Azarus’s champion, clad in wooden armor with a large rucksack over her shoulders, stepped into a cloth corridor. The walls were bits of clothing sewn together with thick, irregular stitching. Soft, colored light diffused through the cloth where the flowers back lit the walls. The plethora of colors gave the maze a festival feeling, as if heralding a grand celebration. The shadows, lurking between pools of color, had a dark, menacing edge.

A few heartbeats behind Moka, Carwen followed her into the corridor, pushing through the loose curtains. Muffled sobs echoed through the walls, painting a grim picture. Her illusion bore a stoic face, while her true image, within arm's reach, looked around as if expecting a sudden ambush. She hurried through the entrance, glancing back to glare at a green hand reaching for the hem of her skirts. A claw passed through her illusion without catching.

Moka gave a questioning look toward the sound of Carwen’s heavy breathing. After a second, she shrugged and ambled down the hall, stepping on thickly woven vines. Muttering complaints beneath her breath, Carwen broke into a quick jog to catch up, sticking close to her only ally.

The pair traveled in silence through the curving hallway. As they passed beyond sight of the entrance, Moka stutter stepped, hanging back for a breath. Her sharp eyes caught sight of three red-eyed shadows shouldering their way into the maze. Her long ears twitching, she listened to the sound of whispered bickering. Taking a long stride forward, she continued toward their destination, her mouth firming into a line. They would have an audience, whether she liked it or not.

They journeyed deeper, descending the layers toward the Warlord’s lair. As they went, the ambient light dimmed, making the occasional spots of colorful light more significant. The sound of rattling chains came from all directions, their echoes taking an ethereal tone. With the dimming light, the shadows became deeper and darker, sharp-edged pools sinking into the abyss. Even with Moka’s Moderate Perception, she took to skirting around the edges of the shadows, not trusting what she could not see. Carwen trailed a step behind, placing her feet on the vines tested by Moka’s passage.

The elf’s nervous energy leaked into her illusion, displaying her image chewing its lower lip, eyes glued to the shadows as they passed. They stepped past a gorgeous silk skirt acting as part of the wall, cold blue light shining through its fabric. The light cast Carwen in shades of purple, her hair taking on much of the color. She reached out a hand to press on Moka’s wood-covered back, her illusion echoing the movement from several paces behind.

Carwen’s invisible hand touched the wood, and a fraction of the tension in her shoulders eased. She let out a breath, her lips shaping it into soft words.

“You are real…”

Moka wrenched her shoulder forward, away from the elf’s touch. She shot a look over her shoulder, piercing through Carwen to the illusion behind her. Shoulders tense, she snapped at her companion, sharp teeth flashing in the low light.

“Of course I’m real. I’m not the one with the tricky lights.”

Azarus pursed his lips as he watched his champion lash out. Carwen fought back tears, her illusion’s eyes welling up. The god frowned. Moka’s response to feeling uncomfortable was a boon in some situations. This was not one of them.

Moka snarled and resumed stalking down the cloth corridor. Carwen’s lower lip trembled, but she did not fall behind. She kept her head bowed, staring at her feet.

The urge to speak to Moka through [Chosen One], or to invest some Divine Points in setting her straight, welled within Azarus. The god let it flow through him like water. He divested himself of the desire to spend points with ease. That urge was weak at best. Resisting using [Chosen One] was harder. As far as he could tell, it cost him nothing, and she understood him well enough. To act was to prove himself to the universe. Moka was a tool for that purpose, his to puppet. But something held him back. It was a simple line of reasoning. She would not grow if he micromanaged her.

At first, his mind rebelled against the reasoning. His interference could only hold her to a higher standard. When he weighed the scale, things would fall into place. He was sure of it. But he did not think she would react well to his whispered instructions. When he thought back to the glimpses he had gleaned from her mind, he knew she would only rebel if he pushed too hard. A gentle, sparing touch was what he needed, despite how much inaction pained him.

Carwen’s hand fell. She went quiet. Several steps later, Moka’s expression softened. She waited in a pool of light. Colors played across her face, as she glanced up, as though seeking patience from on high. She waited for Carwen’s illusion to catch up, her boot tapping.

