As the dust settled, G stepped into what was once a sanctuary but was now a mere shell of despair. The room was vast, much larger than its exterior suggested, shrouded in shadows that seemed to swallow light whole. The air was thick with the stench of mildew, and something sour—like despair had a scent. Ragged blankets lay scattered across the dirt floor, and makeshift beds of scavenged materials formed small islands in the sea of filth. A small fire sputtered in the center, its feeble glow battling the encroaching darkness.
Around the fire, figures stirred—children, who all looked very similar, their eyes wide with a mix of fear and defiance. They were clad in tatters, their faces smudged with dirt and the harsh realities of survival. The walls themselves seemed to bleed moisture, with patches of mold flourishing in the damp corners. Everything about the place spoke of neglect and a desperate, clawing struggle to survive.
As G looked at them, Tocai analyzed the one who had stolen the orb.
Name: Thierry, adolescent Rock Gnome
Hitpoints unknown
Mana Unknown
Description:
Rock Gnomes are a diminutive and hardy race that make their homes in the rocky and cavernous underworld. They are known for their tinkering skills and love of mechanical gadgets.
Rock gnomes are typically between two and three feet tall, with slightly pointed ears and weathered, rugged features. Their skin is a dark, earthy brown or gray, which helps them blend in with their rocky surroundings. They have hair that is similarly colored, which is often wild and unkempt. Their eyes are large and expressive, with vibrant shades of green, brown, or blue.
Despite their small size, Rock Gnomes are sturdy and strong, with a surprising resilience to injury. They are also quite nimble and quick, able to dart in and out of tight spaces easily. Their fingers are long and thin, and they can manipulate even the tiniest of objects with ease.
Rock Gnomes are known for their love of tinkering, and their underground homes are filled with strange and wonderful mechanical devices. They are masters of engineering and can create all manner of gadgets and gizmos, from clockwork automatons to explosive devices. Their homes are filled with whirring gears, ticking clocks, and hissing steam engines.
Suddenly, a heavy, scaly hand clamped down on G's shoulder. "Now, what do we have here in the House of Bloodfang?" The voice was rough, emanating from the owner of the large hand adorned with dirty, cracked claws. The nearby urchins shrank back, their movements hesitant and fearful; two scurried to the rear of the room, disappearing under broken furniture.
G felt the cold point of a knife press against his back, just below his ribs. "Tocai, handle that," he communicated telepathically to his familiar. A pulse of mana coursed through his robes, magically reinforcing the fabric at the threatened point.
"I'm only here for what was stolen. Return it, and this can end without bloodshed," G declared evenly.
The creature behind him tightened its grip, pressing the knife harder, oblivious to the fact that it no longer touched G's skin. In a voice low and dangerous, thick with a lisp as if its lips were unaccustomed to forming words and better suited to grunts, it rumbled, "You smash my door and barge in here, talking like some lord. Your fine clothes might fool others, but you reek of the surface—like a dirty, rotten elf," it sneered, unaware that it would never complete its threat.
In a fluid motion, G spun, tearing his robe from the creature's grasp as the knife slid harmlessly across the now-hardened fabric. He summoned his mace, swinging it upward under the creature's chin while twisting the hilt. With a satisfying crunch, the weapon's head shot forward, the impact sending the creature stumbling back into the darkness.
As the figure collapsed, Tocai analyzed the fallen foe.
Rock Troll: Bloodfang
Level 6
Hit points 55
Mana 0
Rock Trolls are a fearsome and ancient race of trolls known for their incredible strength and endurance. They are known to live in caves and rocky environments, where they hunt and scavenge for food. Their skin is thick and scaly, providing them with natural armor against attacks, and their large muscular bodies allow them to overpower most opponents.
They have a natural ability to regenerate health quickly, making them difficult to take down. They also possess incredible strength, which allows them to lift and throw large objects with ease. Additionally, they have a heightened sense of smell, allowing them to detect and track their prey over great distances.
