"Booorbaaa!"

Was this word a name, a battlecry, or perhaps the complete vocabulary of the Trollish language? Hiding behind one of his two wagons, the Wanderer (this time going by the name Dalton) had no free brain capacity at the moment to figure that out. He carefully stepped over the pair of feet jutting out from under the wagon. The feet belonged to the cartman cowering under the vehicle, whimpering in fear, his hat pulled down on his eyes, hoping that what he didn't see didn't exist, either. Alas, the wagon offered little protection, as the shying horse and the attacking trolls worked together to topple it over and bury the Wanderer underneath.

He peeked out from his hiding place and hurled a fireflask at the two trolls throwing their considerable weight at his wagon. He hoped he wouldn't set the cargo ablaze, too. Fire and acid were supposed to work against trolls like a charm. So the Wanderer was seriously dismayed when he heard the trolls laugh off his attempt and continue shaking the wagon undisturbed by the vicious flames. The cartman scampered out from underneath the wagon in a panic, almost tripping him, and made a run for the hills.

This meant he was down to three men, not counting himself. He'd started out with six. One had stepped into a fireball trap near a wizard's cottage, another had watched his friend burn to charcoal and gone mad with shock. And one of the remaining hirelings was currently in a third troll's huge hands, screaming in agony and horror, hanging upside down by the ankles like a ragdoll. Two of his men were standing atop the other wagon, at a level with the troll's head, and released one arrow after the other, trying in vain to pierce its hide and scare it away from their companion.

Damn it, Flavia, thought the Wanderer. Why did you have to die in this cursed land, of all places? And more importantly, why do I have to die here, just because I wanted to see where your last footsteps took you twenty years ago?

He unlatched a flask of acid from his belt and hurled it at one of the attackers. The troll roared in pain and fury, and finally managed to topple the wagon, sweeping the horse off its hooves. The poor animal screamed and thrashed in fear, entangled in the reins beyond hope, while the Wanderer darted across the clearing to the other wagon to avoid being crushed to death.

At this moment, the third troll howled in pain and released the man whose head it was playfully bouncing against the ground. As the body slumped into a disorderly heap of limbs, the troll looked back over its shoulder to check what creature was sinking its fangs into its bottom. It turned out to be a leopard. A faint breeze of hope brushed at the Wanderer's heart. That beast must be an adventurer's pet, rather than random wildlife. Had the Lady of Graves just thrown him a lifelink?

Indeed, a group of adventurers appeared on the clearing. The two other trolls left the toppled wagon (it was already burning, despite the Wanderer's careful aim) and came to their companion's aid. However, they didn't make it too far. The party had a much better archer than the Wanderer's men were. One of the trolls soon collapsed under their arrows, grievously wounded but unable to die. The other halted in its tracks with its jaw hanging open, fascinated by the tune the little halfling bard was playing. It was no wonder, though. Even the Wanderer found himself perking up his pointy half-elf ears and striving to catch every detail of the song. It was about a bandit leader and his fey lover—a totally inappropriate choice for a combat situation, but all the more intriguing. A shield-bearing dwarf and an elf armed with a scythe took turns trying to give a coup de grâce to the fallen troll, a barbarian hurried to save the ragdoll man (probably a tad too late), and another elf rushed to cut the unlucky horse free from the burning wagon.

In the meantime, the troll fighting the leopard tripped over the beast and sprawled on the ground. The Wanderer took advantage of that and splashed a little acid on its back. Just a few drops of bubbling, sizzling green liquid, but it made a world of difference, allowing the barbarian to smash the troll's skull with a permanent effect.

Now it was the music enthusiast's turn. The bard finally switched to a battle tune, and right on cue, the archer and all the melee fighters turned their rage against the last troll standing. A ginormous sword, a mace, a scythe, a volley of arrows and a dash of acid won the battle and saved the day. Or whatever remained of it.

"Phew," said the Wanderer, emerging from his cover. "Brent, go search through the shrubbery and find that good-for-nothing Lepp, will you? Flinn, take care of the horses! Gus, are you okay? Gus?!"

No answer came, which made it clear that the ragdoll man was, unsurprisingly, dead. However, the horses were both alive and kicking. Especially kicking, as Flinn instantly found out right after scrambling down from the top of the wagon. The elf lady apparently knew what she was doing, but even she couldn't improve much on the horses' mood before handing them over. Finally, Brent and Lepp appeared from between the shrubs, too.

