Now, as it so happened, in the farthest east of the hills, near the vast canyon of Hellsfurrow that cleft the land there, a town existed in which the Hob had absorbed the ways of the Principality most fully. There, so it was said, these creatures lived aside Men, and learned from them. They wore tunics of spun wool in the manner of the Northlanders, and spoke the language common in the Western Realm, in preparation to infiltrate the lands of Men. There, it was said, Hob smiths forged fine steel blades and Hob bowyers made crossbows with the tutelage of the traitorous people of Myr.

Rumor of this town reached the ears of the campaigners from the mouth of a captured Hob. This place, it was reasoned, must be the source where the cruel and devastating tactics that had swept across the Northlands had found their root, and its destruction must, in turn, be the first step in eradicating the scourge of newly-emboldened Hob who had wronged him so. And so the stalwart men, so many of whom had seen all they loved slain at the hands of treacherous Hob, determined to seek out this abomination and strike it from existence.

The search for the place grew long, but as summer’s sweat made itself known at last did the scouts mark the location of it upon the campaign-map.

The tale of the scouts was one that bore out the suspicions Jaris harbored. In this encampment were found many Hob, and among them scattered Men. And not only huts and grain-houses, but spy-towers and fortification behind which Hob and Man could take refuge and set archers upon those who opposed them, exposed as they would be by the tree-poor hills. Within was ample store of food, and through it ran a stream of modest size, by which they could weather a siege of significant length, perhaps in wait of reinforcements from afar.

Even an attack of speed and fury would find itself in want of effect, for there was a wide barrier of settlements surrounding the fortifications, which would give ample warning of even the most stealthy attack if so much as a single blunder were made in its execution.

Jaris and those above him pondered this deeply. The larger number favored an approach of reserve, perhaps wise in its caution but, it could be said, of insufficient temerity. This vexed Jaris greatly, for every day that passed was a day that the Hob and treacherous Men among them had to prepare further, and a day that his quest for justice went unfulfilled.

It was in this state of vexation that Jaris happened upon a clever scheme within the recesses of his mind. The company could, he proffered, make use of a poison known to some who had fought in the Crusades, where they had gleaned it from shamans who had applied it with great effect against the Crusaders. This venomous concoction, when it found its way inside a victim, would set him into a fit of pain and convulsion, from whence death would soon follow. It had been used by them to coat arrowheads and daggers, but also, Jaris had learned, had eventual effect when introduced through food or drink. Being of inconspicuous odor, it might be applied to the stream that watered the encampment, such that all those who drank from it would soon fall ill and perish.

With the crude intellect of the Hob, the root of the illness would go undiscovered until the poison had done the work of a hundred armed men, leaving only a modest few for the sword. Positioned appropriately about the area, the band of brave warriors could strike down any who sought to escape and bring word to the Hob war-parties elsewhere.

This plan, though lacking in valor what it possessed in efficacy, was settled upon swiftly, and Jaris commended for his cunning. And so the materials for the concoction were procured, and mixed in great quantity, and carefully poured in secret into the source of the stream. Then the warriors set themselves in small parties, and encircled the place, and laid in wait.