaced with the red blood of the slain. The white walls too were splattered red, and black ash from the numerous fires that had ignited during the onslaught.
Carrion circled the skies above, taking their chance to feast upon the many dead bodies that scattered the streets, whilst trying to avoiding the occasional arrow aimed at them by amused goblin guards.
The stable boy had been right, their number easily pushed toward the thousand, and they had reduced the once civilised town of Greshfell to wrack and ruin.
The companions could only stare in dismay at the once great town. There seemed no sense in pursuing their path this in ghis direction, until Fraevon, with his exceptional vision, spotted several prisoners being escorted over one of the footbridges.
There was no need for words. Greshfell had once again become their intended destination.