Larimer was a man of simplicity, but like most souls, he troubled to compartmentalize his life. He had a responsibility to the other elm touched of the city. Then, there were his duties as a leader of the Hord. And, of course, he owed respect and time to himself.

One’s self, one’s work, one’s community.

The blue-skinned barman was responsible for leading and harboring the Hord. But he only accepted the role, initially, to help those who struggled in his community. However, it would have been a grand lie had he said his position hadn’t saved him first. The rings of his world were stitched together, and yet, they often clashed. Business with the city’s underworld may well have offered an opportunity for growth, but the Hord was a constant risk to any elms affiliated with its ranks.

But Larimer was a simple man, a simple troll. Despite the draws and cuts of each compartment he juggled, he remained stable. But simple things, simple people, had a way of finding themselves tied up in unfathomable knots.

“You trust the boy?”

“He’s as good as I’ll find.”

“Do you trust em?”

“He’s a craftsman, like my father even. He hasn’t a heart for foul intent,” Ellenore explained while her nude frame clung to the troll’s sweat washed skin.

The barman’s bed was a work of wonder in its length, long enough for such a body as his. Its stability, under his and Ellenore’s combined weight, was far more impressive considering the two had shared a late evening etching runes into the troll’s bedroom floor. Cries of pleasure had reverberated off the walls, traveling through the ceiling and into clouds. Surely, someone on the streets outside must have feared a murder was afoot. Though, no matter how vocal the girl was, she never pulled away. Riding the cock of an elm several times her size made it all the more tempting to ask for more. And Larimer wouldn’t deny her. Perhaps, at the start, he may have hesitated for Ell’s sake, but after a rhythm was found, he released his aggression. Savoring the sticky work of bonding their bodies, he pushed and pulled at his leisure. With a firm hand, he threw away his passive belittling concerns and fucked the naïve girl in earnest. Ell had little other choice but to relinquish her freedom at the moment, but her loss of dominance was a sweet thing to be cherished. The air, humid and fogged, had washed the space in red hues wafting in the dim light. Their lust hadn’t stopped until the troll had exhausted them both, which took more than a hand’s worth of orgasmic bursts.

Elm Corner was home to most of the touched, but Larimer resided in a place elsewhere. The Hord’s alehouse was underground, but above the foundation, accessible to the common public, there was a false establishment. Red Hill, a bar that seldom sold more than two drinks a night, was just another forgettable hole in the wall of the pleasure district. Though there was an entrance to the alehouse tunnels hidden under the building, few among the Hord ever used it.

More importantly, there was the living space Larimer had built in the building.

“Do you care?” Ellenore asked as the naked troll stood from their embrace.

Despite the grand scale of Larimer’s home, thanks to his stature, it was nothing grand to him. His head could nearly touch the ceiling, hands could easily reach it either way. Ellenore, much smaller in comparison, felt she was on an island, and it grew more lonely the further her friend moved away.

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“Has our time together finally softened your exterior?” She questioned.

On her knees, using a sheet that had been soiled with seed, she playfully covered herself. Larimer, with a grin, only looked back at the girl before telling her, “You should leave before daylight reaches.”

“Come with me.”

“To the estate?”

“On my adventure,” Ell joyfully suggested and stood up in the middle of the island.

The barman collected his black pants from the floor, dawning them before retrieving the lady’s garments. He laughed, reminding Ell, “You have the craftsman,” as he held out her clothes.

“I want you,” Ell said.

The troll kept his grin, but in the faintest of ways, light had left its core. His arm, which held Ell’s garments, fell back to his side.

“Why stay here? There will always be a bar when we return,” Ellenore said.

“I can’t leave.”

“You can’t leave with me?”

They looked at one another, and in quick time, found they had fallen out of sync. Ellenore dropped the sheet from her body and left the bed. She took her clothes and passed the troll. Behind his back, she dressed herself not in a rage, but utter disappointment.

“I’ve never cared what breed you are. But you, daughter of the inventor, you should,” Larimer argued with a shake of his head.

Neither he nor Ell could say they were surprised by how quickly their alignments had split. It was the same as it had always been between them.

“Don’t tell me what matters, Larimer. I can choose for myself.” She paused before her attitude grew out of voice. “Six days. Reconsider,” the girl spoke in defeat before, with hesitant resolve, she left the room and the bar. Had she lingered any longer, her maid surely would have caught her sneaking back into the estate.

Once he exhaled, the troll spun around, catching a nearly visible trace of the woman he had spared. His heart was filled with warmth by the knowledge that not all humans had abandoned elms. Still, he couldn’t dismiss the naïve nature of Ell’s optimism. Even had Larimer believed he could go, the Hord would surely have crumbled without him.

In his honest opinion, it was not appropriate for Ellenore, an honest girl, to associate with criminals in any case.

It was with a sigh that the barman spoke aloud, perhaps to a spirit, “Will you hide forever?” He rested a hand on his head and a hand on his hip before adding, “I know you’re there, Vilk.”

There was a moment of silence. The troll, however, waited with annoyed confidence.

“The inventor’s daughter?” Vilk said as he dropped into the room through a slanted window.

If the goblin hadn’t appeared, Larimer might have reconsidered if there were others nearby. As a leader of the Hord, there weren’t many who could sneak up on or hide from him. Even fewer had skill enough to make him second guess his observations. But Larimer knew his friend too well to miss his arrival. He couldn’t say what had given the goblin away, but like magic, he knew Vilk was there.

Vilk’s best spell, a form of shadow magic, could hide any single aspect of his presence at a time. He often hid his image and used controlled breathing, but he could just as easily hide his sound or scent. Regardless, he knew it was rude to ease drop on a friend.

“I told you, she favors us with pointed ears,” Larimer joked and his mood softened, clearly unbothered by the goblin’s odd habit.

Later that night, with the troll behind his bar and Vilk seated on a stool, the men hashed out Larimer’s lay.

“If anyone knew,” Vilk argued.

“They won’t, less you’ll tell em.”

Vilk had begun to notice a growing pattern, but he couldn’t say what made it recurring.

The city was enthralled by the inventor’s daughter. If the people weren’t trying to steal her, they meant to bed her. The green skin finished his drink before setting the trend in his mind aside.

“The alehouse needs to move,” he warned Larimer, but the troll, without fluster, questioned “Why?”

“They’re coming for us, The Coppers.”

“They’ve always been, ain’t they?”

“This is different,” Vilk went on while the barman made another set of drinks.

He was about to pass Vilk a fresh mug, but he held on to it instead, wondering aloud, “How would you know?”