The bandits stood in a loose circle, their battered shields scuffed from years of ambushing travelers on lonely roads. Their axes, notched and stained, hung heavy in their hands, ready to carve a toll from anyone too weak or too foolish to resist.
Elven bandits move through the forest like whispers on the wind, their eyes cold and calculating as they draw back finely-carved bows. They strike from the treetops without warning, fading into the leaves before a cry can leave their victim’s lips.
Squat and sturdy, the dwarven bandits crouch behind stone outcrops, their crossbows loaded and eyes sharp beneath soot-streaked brows. They strike from the shadows with bolts tipped in poison or rust, vanishing down mountain trails before a cry can leave the throat.
Half-orc bandits with warhammers don’t bother with threats—they let the splinters and dented armor speak for them. They smash first, loot later, and laugh like thunder rolling through a dead forest.
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