Kill Tsuto, part 1: Bloodied Streets

Sandpoint.

Fine town, near a good stretch of water and right by a crossroad of commerce, filled to the brim with robust, lively people. Just this morning, they plying their trades or just visiting, since the annual festival to honor Desna was going to be held today.

This morning, what was planned was a reverent ceremony and a cheerful revelry after, or even before.

Now, there was revelry on the streets of Sandpoint, but none of the revelers weren't Sandpoint natives, no. They were little, nasty-looking immigrants, vermin known for they penchant for cruelty and bloodthirst.

The goblins had come to take part in Sandpoint's festival, and not in any ways the inhabitants were expecting to do.

Screams of horror, pain, and fury made up a cacophony that enveloped the town, interspersed with the crackling and roaring of the great flames that had taken to some of the buildings from the torches the blood-minded goblins had brought. Goblin eery chants and creepy giggles came from here and there, with screeches and yelps of dark enjoyment.

Not here, though.

Jan stepped around the thrust of the horsechopper, and slammed the wide shield to the second goblin that came from behind, effectively shutting out its attempt at a backstab. Using her body as the pivot point and the weight of the shield as a fulcrum, she twisted her body and the polearm held on the other hand went swinging. The wide axe head met two goblins that didn't manage to jump away in time, and their cries of pain could be heard.

Of the other three she missed, well, it was not like she couldn't try again, nor was there a shortage of targets. The Temple Square was practically swarming with the goblins.

Instinct brought her attention and shield up, right in the nick of time as a pair of crossbow bolts thudded into the frame. One plinked onto the square's cobblestones, which was something of a miracle, considering the throng of warm bodies all around her. A few more thudded into flesh, but the owners didn't yelp in pain like the unlucky goblins who were in the way of more bolts. That was because the owners of said flesh were dead, goblins, guards, or random civilian caught dead in the melee.

Except for one, and that was because Jan clenched her teeth and snarled the pain out. She smashed the edge of her shield over the bolt sticking out on her thigh, and bit out another flare of pain at the jolt when the shaft broke. At least it wasn't standing out and hindering her movement anymore.

Several arrows and bolts were shot back at the goblins in answer to the initial volley, some of the guards and several people were still alive and giving a welcome to the gatecrashing goblins.

But not enough.

They would have to retreat from the square soon. Jan hacked a couple more goblins and then looked around to take stock of the situation.

They say the God of War often resembles a tallish, bald, pale as death man sporting a goatee with a broad scimitar in each hand.

Veritas always scoffed at the notion and promptly pointed out that representation as the god of wusses.

Because a real man caves in skulls with bare hands and feet.

In this case, there were six of one and two of the other, so the half-elf was busy indeed. Luckily for the goblins, he needed at least one limb to stand on. Unfortunately for them, the remaining limbs were more than efficient at their appointed task.

One hand crushed the smaller frame of a goblin between trained fingers. Another smashed one of the bugger's skull into splinters against a nearby wall. Yet another caught a bolt as it was launched and delivered it back to its original owner, while two hands bludgeoned a wardog with the body of its rider, and one more delivered a vicious chop that shattered through the handle of a dogslicer and cracked the neck of one additional goblin.

Veritas was drenched in blood to be sure; whether it was his or his victims' was impossible to tell apart. He roared and continued his massacre, his eyes blank with fury.

And he wasn't even a god.

Das Korvut's days were grim as of late. Spending every waking moment drowning his sorrows and silencing ghosts of the past..
Or was it.. ghosts of the present? Who could say for sure.. One thing is for certain. His days got even worse.

Walled up in his brim packed, twenty by twenty foot workshop, Das gripped firmly a bottle of the finest.. nay. Most worthless wine anyone in Sandpoint could concoct.
The bottle's murky contents half spilled as the weary man's arm twisted at a weird angle, his muscles tightening with old vigor.
Das grabbed a large, ornate, steel maul from behind him, and swung it with that single hand! The hammer flew with an earie sound hitting its mark. The cracking of two goblin heads made if very distinct... PLOP. Just like watermelons falling to their untimely ends.

Once again having lost his weapon, Das cursed! Blast ye fiends! First mah boy, now me friends! Ye'll not 'ave me as well!
The man reached for the bellows.. pressing but once with all his weight, the forge sprung back to life, filling the room with smoke and brimstone!
Come 'n get me! He yelled, no.. he SCREAMED his lungs out! Come Goblins! Meet yer maker at mah hands!!

The room fell silent. The kindling of coal was the only noise heard from within the workshop. Just as Das had wanted it.. fill the room with smoke and have at em. He sipped his wine slowly, awaiting foes at any moment.
Das reached for a sword nearby, and firmly grasped it.
SQUEEEAK
TUF

The two sounds were a surprise to Das. What was that?? He thought, and then.. it hit him. Dread filled his eyes.

He jumped over his anvil, sword in hand! Even dropped the bottle he did!
But it was too late.

The heavy wooden, steel reinforced doors of his workshop.. were closed. Outside Das could hear squeaks and giggles as Goblins plotted something sinister.. Then they all laughed like a vile, red eyed, chorus.

The smoke around Das began to lighten up with a eerie yellowish glow... why, you ask? The same question arose in Das Korvut's mind.. and he found an answer pretty soon. Just as soon as the flames reached the dried hey that covered his rooftop.

Das was at his end. Smoke filled his lungs and fire singed his skin.. Fitting perhaps. For a blacksmith to be reforged into ashes.

The whole town was a boiling stew in pitch hot cauldron. Some portion was frothing and bubbling off the lip, some were seething in silence, but everything was in motion.

From the temple square where a few valiant defenders were taking out goblins by scores, to the north gate where goblins were making mockeries out of the guards' bodies, to the silently weeping stream of evacuees heading southward of the town, soon to meet the small contingents of goblin squads set out to keep any survivors from escaping.