“Stay close.”

So saying, Moka let one of her hands trail, holding it down and away from her torso. She tried to make the arm seem like it was swinging naturally. It was partially successful. Carwen’s image stayed several paces away. Her true body slipped her hand into Moka’s, squeezing tight. Moka’s ears twitched, swiveling toward the elf’s ethereal whisper.

“Thank you.”

Hand in hand, the pair continued through the cloth maze, avoiding branching paths to follow the path down. Before long, they stepped into the Warlord’s lair. Pushing past a thick, purple curtain, they stepped into the heart of the maze, where the colored lights and sharp shadows gathered like schools of fish. Dark shapes moved beyond the cloth walls, a glimpse of the gathering audience.

In the center of the room, a crude imitation of a king’s hall, sat a throne. Layers of cloth draped across the throne like it was a fountain of silk. Nesting in the fabric, her legs curled up to her chest, was a hobgoblin. She had hair the same color as her blood-red eyes. When she moved, a thick length of fabric fell off her shoulder, revealing she was wearing a woven cloak. Dark leather armor covered her body.

Crossing one leg over the other, the hobgoblin stared down her nose, imperious, at her guests. An ugly scar marred one of her cheeks, the skin shiny, as if it had melted. She twiddled a long dagger in her claws, twirling it around her fingers. A shadow moved at her side, revealing a goblin whispering in her ear. She nodded to the figure, who scurried off as she turned to study Moka and Carwen. Her dark eyes glinted in the low light.

Azarus looked at the Warlord through [Divine Insight].

Danara Gorechop

Archetype - [Bandit]

Class - [Raid Warleader]

Bloodline - [Redcap Hobgoblin]

Trait: [Covetous]

Overall Gifts*:

Moderate Perception, Reason, Savvy, and Might.

Major Knack, Spirit, and Violence.

Skills:

[Trophy: Hair]

[Proficiency: Small Blades]

[Backstab]

[Form Unit: Silk Raiders]

Spells:

[Summon: Greedy Shadows]

[Affinity: Shadow]

Equipment:

[Troll Tusk Daggers]

[Shadowstalker Leathers]

Azarus took mental note of the warlord, Danara’s status, filing it away with his limited pool of comparisons. His mind turned to the most relevant of those comparisons, Danara to Moka. If it came to a fight, Moka had superior gifts, but less Skill and Spell synergy. [Triple Strike] and [Dead on My Feet] might let his champion slug it out. However, he did not like the look of [Summon: Greedy Shadows]. Moka was in the heart of Danara’s domain, surrounded by shadows.

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Azarus put those thoughts aside. He suspected he would see how they stacked up soon. Narrowing in on the warlord’s Bloodline, he tried to glimpse what potential paths awaited his goblin.

[Redcap Hobgoblin]: An evolved goblin whose path toward their Fae roots has been soaked in blood. Cunning and murderous, [Redcaps] are known for being in touch with their bestial nature. Their roots tie to the Winter Court. Grants: enhanced gifts, Trait: [Covetous], and Spell: [Affinity: Shadow].

The god scratched his stubble as he took in the evolution’s description. All signs seemed to point to unlocking [Bloodline] in the store as a necessary expense. A large portion of both Carwen’s and Danara’s abilities seemed to stem from their evolutions. He focused on [Covetous].

[Covetous]: When what you have isn’t enough, take more. Grants the Skill [Trophy] and the Spells [Summon: Greedy Shadows].

The Trait was powerful, but more than that, it was specific. Azarus suspected both the [Redcap] evolution and the [Covetous] Trait were direct results of who Danara was as a person. It made him wonder what sort of evolutions Moka would have.

Danara stood from her throne. She stood tall, rising close to Carwen’s height. Her woven cloak shifted on her shoulders, the mottled pattern obvious as she stepped into a pool of light. The god frowned as he gave it a closer look. To his surprise, [Divine Insight] pulled up a screen.

[Cloak of Victories]: A [Redcap’s] tapestry of victories, woven from their collected trophies.