In combat, Rock Trolls are known to use their massive fists and claws to deliver devastating blows to their opponents. They can also hurl large rocks at their enemies or use their natural weapons, such as their teeth and claws, to cause damage. Their thick skin provides them with a natural resistance to physical attacks, but they are vulnerable to fire and acid-based attacks.
As G scrutinized the troll's efforts, he noticed something peculiar about its eyes. They seemed unresponsive to his movements, the troll focusing instead on the surrounding scents, its nostrils flaring. It clutched its jaw, snapping it back into place as the skin seamlessly healed.
"It's blind and regenerates," Tocai observed quietly.
Acknowledging the challenge, G nodded and unleashed a Mana Bolt. The impact drove the troll backward, its health bar shrinking to just under half. Rebalancing itself, the creature lunged blindly, arms wide in a bid to ensnare G. He dodged nimbly, watching as his adversary tumbled into a heap of refuse, causing the frightened urchins to scurry towards the shadows.
G eyed the slowly recuperating troll, and his brow furrowed in confusion. He directed his thoughts inward, where Tocai, nestled invisibly in the folds of his cloaked hood, could hear him. "Tocai, how can a creature that regenerates from physical harm still be afflicted with blindness? Shouldn't its abilities heal all damage?"
From his hidden perch, Tocai mulled over the query. His response carried a note of contemplation. "It is peculiar. One would think regeneration would rectify all physical debilitations. Persistent blindness, especially in such a powerful regenerator, might suggest magical interference."
G pondered this possibility, his gaze fixed on the troll's steady recovery. "Could magic be the cause of its blindness? Would it be permanent then?"
"Quite possibly," Tocai conveyed mentally, his presence in G's hood undetectable to the others. "If inflicted by a deliberate curse or a potent, targeted spell, such blindness could possibly negate the regenerative powers. I don't think we will know without examining the magical nuances enveloping this creature. " Tocai's tone became more sarcastic, "Do you want to stop fighting it and ask? "
G's mental chuckle echoed silently within the shared connection with Tocai. "Tempting as that is, I doubt our troll friend is up for a chat about his ailments," he replied, eyes fixed on the troll slowly regaining its footing.
Unleashing another Mana Bolt, G watched as it struck the troll squarely in the back, the creature's health bar flickering dangerously close to red. With a groan, it collapsed into a heap, disturbing the refuse around it and releasing a cloud of dust mixed with the acrid scent of decay.
As G stepped forward, mace raised to deliver the final blow, a small, desperate voice stopped him in his tracks. "Don't kill him!" The plea reverberated through the dimly lit room, filled with a palpable urgency. G struck the troll again sending its health deep into the red as it again hit the ground.
"He protects us. Without him, the goblins will kill and eat us," a young girl cried out, tears carving clean tracks through the grime on her face.
G's voice was firm, driven by purpose rather than curiosity. "My orb!" he demanded, extending his free hand. A boy with spiky hair cautiously approached, handing over the orb, which G quickly secured in his inventory this time. He poised to strike again when the girl's plea echoed in his mind.
"Can't you find a new protector?" G surveyed the decrepit surroundings—the room, once perhaps a bustling shop or a cozy home, now just a desolate refuge. The throne of debris in the back underscored the troll's makeshift rule over these outcasts.
As the troll stirred, its health bar slowly creeping upward, G wrestled with the ethical dimensions of his actions. The urgent plea of the urchins clashed with the potential threat, compelling him to reconsider the repercussions of his intended violence.
The girl, her lower lip trembling, added, "We're Rock Gnomes, and nobody likes us here. Bloodfang is all we have."
His voice was softer, and G asked, "Where are your parents?" though he suspected the grim answer.
An older boy stepped forward, his height barely surpassing the girl's. "Our parents are dead," he declared. "A guard in the second district fabricated charges against them to seize their shop, and they were condemned to the Arena."
Amidst this revelation, G frowned once again finding himself at a crossroads. He couldn't allow the troll to recover fully—its resurgence would undoubtedly pose a lethal risk. Yet, the plight of these rock gnome orphans, forced into thievery by circumstance, tugged at his conscience. He swung again, flattening the troll and eliminating the remaining red in its health bar. G was certain at this point he couldn't kill it with just his mace, but he could keep it down.
