You strike at the old man’s head, but he parries your blow with his Warhammer. To your horror, your Sword’s blade disintegrates as soon as it touches the weapon’s silver haft. Cackling with glee, the old man leaps into the attack, brandishing his enchanted Warhammer above his head.
You arrive in time to witness a handful of peasants armed with pitchforks attacking two Giaks on Doomwolves. Although superior in numbers, they are no match for these ferocious fighters who have already killed many of their kinfolk.
The track continues for several miles down a steep wooded hillside to arrive at a little bridge spanning a deep, crystal-clear stream. A young woman dressed in padded leather armour stands there, warily watching you approach. ‘Where are you bound for, young wizard?’ she asks.