Azarus narrowed his eyes at the description. It was strange. The cloak was not listed among Danara’s equipment. His attention focused on the last word of the description. The connection came in an instant. One of Danara’s Skills, [Trophy: Hair], was involved. Looking closer at the weave of the cloak, Azarus recognized it as being woven from threads with different lengths and textures. A cloak of hair. His lips pursed, nose scrunching in distaste.

Danara swept back her cloak with one hand, popping out a dagger-clad hip. She rested her hand near the hilt, tossing her long red hair with a flick of her head. With a smile, she greeted her guests, the shiny scar on her cheek crinkling like paper.

“Welcome, strangers at my hearth. Have you brought gifts?”

Moka came within a dozen paces of the warlord and stopped, Carwen’s illusion lingering behind her. Her eyes flicked from shadow to shadow, squinting to peer inside. After a few seconds, her gaze landed on their grinning host. She took in the cloak, her nose twitching and mouth pulling down at the corners. With a raised eyebrow, she lifted her grenade for the warlord to examine.

“The gift is a threat. My god has sent me to ask you to leave the village alone.”

Danara fingered the hilt of her dagger, her smile never fading. Her blood-red eyes darted over Moka’s shoulder, landing on Carwen. She caressed the hem of her cloak. After several breaths, she turned her chin back to face Moka. Her eyes followed a beat behind, lingering on Carwen’s hair.

“And after this village? Can I expect to see you at the next?”

Reaching a hand behind her back, Moka loosened the straps holding her staff. She hid the motion as best she could. Danara’s attention, returning to Carwen’s autumn colored hair with worrying regularity, aided that endeavor. Moka shook her head, catching the warlord’s eye.

“No. My god sent me here and now. Spare us and the village. That’s it.”

Azarus leaned back, considering his champion’s stance. He felt there was credence to it. The shifting perspective of his gray flame agreed, burning hot inside him. However, the gold aspect of his flame shrank back, retreating at the words.

Danara drew her ivory dagger. She ran the blade down the scar on her face, producing a slight rasping sound. The motion was easy and familiar. She cocked her head at Moka, leaning into her hip. Her smile never faltered.

“And what do I gain out of this deal?”

In response, Moka hefted the grenade and snapped a spark. Danara’s eyebrows twitched. She angled the edge of her blade, causing the scar on her cheek to crackle as she scraped it. Bringing the dagger to her lips, she used it to play with her mouth, a thoughtful look on her face. After a moment, she gestured with it, twirling it through her fingers as she pointed at Carwen.

“I’ll tell you what. Throw in the beauty and call it even.” She cackled to herself, running the dagger along the hairs of her cloak. “I wouldn’t want to anger the gods, after all.”

Carwen’s true image took a step away from Moka, her mouth hardening into a line. She slipped the grenade from her pocket, holding it up at an angle so the wick was away from her body. The [Autumn Pixie] sparkled to her side. Her illusion echoed her movement, its face remaining passive. Danara’s pupils dilated, taking in every twitch.

Moka took a step forward, puffing out her armored chest. She stared up at the larger hobgoblin, her gaze as hard as iron. Clearing her throat, she put both hands behind her back. Danara’s eyes flickered, noting the hidden grenade. She shifted her weight, facing Moka more squarely. Moka looked her in the eye.

“No. My god has claimed her.”

Both Carwen’s illusion and her true body jolted. They took a step and leaned forward, over Moka’s shoulders, furiously whispering into opposite ears.

“I feel I should have some say in this!”

Moka shrugged, rolling her shoulders to give herself some space. Carwen leaned back, out of the way of her wooden pauldrons. Moka whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

“I think he likes you.” She shrugged. “Better him than her.”

Azarus raised his eyebrows. He was impressed. Moka had discerned his feelings about Carwen from a few whispers. That was promising.