Inside G's hood, Tocai's voice resonated with a note of caution. "Don't do it, G. Remember, we already have two quests!"
G saw the merit in this, but then he looked at the little girl's face, which looked like she would break out in more tears.
"Tocai, two things," said G. "What is the probability you're being selfish and only thinking of yourself? Second, can you analyze those children and tell me which ones might be lying based on facial expressions?"
G was trying to resist the impulse to tell the kids to get lost as the ring of optimism continued its curse.
Tocai didn't reply for a second, then his response sounded dejected. "I am being 88% selfish. My desire to survive is high on my list of priorities, right after my desire to make sure you survive to help me finish my Quest," the AI turned magical familiar gave a mental sigh. "Children are easier to read than adults. There is a high probability that the girl child is faking her emotions to gain sympathy. Given the nature of her living environment and lack of parental figures, she is most probably trying to play on your emotions as her single source of protection. This doesn't, in turn, mean she is lying to you."
"Good. What is your suggestion based on this information?" asked G. He really didn't want to kill this troll in front of a bunch of children and then walk off. That just seemed...well, he didn't know. Just not like him.
"G, the best course of action in this case would be to find a safe home for them, pay for their upbringing from your treasure, and finish off the Troll," Tocai suggested.
G liked that idea a great deal more. "We have no idea where a safe place is," he said. He paused briefly and whacked the regenerating troll again hard with his mace. He wondered what kind of image he was presenting, beating to death a blind troll over and over. He sighed, it couldn't be helped, he supposed.
G he looked at the girl, "I'll make you a deal. You help me find my friends in this city, and I'll protect you until such a time when I can find you a safe place to live that doesn't require you to live like hobos under a bridge or stealing for a living."
The older child responded skeptically, "We don't know you, mister, and Bloodfang said you weren't a dark elf. For all we know, you're a monster under there wanting to eat our souls." The child looked at the others, several of whom nodded in agreement. The little girl renewed her tears and sad mewing.
G needed to gain their trust, "If I can prove I am not a monster, would that help? I don't want to hurt any of you. I will help you find someplace safe to go as soon as I find my friends." He reached up with one hand, slid the goggles up to his forehead, and pulled down the cowl covering most of his face.
The children were shocked, and their expressions showed it. The girl stopped crying, and half of them had their mouths hanging open. The girl was the first to move; she walked towards him and pushed against his leg through the robe with her finger until she pushed against his knee, not believing he was real.
Tocai analyzed her.
Name: Niamh , Rock Gnome Child
Hitpoints unknown
Mana Unknown
Rock Gnomes are a diminutive and hardy race that make their homes in the rocky and cavernous underworld. They are known for their tinkering skills and love of mechanical gadgets.
Rock gnomes are typically between two and three feet tall, with slightly pointed ears and weathered, rugged features. Their skin is a dark, earthy brown or gray, which helps them blend in with their rocky surroundings. They have hair that is similarly colored, which is often wild and unkempt. Their eyes are large and expressive, with vibrant shades of green, brown, or blue.
Despite their small size, Rock Gnomes are sturdy and strong, with a surprising resilience to injury. They are also quite nimble and quick, able to dart in and out of tight spaces easily. Their fingers are long and thin, and they can manipulate even the tiniest of objects with ease.
Rock Gnomes are known for their love of tinkering, and their underground homes are filled with strange and wonderful mechanical devices. They are masters of engineering and can create all manner of gadgets and gizmos, from clockwork automatons to explosive devices. Their homes are filled with whirring gears, ticking clocks, and hissing steam engines.
G asked the small girl for her name, even though he already knew it. "What is your name, little one?" he asked, trying not to scare them any more than they already were.
"I'm not little!" she said loudly, then turned and ran back to her group.
