Read the Tale. Play the Quest.

The village of Green Meadow lay nestled in a bend of the Argent River, its whitewashed cottages gleaming beneath gentle hills. For generations, sheep herders had built quiet prosperity here, their lives ruled by wool prices, weather patterns, and the fervent hope for abundance. For as long as anyone could remember, those cottages had stood peaceful in the stillness of the valley.

But that peace had fled Green Meadow.

From the shadowed depths of Worros Woods, two ogres had emerged—hulking raiders who stole sheep by the dozens and terrorized the valley by night. For three weeks, the creatures had raided the settlement. They struck only after dusk and always when the village's defenders were away with the wool caravans. They raided the smithy for weapons, kidnapped the clerk from the general store, and took hundreds of livestock.

In desperation, the mayor put out a call for brave souls willing to venture into dangerous territory to confront the ogre threat. Promising a handsome reward of fifty gold pieces, he posted flyers at the Drinking House, hoping for adventurers bold enough—or emboldened enough by greed or inklings to heroism—to follow the trail of destruction and put an end to the raids once and for all.

Four unlikely strangers would answer that call.

Evron Gallante had made a terrible mistake.

He really should have known that plugging the smoke vent was a bad idea. His hands trembled as he traced the spell pattern—one year of magic theory felt woefully inadequate against twelve feet of ogre.

This revelation struck him as Hunter's boots disappeared through the jagged crack in the cave roof. What followed was a slew of fiendishly creative profanity that rang off the stone walls like the blows of Harbek's hammer. Below, in the flame-lit depths, two shadows stirred.

"This isn't going to plan!" Hunter shouted, scrabbling for purchase as dust rained down and the crack swallowed him inch by inch.

The larger ogre loomed twelve feet tall, rotting sheep hides draped across his scarred yellow frame. He lifted his boil-covered head, clawed hands—each wide as a warrior's shield—reaching upward.

"Fresh meat falls from sky," he rumbled. "Gift from dark spirits."

The smaller ogre lumbered closer, dragging his spiked club with a grating screech across the stone floor. His tusks gleamed as he grinned.

"Tender meat, sweet meat," he said, licking his lips as he raised the weapon.

Hunter tried to scramble back up through the crack, but his cloak caught on the jagged stone. "A little help!" he shouted, legs kicking wildly.

From the far corner of the cavern beneath, another voice cried out: "Help me too! They're going to eat me!"

Evron squinted down through the gloom. There—a young man hunched in a low cage swinging from the sublevel's naturally arched ceiling. The captive's wailing rose, blending with the ogres' growls. Evron couldn't tell what else stirred inside the cage with him.

Then he saw Avestdra's bone-white mask, as it turned toward the cave entrance. She strode forth, heavy-footed in her heavy plate armor, reaching into her breastplate to grasp a holy symbol.

"Grund-Wyrgen guide my maul," she intoned, her voice muffled by the mask.

The symbol bore the sign of Grund-Wyrgen. Most clerics would recoil at the prospect of such a patron, but Avestdra embraced the darkness.

Evron winced, rubbing his aching eyes. How had he gotten mixed up with a cleric who served the Dark Mother herself? Yet now, watching Avestdra move with deadly purpose toward the true monsters facing them, he couldn't argue with her conviction.

Harbek strode beside Avestdra, hefting his battle-axe. Its dwarven-forged edge was free of nicks and keenly sharp, and when he swung it the metal sang with the hammers of the ancient smiths who had imbued its steel with their secret power. He tightened a shield strap with his teeth. The warboard's dented surface was painted with the sigil of the dwarven stronghold called RingingHammer.

"Should've known the lad would muck this up," he muttered in his thick mountain accent. "No patience, that one."

But now Evron's fingers traced practiced patterns in the air, silver-blue energy gathering around his hands. As the power flowed through him, his mentor's lessons echoed in his mind.

Magic flows from the High Points—primordial nexuses of power scattered across the realm. Wizards draw directly from these sources, bending raw energy to their will, but the greater the power seized, the greater the risk of losing control.

The threads of force responded to Evron's will, coalescing into the spell he needed. Evron glanced at Avestdra, wondering what dark powers Grund-Wyrgen would grant her in the coming fight. The cleric's casual mention earlier that day of the Dark Mother demanding blood for aid suggested that Avestdra's divine abilities might lean toward destruction rather than healing. Evron found himself at odds—grateful for Avestdra's effectiveness in battle, yet quietly unsettled by the potential implications of comradeship with this acolyte of the Mother of Nightmares.

"Hunter won't last much longer!" he yelled, assessing the tactical situation.

