Bancroft
The jingle of coins in his purse was a happy, heavy sound, a promise of steel and safety. Bancroft, his mind as clear and simple as a summer sky, had a singular purpose. “I have enough,” he’d declared to his friends, his voice booming with the certainty of a man who has counted his treasure and found it sufficient. “We go to Ironguard Motte. I’m getting my plate mail!”
The first blow that day came with the ordinary violence of the barrowmaze—bloody, sudden, and oddly intimate. Bancroft planted his feet, cursing his missing shield, and brought his sword down across a shambling zombie’s shoulder. The thing snarled with a voice like dry leaves and spun, its filthy claws raking the cleric’s forearm.
“By Sylvanus,” Bancroft gasped, tasting iron, but he kept his footing. Irulan stepped forward without hesitation, her blade ringing true as it bit into rotten tendon. Riyou’s arrow sang from the shadows and struck the creature between its shoulder and chest, driving it to its knees.
The morning sun cast long shadows across Helix as Bancroft made his way through the town’s winding streets, his mind turning over an intriguing conversation from the previous evening. He had encountered a small goblin wizard—scarred and bearing himself with the cold authority of one who had gazed beyond death’s veil—who spoke of an animated serpent trapped near the rats’ nest in the shadowmaze.
“An animated snake, you say?” Bancroft had mused, his farmer’s practicality already working through the possibilities. “Made of brass and steel?”