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The Wanderer turned to the adventurers, resisting the urge to scratch his head. Now that the danger was over, he sensed the unholy activity of lice coming from his grey wig with double intensity.

"Thanks for the rescue, strangers," he said with a polite half-bow. "The name is Dalton, at your service."

His keen eyes gave a cursory once-over to the group. He didn't find the dwarf cleric and the halfling bard very interesting. However, the presence of three elves in the same group made him curious. He had to strike up a conversation in order to find out more. Complaining about the roads always did the trick.

"I don't know who is in charge here, but they are not terribly good at making the roads safe to travel," he grumbled.

Hearing this, the elf lady left the horses to the hirelings and turned to face him.

"Actually, it is me," she said in a challenging voice, walking up to the Wanderer. "The task is daunting indeed, but I am doing my best to live up to the challenge. Any more edifying critique up your sleeve, Master Dalton?"

"Whoops," said the Wanderer sheepishly, happy to scratch the back of his head in embarrassment. "Apologies, my lady. I never meant to offend my saviour. Whom have I the honour to address?"

The answer came a little belatedly, as if she were fumbling for some convenient lie, leaving the Wanderer enough time to study her looks. That lovely, warm amber eye colour was not so striking at first, albeit unusual among elves. However, the feline irises and pupils were notably different from normal, all-pupil elf eyes. As her pet leopard appeared by her side, the connection was not hard to make.

"Baroness Guelder of Nightvale," she finally said, returning to reality from whatever depths her mind had been wandering through. She loosened the neck of her shirt for easier breathing, unwittingly allowing the Wanderer to take a closer look at her hands, too.

It all fell into place. A barony named after a druids' grove in southern Kyonin, destroyed many years ago. A woman with cat eyes and cat claws, calling herself by the name of a shrub, rejecting or hiding her true name. A child born at the wrong place, at the wrong time, in the worst family and religious environment imaginable, who hadn't been supposed to survive, and still had. More than once.

Moments passed as they were searching for one another in their memories.

"Do you two know each other?" butted in the other elf lady, the one with the scythe, whom the Wanderer largely ignored until this moment.

Until he realised she hadn't taken a breath before speaking up.

It was only experience that saved the Wanderer from gasping in shock. It hadn't been a year since he'd assassinated Jaethal Frozen Lake, after the Supreme Court of Iadara had failed to mete out an appropriate punishment for her horrible crimes. How had she fooled Pharasma, the almighty goddess of birth and death? And how could he, the Wanderer, fail to spot an undead follower of Urgathoa at first glance? Was he growing old and sloppy? Or had the adrenaline rush of the battle dampened his inquisitor instincts? He turned his gaze to the third elf, prepared for another nasty surprise. However, the ranger's face didn't seem familiar. In fact, the Wanderer couldn't even determine their gender, which annoyed him to no end. He preferred his world in black and white. Man or woman. True or false. Life or death. Devotion or heresy. No in-betweens or shades or mixed colours.

"Know each other?" The baroness repeated the question, as if to anchor herself in the present. "I do not exclude the possibility. Anyway, Master Dalton, welcome to Nightvale. I wish I could offer you an escort to Tuskdale to ensure your safety, but alas, my companions are few and my foes numerous."

"You're too kind, Your Grace. You've already done a lot for me, and I'm grateful for that."

The conversation continued, about the strange fireproof trolls, the strange wizard living in the neighbourhood and his troll-related research, the plentiful business opportunities in Tuskdale. The Wanderer even offered a peek into his wares and rid the adventurers of a sackload of troll clubs, semi-precious stones and random household items. Meanwhile, he silently thanked his good fortune and the Lady of Graves. Not only had he been saved from the trolls and granted a few more years to live (hopefully), but he had also found out that one of his missions had yet to be completed. As to the baroness, he was not yet sure how he wanted to proceed—but then again, she was not his first priority. Unlike Jaethal Frozen Lake. To think she'd ended up with Guelder of Nightvale, of all people... Was that a coincidence? Or maybe another instance of birds of a feather flocking together?

After the adventurers finally went on their merry way, the Wanderer had his remaining men dig a ditch for the dead trolls and a nice, comfy grave for Gus, and expertly performed the last rites over his deceased comrade. They spent some time resting, then broke camp and set out towards Tuskdale. However, when the little caravan arrived there, the Wanderer was not with them anymore. Unbeknownst to them, his Ring of Retreat had taken him back to his favourite elf gate in Kyonin. He had to put a few things in motion there.

Also, he'd had his fill of trolls for a lifetime.