It had all begun at the Drinking House, that ivy-covered sanctuary where adventurers gathered to seek fortune and glory. Evron had been sitting alone, stone-faced and stone-broke—even for a farthing's worth of sour wine—methodically reviewing a help-wanted flyer, when Cirif took notice.

The Master of the House, of a colorful demeanor and an even more colorful fashion sense, stepped to Evron's shoulder. He wore purple pantaloons slashed with ochre and hemmed most distastefully in black lace, and wielded a tray bearing three foam-crowned tankards. Much to Evron's surprise, Cirif deposited them all right on the table before him.

"I'm stony, Master Cirif." Evron licked his lips at the sight of the beer. Right terrible though Cirif was in his perfumed gaudiness, the innkeeper's homegrown brown brew was nigh the stuff of legend in these parts.

"You are too hard on yourself, Master Sorcerer Evron, eh?"

"No. I mean I'm broke. I can't afford one tankard, let alone three."

"One is on the house, let us say. It is my house, after all?"

"Awfully kind of you. And the others?"

"Perhaps they will... draw fortune your way, hmm?"

"Would that were true, but thank you all the same for the one." Evron reached for the big pot of brown. By Curumo, he was thirsty. The ale was cold honey in his gullet.

Cirif leaned over the mage's shoulder, eyeing the parchment. "The Vengeful Yew Band looked at that very posting yesterday. They scrutinized it for several minutes, they did."

"Did they take the job?"

The innkeeper frowned. "I don't believe they did. Something about more urgent matters that needed attending—something east in the mountains."

"Hmm," Evron said.

"Experienced fighters, those fellows. Been together for years, known for taking on the jobs other free companies won't touch with a hill giant's ten-foot pole, if you'll pardon the pun. If they passed on easy ogre work for something more pressing, it must be serious indeed."

Evron looked dully at Cirif. Forget the pun; did the man just use easy and ogre in the same sentence?

"Had my eye on fetching an easy bounty too!"

The dwarf at the table behind Evron turned around in his chair then, interrupting Cirif mid-gesture.

"Mind if I sit?"

But before Evron could raise an objection, the dwarf was already moving between the tables. He was red-bearded and flint-eyed, with a jaw that might have been carved of granite. He wore thick silver ringmail—laboriously maintained—and a dwarven war-axe was slung from a harness on his shoulder. The dwarf reached for one of the stray tankards, lifting it to his lips.

"Much obliged, and sorry for eavesdropping! Name's Harbek of RingingHammer. Ye've got the look of a man with a mind for adventure—and mayhap enough brains in his skull to see we both come back breathing."

Before Evron could explain to the newcomer that his experience was thus far limited to theoretical studies, a sinewy young man in brown leather plunked himself down on the bench beside Harbek of RingingHammer—and proceeded to take the third ale. Evron looked to the noonday shadows of the inn; there were none. The interloper may as well have dropped from the ceiling. He was roguishly clad, a glint of incipient mischief in his eye.

"Hunter Morgan." He said his name with a grin that should have been fair warning. "Couldn't help but notice you studying that ogres' bounty. Fifty gold pieces split three ways? Not a bad day's work."

"Just a moment..." Evron began, but then his words caught in his throat.

"Four ways." The voice was muffled by an ovular white mask. Its hollow eyeholes stared through Evron. The woman who wore it was garbed in midnight-black plate armor. She advanced toward their table, the footfalls of her sollerets thundering against the floorboards. A thick chain hung from her neck, its pendant hidden.

Evron blinked in bewilderment. One moment, he'd been alone with his deliberations; the next, as the apparent de facto head of an adventuring company.

"I'm Evron Gallante," he finally managed. "Student of the arcane arts. Though I fear there may be some misunderstanding as to my qualifications…"

Harbek set his mug down empty, a fresh line of foam streaking through the bramble of his beard. "Meaning...?" the dwarf said.

"Meaning I managed a year at the Great School of Magic in Arcanum City—before my tuition ran out." Evron gestured toward his empty coin purse. "But I'm hoping adventuring might fund the remainder of my studies."

"Magic!" Harbek boomed, loud enough that the tavern's other customers all turned to stare. "Perfect! Blast the beasts with fire and lightning!"

"Actually, I'm still quite new to my studies. My theoretical knowledge is extensive, but as for practical applications—"

"Theories are for dusty old scholars in dusty old towers," Hunter interrupted. He seemed somehow to have acquired an expensive-looking ring that Evron was fairly sure hadn't adorned his finger just moments before. "Action. That's what separates heroes from corpses in my world."

"And what world is that?" Evron raised an eyebrow.