As the oldest rock gnome, scarcely eighteen named Ciaran, watched the elf in dark robes from the shadows, his mind whirled with conflicted thoughts. He held the collective weight of his siblings' lives in his young, yet prematurely wearied hands. Could this stranger be our salvation? Should we take advantage of his obvious naiveté? He wondered, eyeing the elf's commanding presence and the ease with which he wielded magic. The stories he'd heard of elves—real elves, not the dark kind that had ruthlessly slain his parents—spoke of kindness and justice, traits so starkly absent in their current protector, Bloodfang. The troll was merely the lesser of evils, an unpleasant necessity in a world that seemed perpetually against them.
He cradled the memories of his parents tenderly in his mind, a stark contrast to the harsh reality they now faced. He remembered his father's warm laughter echoing through their home, now a plundered shell, and his mother's gentle hands, expertly crafting trinkets that once brought joy and sustenance. Those hands were stilled too soon, leaving a void no child was meant to fill. Yet, here he was, the reluctant patriarch of a ragtag band of siblings, each day a test of his resolve and ingenuity. Mama, Papa, I'm trying so hard, he thought, his heart aching with the burden of responsibility. I won't let them down. Not while I still draw breath.
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His craftiness, born of necessity in the underbelly of a cruel city, had so far kept them alive, if not entirely safe. He'd turned close shaves with danger into opportunities, bartered scraps for protection, and learned quickly the art of making the least bad choice. The presence of this elf, however, presented a new variable. This elf, with his strange magics and air of another world, could he be the key to a better life? The hope was a fragile flicker in the oppressive darkness of their lives.
Ciaran weighed his options, a mental dance of risk and potential reward. Allying with an elf could offer more than just survival; it might mean a real future. Yet, the shadow of doubt lingered, as persistent as the dampness that clung to their makeshift dwelling. Are all elves as the stories say? Could one of them really care for the plight of rock gnomes so often overlooked and scorned in this horrible city?
His siblings depended on him, their eyes often searching his for answers he was scared he wouldn't find. Stepping forward to engage with the elf was a gamble, but every day lived in the margin was a gamble in itself. For them, I must try, he resolved, the decision firming in his mind as he prepared to step out of the shadows. This moment, this choice, might just alter the course of their lives forever. With a silent prayer to the memories of his lost parents and the lost gods, he moved toward what he hoped was their salvation, or at the very least, a departure from the merciless cycle they had been caught in that was Muck town.
"What's your name, mister?" the older child asked, his voice tinged with a mix of caution and curiosity, a leader's burden evident in his eyes.
"G," he replied.
The kids giggled, and the older one looked behind him with a glare to hush them up. "That's not a name, mister. What's your real name?"
"It's G, and that's the only one I've ever had. What about you?" G asked, his tone gentle yet carrying an underlying firmness, inviting trust.
"Mine is Ciaran," he said with a small wave towards the cluster of kids behind him, "and these are my family."
"Well, Ciaran, I have to get going. This is your last opportunity for my help," G stated, emphasizing his point by delivering another forceful blow to the troll with his mace, reducing its health further as the bar above flickered ominously.
Ciaran turned around and looked at his siblings, who shrugged or frowned. The little girl, Niamh, spoke up, "I think we should go with him and help. He looks funny."
G smiled, realizing his disguise was still off. He pulled his goggles back down and his cowl back up. With a pulse of mana, the filigree of fabric once again covered the lenses of his goggles, giving them a purplish appearance.
Niamh pointed and giggled again. "See, he is funny."
Through it all, Ciaran's expression remained grave, his young face set in lines of determination as he faced G again. "We will come with you and help. Can you protect us and find us a home?"
G nodded. He had hoped that one of them would figure out how to make this work. Clearly, being here defenseless to the goblins that roamed the lower city would not be pleasant without a protector.
Ciaran did something surprising then. He went over to a pile of what appeared to be trash acting as bedding and pulled out a dark clay jar. He walked over and poured it all over the mostly smashed troll as its green blood and skin kept crawling back to its body to regenerate it. Then he walked over to the small fire, which was sputtering in the ring of stones, and picked up a stick that had a very red end. To G's surprise, he threw it onto the troll Bloodfang. The troll's regenerating form burst into flames, even the blood caught fire, and a moment later, the hit point bar that had stubbornly regenerated over and over disappeared, and an icon flashed on the edge of G's vision.
