The walk north tires you out even the further, and by the time you reach the village you don't even care that it has been burned to the ground just like Gutandor. You find a charred blanket and a partially intact barn that provides you shelter from the wind and intermittent rain.
With a soft sigh you wrap the blanket around yourself and curl under a half-fallen beam. Almost immediately you are asleep. Before light breaks you awake to a strange guttural talking sound. A tingle goes up your spine and you realize that it is the strange language of goblins. The horrible bandits were known around Gutandor for stealing sheep and robbing and attacking travelers in the woods. The army of the underworld must have driven them out of their forest hideaway.
You lift yourself up just enough to peer through a crack in the wall of the barn. There are three of them, each no more than four feet tall, carrying crude bludgeons and packs made from poorly cured sheep hide. You look at your bow lying on the ground next to you and weigh your options.
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