Hunter's grin was gleeful, but before he would reply the masked woman took a seat beside him. The tankards rattled on the table.

"The cutpurse has the right of it," she said. "I serve Grund-Wyrgen. The Dark Mother favors the bold. And bold action can be profitable." She removed her mask and set it on the table. The contrast was startling. Beneath the cold porcelain was a face whose beauty was undeniable—high cheekbones, strong jawline, raven hair, eyes of amethyst—yet marred and sanctified by ritual scars and inked devotion. Spiral patterns drew the eye inward on her cheeks, and sacred burns marked her temples. Each mark—or so Evron understood from his limited scholarship surrounding the faith of Grund-Wyrgen—a chapter in a story of commitment that transcended mere philosophy into complete divine surrender.

For a moment, her fierce gaze softened, and a small smile tugged at her lips. But only for a moment. The mask remained on the table, but the shadows behind her eyes were as unyielding as the cold porcelain. "Avestdra," she said simply. "Once of Banorak."

They settled into their drinks. Cirif, briefly forgotten during the introductions, ran to fetch blackberry wine for Avestdra and a second mug of brown for Harbek. Though complete strangers, they soon were conspiring like old comrades, and quickly sketched out a plan for hunting down the ogres and claiming the reward.

As the afternoon shadows lengthened and the group prepared to depart, Hunter tore the remaining postings from the inn's message board and pocketed them.

Cirif, coming to bid them farewell, noted this.

"I see you've accepted the ogre bounty," he observed. "Might I ask what name your new company goes by, Master Evron? For the ledgers, you understand."

The four exchanged awkward glances. They'd formulated a strategy to kill the monsters and capture the bounty, yes. But in all their planning, they'd gone amiss in forgetting to give themselves a name.

"We're, um..." Evron began, then faltered.

"The, uh..." Hunter tried, but was also lost for anything suitable.

Harbek simply shrugged and drained the dregs of his fifth tankard.

Avestdra, oval mask once more in place, also remained silent.

Cirif watched the group's muddled reactions with obvious amusement.

"Well," the innkeeper said at last, "it is an odd company, to be sure."

The four exchanged looks. And the name took hold.

"Come back, Odd Company!" Cirif called after them as they departed the safety of the Drinking House for the road ahead. "I'll have another job waiting when you return!"

And—calling out once more before he shut the door behind them: "If you manage to survive the ogres!"

Below, the yellow boil-covered ogre made a savage lunge for Hunter's ankle. The thief twisted desperately as claws gripped one of his boots. "Fresh meat!" the ogre bellowed in triumph.

His smaller companion hefted his spike-studded club and turned toward the cave entrance—just as Avestdra burst through the opening. Her white mask caught the firelight in hellish tones as she raised her maul high. To her boon companions, she appeared an avenging angel—though she served darker powers.

"Grund-Wyrgen walks with me," she snarled, and brought the weapon down in a devastating arc.

The maul struck with a wet crack. Black ichor sprayed the walls. But the smaller ogre only roared in fury. His club swept sideways in a wild counterattack that whistled past Avestdra's masked cheek.

Harbek charged in beside her then, his war-axe singing its battle song. "For the glory of my fathers!" he roared, driving the blade deep into the larger ogre's thigh. Blood sprayed hot as the honed dwarven edge bit through the creature's thick hide. The ogre's grip on Hunter loosened as he howled and swiped at the dwarf.

Hunter twisted in the monster's weakened grasp, finally managing to wrench his foot free. His cloak came loose at the same moment. The irrepressible thief plummeted through the crack in the ceiling and struck the cave floor hard, rolling behind scattered bits of bone as the big yellow ogre's fist smashed the place where he'd been lying prone a split second before.

"Stay down, Hunter!" Evron shouted from his redoubt above, weaving the eldritch forces between his fingers. His Arcane Blast invocation lacked devastating power, but perhaps it would be enough to—

"Look out!" Hunter yelled from his hiding place. And Evron squinted through the crevice at the action below.

The little ogre's spiked club came sweeping around once again, aiming to crush Avestdra's ribs. She quickly sidestepped, the iron spikes missing her by inches, and countered with an upward swing of her maul that caught the ogre beneath his jutting chin. His head snapped back with a crack as more black ichor splattered across the ceiling.

From the hanging cage meanwhile, the captive villager continued screaming—accompanied by several sheep which were now also bleating in terror.

The second ogre lunged at Harbek with both clawed hands extended, but the dwarf was ready. He caught the attack on his shield and drove his war-axe into the ogre's belly with ancestral strength. The blade bit deep, parting flesh and finding vital organs. The ogre doubled over with a sound like a dying bull. Harbek pressed his advantage with a horizontal slice that opened a gaping wound across the creature's chest.