G nodded to the boy.
Ciaran grimaced and frowned, "He was a horrible guild leader." That was all he said as he turned to his siblings, raised his arm, spun it in the air, and said, "Pack up! We're leaving this infested hole before we end up in a stew pot!"
The kids scrambled, rushing around, and small bags appeared as things were collected from under refuse piles and placed into the bags. G couldn't see most of the items, but he was sure they were all stolen.
"Mister G, you defeated Bloodfang, you get his Heap," said Ciaran, pointing at the chair made of what looked like garbage and broken bits.
G looked at the pile, used his magic sight on it, then walked over to the pile that was pushed into a shape like a throne. "Ciaran, why don't you all take it? We can discuss what is there once we find you a better place to live."
Ciaran's face lit up with a big grin. "You sure, mister?" he asked.
"Eh, I am. Go for it. If you find anything too big to carry, just let me know," G replied with a supportive nod. After ensuring the children were busy, he cast his two traveling spells in succession, each incantation weaving through the air with a soft hum. He then walked outside, choosing a spot where the oily smoke was less dense, a place where the air didn't threaten to make him retch.
Tocai spoke with a hint of concern, "G, the children's allegiance shifted remarkably swiftly. It's unusual, given their precarious situation. Caution might be wise."
G, nodding slightly as he observed the children gathering their meager belongings, "I noticed. It's fast but not totally unexpected. Desperation can drive rapid trust, especially when every day is a survival test. But keep an eye out—we need to be sure their trust isn't a facade or a calculated move. We will work to give them good reason to trust us if we can."
Tocai's tone mixed skepticism with curiosity, "True, their situation does breed quick decisions. Given their tough situation, they made quick decisions. I'll watch them closely and let you know if I spot any deceit or manipulation that might affect us."
G, his gaze lingering on the oldest child, Ciaran, who seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, "Do that, but remember, their quick trust might be their last best hope. They need us, just as much as we need this straightforward path through the city. Let's not forget, trust is a two-way street." G wondered how his familiar would take that bit of information as they waited in silence.
It only took a few minutes before the children emerged from the door, each with a small sack slung over their shoulder, moving with the practiced ease of those accustomed to quick departures.
Ciaran paused in front of G, his youthful face looking up with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. "Where to, mister?"
G nodded slightly, the movement causing his hood to shift. "The Rotten Worm. It's a tavern around here."
Ciaran's shoulders rose briefly before sinking as he let out a soft, resigned sigh through his nose. "Sure, we are trusting you, mister. But you should know, Gerkag, the proprietor, he's not too fond of Rock Gnomes." He glanced back at the other kids, shrugged as if to brace himself, and took the lead. The little girl, Niamh, trailed behind as G followed the makeshift procession.
As they navigated the streets, they encountered goblins that stopped to stare with open curiosity or subtle malice. However, whenever G paused and turned towards them, their interest quickly dissolved, and they scuttled away to attend to other matters. It seemed the reputation of the dark elves was feared here, a fact that G found useful. He felt a surge of satisfaction; not only had he potentially gained several guides, but he also saw a chance to divert these children from a future marred by theft and hardship. The ring pulsed on his finger.
They made their way through the city's labyrinthine streets, avoiding puddles that were repositories of unidentifiable filth—some reeking of sulfur, others of decaying matter. G was grateful for the cowl of his robe, which filtered out the worst of the odors, making his journey slightly less unpleasant.
As they walked, Tocai spoke up, "You know those Rock Gnomes you're calling kids didn't flinch when you beat their old boss to death. One managed to fake cry for a while. You should be very careful with them. They are a great deal tougher than they appear. Perhaps the troll guarded them when they slept or ran to him, but they survived on these streets without him every day."
"Yes, food for thought. I can't imagine any childhood here could be easy. We will take it a bit at a time. Hopefully, I'm not wrong about them," said G as he watched the mini parade of street urchins in front of him holding their little bags like they had just looted an expensive store, leading the way through the muddy streets.
