The godlings sat in a ring, silent. Small, razor-sharp knives formed in their palms as they began to carve. The rhythmic scrape of wood echoed quietly through the dim light.
By the time they finished, the town had fully woken. Doors creaked open. Lanterns flickered. People stepped out with cautious, fearful eyes, still uncertain of what the new day held.
Only then did the disguised druids rise.
Clutching their freshly carved wooden statues the effigies of "gods" they staggered toward the town gates. Their faces twisted with feigned exhaustion, fear, and grief, playing their part to perfection.
And together, they shouted:
"Help! Please, help us! We survived the night!"
The soldiers on the wall stiffened at the sight of the screaming figures stumbling toward the gate. Their armor was still settling on their shoulders; many had only just taken their posts. None expected survivors, certainly not this many, nor this frantic.