"Now, Evron!" Avestdra called out, dancing away from another wild swing. "Strike while they're weakened!"

Evron stepped up, his hands glowing.

"By the seven stars of learning—Arcane Blast!" he shouted, releasing concentrated magical force in a brilliant burst that struck the hulking creature square in his brutish face. The ogre staggered backward, more stunned than hurt, but it was enough.

Avestdra surged and drew closer; smoke swirling around her as the maul carved its path—silent for a heartbeat, then roaring on impact. The weapon struck hard, pulverizing bone and the ogre toppled like a felled oak. His body hit the cave floor with thunderous impact that shook dust from the ceiling.

One monster slain. One yet lived.

The remaining ogre, wounded and maddened with pain, was far from finished. His small, hate-filled eyes fixed on Hunter, who was still scrambling on the floor to escape the spreading pool of ogre blood. "Kill you all!" he bellowed, raising claws for what he intended to be a killing blow. "Gnaw your bones!"

Hunter rolled desperately to his left, those razor claws gouging deep furrows where he'd been lying. "I really need to start thinking these plans through more carefully!"

"Hunter!" Harbek shouted, positioning himself for another strike. "Keep the beast's attention! Lead him into my axe!"

"Keep his attention?" Hunter's voice cracked with strain. "He's the size of a catapult and twice as good at smashing things!" But even as he protested, Hunter's street smarts served him well. His hand found a chunk of fallen stone among the rubble. With practiced aim, he hurled it at the ogre's scarred head. The missile bounced harmlessly off his thick skull, but it achieved its purpose.

"Annoying pig!" The ogre snarled, pivoting toward Hunter with murder in his eyes. "I will eat you slowly!"

That moment of distraction was all Harbek needed. The dwarf had worked his way behind the wounded ogre. With a hard swing, his axe cut deep into the back of the ogre's knee. There was a wet crack as tendons parted and bone splintered. The ogre buckled beneath his weight, sending him crashing down onto one knee.

"The shadows claim another soul," Avestdra intoned as she approached the kneeling giant from his blind side. The head of her maul still dripped with blood. Seeing her close in, the ogre tried to turn to defend himself, but Harbek's perfectly placed strike had crippled him. The creature could barely support his own weight, let alone mount an effective defense. Avestdra brought her maul down in a final, devastating blow that echoed through the cave like thunder. An explosion of hot blood erupted. The ogre's colossal body swayed for a long moment, then toppled over to lie still beside his fallen companion.

Silence descended over the cave, broken only by the crackling of the cooking fire and the prisoner's quiet sobbing from above. "Is... is it over?" came the trembling voice from the swaying cage. "Are they truly dead?"

Hunter emerged from behind his shelter, breathing hard and checking himself for wounds. "Well, that was exhilarating in the worst possible way."

Evron lowered his hands, the last wisps of arcane energy dissipating around his fingers. "That could have gone significantly worse," he said, trying to project confidence he didn't feel. His hands still trembled.

"Could it?" Hunter's voice was sharp. "Because your brilliant plan to 'observe their behavioral patterns' nearly got Avestdra killed. While you were taking notes, that thing was positioning itself to attack."

Evron's stomach dropped. "I thought if we understood their tactics—"

"Tactics?" Hunter laughed bitterly. "They're ogres, not generals. Sometimes the answer is to hit them before they hit you."

Harbek was covered in ogre blood. He clapped Evron on the shoulder. "Lad, there's a time for thinking and a time for acting. Learning the difference is what will keep you breathing."

Evron stared at the cave floor, academic pride warring with the sick realization that his hesitation had endangered the others. "I... I'm not used to making decisions when lives are at stake."

"Then let's hope that you're a fast learner," Hunter said, not unkindly, and walked away. The thief looked around the messy cave, his natural optimism already reasserting itself. "Let's search for loot!"

"Help me first!" the prisoner called down desperately. "Please! I'm Filo—I work for Otis at the general store in Green Meadow! I was checking the sheep in the high pastures and was knocked out. I woke up here three days ago!"

As Evron's vision adjusted to the flickering light, he saw the rest of the cave—the stagnant pool, the overturned chest, the half-devoured carcasses. He counted quickly. "Strange," he murmured. "The mayor said hundreds were taken. Where are the rest of the sheep?"

His words trailed off as his stomach tightened. The ogres hadn't been alone.

Hunter ignored him and knelt beside the chest, sweeping coins into his hands.

"Perhaps this plan didn't go completely sideways after all."