As G and the procession of Rock Gnome children navigated the winding paths of Muck Town, the air enveloped them with the dense scents of damp earth and acrid smoke from occasional torches. The smoky tendrils mingled with the musty odor rising from distant muck puddles, crafting an atmosphere thick with the essence of the subterranean city. Unlike the muddier sections of the town, this street was comparatively dry and clean, its cobbled surface reflecting the faint, mystical glow of lanterns hanging sporadically from the buildings.
The buildings themselves appeared as if hewn directly from the cavern's rocky embrace, their stone and timber facades weathered by time and the constant dampness. Each structure leaned slightly, weary from bearing the weight of the city's history, their windows dimly lit that cast long, dancing shadows across the street.
Ciaran's eyes darted nervously as their odd-looking group drew closer, and the "The Rotten Worm" tavern sign became visible above the entrance. The sign featured a grotesquely depicted worm, whimsically carved with a large, comical bite taken out of its middle. Below, the name of the tavern was scrawled in shaky, uneven letters that seemed to dance in the dim light—a crude testament to the establishment's gritty existence, rendered in the pidgin tongue commonly spoken in the lower city slums.
Approaching the tavern's threshold, the children halted about a dozen meters back, their faces filled with trepidation. The sign above creaked ominously on rusty hooks, the sound a haunting prelude to what lay beyond. G looked at the massive Rock Troll guarding the entrance. Tocai, ever helpful, whispered a translation into G's mind, ensuring no nuance of the local dialect escaped understanding, and then he analyzed the troll.
Rock Troll: Unknown
Level: Unknown
Hit points: Unknown
Mana: Unknown
Rock Trolls are a fearsome and ancient race of trolls known for their incredible strength and endurance. They are known to live in caves and rocky environments, where they hunt and scavenge for food. Their skin is thick and scaly, providing them with natural armor against attacks, and their large muscular bodies allow them to overpower most opponents.
They have a natural ability to regenerate health quickly, making them difficult to take down. They also possess incredible strength, which allows them to lift and throw large objects with ease. Additionally, they have a heightened sense of smell, allowing them to detect and track their prey over great distances.
In combat, Rock Trolls are known to use their massive fists and claws to deliver devastating blows to their opponents. They can also hurl large rocks at their enemies or use their natural weapons, such as their teeth and claws, to cause damage. Their thick skin provides them with a natural resistance to physical attacks, but they are vulnerable to fire and acid-based attacks.
This sentinel or bouncer, was seated on a large crude chair fashioned from heavy stones, nearly blocking the door. The troll's thick, scaly skin resembled the rugged gray stones of its cavernous home, serving as natural armor against any unwelcome disturbances. Its beady black eyes, set deep within a craggy, formidable face, watched G closely. The troll's large muscular arms, one casually resting on a gnarled club resembling a tree trunk.
G hesitated for a moment, taking in the troll's fearsome presence. Despite the creature's intimidating appearance, the troll simply grunted and nodded at G, an acknowledgment that belied its savage nature. With a deep breath, G stepped past the guardian, feeling the weight of its piercing gaze on his back as he entered the tavern. The rock gnome children made to follow, but the troll raised a massive hand to halt them.
"They are with me," said G, his voice firm, carrying the confidence needed to address such a creature. His ring of optimism throbbed again.
The troll grunted once more and waved them past. G nodded and pushed open the tavern door, stepping into the Rotten Worm. The stench of stale ale and unwashed bodies hit him like a slap to the face, almost tangible in its intensity. In the center of the room, a solitary lantern cast a feeble glow. The single filthy window and several others crafted from stretched animal bladders scraped thin did little to admit light; instead, they appeared to almost absorb the lantern’s glow, deepening the shadows. This medieval technique of window-making cast an eerie, dappled illumination across the rugged stone walls, barely challenging the tavern's perpetual gloom. The dim light highlighted the shadowy figures huddled at scattered tables, their drunken whispers as low and rough as the texture of the scraped bladder windows themselves.
The furniture was all made of rough-hewn wood, a wobbly mismatch of chairs and tables. The floor was dirt-packed, with sections of broken tile and grit underfoot. To G's left, the bar was made of the same rough-hewn wood and polished smooth from years of use.
