Abasdarhon's Castle

"Alright. I'll wait for my friend," Quint said, nodding towards Decimus, who was running towards them at a brisk pace. "And then we'll arrange a welcoming committee for our guests. You'll wait for them at the designated spot, but it's best to keep the dog locked up at home – it might give us away." Decimus arrived, looking ready for battle – in armor, with a mask on his face, and a rifle at the ready. "Ready?" "More or less." Quint looked intently into his son's eyes, remembering himself at the beginning of his career – impulsive, greedy, and, frankly, not particularly brave, although he desperately tried to hide it behind a facade of bravado. Decimus's gaze was cold and calm. His eyes were slightly narrowed, darting from side to side – assessing the situation. Only a faint spark of impatient greed betrayed his lack of experience. "More than ten of them," Grelli the Elder thought to himself. "Listen. There are probably two of them. They're coming from the south. Set up some traps. Throw a firecracker. I'll take on the one who looks leaner. If I can't, do what you think is best. Let's go." The assassins set up traps (immobilization), warned the village elder, Quint drank potions of speed, accuracy, and evasion, and Decimus drank potions of accuracy and speed. Quint coated his sword and arrow with amoloka poison.