Miles away, the Wyrmsmoke Mountains shook with the thunder of ten thousand screaming hobgoblin soldiers. From the phalanx emerged a single champion. One by one the tribes fell silent as the warlord rose up, blue scales gleaming along his shoulders, horns swept back from his head. A hundred bright yellow banners stood beneath him, each marked with a great red hand. He stood upon a precipice and raised his arms. "I am Azarr Kul, Son of the Dragon!" the warlord bellowed. "Hear me! Tomorrow, we march to war!"

So it was the Warlord, Azarr Kul, marches his formidable army through the hills toward Cinder Hill. There, his army completed their final preparations, channeling Tiamat's power to urge them on to victory. From there, they marched on to Skull Gorge Bridge, where an advanced guard held that key strategic position. Crossing the bridge, the Red Hand, marched onward, drawing closer to phase one of their ambitious campaign.

Hour after relentless hour, they marched, stirred into a tireless stupor by dark intoxicants and even darker magic...

Their booming war drums punctuate their every step as they draw onto the village of Drellin's Ferry...

The leading ranks mass near the riverbank, clashing sword to shield and shouting defiantly. Yellow banners emblazoned with the image of a clawed red hand wave over the ranks of hobgoblin and bugbear warriors. From somewhere within the horde's train, goblin laborers drag up hundreds of rough-hewn logs to the water's edge and begin stripping trunks with hatchets.

Fortunately, most of the town lies vacant now, its citizens fleeing as fast as they can across the countryside in any direction away from the approaching horde.

Houses stare vacantly out at a silent roads. The sun has just vanished behind the formidable scar on the horizon that is the Wyrmsmoke Mountains. Speaker Wiston takes a deep breath and wipes tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. "It seems we are about out of time," he says to his loyal captain. "We'd best get going now if we want to keep ahead of the worg riders."

Captain Soranna nods to the weathered woodsman. "You've done well to get us this word. Our thanks to you," and she pauses a moment before adding, "and Aldara, Eoni, Taerix, Marklin, Sarah and Valthur...for everything. Without your warning, we'd have all been asleep in our beds when the horde arrived on our stoops. Many lives were..."

Jorr, interrupts here, "Enough with all that talk...you best be gettin' on. Off with the both of you. May the gods take a shine to you..."

With that, the last of the stragglers in Drellin's Ferry take to the road, fleeing as fast as they can, hopeful they will outpace the hobgoblin horde...

***

Miles away from this scene of impending destruction, the adventurers make their way into the village of Witchcross, about a days' travel from Brindol.

Somewhat surprised that the residents appear clueless, Sarah nonetheless falls into her habits.  Sarah's eyes dart everywhere as she takes in the surroundings.

[Private to DM Pawn: Trying to identify places of commerce . . .  ]

"We need to find someone in charge and warn them," Eoni said, looking around for some kind of guard or sheriff.  Perhaps they could send a rider ahead to Brindol with their news.

"We'll stay the night and march for Brindol at first light."

 Marklin made for the Well/Fountain, or any other source of water that was at hand. He  Felt like he had been marching in a suit of hot coals the last few miles, as the mail's weight had taken its toil on the Warrior.

Taerix looks for a bed to sleep in in safety, for it may be the last bed he sleeps in for a while, confident that Eoni has matters in hand.