Behind the bar, the formidable figure of the barkeep, a rugged mix of half-hobgoblin and half-dark elf, stood out starkly. His face was marked by a deep, jagged scar running from his brow to his jaw on one side, lending a fierce twist to his sharp features. He was diligently wiping down stoneware mugs, each a testament to a long history of use—worn and chipped, yet impeccably clean. These mugs, robust and intricately patterned, bore the distinctive designs of dwarven and goblin craftsmanship, their styles clashing like night and day.
Above him, shelves strained under the weight of these venerable vessels, their sturdy forms casting intriguing shadows across the stone walls in the dim light. Despite their age and wear, each mug shone with a well-maintained gleam, reflecting the barkeep's meticulous care. His piercing eyes, a blend of hobgoblin intensity and dark elf subtlety, occasionally swept over his patrons, his gaze as sharp as the edges of his scar. This striking guardian of a collection that embodied a dynamic clash of cultures not only added to the tavern's atmosphere but also dominated it, making him a memorable centerpiece of the Rotten Worm's shadowy milieu.
The patrons were all goblins, sitting at small tables in groups. G counted six drunks, most of whom rested their heads on the tables. The atmosphere was tense as G, and the seven small rock gnomes walked in.
In the tavern's dimly lit corner, the only other sounds were the clink of stoneware mugs as the barkeep cleaned them and the occasional grunt from the large troll lounging at the bar's end, his hand resting on a hefty club propped against the wall beside him. Upon noticing G's entry, the tavern keeper, Grerkag, paused his cleaning to gesture toward the troll, who bore a striking resemblance to the one outside.
In a rough, deep voice, he commanded, "Troug, escort those guests at the tables out." The large troll rose, his movements deliberate. He nudged a slumbering goblin with his foot, then hoisted two of the inebriated patrons, one under each arm, and headed for the door. Grerkag then turned back to G, offering a warm greeting, "Hello master, welcome to my humble establishment. I'm Grerkag. How may I assist someone as honorable as yourself?"
As G approached, he replied, "I'm searching for a friend. I was told you might know him. His name is Kargan."
Grerkag tensed momentarily before resuming his cleaning. "I can't say as I know him," he muttered. Meanwhile, the troll guard returned, scooping up two more unconscious goblins and shooing another out the door, which swung shut behind him. "Have a seat," Grerkag suggested, pointing to a large round table surrounded by a collection of oddly shaped chairs. "I'm going to close for a bit while we talk." He then stepped outside, the sound of muffled voices and a troll's grunt drifting back through the door before he returned and secured it with a heavy bolt.
Once seated, Grerkag looked pointedly at the eldest child, Cairan. "You understand if anything goes missing, those trolls guarding my door have quite the appetite for fresh meat," he warned. His gaze then shifted to another child. "Do I make myself clear?"
The little girl, Niamh, burst into tears, managing a choked, "Yes, mister." She sobbed loudly. Grerkag let out a dismissive "Meh," and returned to his counter to arrange small cups and a loaf of bread—its origins dubious and certainly not grain—on a platter. He placed it on the table and looked back at G.
"Now, how do you know Kargan? No, wait, let's start with who you are and why you're accompanied by a group of thieves," Grerkag pressed.
Cairan interjected, "We aren't thieves," as Niamh's sobs grew louder. G sighed, "Cairan, can you and your sister stop, please? This is important." To his surprise, Niamh instantly stopped crying, smiled at G, and grabbed a chunk of bread from the platter. Soon, the other children joined her, tearing into the bread with a ferocity reminiscent of a pack of wolves.
G rolled his eyes, a fleeting expression of exasperation crossing his face as he turned back to Grerkag. Of course, they stop just like that, he thought wryly. All it takes is the promise of food to shift their moods from despair to delight—so predictably childish, yet so unnervingly adept at manipulation when it suits them. This abrupt switch from tears to joy was a stark reminder of children's simplicity and yet complex unpredictability. It amused and irritated him in equal measure how quickly the kids could toggle their emotions, like switching lanes, especially when he was trying to navigate through a conversation dense with implications and hidden dangers.