Carwen seemed less enthusiastic. She reeled back, as if rethinking her life choices. Danara was the most upset of all. Her smile had finally faltered, her mouth twisting into a fanged snarl. Beneath her leather armor, muscles rippled, betraying a physiological difference between her and Moka. They both had Moderate Might, but Danara’s stature gave her an edge. Azarus was growing curious how the matchup would go, not that he belittled Moka’s instinct to talk it out first. He knew from experience that negotiations could be difficult.

Danara took a step forward, casting half her features into shadow. She leveled her dagger at Moka, her other hand hidden beneath her cloak.

“Just like a god, bearing nothing but threats and demands.”

Moka mirrored the warlord’s aggressive step forward. She did not spare the dagger a glance, keeping her gaze locked on Danara’s. Thrusting her chin out, she snarled at the aggressive hobgoblin.

“What would you have of me? I have nothing to give.”

Danara’s smile returned two-fold. She swiped her hand down, motioning toward her feet with her [Troll Tusk Dagger].

“Very well. I will take your weapons. Throw them here, then off you go, all on your own.”

The cruel glint in Danara’s eyes promised exactly what would happen the moment they divested themselves of their defenses. The makeshift hall was filled with the soft chorus of rattling chains drifting through the cloth walls. Chittering and rustling movement sounded from beyond the fabric. The sound of their audience placing bets as the meeting unfolded.

Moka hesitated, searching Danara’s face. Next to her, Carwen trembled, watching a nearby shadow peel off and scamper to join another patch of shadows. She cast about for an exit, a shudder running through her. Moka took a stilted step forward, a frown tugging on her lips.

“I wish to resolve this peacefully.”

Danara laughed, the sound hollow. She ran her dagger along her scar, grinning at the smaller goblin. Her eyes lingered on Moka’s dark, thick hair. She ran her tongue along the length of her dagger.

“So give yourself up, peacefully. It’s not in a raider’s nature to bargain.” Lowering the dagger, she grabbed the hem of her cloak, rubbing it against her cheek. “You have such pretty hair.”

Carwen gasped, the sound of her sharp inhale filling the silence. Azarus saw in the [Village Beauty’s] wide eyes that she had finally recognized the cloak for what it was. Danara waited, her eyes darting between the two women, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She twirled a strand of her ruby red hair around her finger, running her tongue along her upper lip as she gave it a sharp tug. Carwen leaned forward, whispering into Moka’s ear.

“She is insane, and I do not mean metaphorically. We need to run! Going back up is too far-”

The elf cut off as Moka stepped forward. Azarus’s champion bowed her head toward the warlord.

“Here, my weapon.”

So saying, Moka snapped her fingers and tossed the grenade in her hand toward Danara’s feet. Danara’s head cocked to the side, watching the clay ball sail toward her. Her mind took a heartbeat to process Moka’s words and discern the implication. With a curse, she stepped deeper into the shadow. The grenade left a trail of spark as it arced through the air.

Shouts and the clattering of falling objects signaled the hidden goblins scrambling for cover. Danara snarled, sinking into the shadows as the grenade landed. Moka ripped her staff off of her pack, yelling at Carwen as she whirled toward the shadows behind her.

“Running is good! Let's go!”

Moka turned to find a curved, ivory dagger shooting toward the back of her neck from a nearby shadow. She ducked, batting at it with her staff. The dagger sliced along her cheek, parting her skin like water. Behind her, the grenade exploded, the sudden heat and wave of air pushing her a step forward. The world took on a purple hue. Moka lunged at Danara, using the thorns of her staff like a spear. The hobgoblin stepped into the shadow she sprung out of, vanishing. Moka whirled, ripping another grenade out of her bandolier as the cries of alarm turned to chittering war cries. Next to her, Carwen had her grenade in a death grip. She studied the walls, peering through the gaps to the vines beyond.

“I do not see an exit.”

Moka swept her staff through a shadow. Nothing appeared. She barked a reply to Carwen, her attention split between the shadows and growing fire.

“There will be. No lair has only one entrance.”

Danara cackled from the shadows. The raiders began cutting through the fabric walls, dozens of armed goblins spilling into the burning hall. Azarus smiled, idly scratching Zag behind the ears. He was looking forward to seeing what an [Explosives Expert] could do.