With a brief shake of his head to clear his thoughts, G faced Grerkag again, explaining, "I met him a few days ago, and he agreed to help me with a problem. We were supposed to meet outside the city, but I was delayed. He mentioned we could meet here and described this place and you. As for who I am, you can call me G."
"Are you his friend?" Grerkag asked, pulling a chair closer to sit down.
"Not exactly. We have a contract," G responded.
Grerkag leaned in, lowering his voice, "What kind of contract?"
G hesitated, then disclosed, "Let's just say it's binding, and once the job is done, he will get paid."
Gerkag leaned slightly, attempting a subtle glance behind G's cowl. "What are you? You're clearly not from around here, or you'd have dealt with those thieves yourself. You speak our language well, but your cadence is off."
"I'm not from here or the dark pathways, if that's what you're hinting at," G replied thoughtfully. "I'm here on a mission that means a great deal to me. I need to find Kargan and a human who might be with him, if they've made it here."
As Gerkag scrutinized the stranger before him, his thoughts were a whirlwind of apprehension and calculation. This one claims to know Kargan, he mused silently, his fingers pausing in their cleaning of a chipped mug. Kargan, to whom I owe my life... that dreadful day when shadows clung like cobwebs and he yanked me back from the brink of oblivion. Could this person genuinely be his ally, or is this merely deception—a ruse engineered by hidden foes?
His grip tightened on the mug, its rough texture a reminder of reality as he weighed the stranger's words. If his story holds truth, if he indeed walks with Kargan, then perhaps I can lighten the load of my debt. But oh, how treacherous the path I tread—between deceit and duty, every step could be my undoing.
Gerkag's eyes darted momentarily to the darker corners of the tavern, where secrets lingered like stale smoke. And what of the dark elf queen? Her spies are as numerous as the stars, her wrath as deep as the ethereal sea. If she discovers I've harbored this person or crossed her designs, not even the deepest caverns would shield me from her vengeance.
Gerkag thought about the complexities of his situation—the looming threat of discovery by royal agents, his own ingrained survival instincts, and a stubborn sense of loyalty to Kargan. Can I trust this stranger? My gut churns with the weight of past betrayals and the ever-present threat of new ones. Yet, here may be a chance to ease the burden of my debt, to perhaps find a semblance of redemption.
His thoughts twisted further into the realm of pragmatism mixed with skepticism. Let me test this stranger's intentions, see if he truly bears the mark of Kargan's friendship. If he is sincere, then maybe I can forge a path through this thicket of danger and duty. If he's false, well, I've dealt with liars and traitors before—each has found their regret in the shadows of this very tavern.
"That's a compelling tale, but how can I trust it's true?" Gerkag challenged.
Struggling for a way to prove his story, G managed, "His real name is Kargankiharia'dharkamda'acali—ah, never mind. I just call him Jowl Beard because his beard flares out like the wings of some furious bird."
Gerkag nodded, his expression shifting to recognition. "That's him, alright. The longest damn name I've ever heard. Follow me, all of you." He rose and led them behind the bar, unlocking a door that descended into the cellar, his heart thudded with the dual beats of opportunity and fear, each step resonating with the echoes of his past and the uncertainties of his future.
They navigated past a collection of old, empty liquor bottles and continued beyond the wine cellar into a smaller room. Here, Gerkag pulled a lever hidden on the wall, revealing a concealed door.
Stepping through, G found himself in a lengthy, dimly lit corridor that opened into a series of opulent rooms. The first was unlike anything G had seen—adorned with lavish chandeliers, luxurious velvet drapes, and costly artworks. The furniture, which seemed as though it had been plucked from a royal palace, suggested this room was designed for high-profile entertainment.
The next room they entered was much smaller and gave off an entirely different vibe with its minimal candlelight and functional furniture, hinting at its use for clandestine meetings. Gerkag led him to a table in a secluded corner.
As they settled, G's gaze fell on a figure lounging on a divan across the room. Recognizing the figure, he gasped, "Phan!" and instinctively began to ready a spell.